The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve)

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Maybe if he had one more drink they’d leave him alone. Gerry Fegan told himself that lie before every swallow. He chased the whiskey’s burn with a cool black mouthful of Guinness and placed the glass back on the table.

Look up and they’ll be gone, he thought.

No. They were still there, still staring. Twelve of them if he counted the baby in its mother’s arms.

He was good and drunk now. When his stomach couldn’t hold any more he would let Tom the barman show him to the door, and the twelve would follow Fegan through the streets of Belfast, into his house, up his stairs, and into his bedroom. If he was lucky, and drunk enough, he might pass out before their screaming got too loud to bear. That was the only time they made a sound, when he was alone and on the edge of sleep. When the baby started crying, that was the worst of it.

Fegan raised the empty glass to get Tom’s attention.

“Haven’t you had enough, Gerry?” Tom asked. “Is it not home time yet? Everyone’s gone.”

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