The Ghosts of Belfast Read Online Free PDF

away from that image, angered at his own bitterness. The quiet after weeks of clamor unsettled him. Now that the followers had left him alone, now the chill at his center and twists in his stomach had abated, he found the clarity disorienting. But seven years of shadows and glimpses would not end for the passing of Michael McKenna. The eleven were there somewhere, just beyond his vision, waiting. Fegan was sure of that.
     
     
Eventually, Toner turned left onto Tate’s Avenue, heading west across the city. Back to where they belonged.
     
     
     
     
The exterior of the old Celtic Supporters Club had seen better days. Tricolors and footballs decorated the sign above the entrance, but the paint flaked away to expose rotting wood. Behind metal grilles, the grubby painted-over windows made the building appear blinded.
     
     
Toner led Fegan inside. The sole afternoon drinker kept his eyes on his newspaper as they entered. A smell of stale beer and cigarettes laced the dimness; the smoking ban would never be enforced in places like this.
     
     
They went to the rear of the club and entered a dank and narrow corridor with doors to the toilets at either side, and another marked PRIVATE at the end. As Toner went to open the door to the back room, a flash of pain burst in Fegan’s head, a lightning arc between his temples. He stopped and leaned against the wall. A chill crept inward from his limbs, crawling to his core like icy spider webs.
     
     
Toner looked back over his shoulder and said, “Jesus, Gerry, what’s wrong?”
     
     
Fegan breathed deep. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
     
     
Eleven shadows moved along the corridor, past Toner, and became one with the darkness beyond. Toner came back to Fegan and put a small hand on his shoulder.
     
     
“He only wants a word,” Toner said. “Don’t worry.”
     
     
Fegan brushed Toner’s hand away. “I’m not worried; I’m hungover. Come on.”
     
     
He pushed past Toner, went to the door, and opened it. His heart lurched at the sight of the man who waited there.
     
     
Vincie Caffola’s bald head reflected light from the bare bulb above. Boxes and barrels had been moved to the outside of the room, and a single wooden chair placed at its center. Plastic sheeting covered the floor, and Caffola wore new overalls that struggled to contain his bulky shoulders.
     
     
“Gerry, how’re ya?” Caffola’s smile made Fegan’s stomach turn.
     
     
“All right.”
     
     
“I’ll wait in the car.” Toner patted Fegan’s back and disappeared the way they had come.
     
     
“Take a seat,” Caffola said.
     
     
Fegan sat down, placing his hands on his knees, fighting the urge to cover himself. The light bulb above swung lazily in the draught from Toner closing the door. It made Caffola’s shadow sweep across the wall. Other shadows followed it, crossing one another, solidifying. Fegan swallowed and blinked against the ache settling behind his eyes.
     
     
“Bad news about Michael, eh?” Caffola wore a grim expression.
     
     
Two forms stepped out of the dark corners, young men long dead. Blood and black earth streaked their uniforms. Fegan focused on Caffola even as they raised their hands to form pistols with their fingers.
     
     
“Yeah,” he said. “I thought it was all over.”
     
     
“It’ll never be over.” Caffola paced the floor. The two Ulster Defence Regiment men moved with him. “Not till the Brits get out. I made my position clear to McGinty and the rest of them. I don’t like what’s going on. Supporting the peelers, sitting at Stormont, all that. But I go with the party, no matter what.”
     
     
“You were always loyal,” Fegan said.
     
     
“Yeah, loyal.” Caffola seemed to like the word. He clapped his hands once. Back to business. “So, I need to find out what happened to Michael. He left you home last night. What time?”
     
     
“About quarter past, half twelve. Something like