But something occurred to him. “Why did you even come down from Derry? To tell me that my son died? If you want nothing from me, owe nothing to me, then why do you even care that I know?”
She pushed the shining auburn hair from her eyes. “Because I hope it will eat at you like a bloody cancer. Charlie was half your age but twice the man. He could have been anything, done anything, but your life’s what poisoned him.” She added, “I pray his death’s what poisons you.”
Campbell said nothing.
She looked away a moment, towards the sheep pen, then back to him. “One more reason I came.”
“Yes?”
“Marcus Maragos.”
Campbell cocked his head. “I don’t know who that is.”
“You wouldn’t. He’s a Greek. A fixer. A handler of men like you. He’s the one that tricked Charlie to go down and work for bloody gangsters.”
Campbell was confused. “What do you want—”
Deirdre’s eyes managed to find a way to look even angrier as they ripped into the man’s soul. She held an arm up, pointed a finger to the southeast. “You might have that wee little village fooled. They might think you are a kind and gentle stranger, a friend to all, a harm to no one.
“But I know what you are, Campbell Coyle. And if there’s one person on God’s green earth I loathe as much as you right now, it is Marcus Maragos.
“He’s in London. That’s all I know. I pray you find him.” She stared in silence a long time; the wind blew her hair across her eyes multiple times before she spoke. “And I pray you’ll do what you do. The only thing you were ever any bloody good at.”
At this, she began to turn away, but he called after her.
“You’ve come all this way. Just bring the baby in, have some tea and—”
“No!” she shouted back.
“But…what are you going to do?”
As she faced away, a gust of wind hit, but through it he thought he heard her laugh. She turned back to him, her eyes distant now, blue and shining with tears.
“I’m gonna go home. I’m gonna do my best to raise me boy right. So he doesn’t end up dead like his da, doesn’t end up broken and empty like his grandda. Doesn’t end up murdered in the bloody street for his sins like his great-grandda.”
Coyle’s fists balled. He didn’t want to hit Deirdre. He loved her. He loved her for loving his boy. For doing her best with him.
But he wanted to hitsomething, to pummelsomeone.
He hadn’t felt such feelings in a long time, but those feelings were back now, just like that.
The woman with the wild hair raging in the gusty afternoon said, “I’ve got mighty work to do to accomplish all that, don’t I, so I’d best be gettin’ to it.”
And then she turned away again, made it back to her car. He called after her once more, but his voice cracked as it was lost in another blast of swirling air.
Campbell Coyle stood there in the frigid sunshine, in the whisking wind, looking on as the Peugeot turned around on the driveway. A ray from the sky entered the backseat of the car for the first time, and it shone on a blond-headed baby boy.
He watched the car until it disappeared up the road, certain he would never see that boy again.
—
Campbell Coyle dug into the cold earth, his sharp spade piercing just a few inches with each violent stab, and then he flung the dirt into the ever-expanding pile next to the hole he stood in.
The half moon glowed through low clouds, giving only the faintest illumination to his work, but when he took little breaks here and there, he could see the steam pouring from his face.
It was past midnight; he worked in darkness, although he did not really think this security measure was crucial. He dug behind his sheep pen; the nearest neighboring home was two hundred meters away, and Campbell doubted eighty-three-year-old Mrs. Brown’s cataract-clouded eyes would have noticed if he’d lit a bonfire on his roof and danced in front of it in a clown suit.
Still, Coyle continued digging in the darkness, remaining as quiet as possible.
