"Christ," Marie said. "I'm sorry."

Fegan shrugged. "He always told me about this guitar he had at home. A Martin D-28 from the Thirties - a herringbone, he called it. He said he would fix it up when he got out. That's what kept him going.

"About a year and a half ago, this woman knocked on my door. She said she was Ronnie's daughter. She handed me this guitar case, all battered and torn up. She said Ronnie had wanted me to have it, he told her that before he died. It took her all that time to find me. It was the Martin. I'm restoring it now. It's almost done."

They reached the end of the Malone Road, where it met University Road and the top of Stranmillis Road. They stopped at the pedestrian crossing.

Marie asked, "And what are you going to do with it?"

Fegan's cheeks grew hot. "I'm going to learn to play it," he said.

"Good," she said, nodding. "Tell me, what was Ronnie in the Maze for?"

Fegan looked across the road to the Ulster Museum, its austere form blotting the blue sky. "He slit a man's throat," he said. "A Catholic who walked into the wrong bar. Ronnie cried when he told me."

Marie fell silent. They watched the traffic lights above the crossing, waiting to be released.

The great red-bricked castle of Queen's University stood a short distance away, to the right, in the midst of its carpet-smooth lawns. It couldn't have been more unlike the ugly grey block of the Student Union building, facing it directly across University Road.

Students gathered in huddles on the grass on one side, and on the concrete steps on the other. Young, pretty people Fegan would never know. It occurred to him that most of these children had never been torn from sleep by a bomb blast in the night, the force of it hammering their windows like a thousand fists, freezing their hearts in their chests. For a moment he might have resented them for it, but then he felt Ellen's fingers adjust their grip on his, and he was glad for them. He thought of Ellen as a young woman, and how she would never comprehend the awful, constant fear that had smothered this place for more than thirty years.

The lights changed. Ellen kept hold of Fegan's hand while she took her mother's, and they crossed the road towards the Ulster Museum. The three of them were swallowed by tree-shade at the entrance to Botanic Gardens, the park sprawling ahead of them behind the university buildings. Fegan had the urge to run from them, from Marie and her child, but the little girl's hand felt good on his. His skin felt clean where she touched it. This is what normal people do, he thought. This is what normal people feel like. He had never thought it possible to feel terror and stillness in the same heart, but both beat in his chest as they walked among the green lawns and the budding flowers.

They stopped at the seats facing the Palm House. Fegan and Marie sat down while Ellen went to peer through the glass at the plant life within.

"Thanks for letting me walk with you," Fegan said.

"You're welcome," she said.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You can ask," Marie said as she swept blonde hair from her face. She settled back in the seat. "Doesn't mean I'll answer."

Fegan leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, his fingers laced together. "Why would you go for a walk with someone like me? Why did you give me a lift yesterday?"

"I'm not sure," she said. She thought for a few seconds. "You saw what I said over Uncle Michael's coffin, but you didn't judge me. I've gotten so used to people judging me. The people I work with know where I come from, who I'm related to, and they judge me. The people I come from can't forget what I've done, as if falling in love with a cop was an act of treason, and you saw how they looked at me today and yesterday. Everywhere I go, people know who I am, where I'm from, what I did, and they judge me for it. I guess that's why. You didn't judge me."

"I'm in no position to judge anybody," Fegan said.

"But you know what it's like to be judged."

"Yeah, I do. You don't deserve it, though. You didn't do anything wrong. Not like me."

"How do you live with it?" she asked.

Fegan watched Ellen move from pane to pane of the giant greenhouse, standing on tiptoe for a better view. A chill crawled over him, despite the evening warmth. Shadows lengthened as the sun sank. "I don't," he said. "Most people wouldn't call it living, anyway."

"Well, you're breathing, aren't you?"

"I suppose." He wanted to tell Marie about the followers, about the screaming and the baby crying in the night. He looked round to her. "I'm going to put things right, though. I'm going to make up for what I did."

She sat forward to meet his gaze. "How?"

"I haven't figured it out yet," he said. It was only half a lie. He knew what he had to do, just not how to go about it. "But I'll find a way. I always find a way."

"You're an interesting man, Gerry Fegan." The strange crescent of Marie's lips made something shift inside him. "I'd like to get to know you, if you'll let me."

He turned his eyes to the ground where cigarette butts and old chewing gum, things people no longer wanted in their mouths, were trampled into the path. "I'm not a good person to know."

"We'll see," she said.

He couldn't see her face from the corner of his eye, but he imagined Marie McKenna was smiling, playfully biting her lower lip. He had to say it now.

"Paul McGinty wanted me to give you a message," Fegan said.

Her weight shifted beside him. "Oh?"

He studied the detritus at his feet. "He wants you to leave. He says now your uncle's gone it isn't safe here for you."

Marie shot to her feet and extended her hand towards her daughter. "Come on, Ellen, it's time to go."

Ellen spun towards the sound of her mother's voice, frowning in protest. "No, Mummy!"

"No arguing," Marie said. "Come on."

"Wait," Fegan said as he stood up.

Marie turned to face him. "Tell McGinty he can go fuck himself. They couldn't scare me away back then, and they won't do it now." The hardness in her face dissolved as her eyes glistened. "How can you do that? How can you hold my daughter's hand one minute, and deliver McGinty's threats the next?"

"You don't understand," he said.

"Don't I? I thought it was pretty clear." She turned to where Ellen lingered by the Palm House. "Ellen, get over here now."

"I don't want you to go," Fegan said. "You've done nothing wrong. I won't let McGinty hurt you. Or Ellen. If he sends anyone I'll take care of them."

Ellen came over, dragging her heels, pouting. Marie took her hand. "We've been managing for five years now," she said. "We don't need your protection."

"Maybe not, but I want to help you anyway."

Marie bared her teeth. "Why? Why do you care? If you're his errand boy, why don't you go and see what other odd jobs need doing? Go and collect some protection money for him, or rob a post office, or hijack some cigarettes. Why waste your time with a traitor to the cause like me?"

A hundred reasons flashed in Fegan's mind; some he dared not speak, more he dared not think. He looked down at the little girl hugging her mother's thigh. "Because Ellen held my hand," he said.

Marie sighed and covered her eyes. "Christ, this place. Sometimes I think there's a future here for me, and for Ellen. Then I remember men like McGinty are still running things. I should've gone years ago when I had the chance."

"I don't want you to go," Fegan said again.

"So you said." She uncovered her eyes and allowed him a hint of a smile.

"If anyone comes around, phone me."

"What's your mobile number?"

"I don't . . . I'll buy one. Tomorrow morning."

She gave an exasperated laugh. "Jesus, who doesn't have a mobile phone?"

"I don't," Fegan said.

"Me neither," Ellen said. "Mummy won't get me one."

Marie looked down at her daughter. "You're five, Ellen. Who are you going to phone?"

Ellen gave it some thought. "Santa," she said.

Marie reached into her bag and produced a pen. She took Fegan's hand, holding it as she wrote on his palm. Her skin was soft and warm. "Call me when you get your phone," she said. "I can't promise I'll answer, but you never know."

"Thank you," Fegan said. He smiled at Ellen. "You practise jumping. Next time I might jump higher than you."

"No, you won't," Ellen said as her mother led her away.

Fegan watched them until they were lost among the trees. The chill that had been creeping along his limbs finally reached his center, and his temples buzzed. He felt them watching, waiting for him.

He turned to see the black-haired woman, the baby in her arms, nodding her head towards two of the followers. The Loyalists, the Ulster Freedom Fighters, were pointing to the trees over at the Botanic Avenue entrance. Their stares flitted between Fegan and the shadows under the branches.

"What?" Fegan asked. He walked over to them and searched for whatever they were looking at. He saw nothing but the students wandering in and out of the park, their plastic bags full of beer and cider ready to start their evening's drinking in the sun and fresh air.

The two UFF boys slowly lowered their tattooed arms. Whatever they wanted Fegan to see was gone.

20.

"He didn't see me," Campbell said. He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear while he ate cold beans from a tin. He had slipped out of the park and back to his flat as soon as Fegan started peering in his direction. It was only a few minutes' walk from Botanic Gardens to his flat on University Street, just off Botanic Avenue.

"Have you reported back to McGinty yet?" the handler asked.

"No, I'll do that next."

"What'll you tell him?"

"The truth. I don't think Fegan told her to get out. She argued with him for a minute, but they looked like they parted on friendly terms. Didn't look much like a threat to me."

Campbell put the tin on the windowsill and lifted a glass of milk. He took a cool swallow as he watched the students wander along the street below. Some swigged from beer cans as they walked, probably on their way to one of the student haunts like The Bot or Lavery's. They'd wander back in the early hours of the morning, gangs of them singing and shouting, no concern for the people who needed their sleep.

"And what do you think McGinty will do about it? Will he take Fegan out?" The handler sounded hopeful.

"I doubt it," Campbell said. "Not yet, anyway. He's still playing the angle that the cops got Caffola. He won't want to do anything to distract the media from that."

"What, then?"

"He'll probably send one of his heavies to put the woman out."

"Not her, I don't care about her. What'll he do about Fegan?"

"I'm not sure," Campbell said. "He might let it go for now, but it's only a matter of time. McGinty doesn't let anyone cross him and get away with it. He'll make Fegan pay sooner or later."

"See if you can make it sooner, there's a good lad," the handler said. "We've got the Northern Ireland Office, the Chief Constable and the Minister of State breathing down our necks. They want it over before any more damage is done. If we can prove it was Fegan who did Caffola, not the police, so much the better."

"I'll see what I can do," Campbell said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa. He pulled the other phone from his pocket and dialled McGinty's private number. The politician answered, and Campbell told him what he'd seen.

"Gerry will have to be dealt with," McGinty said, "But not just yet. We'll leave it until after Vincie's funeral."

"What about the woman?" Campbell asked.

"Let me worry about that," McGinty said.

21.

Fegan sat alone in McKenna's, nursing a pint of Guinness while he watched Father Coulter down brandy at the bar. He knew the priest would be here. It was well known that Father Eammon Coulter only drank after weddings, christenings, first communions and funerals, but once he got started he would drink until he fell.

When he'd left Botanic Gardens, Fegan had gone straight to the derelict house on the next street to his, climbed into its back yard, and retrieved his Walther. Now it nestled at the small of his back. He kept it against the wall so no one could see.

The followers circled the room. They hadn't left him all evening. Fegan's temples buzzed with their presence, and a chill sat lodged at his center. The three Brits paid close attention to Father Coulter while the two UFF boys paced, opening and closing their fists.

A cheer rang through the bar as Eddie Coyle entered, escorted by Patsy Toner. The lawyer still wore his black suit from McKenna's funeral. Coyle's left eye was swollen shut and a gauze pad covered a wound on his brow. "Fuck off," he shouted at the drinkers.

"Sit down, I'll get you a drink," Toner said.

Coyle did as he was told, taking a seat two tables away from Fegan. He cursed quietly to himself for a full minute before he raised his head.

"What are you looking at?" he demanded.

"You," Fegan said.

"Well, you can fuck off, too." Coyle couldn't hold Fegan's gaze. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop.

"Jesus, calm down, Eddie," Toner said as he carried two pints back to the table. He rolled his eyes at Fegan and shook his head.