Bolger nods.
After a while, he looks at his watch. ‘Look, I have to go,’ he says, his voice a little shaky. ‘Thanks for talking to me.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Romy says. ‘And good luck.’ There is an awkward pause. ‘Keep the head, won’t you?’
‘I’ll try.’ Bolger walks towards the door, but stops halfway. ‘As a matter of interest,’ he says, still facing the door, ‘that land you mentioned, the land that was up for rezoning?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What happened to it?’
Romy snorts. ‘Well, Taoiseach, what do
you
think?’
‘Right.’ Bolger turns around. ‘And where’s this you said it was again?’
Romy narrows his eyes. ‘Beyond the airport somewhere. It was one of those old ascendancy piles. On a few hundred acres. It’s probably a bloody golf course now, or an estate.’
Bolger narrows
his
eyes. ‘Hang on a second,’ he says, staring at Romy. ‘You’re not talking about Dunbrogan House, are you?’
‘Er …yes.’
Bolger immediately sees it on Romy’s face, the merest hint of confusion, a flicker of doubt, as though he’s just given something away but doesn’t quite know what – and the feeling seems to be as unfamiliar to him as it is unwelcome.
Bolger’s pulse quickens.
‘Yes,’ Romy repeats, in a smaller voice now, ‘Dunbrogan House, that was it.’
The programmer from Cork is one of those geeky obsessives who can sit at a computer terminal for hours on end and seem to move only the muscles in his eyeballs and fingertips – except for one or two, now and again, in his eyeballs maybe, or his fingertips. It’s a level of concentration that Gina envies. She watches from the other room, through the open doors, and wonders how he doesn’t need to fidget, squirm, stretch, yawn – all things she’s been doing non-stop herself since she sat down here.
She looks around. Everyone else has left, and the place is eerily quiet.
It’s already dark outside.
Gina was a little self-conscious walking into the office with a laptop under her arm, given that she’s effectively been using her bereavement to justify not coming to work, but she didn’t have any choice. She got a bewildered, slightly frosty reception from Siobhan, and was relieved to discover that P.J. was in Belfast for the day. She went straight through to the back and over to Steve’s workstation. When she apologised for taking him away from whatever he was working on, he shrugged and said, ‘Same difference sure’ – the implication no doubt being that it didn’t matter what he was working on since the company was going down the tubes anyway. Which was maybe true, but Gina didn’t want to get into it. She handed him the laptop and explained what she needed. At first he was reluctant; then he started to focus – as she knew he would – and before long he was totally absorbed.
Gina tried to get busy at her own desk, organising work stuff and answering emails, but she couldn’t concentrate and after a while fell into idly monitoring Steve through the open doors.
She looks at her watch now, and something occurs to her.
She reaches back over the chair to one of the pockets of her jacket. She pulls out the three photographs she found in the warehouse and puts them on her desk. She switches on her printer and scans the photos. Then she puts them together in a file and emails the file to her own address as an attachment.
After that, she leans back in the chair and looks over at Steve. ‘So, how’re we doing?’
‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t look up. ‘We’re getting there.’
‘I’ve never seen him like this before,’ Paula says, and chews her lower lip for a second. ‘I think he’s getting cold feet. Or something.’
‘No, he’ll be fine,’ Norton says. ‘He’s probably just tired.’
‘Well, he should get some caffeine into his system then, and plenty of it, because the next couple of hours are going to be crucial.’
Norton has a headache and is finding Paula’s voice grating. They are in the corridor outside Bolger’s offices in Government Buildings. There are two people ahead of them, with three others already inside, camped in the Private Secretary’s office. Behind them, and all along the corridor, little groups are huddled – whispering, texting, shuffling,
waiting
. Everyone is hoping for five minutes with the Minister.
The atmosphere around Government Buildings this evening – and around Leinster House, and even out on Kildare Street – is electric. Speculation is rife that a major development is imminent.
The Taoiseach is isolated. The numbers stack up. The prize is there for the taking.
So what’s wrong?
Alarm bells rang for Norton when he got the message, through Paula, that Bolger wanted to see him in his office – and this evening, straightaway, A-S-A-fucking-P. Because that isn’t how it works between them. Larry doesn’t
summon
Norton. Though maybe he’s trying to mark out his new turf, establish a new set of ground rules.
Maybe
. But Norton doubts it. He suspects it has more to do with this trip Bolger made out to Wicklow earlier.
The door of the Secretary’s office opens and a current of expectancy ripples down the corridor.
Bolger himself appears. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his tie is loose. He looks frazzled. He points at Paddy and indicates
inside
with his head. Gritting his teeth, Paddy follows Bolger into the Secretary’s office and then through to the inner sanctum. They pass anxious-looking party officials and civil servants. At the door, Bolger turns. He allows Norton in but puts a hand up to block Paula.
‘Ten minutes,’ he says, not looking at her, and shuts the door.
Bolger’s office is spacious, all mahogany panels and red leather. Norton has been in here only a couple of times – because again, if they have business to do, it tends to be on Norton’s terms, and on Norton’s turf.
‘Jesus,’ Bolger says, pacing up and down in front of his desk, ‘I don’t know if I can handle this. They’re like fucking vultures out there.’
‘Come on,’ Norton says, forcing a smile, ‘you can tell your grandchildren about it someday.’
Bolger ignores this.
The smile drops from Norton’s face. His head is pounding. He’s about to say something when Bolger stops moving and turns to face him. ‘Paddy, I was out in Glenalba this afternoon.’
‘So I gather. How is he?’
‘Shite. Awful. He didn’t know who I was. He’s … he’s gone.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Norton wasn’t aware that the old man’s condition was as bad as all that, and he shakes his head. At the same time, he’s mildly relieved at the news. It’s one more thing out of the way, one more little dose of closure.
But Bolger doesn’t seem to be finished. He takes a step forward.
‘I ran into someone else, though.’
‘Oh, you did? Who was that?’
‘Romy Mulcahy.’
Norton releases a barely audible groan.
Bolger says, ‘You remember him then?’
‘Yeah. I do. Very much.’ Norton pauses. ‘So. The old bollocks hasn’t kicked it yet?’
‘No. In fact, he’s very much alive.’ Bolger points a finger at the side of his head. ‘Upstairs, anyway. We were raking over some ancient history.’
‘I see.’
Romy Mulcahy and Liam Bolger. That whole crowd. Norton shakes his head again. They were among the first people he ever had dealings with in his business career, and the strange truth of it is, in some ways he’s
still
dealing with them.
‘He had a couple of interesting things to say, Paddy.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. A couple of
very
interesting things.’
Bolger lets that hang in the air for a moment. But Norton snaps. He’s had enough.
‘OK, Larry,’ he says, ‘get to the fucking point, would you? I don’t appreciate being dragged in here like this. You’re not the only one who’s busy, so come on, what
is
it?’
‘It’s Frank,’ Bolger says, getting red in the face now. ‘It’s Dunbrogan House. It’s
you
.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been on the phone,’ Bolger says, and points at his desk. ‘I’ve been talking to people, checking some
facts
. Dunbrogan House and estate, that was the site Frank didn’t think should be rezoned, wasn’t it? It was the site that he kicked up a stink over.’ He pauses. ‘That he became a right pain in the arse over.’ He pauses again. ‘The hundred-and-fifty-acre site that
you
owned.’
Norton rolls his eyes.
Bolger holds up a finger. ‘No, no, Paddy, not so fast. You bought it off Miriam’s old man for a few thousand quid and then sold it after it was rezoned for a quarter of a fucking
million
. It was the deal that made your fortune. It set you up, it –’
‘
So fucking what
?’ Norton roars.
‘It was –’
‘
It was perfectly legitimate is what it was
. A bloody land deal. I’ve made hundreds of them. What’s so –’
‘Frank dies in a car crash
days
before a county-council meeting on the issue, a meeting he’s declared he’s going to disrupt? Come
on
.’
‘Ah, would you fuck off, Larry. Really. You’re losing the run of yourself here.’ Norton’s head is ready to burst.
‘I’m not,’ Bolger says. ‘I’m
not
.’ He turns and slaps the palm of his hand down on the desk. ‘Something weird went on back then, Paddy, and there’s something weird going on now, too. Because that young fella the other day in Buswell’s Hotel? I know who he was. He was the kid who survived the crash. He was Mark Griffin. He
had
to be. I thought he was just some journalist looking for a story, but a couple of hours ago –’ he motions back at his desk again, at the phone, ‘I get a call, and do you know what? The Guards have identified that second guy who’s in intensive care out in St Felim’s, from last night, from that thing in Cherryvale. It’s going to be on the news at nine o’clock.’ He pauses to let that sink in. ‘And do you know who it is? They said he’s in a bad way and mightn’t make it, but it’s
him
, Paddy. Mark Griffin.’ He holds up his hands. ‘Explain
that
to me.’
Norton stares at Bolger for a long time.
‘What are the Guards saying?’ he says eventually.
Bolger stares back. He hesitates, but then says, ‘That it was his warehouse. That he’s a local businessman. They’re saying it might just be that he was unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘What, like a random victim?’
Bolger nods. ‘That sort of thing.’
‘But no reference to …
who
he is,to …’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ Norton says, considering this, looking at the floor. ‘And of course why would there be? It was a long time ago? If he dies, who’s going to make the connection, right?’
‘Ah, now hold on, Paddy, hold on … for the love of Christ, what are you saying to me here?’
Norton continues staring at the floor. ‘But even if someone did make the connection,’ he says, almost to himself now, ‘even if some industrious hack dug it up, so what? It’d just be a curious fact, with a nice tabloid ring to it.’ He pauses. ‘But it wouldn’t
mean
anything, it wouldn’t have any further resonance … unless …’
Norton hears a gentle tap on the door behind him, a creaking sound, and then an obsequious male voice, ‘Er … Minister, excuse me, but –’
‘
GET OUT!
’
Norton then hears the creaking sound in reverse.
Visibly trembling, Bolger takes a couple of steps backwards and leans on his desk. ‘Unless what?’
‘Calm down, Larry.’
‘Unless
what
?’
Norton sighs. ‘Unless
you
keep asking questions about Frank.’
Silence fills the room, spreading out like a toxic vapour, finding every corner.
‘But Paddy,’ Bolger eventually manages to say, leaning forward, pleading, ‘he was my
brother
.’
Norton winces and raises a hand to his head. Without saying anything, he then walks across the room. He goes in behind Bolger’s desk and starts pulling at the various drawers, opening one after the other and rummaging through them.
Bolger turns, still at the front of the desk, and says, ‘Paddy, what are you doing?’
‘I need something for this headache,’ Norton says, ‘I need …’
He pulls a packet of Nurofen from one of the drawers and holds it up. On a shelf behind him there is a tray with glasses on it and half a dozen bottles of Ballygowan. He opens one of the bottles. He fiddles with the packet of Nurofen and knocks four of the tablets back in one go, followed by a long slug of water. He puts the bottle down and rolls his neck a couple of times. When he is ready, he walks back into the middle of the room, turns and faces Bolger.
‘Right,’ he says, closing his eyes for a moment and then opening them again. ‘You have a simple choice here. You can either pursue this and keep asking questions – what happened that night, was he drunk, was he pushed, blah, blah. You can go down that road, resurrect shit from two and a half decades ago and feed it to the media on a platter.’ He pauses. ‘Or you can go out that door over there and embrace your destiny. You can take power and run this country for five, maybe even ten years. You can change things, make a difference, fix the Health Service, build infrastructure. You can have access to Downing Street, to Brussels, you can sit on the UN Security Council, you can eat dinner at the fucking White House,
whatever
. But believe me, Larry …’ – he holds up a finger and shakes it – ‘… you can’t do both.’
Bolger stares back at him, deflated. The silence is excruciating and goes on for nearly a minute.
Norton is the one who breaks it.
‘I’m going to leave now,’ he says in a quiet, measured voice.
He turns and heads for the door. ‘By the way,’ he adds, over his shoulder, ‘I’m having lunch tomorrow with James Vaughan. He’s flying in from London. I’m sure you’ll be busy, but maybe you could fit us in?’
He stops at the door and looks around.
Bolger hasn’t moved.
‘Jesus, Larry,’ Norton says. ‘Look at the bloody state of you. Straighten your tie up at least, would you? Christ.’