“So, who do you think got McKenna?” McSorley asked as he hauled the steering wheel to the left.
Campbell looked back over his shoulder to where the old man lay on the van’s cold floor, whimpering inside the pillowcase that had been placed over his head.
“Don’t worry about him,” McSorley said.
Campbell returned his attention to the winding country road, involuntarily pressing his foot against the worn carpeting, trying to brake for McSorley. He’d waited for his mobile to ring all day. He had to force himself not to check for missed calls every ten minutes. The anticipation gnawed at him.
“Well?” McSorley prompted. “Who do you reckon?”
“Whoever it was has got to be fucking crazy,” Campbell said. “Or stupid. They won’t get away with it. The boys won’t let it go. They’ll break the ceasefire if they have to.”
The van hit a pothole and Campbell had to brace himself against the dashboard. The old man cried out as he bounced between the van’s inside wall and its floor. Comiskey and Hughes were back at his tiny cottage, holding his wife until Campbell and McSorley returned with the contents of the post office safe. It was only a short journey into the village.
“I suppose you’d have been one of the boys going after him, eh?”
Campbell tried to read McSorley’s face, but darkness obscured all but the watery sheen of his eyes. “Might’ve been.”
“No need to be shy with me, Davy. We’re mates, eh? You don’t talk much about what you got up to in Belfast.”
“Not much to talk about.”
McSorley gave a chesty laugh. “Oh, aye. I bet there’s not.”
His face took on a sickly glow as they cruised into the village, its street lights washing them in orange. “I heard a story about you and some boy who tried to set up Paul McGinty. I heard you beat the life out of him.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Well, people talk. You can believe whatever you want.”
The van’s headlights picked out the green An Post sign and its brakes whined. The engine juddered as it died. McSorley gave the old man one quick glance and turned back to Campbell.
“Some of the lads don’t trust you,” he said, his eyes narrow.
“You mean Comiskey?”
“Him and some of the others. They think it’s a bit funny, you just upping sticks and coming down here to us. Seeing as you were so close to McGinty and all. Some of the lads are worried about you.”
Campbell let his hand wander to his thigh. His jeans stretched tight over the Gerber knife in his pocket. “Are you worried?”
McSorley’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, making his stubble bristle. “I don’t know. It could be McGinty sent you down here to keep an eye on us, see what we’re up to. Or it could be like you say: you just wanted to see some action.”
Campbell kept his eyes locked on McSorley’s. “Like I said, you can believe whatever you want.”
A sly grin spread on McSorley’s face as he nodded. “I think you’re all right, Davy, but I’ll tell you this.” He raised a finger at Campbell. “You ever prove me wrong, you better run like fuck, ’cause I’ll skin you alive.”
McSorley splayed the bills out between his fingers. The balaclava didn’t mask his fury. “Three hundred and twenty fucking euro?”
Campbell felt a guffaw climb up from his belly, but he trapped it in his mouth. The woollen mask made his beard itch.
The old man cowered on his knees in front of the open safe. McSorley grabbed his pyjama collar with his free hand.
“Three hundred and twenty? I didn’t do all this for fucking three hundred and twenty, you miserable auld shite. Where’s the rest?”
The old man raised his shaking hands. “That’s all there is, I swear to God, that’s all.”
McSorley shook him back and forth. “Quit talking shite and tell me where it is.”
“I swear to God, that’s all. We only open half days. There’s some change in the till. You can have that if you want.”
“Christ!” McSorley released the old man’s collar and shoved the notes into his pocket. He pointed to the counter at the front of the shop. “Davy, go and empty the till. And fill the bag up with fags. That’s all we’re going to get. Fuck!”
Campbell went to the till. The next morning’s meagre float lay in its open drawer. He scooped up bills and coins, guessing them to total no more than forty or fifty euro, and dropped them into the sports bag. The shelves behind the counter were stacked with cigarettes and he swept them into the bag, on top of the money, feeling like a petty thief.
Feeling like it?
No, that’s exactly what I am, he thought as cigarette packets fell at his feet. Like a fucking druggie stealing fags to feed his habit.
He cursed under his breath.
“Come on,” McSorley shouted. He dragged the old man by the wrist, not even bothering to bind and gag him again.
“I’m coming,” Campbell said, shoving the cigarettes down into the bag.
McSorley stopped at the door. “I said come on, for Christ’s sake!”
“All right!” Campbell pulled the zipper shut and hoisted the bag over his shoulder. He followed McSorley and the old man out to the street.
McSorley dragged his whimpering captive to the back of the van and opened the doors. Something across the street grabbed the old man’s attention: a light at a window.
“Help.” The cry was weak, but he tried again. “Help!”
McSorley went to cover his mouth, but the old man found the strength to push his hand away. “Help me! Help!”
Campbell walked towards them.
“Shut up or I’ll fucking do you one,” McSorley hissed as the old man writhed in his grip.
The bag slipped from Campbell’s hand, and he peeled the balaclava back from his face.
“Help me! Somebody! Help!”
The rage was white-hot and glorious as Campbell let it rain down on the old man’s head, and the force of it sent McSorley reeling. Blow after blow, the anger burned brighter, until the old man was a limp shape dangling from the van’s lip.
“Davy!”
Campbell drove his fist into the old man’s gut.
“Jesus, Davy, stop!”
He kicked at the old man’s knee.
McSorley grabbed Campbell’s waist and pulled him back. “That’s enough, Davy. Come on.”
Campbell tore McSorley’s arms away and spun to face him. “What do you think I am?”
McSorley stepped back, his hands up.
“Eh? What do you think I am? A fucking shoplifter?”
“Davy, calm down a minute.” He pulled the balaclava from his head.
“A thieving junkie? You think I came all the way down here to steal fucking cigarettes from old men?”
McSorley’s mouth worked silently, his eyes white circles around black points.
“Fucking amateurs!” Campbell turned on his heels and grabbed the bag from the ground. He threw it into the back of the van and bundled the old man’s legs in after it. “Come on to fuck,” he growled.
Without asking, he climbed into the driver’s seat and sparked the engine. McSorley didn’t take his eyes off Campbell as he hoisted himself into the passenger seat.
They drove in silence, McSorley giving the Scot sideways glances, while Campbell thought of the hole in Michael McKenna’s head, and the killer whose own life was surely forfeit.