Fegan’s eyes felt dry and heavy as he sat in his cell. It had been a long night. They’d taken him to the City Hospital on the Lisburn Road to have the abrasion on his temple examined, and the doctor had insisted on a scan. He had to sit on a bed in the Accident and Emergency ward, guarded by two police officers, until the results came back. Coyle had been in the hospital somewhere, too, but Fegan imagined he would have a longer stay.
Now Fegan sat on a thin mattress, his belt and shoelaces removed, waiting for them to let him go. Even if Coyle was in any state to be questioned, he would just clam up. Fegan was sure of that. McGinty would want Fegan away from the cops, out in the open, where he could be gotten to. Besides, despite what the party said in public, it would be considered bad form for Coyle to talk to the cops. That would place him only one step above a common tout. And the party dealt harshly with touts.
Shadows moved along the walls, sometimes taking shape, sometimes fading to nothing. Fegan’s temples buzzed. The chill pulsed at his center.
“What did you want me to do?” Fegan asked.
The shadows didn’t answer.
“If I’d done it last night, the cops would have got me for it. I’d be in here for murder, not for fighting. Then I wouldn’t be able to do any of the others.”
Still nothing.
Suddenly, one of the shadows solidified, its form revealing itself against the cold white wall. The Royal Ulster Constabulary officer, his uniform stiff and crisp. He stared hard at Fegan for a moment before turning to the door.
The peephole cover opened with a clang. Fegan saw the glint of an eye and the cover was closed again. Keys jangled and locks snapped. The door opened outwards and a tall, heavy-set policeman of around fifty stood in the opening. He looked up and down the corridor outside, and then back to Fegan. He entered, smiling, and locked the door behind him.
“Good morning, Gerry,” he said. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. His utility belt bulged with equipment, but Fegan noticed the weapons had been removed, and so had his name badge. The RUC man put his fingers to the cop’s head.
“You’ll be glad to know you’ll be released in a few hours,” said the cop as he crossed the floor, limping slightly. “Your friend Mr. Coyle swears blind he fell and you were helping him up.”
“That’s right,” Fegan said, keeping his focus on the policeman’s round face, and away from the shadows that gathered around him.
“Well, that’s grand then, isn’t it?” the cop said, smiling. The fluorescent lighting reflected off his pink scalp. “But I’ve got to give you a wee message before you go. Why don’t you stand up?”
“A message from who?” Fegan asked.
“Let’s just say a mutual friend,” the cop said. “Now, stand up, there’s a good fella.”
Fegan slowly got to his feet. The smile never left the cop’s mouth, even when he drove his fist into Fegan’s gut. All air deserted the cell, leaving nothing but a painful vacuum, and Fegan wondered how the peeler could breathe. He collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching his belly. A flash of rage burned in him, but he stamped on it, pushed it down. He couldn’t fight the cop here. Not if he wanted to live.
The shadows retreated to the walls. The RUC man’s hand recoiled with every silent shot.
The cop placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder. “The message is in two parts. One part’s verbal, the other’s physical. Let’s get the verbal out of the way, okay?”
He slapped Fegan’s shoulder and sat down beside him. “Now, first things first. This conversation never happened or Marie McKenna has an accident. I want to make myself clear on that point. That’s very important. Now, to the rest of it.” The cop took a deep breath. “When you get out of here, you go home, you stay there until our mutual friend sends for you, or Marie McKenna has an accident. If you try to run, Marie McKenna has an accident. If you mess our mutual friend about in any way, shape or form, Marie McKenna has an accident. Are you getting the idea, Gerry?”
Fegan didn’t answer. He was concentrating too hard on breathing to form words.
The cop swung his lumpy fist down into Fegan’s groin. “I asked you a question, Gerry. Do you get the idea?”
Fegan fell to his side, grabbing at his testicles. His abdomen filled with hot lead. He gasped, scrabbling words from tiny mouthfuls of air. “I . . . under . . . stand.”
“Good man,” the cop said as he stood up. “Now we do the physical part. Are you ready?”
The cop went to work with the dispassionate care of a craftsman. He found all Fegan’s tender spots, every part of him that could accommodate a fist or a boot while remaining concealed under his clothing. Fegan blacked out once, only to be roused by sharp slaps across his cheek. As he lay on the floor, the pain verging on unbearable, he realised the woman was kneeling at his side, the baby held close to her breast. She flinched with every blow.
When he was finished, the cop stood back, proudly surveying his work. “There, now,” he said, still smiling, but a little breathless. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I’m glad we got that sorted out. Have you any questions?”
Fegan coughed, spattering a fine spray of blood on the floor. “Yeah,” he said.
The cop hunkered down. “Oh? What’s that, now?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The cop laughed. “Don’t you know, Gerry?” He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m the rotten apple that spoils the barrel.”
Fegan closed his eyes and listened to the opening and closing of the door, the turning of keys, and the cop’s laughter receding in the distance. He rolled onto his back, feeling a deep, sickly weight in his midsection. The shadows gathered round, took shape, and he smiled weakly up at them.
“Are you enjoying it so far?” he asked.
The woman rested her cool hand on Fegan’s cheek, and the room slipped away from him.