‘What’s this?’
‘I don’t know, Paddy. I’m not in the habit of opening other people’s packages.’
She turns and leaves.
Norton looks at the envelope for a moment and then tosses it down beside him on the sofa.
He turns back to the TV. The six o’clock news has just come on, and guess what – for the first time since Friday evening Norton is not the lead story.
Larry Bolger is.
Norton grunts. He wants to turn the TV off or switch to another channel, but he can’t. He stares at the screen – fascinated, mesmerised, but also disgusted. It’s not so much that he thinks he should be there, in the background, basking in the reflected glory – of
course
he should – it’s more that Larry’s arrogance is so breathtaking, his casual assumption that he can cut old ties so … so
deluded
.
They show clips of Bolger leaving Áras an Uachtaráin, then arriving back at Leinster House, and then – at which point Norton presses the Mute button on his remote – addressing the chamber. After that, in a quick résumé of his career, various photos appear on the screen: a schoolboy in front of a grey institutional building, Liam Bolger flanked by his two teenage sons, the mangled car, a campaign poster … then Larry wearing an election rosette, Larry sitting at the cabinet table, Larry standing in front of the main stage at an Árd Fheis … on and on, the young man Norton first knew, slim and with an implausibly bushy head of jet-black hair, morphing into the greying, stocky middle-aged
bollocks
he is today.
Taoiseach Larry Bolger.
Give me a
fucking
break.
Whatever it is Mark is expecting to see on the news, it’s not what he gets, because the lead story isn’t about Gina Rafferty or Richmond Plaza – though it was hardly likely to be – it’s about Larry Bolger and how he has taken over as …
Taoiseach
?
But –
How could this have happened so fast? Last Wednesday the man was just a minister, getting over a personal scandal. There was talk all right, speculation, but –
Gazing at the screen, Mark feels as if some kind of cosmic trick is being played on him.
His stomach is jumping.
He feels like Rip van
fucking
Winkle.
In utter disbelief, he watches as they show footage of Bolger leaving Áras an Uachtaráin, returning to Leinster House and addressing the chamber, after which they go back over his career and show photos from the archives, old black-andwhite ones … of a small child in a school uniform, of Bolger’s father flanked by his teenage sons, and then – Mark flinches, rears back in horror.
– of a crushed and mangled car by the side of a country road.
He grabs the remote and turns the TV off.
Holy fuck.
Holy
fuck
.
He takes a few deep breaths, and then, unwilling to linger on the image in his mind’s eye –
unable
to linger – he flicks the TV back on.
Bolger at a press conference, flanked by senior ministers.
Mark can’t believe it.
Can’t believe any of it.
And as he stares at the man on the screen he is seized by this awful, queasy sense of himself as an inconvenience, as a piece of someone else’s unfinished business. Twenty-five years ago his family was wiped out, taken from him physically, which was bad enough, but then they were taken from him emotionally as well – and now the person responsible for that is trying to wipe
him
out, too? And why? Because he’s apparently looking for … what? Some kind of
closure
?
Well, so be it.
Mark pulls back the covers of the bed.
So be it
.
He moves his legs to the edge, slides them over and manoeuvres himself into a sitting position.
If he wants closure, then he can fucking well have it
.
But it’s only at that point that Mark realises he has a catheter attached to him, and that the catheter is, in turn, attached to a drainage bag hanging from the side of the bed. What does he do? Yank it off? He then tugs at the lumen strip on his neck from which the various IV drips connect to bags mounted on a mobile unit next to the monitors. Does he yank this off, too?
He should try and stand first.
He glances up at the TV. They’re in a studio now, dull voices droning on about momentous events, the big day, history.
He eases his feet down onto the floor, aware for the first time in a while of a dull pain in his back – a pain that seems to be rapidly intensifying.
He raises his hand up to his neck and is about to tear the strip loose when suddenly his eyes well up with tears.
What does he think he’s doing? Is he
insane
? What’s his plan here, to breach government security wearing a hospital gown and then strangle the new prime minister with his catheter tube?
It’s beyond pathetic.
He leans back against the bed and groans, the pain getting worse.
Across the room, the door opens.
The nurse is backing in with a trolley, but she stops halfway and addresses someone outside, maybe the guard, maybe another nurse.
‘Ah go
on
, he’s not, is he?’
Mark lifts himself up onto the edge of the bed. He turns, wincing, and eases himself into position again.
‘Listen, don’t believe everything you hear.’
He pulls up the covers, leans his head back against the raised pillows and closes his eyes.
‘See ya.’
He listens as the nurse wheels the trolley in through the door and across the room.
His heart pounding, his eyes stinging.
After a moment, the nurse comes over to the bed, picks up the remote control and turns off the TV.
Mark then feels her tossing something onto the end of the bed.
A while later, when she has left the room once more, he opens his eyes.
At the end of the bed there is a copy of the
Sunday Tribune
.
To distract himself from what’s on the TV, Norton picks up the envelope beside him on the sofa and examines it. He doesn’t recognise the handwriting. He tears the envelope along the top. Inside it there is a single page of glossy photo paper. Printed on the page are three photographs.
One each of a man, a woman and a small girl.
At first he is puzzled. He looks inside the envelope again and sees a business card. He takes this out and examines it.
The name on the card is Gina Rafferty.
His heart lurches.
If she ever comes near me again …
He looks back at the photographs and …
Of course.
Jesus, she has a nerve. But what is she up to? Is this meant to be some sort of coded message – a veiled threat? He thought that by not pressing charges he’d at least be eliminating
her
from the equation. He thought she’d go away and leave him to deal with the fallout, with all the shit she’d stirred up … but now
this …
He reaches forward, straining to breathe, and places the page of photos on the coffee table. He picks up his mobile and flops back. He switches the phone on, enters his PIN and waits.
Then he looks for her number, finds it, calls it.
It rings.
There is an ad on the TV, a silver car speeding across a desolate moonscape.
‘Yes?’
‘This is harassment. I could get the Guards to have you –’
‘Then go ahead. Call them. They know where I live.’
He pauses, glances at the photographs again – at the three faces, with their alien, remote expressions.
‘What am I supposed to do with these pictures?’ he says. ‘What’s your point?’
‘My point?’ She almost laughs. ‘That no one has made the connection yet.’ She pauses. ‘But they will, sooner or later, and probably sooner.’
‘What connection?’
‘Oh come
on
. All it takes is one journalist to see it, to remember the name from the other night. Or one phone call.’
He grinds his teeth. He stands up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
This sounds weak, even to him.
‘No?’
‘No.’
He waits. She doesn’t respond. The silence goes on for quite a while. During it, he walks across the room and stands at the window. The curtains are half open. It’s dark outside, except for the security lights on the front lawn, and the streetlights in the distance, and
all
the lights of the city, thrown up, reflected, falling back like snow.
‘Listen,’ Gina says eventually, ‘those three people died unnecessarily. And it wasn’t
his
fault, Tony Griffin’s, like everyone said it was at the time. Now,
I
can’t prove it, of course, what was going on. No one can. Mark couldn’t. But maybe it’s time that someone bloody well
admitted
it, yeah?’
‘
Jesus
. What was
going on
? I don’t …’ He is barely able to suppress his rage. ‘Meaning
what
exactly? Dunbrogan House? Is that it?’
She says nothing.
‘Been doing your homework, have you? You
bitch
.’ He puts a hand up to his chest and rubs it. ‘Very well,’ he goes on, wincing, ‘you want to talk about this, yeah? About Frank and Larry? About the accident? Let’s talk about it then.’
‘Yes …
let’s
.’
‘But not over the phone.’ His voice is hard now, and controlled, almost a whisper. ‘Somewhere outside. Somewhere neutral. And right now.’
If she ever comes near me again …
‘Fine,’ Gina says without hesitation. ‘Tell me where.’
*
The main story on the front page of the
Sunday Tribune
is about Larry Bolger and his imminent coronation. However, there is a piece at the bottom – and two more inside, on page 8 – about Richmond Plaza.
Mark reads these, a little impatiently at first, but then with growing interest.
It is not stated explicitly – nothing is, presumably because of the country’s strict libel laws – but with the report by that engineer, what Gina seems to have uncovered here, theoretically, reading between the lines, is a motive for the murder of her brother.
Or what
she
sees as the murder of her brother.
And this Paddy Norton, the developer, is the focus of all her attention. She seems to have pursued the man with a ferocious determination, and …
Mark puts the paper down for a moment, and as he gazes at the wall opposite, and listens to the monotonous beeping of the monitors, a thought occurs to him.
She was going to tell him something.
It was their last conversation. The one on the phone. She was talking and he interrupted her.
What had she been going to say?
He tries to remember. He was …
I think I’m maybe on the wrong track
.
That was it.
About Bolger
.
He closes his eyes.
I think I’m maybe on the wrong track, about Bolger. I mean, it
doesn’t seem –
He opens his eyes again.
But what? It doesn’t seem
what
?
It doesn’t seem that Bolger …
He’s confused. He takes up the paper again and scans the final paragraphs of the article he was reading.
Paddy Norton … Paddy Norton …
He’s barely able to focus on the words.
… started out over twenty-five years ago … web of business
and political connections … soon established as a leading …
party affiliations … the Bolger brothers …
Mark feels dizzy.
But what does this mean? Has he been wrong all along?
All
his life?
He goes back a few pages, to another article, one about Bolger and scans that.
… called back from Boston … funeral arrangements already
in place … reluctant to run …
Mark closes his eyes.
It hits him now with the force of a religious revelation.
Bolger wasn’t even in the country when the accident happened
…
By the time he got back from America, everything had been taken care of, everything had been set in train.
Jesus Christ.
He has always just assumed …
The name … it was always the name, Larry Bolger, looming like a dark cloud over everything he ever did.
Larry Bolger … Larry Bolger …
But he never questioned it, never talked to anyone about it. No one ever talked to
him
about it …
He shakes his head, a surge of anger now rising through him.
He needs to know.
He needs to know
.
Paddy Norton.
Billionaire property developer.
The name is familiar, of course, but Mark can’t put a face to it. Then it occurs to him that given how the construction industry works here, he might actually have
met
Norton at some point, or at least have seen him at functions, trade fairs.
And he definitely knows people who
have
met him. Just a while back, in fact – there was that developer from Cork. Didn’t he say he’d been ‘talking to’ Norton?
Jesus
.
How many degrees of separation? Never too many in this fucking town, that’s for sure.
Never
enough
.
As a politician, Bolger had always seemed a distant figure to Mark – in a numb, mediated sort of way. But
this
? This is too close to the bone.
Way too close …
They might have shaken hands
.
Through his anger, and now revulsion, Mark steels himself, does his best to concentrate, to focus.
Winterland Properties. Their head office is on Baggot Street. But Norton himself … he has that huge spread out in …
He’s read about it.
Foxrock
.
It shouldn’t be too hard to get his number. It might even be listed.