Bloodland: A Novel (11 page)

He groans again and puts a hand up to his head, as if that will ease the pounding.

It doesn’t.

He looks in the direction of the kitchen.

How is he going to finesse this with Mary?

When he packed in the drink all those years ago certain promises were made, behaviours renounced, habits eschewed.

Not that she knew the half of it.

But it was a serious pledge nonetheless, and he meant it. So what he has done now by taking a drink is not only an act of stupidity – which it patently is, look at the
state
of him – it is an act of betrayal as well.

And shouting at her just now? What was that an act of?

He shakes his head. He could rationalise it on the grounds that he was groggy, and had just woken up, that it didn’t have anything to do with the booze.

But –

When’s the last time he raised his voice at her?

Exactly.

He lifts his hands from the table and as he straightens up what feels like a current of electricity shoots through his skull. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon and he’s
this
hungover?

Classy.

He did have his reasons, but the curious thing is these don’t seem quite so urgent anymore, or relevant. Also, the anxiety and paranoia have receded. Somewhat. Because Dave Conway was probably right, the truth is they
weren’t
actually involved. So why get all worked up about it?

What hasn’t receded, though, is this seemingly permanent fog of insecurity he’s been living with, insecurity about his legacy, about his future – and, OK, getting drunk and leaving inappropriate messages on people’s machines may not be the optimum solution here, but what is?

What it’s always been,
work
.

It’s just that as an unemployable ex-premier the only job opportunity he has right now is this stupid book he’s supposed to be writing.

And isn’t.

Which sparks something … a vague …

Does he remember sitting down at his desk earlier on? All fired up and ready to get started? Possibly. Yes. But didn’t he then go off straightaway to do something else?

His usual m.o.

He walks over and looks through the door of the study, for confirmation – and indeed there it is, his cluttered desk, un-touched, exactly as it has been for days, weeks.

He could sit down now and get started. If he didn’t feel nauseous, that is. If he didn’t have to devote whatever shred of energy he might be able to muster over the next few minutes to mollifying, or attempting to mollify, his wife. If he knew how to string two coherent sentences together.

He turns around and heads over to the kitchen. No point in delaying the inevitable.

He stands in the doorway. Mary has her back to him. She’s at the counter and appears to be busy, chopping or peeling something. After a moment, she turns around. The look she gives him is withering.

‘How
dare
–’

And then the phone rings. It’s beside her on the counter.

‘
Jesus
.’

She picks it up. Incapable of not.

‘Hello?’

This is a reprieve for Bolger, but not one that lasts.

‘Yes.’ Tight-lipped. ‘Hello, Dave.’

When she looks away for a split second, Bolger rolls his eyes. This micro movement sends a shockwave of nausea through his system. He puts one hand on his stomach and holds the other one out in front of him, flaps it frantically, indicating to Mary that he’s not here.

‘Yes, Dave, he’s here. Sure. I’ll put him on.’

She approaches quickly, holding the phone up. It looks like she’s about to strike him with it. He recoils, but still ends up taking it in his hand, Mary gliding past him out of the room, mouthing something he doesn’t catch.

*   *   *

Clark Rundle gazes down at Madison Avenue from the window of his tenth-floor suite in the Wilson Hotel. It is just after two in the afternoon. That’s eight in the evening in Paris, which means it’ll be nine by the time Nora is leaving, so if he hasn’t heard from J.J. by then he’ll have to call someone at the hospital and demand that they put him on.

Below, traffic flows silently along Madison, only the occasional honking of a horn or wail of a siren making it through the thick glass of the hotel windows. It is a beautiful spring day in Manhattan, cold, crisp and sunny, but inside here it is warm and the atmosphere, along with every nerve ending in Rundle’s body, tingles with expectancy.

There is a gentle rap at the door.

He turns and crosses the room, which is a refuge of elegance, with its embroidered drapes and silk wall coverings, its mahogany furnishings and marble floors.

He opens the door and in she glides.

Nora is twenty-four years old and very beautiful – extraordinarily so, in fact – with exotic colouring, perfect bone structure and eyes so dark and mysterious they could bring down an empire. She is from Haiti, so her name probably isn’t actually Nora, but Rundle has never got around to asking her about this, or about a whole lot else for that matter. When he’s with her he tends to talk about himself. He was going to say that it’s cheaper than therapy, but actually it isn’t. Nora is very expensive. He’s had an account with Regal Select for over five years now but has spent more in the last eighteen months since Nora showed up than in all of the time prior to that put together. He doesn’t feel guilty about this, nor is he stupid enough to have fallen in love with her, but he does regard their time together as essential, each appointment as a sort of pit stop, something entirely related to the rhythms and requirements of his working life.

It’s not just that he’s paying for her to leave, as the conventional wisdom runs. It’s a bit more complex than that. He’s paying for what sociologists have recently taken to calling ‘relief from the burden of reciprocity’.

In other words, he already has a wife.

Nora removes her coat. She places it on the back of a chair. She then does a half turn and glances at Rundle, coquettishly, her lips glistening, her tongue just visible.

Hard-on in place, check.

She can do this
every
time. Just walk into the room. What wife can do that?

More than once J.J. has begged Clark to hook him up with Regal, but of course that’s never going to happen.

J.J. doesn’t get to do this.

Especially since he’s on the brink of submitting to the most rigorous vetting process known to man. Even before the media get involved, he’ll have to offer himself up on a platter to the party handlers: his education and employment histories, every tax return he’s ever filed, every investment made, every gift received … his
medical
records, and all of them, copies of lab results, bloods, electrocardiograms, even down to such stuff as the size of his prostate and how much Pepto-Bismol he uses.

So no room for peccadilloes.

‘How are you, Nora?’

‘I’m good.’

She walks over to the window, though it’s more like sashays. He follows. Puts his hands on her shoulders, applies pressure, breathes in her scent – nose in her hair, hard-on nuzzling against her ass.

Rhythm starting.

She’s wearing that silky dress he likes, it’s a –

Look, forget it.

They have their habits, like any couple, stuff they do and say – but only in some alternative universe could the details of this be any of your fucking business. Set up a sting operation and nab J.J., fine, you’d get to justify that on the grounds of public interest, so-called. But not here, not in this case.

Say hello to the
private
sector.

So, between one thing and another, a little time passes.

Nora then takes off to the bathroom for a shower and Rundle lies back recalling what it was like in his younger days, at this juncture, to smoke a cigarette.

Just after half past his cell phone rings.

This could be anyone, but he has a feeling about it. He sits up and reaches over to the bedside table for his phone.

He’s right.

‘J.J.? Shit, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, fucking
traum
atised, but fine. And it’s not like there isn’t plenty going on over here to distract me, or going on over
there
, I should say with all this stuff being generated.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Rundle slides off the bed. ‘Stuff? What stuff?’ He goes over to the window.

‘You haven’t been following it? Seriously?’

‘No. What?’

‘You’re the one who kicked this whole thing off, man. Stroke of genius.’

‘Kicked
what
off?’

‘It’s all over the internet.
I’m
all over the internet. Senator saves motorcyclist. Senator in Parisian rescue drama. I’ve been getting calls all day, interview requests. I’m telling you, Clark, you couldn’t pay for this kind of exposure.’

Rundle thinks back. He was busy for most of the morning, paperwork, meetings, this and that. He skipped lunch and came directly here. He doesn’t have time for Twitter or any of that shit, so it’s not like he’s been monitoring developments.

‘Jesus…’

‘Yeah, it’s amazing. Political coverage, but with a dollop of feelgood on top? I mean come
on
.’

‘OK, I suppose…’

‘You
suppose
? Clark, I’m sitting here in my hospital bed doing a Google news search and it’s like,
Washington Post
two hours ago,
San Francisco Chronicle
nineteen minutes ago, it’s just story after story. I mean, look at this,
People
magazine four minutes ago. I was calling you
up
four minutes ago. This is phenomenal.’

Rundle isn’t sure. It’s not what he expected, certainly not what he intended. ‘OK, J.J.,’ he says, ‘but play it down, let
them
do the work. I mean, this is tricky territory. The bigger the story gets, the more likely they are to go looking for this motorcyclist.’

‘Who cares? I’m getting a bump out of it, a chance to build up my profile. This afternoon? Fucking Wolf Blitzer’s people called. I’m telling you, there’s some serious traction to be had here.’

Rundle throws his eyes up.

‘Wolf Blitzer? Jesus Christ, J.J., let me remind you of something, OK? An important detail. There
is
no motorcyclist. It didn’t
happen
. So this is a dangerous little game we’re playing.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw my hand, Clark.’

‘Well,
sure
, but –’

‘Because believe me, this injury is
very
real.’

‘I know –’

‘I mean, the whole thing was insane, man. I’ll never forget it, I –’

‘OK,’ Rundle says. ‘Sure.’ He glances over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Is the shower still running? ‘We still need to be careful, though.’

‘We’re
being
careful. God. And what about that guy from the Jordan Group? We spoke about an hour ago. He seemed pretty smart. On top of things. They’ll handle it.’

‘Yeah, but what I’m saying is, they might have overreached themselves a bit, that’s all. These things can take on a life of their own.’

A long pause follows. Rundle can hear …

Is J.J. grinding his teeth?

It sounds like it. Maybe it’s the medication he’s on, or some kind of adrenaline rush. Maybe it’s the onset of PTSD. According to what Don Ribcoff was able to find out the incident
was
fairly horrendous, but J.J.’s involvement was minimal, his injury minor, and they managed to get him out of there pretty damn fast. The important thing is it happened after he saw Colonel Kimbela.

‘Anyway, look,’ Rundle goes on, clearing his throat, ‘I’m sure it was awful, but we need to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘About what did happen. Beforehand, I mean. The colonel. About what he had to say.’

‘Right.’

Rundle waits. He glances over at the bathroom door again – anticipates it opening, anticipates Nora emerging … her dark glistening skin as it contrasts with the white cotton of her towelling robe, the belt loosely knotted, pullable …

‘The thing is, Clark, I…’

Start of round two.

‘Yeah?’

Value for his four grand.

‘I’m a little confused. I –’

Rundle turns back to the window, his eyes widening all of a sudden. He presses the phone to his ear, listens hard. Is J.J.… is he
crying
?

‘
J.J.?
’

‘I’m sorry, Clark, I –’

‘
What?
’

‘Look, you’ve no idea what it was like, the noise, looking down the barrel of that gun, blood everywhere, those
kids
…’

‘
J.J.
’

‘And what happened beforehand? Meeting with Kimbela? Talking to him? That’s all a blur now. I’m just not sure I can recall any of it.’

*   *   *

Jimmy spends the rest of the afternoon and that evening in front of his iMac trawling the web for articles about Larry Bolger. He has a knot in his stomach the whole time. The evening is punctuated by three further calls from Phil Sweeney. The first, at around seven o’clock, is to go over a few ground rules – terms of reference, what’s off limits, what isn’t, contractual details, conditions. This is stuff they clear up easily enough. The second, an hour later, is to announce that Bolger has agreed to the arrangement, in principle at least, but would like a face to face with Jimmy before making his final decision – a meeting he thinks should take place quite soon, within the next week or so. The third call, after ten, is to say that Bolger has been in touch again and would actually like to get moving straightaway, so is Jimmy available to meet the following morning?

At Bolger’s hotel, say, ten o’clock?

For what will be, in effect, a job interview.

With the phone cradled on his shoulder, Jimmy stares at an article on the screen about the ‘palace coup’ that originally led to Bolger taking over as Taoiseach. It’s a fascinating analysis of the intrigues, the backstabbings and the fallout, but at the same time, as with so much of this kind of stuff, it is tantalisingly incomplete and raises more questions than it answers.