The Ghosts of Belfast by Stuart Neville

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.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    8
     
     
Michael McKenna’s big house in the suburbs didn’t sit well with the party’s socialist manifesto, so Fegan wasn’t surprised his wake was held elsewhere. Instead, people paid their respects to McKenna at his mother’s terraced house on Fallswater Parade, a small red-brick two-up-two-down. It stood in a row of identical houses just off the lower end of the Falls Road, the jugular vein of the Republican movement in Belfast. Back in the bad times, people had compared this part of the city to Beirut. Fegan had always thought of it as the road home, leading as it did to the apex between the Springfield Road and the Falls, where his mother’s old house stood.
     
     
As Fegan approached he tried to count the men crowding the tiny walled garden. They spilled onto the street, smoking, laughing and swapping stories. He gave up when the number passed twenty. He edged through them, returning the respectful nods and mumbled greetings. He knew most of these men, hard lads all, and liked none of them. They came from all over Belfast: Andersonstown, Poleglass, Turf Lodge, and some from the Republican enclaves in the