you, Fegan?” he said.
The cane swished as it cut the air. It caught the joint hard. Fegan’s hand dropped away and he shifted his feet to center his balance. A small sun burned in his hand, but again, he set the pain aside. He raised it for more as a blood blister formed beneath the skin.
Brother Doran stared into his eyes as his jowls trembled. “Stand in the corner, you impudent little shite.”
Tears lined Michael McKenna’s cheeks by his third stroke. The fourth was half-hearted as Brother Doran seemed to tire. He dismissed the two boys with an angry flourish.
As Fegan walked along the corridor outside, McKenna called, “You tell anyone I cried and I’ll beat your head in.”
Fegan stopped and turned. “Go fuck yourself,” he said.
McKenna blustered up to him, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “What did you say?”
“Fuck off,” Fegan said. He turned and resumed walking.
Two balled fists slammed into his back, and he staggered forward. He regained his balance and spun to face McKenna, his right hand ready.
McKenna took a step back and jabbed at him with a grubby finger. “Just you watch yourself, right?” He turned and ran in the opposite direction.
The next day, McKenna stopped Fegan in the playground and demanded to see his hand. Fegan showed him the purple and brown blood-blossoms on his palm.
“Fuck me,” McKenna said. “Is it sore?”
“What do you think?” Fegan said.
“Looks it. Do you want to meet up later?”
“What for?” Fegan asked.
Lines appeared on McKenna’s forehead as he shuffled his feet. “Just, you know, for a laugh and stuff.”
Fegan thought about it for a few seconds. He didn’t do that kind of thing. No harm in trying, though. “All right,” he said.
He made many friends that summer. His mother didn’t approve. She reminded Fegan that Michael McKenna’s older brother was doing time in Long Kesh for having a gun. Fegan didn’t care. It felt good to have friends.
Most of those friends were now in McKenna’s mother’s house, swapping stories of the old days, and Fegan dreaded listening to them. He stepped back from the coffin and crossed himself once more.
The quiet in the room faded to utter silence. Fegan became aware of his own breathing and a presence behind him. He turned and saw a woman, ash-blonde and pale, tall and willowy, in the doorway. She was dressed simply and elegantly in a black trouser suit and white blouse. Fegan stepped aside as she approached.
She extended her hand to the coffin, stopping when her fingertips were within millimeters of its glossy sheen. Her grey-blue eyes fixed on something Fegan couldn’t see, something far away. A small ache entered his heart as he wondered if she would weep at some memory of the man inside the box. She inhaled as she came back to herself. She blinked once and mouthed four words. Fegan’s ache turned to something darker when he traced the shapes her lips made.
You had it coming.
As she turned from the coffin, her eyes caught his and she froze, locked in Fegan’s knowledge of her words.
You’re right , he wanted to say. He got what he deserved. Instead, he gave her the smallest of nods.
Her cheeks flushed and she headed for the door. One of McKenna’s three sisters stood by it, watching the blonde woman. When Fegan saw the hate in Bernie McKenna’s eyes he knew who the woman was.
Marie McKenna, daughter of Patrick and Bridget McKenna, niece of the late Michael McKenna. Seven years ago, at around the same time Fegan was first getting to know his followers, Marie McKenna had scandalised her family by taking up with an officer of the hated Royal Ulster Constabulary. Even worse, he was a Catholic cop at a time when joining the police was still an act of treachery. She was already in poor favor amongst many Republicans as
The cane swished as it cut the air. It caught the joint hard. Fegan’s hand dropped away and he shifted his feet to center his balance. A small sun burned in his hand, but again, he set the pain aside. He raised it for more as a blood blister formed beneath the skin.
Brother Doran stared into his eyes as his jowls trembled. “Stand in the corner, you impudent little shite.”
Tears lined Michael McKenna’s cheeks by his third stroke. The fourth was half-hearted as Brother Doran seemed to tire. He dismissed the two boys with an angry flourish.
As Fegan walked along the corridor outside, McKenna called, “You tell anyone I cried and I’ll beat your head in.”
Fegan stopped and turned. “Go fuck yourself,” he said.
McKenna blustered up to him, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “What did you say?”
“Fuck off,” Fegan said. He turned and resumed walking.
Two balled fists slammed into his back, and he staggered forward. He regained his balance and spun to face McKenna, his right hand ready.
McKenna took a step back and jabbed at him with a grubby finger. “Just you watch yourself, right?” He turned and ran in the opposite direction.
The next day, McKenna stopped Fegan in the playground and demanded to see his hand. Fegan showed him the purple and brown blood-blossoms on his palm.
“Fuck me,” McKenna said. “Is it sore?”
“What do you think?” Fegan said.
“Looks it. Do you want to meet up later?”
“What for?” Fegan asked.
Lines appeared on McKenna’s forehead as he shuffled his feet. “Just, you know, for a laugh and stuff.”
Fegan thought about it for a few seconds. He didn’t do that kind of thing. No harm in trying, though. “All right,” he said.
He made many friends that summer. His mother didn’t approve. She reminded Fegan that Michael McKenna’s older brother was doing time in Long Kesh for having a gun. Fegan didn’t care. It felt good to have friends.
Most of those friends were now in McKenna’s mother’s house, swapping stories of the old days, and Fegan dreaded listening to them. He stepped back from the coffin and crossed himself once more.
The quiet in the room faded to utter silence. Fegan became aware of his own breathing and a presence behind him. He turned and saw a woman, ash-blonde and pale, tall and willowy, in the doorway. She was dressed simply and elegantly in a black trouser suit and white blouse. Fegan stepped aside as she approached.
She extended her hand to the coffin, stopping when her fingertips were within millimeters of its glossy sheen. Her grey-blue eyes fixed on something Fegan couldn’t see, something far away. A small ache entered his heart as he wondered if she would weep at some memory of the man inside the box. She inhaled as she came back to herself. She blinked once and mouthed four words. Fegan’s ache turned to something darker when he traced the shapes her lips made.
You had it coming.
As she turned from the coffin, her eyes caught his and she froze, locked in Fegan’s knowledge of her words.
You’re right , he wanted to say. He got what he deserved. Instead, he gave her the smallest of nods.
Her cheeks flushed and she headed for the door. One of McKenna’s three sisters stood by it, watching the blonde woman. When Fegan saw the hate in Bernie McKenna’s eyes he knew who the woman was.
Marie McKenna, daughter of Patrick and Bridget McKenna, niece of the late Michael McKenna. Seven years ago, at around the same time Fegan was first getting to know his followers, Marie McKenna had scandalised her family by taking up with an officer of the hated Royal Ulster Constabulary. Even worse, he was a Catholic cop at a time when joining the police was still an act of treachery. She was already in poor favor amongst many Republicans as
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