Noel is the first to extract himself from the embrace. He then holds Catherine’s face in his hands and stares into her eyes.
‘I’m
so
sorry, Catherine,’ he says.
Her face crumples again and they re-embrace for a moment. Yvonne comes out from the kitchen. She and Noel acknowledge each other with silent nods. Somehow, they all move into the lounge and end up sitting on sofas. But it feels weirdly polite, like it’s some kind of formal occasion. There’s a tension in the room, and no one seems to know what it is.
Then Mrs Collins stands up and it becomes clear.
‘I’ll just slip away,’ she whispers, nodding at Yvonne and then at Noel. She glances at Catherine and cocks her head sideways. But suddenly she’s gone and it’s just the three of them.
Family.
But this doesn’t last very long.
The doorbell rings again and Catherine’s heart lurches. She thinks maybe it’s Michelle or Gina.
As Yvonne goes out to answer it, Catherine and Noel remain still, looking across the room at each other in silence, listening.
The door opens.
‘Good evening, ma’am.’
It’s a deep voice, an accent – a fucking culchie.
Noel stands up. ‘The guards,’ he says quietly.
He goes out.
Catherine listens to the shuffling in the hallway as two or maybe even three of them come in. Not much is being said. She imagines some pointing going on, faces being made, heads nodding. Then comes the moment she dreads. She looks up as two uniformed guards step into the room. Over their uniforms they have on those yellow reflective jackets that make them look like Teletubbies. They both have hangdog expressions on their faces, and are followed by a plainclothes detective, a shorter, older man in a navy suit. This isn’t the first time the guards have been to the house, but it’s the first time they’ve ever been let in the door. Catherine feels a flicker of indignation. She knows how Noel would feel about this. But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have the will. There are too many other things going on in her head, vying for her attention – memories of Noel, images, snatches of things he said. She’d love another hit from that glass of vodka.
Where did Yvonne leave it?
‘Mrs Rafferty?’
Mrs?
She’s not even going to correct them on that one.
She looks up. They’re standing around awkwardly. No one tells them to sit down.
‘What?’ she says.
The detective steps forward. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you, Mrs Rafferty.’
She realises he’s only doing his duty, that it’s a formality, but she can’t help thinking what Noel would be saying if he was here now, he’d be saying, ‘Listen, you stupid fucking bogman, tell us something we
don’t
know.’
On Wicklow Street, parked near Louis Copeland’s, Paddy Norton sits slumped in his BMW, staring at his mobile phone. He has just walked back from the hotel, not the better yet of Noel Rafferty’s sudden appearance in the bar forty-five minutes earlier.
What in God’s name does he do now?
He hesitates, and then places his mobile on top of the folder lying on the passenger seat beside him. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small silver pillbox. He opens it and taps two Narolet tablets out into the palm of his hand. He raises his hand, knocks the two tablets into his mouth and swallows them back dry. With the booze he already has in his system these should kick in pretty soon, help him to calm down.
It’s fairly cold outside but he’s sweating. He draws the back of his hand across his upper lip.
He shifts his considerable weight in the seat. The car is spacious, roomy, but Norton gives it a run for its money all the same.
He looks down at the phone again.
It was enough of a shock having Noel turn up unexpectedly in the first place, but what was the story then with him rushing off like that – pale all of a sudden, barely a word, no explanation? And who had that been on his mobile? Was it a tip-off of some kind?
Hardly.
There’s nothing for it. Norton has to talk to Fitz. The arrangement was no direct contact for at least a week, but clearly that doesn’t apply anymore, not in these circumstances.
He picks up his phone again, selects a number and hits Call.
As he is waiting, he feels the first, vague stirrings of the Narolet in his system.
Anticipa-a-tion.
Soon he’ll have to keep reminding himself that he is, in fact, extremely angry.
The call is answered with a ‘
Yep
?’
‘What happened?’
Silence at first, then, ‘Jesus, I thought –’
‘
What happened?
’
More silence, as well as some eye-rolling probably. Then, ‘It went OK.’
‘What do you mean? I’ve just had a fucking
drink
with the guy.’
‘What are you talking about?
I’ve
just had it confirmed.’
Norton says nothing. His breathing pattern is slow, laboured, quite loud. He waits for more.
‘It happened an hour ago, less.’
In the silence that follows, Norton struggles to contain himself. He wants to be explicit, but he can’t. They’re on mobiles here. They have to be discreet.
‘Well, I don’t understand,’ he says eventually, the Narolet all over him now like a heavy blanket of snow. ‘Something’s gone wrong. Check again.
Christ
. I’ll ring you back.’
He puts the phone down, but just as he’s about to start the car up, it rings – Vivaldi, one of the seasons.
He grabs the phone again, hoping that it’s Ray Sullivan. New York is five hours behind, so Ray Sullivan could easily still be in his office at this time.
Norton looks at the display on the phone.
But it’s not Ray Sullivan. It’s Noel.
He takes a deep breath.
‘What happened to
you
?’
‘Listen, Paddy, I’m sorry for skipping off like that, but there’s been an emergency, a family thing. It’s … it’s awful.’
‘Jesus,’ Norton swallows. ‘What?’
‘My nephew’s been shot. In a pub. He’s dead.’
Norton closes his eyes and says, ‘
Oh fuck
.’ Then he exhales loudly, deflating like a balloon.
‘Yeah,’ Noel says, ‘I’m out at my sister’s house now. She’s in bits of course. The cops are here. It’s chaos.’
‘Well, look, I’m sorry,’ Norton says, very quietly. ‘Your nephew, wasn’t –’
‘Yeah, Catherine’s lad, Noel. He was into all sorts of shit, so I can’t say I’m surprised. But still, it’s a shock.’
Norton exhales again. He can barely believe this.
‘But anyway, the thing is,’ Noel goes on, ‘I left that folder on the bar in –’
‘Yeah,’ Norton says, ‘it’s OK, I’ve got it.’
‘Well, I’m going to need it. Tonight. There are some things in it I want to check –’
‘Look –’
‘– for tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh come on, Noel, come
on
.’
‘
No
.’
‘What the fuck am I going to tell Ray Sullivan?’
‘I don’t know. Tell him the truth.’
‘Oh for –’
‘Look, Paddy, I’m sorry, but … it’s just not right.’
Norton stares out across Wicklow Street. On the other side some young women are walking past. Despite the cold, they are all wearing short, skimpy dresses, and despite the acres of flesh on display, thighs, shoulders, backs, there is nothing sexy or attractive about them. They look like a pack of strange animals, roving the plains in search of food and shelter. One of them is lagging behind, weaving drunkenly along the pavement. Norton thinks of his own daughter, pictures her here, like this, and a wave of emotion – unadulterated and operatic – washes over him. The Narolet does this sometimes, makes him a little weepy, leaves him exposed. But that’s fine, he likes it, looks forward to it even.
‘Paddy?’
Norton shakes his head. He looks at the dashboard, refocusing.
‘OK, OK,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to argue with you any more, Noel. Do what you want. Let’s meet someplace and you can pick it up.’
‘I can drop out to the house.’
‘
No
.’ Norton pauses here, closing one eye. ‘I’m still in town. We can meet halfway somewhere.’
‘Fine.’
They make an arrangement. The car park behind Morahan’s. In forty-five minutes.
‘See you then.’
‘Yeah.’
Norton holds the phone in his hand. It weighs a ton.
He never wanted this.
He’s been in the property business for over thirty years – here and in the UK – and during that time he has put up countless hotels, apartment blocks, office complexes and a shopping centre or two. He has made a considerable reputation for himself, as well as a lot of friends, and a lot of money … so naturally he’s not going to let some self-important little prick like Noel Rafferty flush all of that down the toilet – Norton shakes his head.
– and especially not over something like
this
…
In a reflex movement, Norton brings a hand up to his chest, and winces.
He remains still, letting the seconds roll past – five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen seconds. What’s the deal here? Is he just excited or are these actual palpitations? Is this a warning sign or is it the precursor to some kind of massive heart attack?
Who knows?
He waits some more, and it seems to pass.
He looks at his watch, and then back at his mobile. He calls Fitz’s number again and waits.
He never wanted this. He really didn’t.
‘Yep?’
‘We need to meet.’
‘What?
When
?’
‘Right now. In the next twenty minutes.’
Coming out of Isosceles, after the gig, after the minimalist repetitions and phase-shifting polyrhythms of Icelandic trio, Barcode, Gina Rafferty is feeling transported. This is the first proper night out she’s had in weeks, and although there is something ironic in the fact that the complex, patterned music actually reminds her of work, of computer code, of the alternating ones and zeroes they all toil so endlessly over in the office, she doesn’t feel cheated or shortchanged. It’s the same mechanism in each case, for sure – it’s the language of order, the language of structure – but the context is quite different. So it’d be like comparing, say, legalese with poetry, the syntax of a contract with the metre of a sonnet …
Though the truth is, in
any
case, be it in a legal document or a poem – or a musical composition – Gina likes it, she likes order and structure.
Unapologetically so, in fact.
Which is probably just as well, given the attitude she’s already picking up from these two guys she and her friend Sophie came with – not that she’s in the least bit concerned about their huffing and sighing. Time was when she would have been mortified and felt she had to explain herself somehow, account for her opinions, even feign opinions she didn’t have, but not anymore, not these days, and as they shuffle through the foyer now, she turns to one of them, the tall guy with the beard, and says, ‘So, I thought that was pretty cool.’
‘What?’ the guy says, looking down at her. ‘Jesus. No. I thought it was torture.’
The other guy laughs.
Gina rolls her eyes.
Torture?
Why is she not surprised? She knew that Barcode wouldn’t particularly be Sophie’s bag, but she hadn’t anticipated that these two guys – colleagues of Sophie’s – would be such boneheads.
‘You know what it reminded me of?’ the guy with the beard is saying. ‘Of when I was a kid, at mass, having to sit there. It was fucking awful.’
‘Well,’ Gina says, not interested in hearing any more of this, and reaching into her pocket for her mobile, ‘
I
thought it was sublime.’
‘Sublime?’ the second guy says. ‘Come on, it was boring.’
With the music still echoing in her head – the subtle patterns, the mathematical precision, the clarity and grace – what’s the point of arguing, Gina thinks. After
awful
and
boring
she’s going to counter with words like
clarity
and
grace
?
‘Oh, what,’ she then says, ‘I suppose you’d prefer some boy band in white suits doing cover versions of Perry Como hits?’
‘Perry
who
?’
Turning away, Gina sees that she has two texts and a voicemail. The first text is from Beth, ‘CU 4 lnch @ 1?’, and the second – characteristically unabbreviated and with full punctuation – is from P.J., ‘Remember I’m in London tomorrow. Intermetric, at 10.30. I’ll call you after.’
When they get out onto Dame Street, the crowd starts breaking up and they’re able to move a little faster. Gina switches from holding the phone in front of her, staring at it as she walks, to holding it up to her ear.
The voicemail is from one of her sisters. ‘Received at 9.27 p.m.’ Pause. ‘Gina, it’s Yvonne. Oh God. Listen. Ring me back as soon as you can, will you? Something awful’s happened.’ Gina’s heart sinks. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you. Young Noel is after getting shot. He was in a pub somewhere.’ She pauses here, almost as if to give Gina a second or two to respond, to say, ‘Oh my God’, which she does. Yvonne then continues, ‘Look, I’d better tell you everything, he’s
dead
. It’s just … awful. I’m heading over to Catherine’s now. Sorry for telling you like this, but what else could I do? Call me.’ That’s it. When Gina looks up, she realises that she’s not moving anymore and that Sophie and the two guys are already ten or fifteen paces ahead of her.
Sophie turns, and sees the shock on Gina’s face.
‘What’s wrong?’ She rushes back.
‘It’s my nephew,’ Gina says, putting a hand up to her chest. ‘I can’t believe this. He’s been shot dead.’
Sophie’s eyes almost pop. ‘What?’
Sophie is from Mount Merrion, not a place where people tend to get shot.
‘This is …
awful
,’ Gina says. ‘I have to get out to my sister’s.’
She looks around, confused, still in shock.
‘There’s a taxi rank down here,’ Sophie says, taking her by the arm. ‘Come on.’