Gina groans.
That’s pretty weak.
But then she remembers what Terry Stack had to say and it makes her want to scream.
She crosses the stone bridge over the pond and heads for the Dawson Street exit.
There’s something else, too, not a connection exactly, not anything she can use – but a memory … from when she was a kid. It came to her last night after she got off the phone with Jackie Merrigan and was on the sofa taking another look at that two-page spread in the
Sunday World
.
It was of the house in Dolanstown … the front room with its old wallpaper, thick carpet and ornaments on the mantelpiece. The TV was on and her mother was in the armchair, cigarette dangling, glass in hand. Gina herself was playing on the floor when out of the blue – and almost shouting – her mother said, ‘Ah Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
no
.’
Gina turned around. Her mother was pointing at the TV screen.
‘
Look
at that. Oh
God
isn’t it awful.’
Gina looked.
What she remembers now is more like an abstract image than anything else, because how was she supposed to make sense of what she was seeing – of what must have been a closeup shot of the second car, mangled and crushed out of all recognition? She didn’t understand what she was hearing either, though one thing she does remember is a man in uniform saying, ‘tragic altogether, the mother and father, and their little girl …’
What sticks in Gina’s mind the most, however, is her mother saying over and over again, ‘That poor little boy, that poor little boy … my Jesus, that poor
unfortunate
little boy.’ Gina was puzzled at this and wanted to say,
No, no, Mammy, it was their
little
girl, it was their little
girl,
Mammy … the man
said …
But she remained silent.
In time, Gina learned how to handle her mother when drink was involved, but back then she just used to keep her head down and stay quiet. Besides, she was the only one left in the house at that stage – all of the others had gone, even Catherine and the baby.
Or was Catherine still there? Was little
Noel
still there? Upstairs asleep in his cot maybe?
The memory doesn’t stretch to that kind of detail, but what seems pretty certain now – as Gina crosses at the light and heads down Dawson Street – is that when she was a kid, six or seven years old, she saw a report on TV of the car crash that killed both Larry Bolger’s brother and the parents and sister of the man she’s about to meet.
Already scanning the room as she walks through the door, Gina identifies Mark Griffin more or less immediately. He’s sitting alone in a corner. The place is quite busy, but he’s the only person she can see who fits the age profile.
She goes straight over to him.
‘Mark?’
‘Yeah. Gina?’ He half stands up and puts out his hand.
They shake and Gina sits down, her back to the room.
‘So,’ she says, feeling horribly awkward.
Their eyes meet for a second. Then he looks over her shoulder.
‘What would you like?’ he asks, raising a finger. ‘Coffee, tea, juice?’
Gina glances down at what he’s having. It seems to be a large black coffee.
‘Er …’
A young Chinese guy appears at her side and says, ‘Hi, good morning. What would you like?’
‘Er … I’ll have a double espresso, please.’
The Chinese guy takes a moment to write this down and then goes away.
Thankful for that little breather, but sorry now it’s over, Gina looks up and smiles.
Mark Griffin is dark. He has dark hair, dark eyes and a dark complexion. He’s wearing a
very
nice dark suit and a plain dark tie. But he’s also unshaven and looks somewhat the worse for wear. Gina doesn’t know what she was expecting – although a small, irrational part of her was expecting a five-year-old boy in short grey trousers and a V-necked jumper.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ she says. ‘I realise this must be difficult for you, but I just wanted to, er …’ She hasn’t really worked out how to put this. ‘I just wanted …’
‘Look,’ Mark Griffin says, leaning forward, ‘it
isn’t
easy for me, that’s true, but from what you said on the phone I’m sure it isn’t easy for
you
either.’ He pauses. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me what happened to your brother?’
Gina nods and says, ‘OK.’
She intends to go for a slow build, with plenty of context and detail, but by the time the waiter arrives back with her double espresso a couple of minutes later, she finds she’s already blurted most of it out – even to the extent of using phrases like ‘faked accident’ and ‘professional hit’.
She does stop short, though, of mentioning Larry Bolger.
She leans forward and takes a sip from the espresso. She looks at Griffin for a reaction, but there isn’t one.
After a moment he reaches out and takes a sip from his own cup.
What is he thinking?
Gina doesn’t know, but it would seem reasonable to assume that he’s torn between wanting to hear more of her theory and wanting to be told what the
fuck
any of this has to do with him.
He looks at her. ‘You didn’t say why you think anyone would want to kill your brother.’
‘Well, I don’t really
know
why. That’s what I’m trying to find out. But the thing is’ – here goes, she looks into his eyes – ‘the thing is, he did some work over the years with Larry Bolger … and I –’
Griffin blanches. ‘Sorry …
Larry Bolger
?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what this is about? Something to do with Larry Bolger?’
‘Well maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Jesus.’ He exhales. ‘
Jesus
.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’
‘No … it’s OK.’ He exhales again. ‘But I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?’
Gina feels her stomach sinking. How coherent an answer to this question can she give?
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’m probably on shaky ground here, and I don’t want to stir up any bad memories or upset you in any way, but I was talking to someone last night, someone who remembers the crash from twenty-five years ago, a cop, and he was saying that the official story was that your father –’ she pauses, swallows, ‘that your father caused the accident. Because he’d been drinking. But that … maybe things weren’t so clear-cut. This guy said that at the time there was a question mark over whether your father even drank at all, and that maybe it was Frank Bolger who was drunk. He said there could well have been a cover-up to protect his reputation … and that Larry Bolger was the one person who had the most to gain from …’
Gina has never had anyone look at her the way Griffin is looking at her now. It’s a queasy kaleidoscope of disbelief, hurt, confusion, fury. He puts a hand on the edge of the table to steady himself.
‘This is insane,’ he whispers.
‘Oh God,’ Gina says, ‘I’m sorry.’
He’s looking away now, over her shoulder, and shaking his head.
Does she go on or shut up?
‘I don’t know,’ she says after a moment, the silence unbearable, ‘it just seemed to be a pattern … accusations of drunk driving used deliberately and maliciously to …’
Her voice trails off.
Twenty-five years apart, different circumstances, the link with Bolger tenuous at best and probably just a coincidence – is that a pattern? Gina has a sudden sense of how flimsy all of this is, and of how irresponsible she’s being in presenting it to someone who has such a profound emotional involvement in what she’s talking about.
‘All my life,’ Griffin says, still whispering, still staring into the distance, ‘all the time I was growing up and in all the years since, I have lived with the horror, with the
shame
, of knowing that my father was responsible for that crash, and for the deaths of four people … including my sister and my
mother
…’ He looks directly at Gina now. ‘It was like some sort of black creation myth. And I never talked about it to anyone, I never discussed it with anyone … but it was always
there
.’
Gina swallows again. She wants to retract and apologise. She wants to get up and leave. She wants to reverse time.
‘And now,’ Griffin goes on, ‘after all these years, out of the blue, I’m faced with the possibility that maybe it
wasn’t
his fault? That it could have been someone
else’s
fault? That there was … that there was even some uncertainty
at the time
? Jesus Christ.’
The edge in his voice unnerves Gina. The thing is, this is only a theory, and her impulse now is to play it down a little.
‘Mark,’ she says softly, ‘I can’t prove any of this.’
But he doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. She’s about to elaborate on her point when he suddenly stands up and shuffles out from behind the table.
‘Mark, please, listen –’
He holds a hand up to silence her. There are tears in his eyes.
He walks off.
Gina swivels around and watches as he goes out the door of the café. He turns right, passes along by the window and quickly disappears from view.
Norton looks at his watch. It’s almost midday. He picks up the remote from his desk and flicks on the TV.
Sky News.
He leaves it on mute. Then he slumps back in his ergonomic swivel chair and glances around. He doesn’t like this office anymore. He has set aside an entire floor of the new building for Winterland Properties and can’t wait until it’s ready.
That’s assuming, of course, that everything goes smoothly. Because there are plenty of people out there who’d love to see Norton fall flat on his face, people who said at the outset that the project wasn’t financially viable, that Richmond Plaza would lie vacant for years.
Well, they don’t have much longer to wait.
Norton reaches for the remote again and switches over to RTÉ. On the bulletin at midday there should be some mention of the press conference at the Carlton.
As he waits, he goes over some paperwork relating to the agreement-for-lease of one of the smaller tenants moving into Richmond Plaza. There’s been some dispute over the net lettable area – which bits, exactly, they will or won’t be renting – and he needs to be on top of this before a meeting with their agent at two o’clock.
After a while, he glances over and sees that the news bulletin is starting. He picks up the remote and turns on the sound. The press conference is the lead story.
Norton shakes his head. Is there nothing else happening in the world? No earthquake or hostage crisis? No development in the Middle East? No further slump in the housing market or surge in inflation? Is there nothing to deflect attention from Larry
fucking
Bolger?
Norton couldn’t believe the coverage in the papers yesterday. It was savage, with the rushed and giddy feel of a premature obituary. What he’s increasingly afraid of, however, is that if they push it and finish him off, Bolger mightn’t be the only one who gets buried.
On screen, it cuts from the studio to the press conference. The minister is sitting at a table in front of a bank of microphones.
‘… and I want to reassure people,’ he’s saying, ‘that I have the full support, the full backing, of my family, my friends and my colleagues.’ He hunches forward. ‘But look, I want people to see this for what it is, which is a witch hunt, pure and simple … it’s a sinister attempt to undermine …’
Norton’s mobile phone goes off. He whips it up and looks at the display. No number. He hesitates, then answers it. ‘Yeah?’
‘Paddy, Ray Sullivan.’
Closing his eyes, Norton emits a low groan. Then he says, ‘Ray, listen, can I put you on hold for a second?’
‘Er … sure.’
Norton lowers his arm and dangles the phone by the side of his chair. He refocuses his attention on the press conference.
‘… and on the other hand accountability, so that I as a public representative, going forward, can get on with the job I was first elected to do as an ambitious young man more than twenty-five years ago.’
Abruptly, the clip ends, and they cut back to the newsreader in the studio. Norton presses the Mute button on the remote. He raises his arm and puts the phone up to his ear again. ‘Ray?’
He’s been dreading this call.
‘Paddy. What the hell is going on over there? I thought you might have gotten in touch by now.’
Norton squirms. ‘I know, I know. I was just waiting to see if it’d blow over.’
‘But … it hasn’t.’
‘Not as yet.’
‘Not as yet.’ Sullivan clears his throat. ‘So let me ask, how’s your boy doing?’
Norton is irritated by the phrasing. ‘He’s OK. He’s stonewalling. Which he’s pretty good at. He’s a politician.’
‘Fine, Paddy, but get this, the story has just come up on the old man’s radar screen, and I have to tell you, he’s pretty pissed. I wasn’t going to mention it to him, at least not yet, but it turns out he’s no stranger to the blogosphere.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, I know, at
his
age.’ Sullivan clicks his tongue. ‘But anyway, the thing is, he feels let down. Oberon’s put a lot into this and let’s just say that Mr V. thinks any scandal or unpleasantness should have been flagged
way
in advance.’
‘Ray, believe me,’ Norton says, ‘this
will
blow over. It’s just … it’s part of the process. Larry’s getting himself into position and … the gloves are off. Don’t tell me shit like this doesn’t happen all the time up on the Hill.’
‘It
does
, but people get screwed, Paddy, they get indicted, they go to fucking prison.’
Norton remains silent.
‘Here’s the thing, OK? Mr V. doesn’t want to shake this guy’s hand one week and then have to watch him doing a perp walk on TV the next.’
‘I know.’
‘It’d look bad.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
Norton chews on his lower lip.
As a possible future prime minister of the only English-speaking country in the Eurozone, and with a six-month stint as EU Council President also in prospect, Larry Bolger would undoubtedly be useful to the Oberon Capital Group – he’d be a handy point man to have in terms of regulatory influence and the awarding of contracts.