The Ghosts of Belfast by Stuart Neville Read Free Book Online Page B

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,