‘I understand,’ Maria says. ‘But don’t…’ She hesitates. ‘Look, in a weird way the crash should be the focus of the story. It’s what it builds up to. And it’s almost like the perfect metaphor. I mean, we’ll never know exactly what happened, but everything in Susie’s life seemed to be… inclining towards that moment.’
Jimmy swallows, then nods in agreement.
He wants to remind her that the metaphor mightn’t quite work for the other victims, but he holds back. It’s a tricky enough point – and maybe on one level Phil Sweeney is right – but they’ll find a way around it.
He’ll find a way around it. It’s his job.
Maria picks up her phone and looks at it. ‘I have to get back to work.’
‘Sure.’
Outside on Dawson Street they chat for a bit and seem reluctant to separate. At least that’s how it feels to Jimmy. After they do say their goodbyes, and Jimmy is heading along Duke Street – in something, it has to be said, of a dreamy haze – his phone rings.
He pulls it out and looks at the display.
Shit.
He hesitates, but then answers it. ‘Hi, Phil.’
‘Jimmy, how are you doing? Look, I’ve been feeling bad since yesterday. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that, I really didn’t, it was a terrible thing to do, and I’m sorry.’ Jimmy slows down, doesn’t say anything, waits. ‘So I thought of you today when something else came up, a job you might be interested in.’
‘I’m already working on a job, Phil.’
‘There are jobs, Jimmy, and there are jobs. This is a fucking job.’
‘But -’
‘Just listen to me for a minute, will you? The Susie Monaghan book, dress it up whatever way you like, it’s only fluff, it’ll cause a blip in the Christmas market if you’re lucky and then that’s it, no one’ll ever hear of it again. But what I’ve got -’
‘Jesus, Phil -’
‘No wait, and don’t hang up on me, Jimmy, please. What I’ve got – and this only came up today, I swear to you – is a substantial piece of work. It’s something your old man would have loved.’
Jimmy stops.
‘It’s political. A political memoir. You’d get to shape something that’ll be read and mulled over and put in reference libraries.’ He lets that hang for a second, then goes on. ‘Larry Bolger, yeah? He’s supposed to be putting his memoirs together, but the man can’t write to save his life, he needs help, someone who can organise his notes, interview him, someone who can turn a decent phrase… a fucking writer.’
Jimmy stands there, outside the Bailey, with the phone up to his ear.
He doesn’t speak.
Sweeney goes on. ‘You get access to his private papers, details of his meetings with Bush, Putin, the Pope, everyone, plus all the domestic stuff, the heaves and backroom intrigues, all that shit you love.’ Another pause. ‘Plus. Plus. It hasn’t been worked out yet, hasn’t been finalised, but what might actually turn out to be the most substantial part in all of this is the fee. Larry’s got a big contract, so you’d do pretty well out of it. Might even get to pay off that mortgage of yours…’
He leaves it there.
Jimmy’s insides turn. He stares down at the pavement. People pass in both directions, but no one gives him a second glance. Nothing odd in that, not anymore – man standing alone in the street, hand up at the side of his head, staring into space.
‘Jimmy? You interested? There’s a clock running on this. He’s already missed one deadline.’
Still nothing.
‘Jimmy? Jimmy? You there?’
After a long pause, Jimmy exhales loudly.
‘Yeah, Phil,’ he says, ‘take it easy.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I’m here.’
3
BOLGER’S MOUTH FEELS LIKE THE BOTTOM OF A BIRDCAGE. He’s slumped in the armchair and suspects he has been asleep, though he can’t be sure. There weren’t any dreams, which for him would be weird, because his brain usually manages to concoct some twisted combination of… of…
Of what? He can’t even think of an example. His brain won’t oblige.
He looks around.
Oh fuck.
What time is it?
The plan was to clean up and then go for a nap. There are at least two empty glasses he can see from here, one on the dining table and the other on the arm of the sofa. The drinks cabinet looks like a bomb site. He can also smell cigarette smoke. There was an old packet of Silk Cut he found in a bag in the wardrobe. It must have been there for, what, six, seven years?
He takes a deep breath.
What time is it?
Mary will be home soon.
Then he hears a sound from the kitchen, a clattering of implements, and realises that Mary is already home, and that he was asleep. He looks over at the door.
‘Mary,’ he says, in a loud voice, louder than he intended, ‘what time is it?’
There is silence.
After a moment she appears in the doorway. Bolger can’t be sure from this distance, but her eyes look a bit red.
Oh Jesus.
It’s then, too, that he remembers leaving a message on James Vaughan’s answering machine or voicemail or whatever the fuck it was.
He groans. Feels a hot flush of shame and humiliation. Why did he do this? What on earth drove him to it, what could possib-
Oh yeah.
Of course.
He remembers now.
Couple out walking their dog. Body in the woods. Paranoia, anxiety… traceability, rogue pig farmers…
Pig farmers?
What is he, still drunk?
Mary steps forward from the doorway. ‘Larry, I don’t… I -’
‘WHAT FUCKING TIME IS IT, WOMAN?’ he roars.
In that same moment he sees what time it is on the display of the digital decoder box. Then, as he watches Mary cower in shock and retreat into the kitchen, he remembers something else: what a mean fucking drunk he was.
Is.
The thought lingers for a moment, becomes unstuck and dissolves. Some time passes, a minute, maybe two. During this brief period his mind remains blank. Then he struggles up out of the armchair, feeling twenty years older than he did when he got out of bed that morning. His head is splitting. The room shifts slightly, its relationship to gravity and fixed points seeming like a loose enough arrangement.
He walks over to the dining table and leans on it with both hands. Next to the empty glass there is a saucer. In it is a dirty pile of cigarette ash and four stubbed-out butts.
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?