today.
“Michael McKenna was a great man.” McGinty paused, his blue eyes taking in the cemetery as applause and isolated cheers rippled through it. “Michael McKenna was a great man because he believed in the fight for justice and equality on this island, and he fought for justice and equality every single day of his life. It is a tragedy for all who knew him that that goal was just within his reach when his life was taken.”
Pain, bright and fiery, burst in Fegan’s skull. “Christ,” he hissed.
A few heads turned in his direction. He ignored them.
The shadows moved in from the edges of his vision. The pain flared again, brighter than before.
“Christ. Not now.”
One of the funeral-goers, a stocky man in his mid-twenties, turned to scowl at him. Fegan stared back until the scowler turned away.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep, willing the pain and shadows to recede. A cry almost escaped him when he opened them and caught a glint of ash-blonde. He turned his head towards it, searching. There, another flash, between the black-clad bodies. He watched as she emerged from them, her face glowing in the spring sunlight. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, and she calmed it with her delicate hand. She caught him staring and froze.
Fegan’s heart lurched in his chest as his eyes locked with Marie McKenna’s. He wanted to raise his hand to wave, but it hung useless at his side. Time became an abstract notion, a meaningless measurement. Then her eyes slipped away from his, and time moved on. She retreated back to the throng, losing herself among them, sparing him only one glance over her shoulder.
Only when he’d lost her did Fegan realise the nine followers surrounded him. The pain dissolved, leaving a feathery lightness behind his eyes. The woman rocked her baby and smiled at him.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked her.
The scowler turned to face him again. “Shut up and listen to the speech.”
Scowler’s friend tugged on his elbow and whispered in his ear, “That’s Gerry Fegan.”
Scowler’s face greyed. “Sorry,” he said, and turned back to the platform.
Fegan watched the followers move among the living, studying the mourners as if they were creatures in a zoo, sometimes touching them. The woman stayed close to Fegan. Her skin caught none of the sunlight beating down on the cemetery, and the breeze did not disturb her black hair. She smiled up at him again, her fine features showing none of the hate she must have felt.
Turn away and be quiet , Fegan thought. He ignored her and concentrated on McGinty’s speech.
‘Vincent Caffola’s murder,” he blustered, “And it can only be described as murder, throws us back to the bad old days. The days when the young people of our community lived in fear of the RUC. The bad old days when sectarianism was the law. When bigotry was the law. When instilling terror into the Nationalist and Republican people was the law.”
A rumble of agreement rolled through the faithful. McGinty paused, letting it subside.
The woman turned her black eyes to the politician as the baby writhed in her arms.
“But I say no more,” McGinty continued. “No more will our community stand by and allow such brutality to go unchallenged. Last night a good man, a tireless worker for his people, was viciously assaulted by the forces of so-called law and order. He was beaten until he passed out, his head split open, his wrist shattered, and left to choke to death on his own vomit. And still they say we should support an institution steeped in the traditions of oppression and fascism.”
The crowd rumbled again, louder now. McGinty let it pass, his eyes marking the beat.
“But I say no more. I will not rest, my party will not rest, my community will not rest until those responsible are brought to justice. And that will be
“Michael McKenna was a great man.” McGinty paused, his blue eyes taking in the cemetery as applause and isolated cheers rippled through it. “Michael McKenna was a great man because he believed in the fight for justice and equality on this island, and he fought for justice and equality every single day of his life. It is a tragedy for all who knew him that that goal was just within his reach when his life was taken.”
Pain, bright and fiery, burst in Fegan’s skull. “Christ,” he hissed.
A few heads turned in his direction. He ignored them.
The shadows moved in from the edges of his vision. The pain flared again, brighter than before.
“Christ. Not now.”
One of the funeral-goers, a stocky man in his mid-twenties, turned to scowl at him. Fegan stared back until the scowler turned away.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep, willing the pain and shadows to recede. A cry almost escaped him when he opened them and caught a glint of ash-blonde. He turned his head towards it, searching. There, another flash, between the black-clad bodies. He watched as she emerged from them, her face glowing in the spring sunlight. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, and she calmed it with her delicate hand. She caught him staring and froze.
Fegan’s heart lurched in his chest as his eyes locked with Marie McKenna’s. He wanted to raise his hand to wave, but it hung useless at his side. Time became an abstract notion, a meaningless measurement. Then her eyes slipped away from his, and time moved on. She retreated back to the throng, losing herself among them, sparing him only one glance over her shoulder.
Only when he’d lost her did Fegan realise the nine followers surrounded him. The pain dissolved, leaving a feathery lightness behind his eyes. The woman rocked her baby and smiled at him.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked her.
The scowler turned to face him again. “Shut up and listen to the speech.”
Scowler’s friend tugged on his elbow and whispered in his ear, “That’s Gerry Fegan.”
Scowler’s face greyed. “Sorry,” he said, and turned back to the platform.
Fegan watched the followers move among the living, studying the mourners as if they were creatures in a zoo, sometimes touching them. The woman stayed close to Fegan. Her skin caught none of the sunlight beating down on the cemetery, and the breeze did not disturb her black hair. She smiled up at him again, her fine features showing none of the hate she must have felt.
Turn away and be quiet , Fegan thought. He ignored her and concentrated on McGinty’s speech.
‘Vincent Caffola’s murder,” he blustered, “And it can only be described as murder, throws us back to the bad old days. The days when the young people of our community lived in fear of the RUC. The bad old days when sectarianism was the law. When bigotry was the law. When instilling terror into the Nationalist and Republican people was the law.”
A rumble of agreement rolled through the faithful. McGinty paused, letting it subside.
The woman turned her black eyes to the politician as the baby writhed in her arms.
“But I say no more,” McGinty continued. “No more will our community stand by and allow such brutality to go unchallenged. Last night a good man, a tireless worker for his people, was viciously assaulted by the forces of so-called law and order. He was beaten until he passed out, his head split open, his wrist shattered, and left to choke to death on his own vomit. And still they say we should support an institution steeped in the traditions of oppression and fascism.”
The crowd rumbled again, louder now. McGinty let it pass, his eyes marking the beat.
“But I say no more. I will not rest, my party will not rest, my community will not rest until those responsible are brought to justice. And that will be
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