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‘Jesus…’

‘Yeah, it’s amazing. Political coverage, but with a dollop of feelgood on top? I mean come on.’

‘OK, I suppose…’

‘You suppose? Clark, I’m sitting here in my hospital bed doing a Google news search and it’s like, Washington Post two hours ago, San Francisco Chronicle nineteen minutes ago, it’s just story after story. I mean, look at this, People magazine four minutes ago. I was calling you up four minutes ago. This is phenomenal.’

Rundle isn’t sure. It’s not what he expected, certainly not what he intended. ‘OK, J.J.,’ he says, ‘but play it down, let them do the work. I mean, this is tricky territory. The bigger the story gets, the more likely they are to go looking for this motorcyclist.’

‘Who cares? I’m getting a bump out of it, a chance to build up my profile. This afternoon? Fucking Wolf Blitzer’s people called. I’m telling you, there’s some serious traction to be had here.’

Rundle throws his eyes up.

‘Wolf Blitzer? Jesus Christ, J.J., let me remind you of something, OK? An important detail. There is no motorcyclist. It didn’t happen. So this is a dangerous little game we’re playing.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw my hand, Clark.’

‘Well, sure, but -’

‘Because believe me, this injury is very real.’

‘I know -’

‘I mean, the whole thing was insane, man. I’ll never forget it, I -’

‘OK,’ Rundle says. ‘Sure.’ He glances over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Is the shower still running? ‘We still need to be careful, though.’

‘We’re being careful. God. And what about that guy from the Jordan Group? We spoke about an hour ago. He seemed pretty smart. On top of things. They’ll handle it.’

‘Yeah, but what I’m saying is, they might have overreached themselves a bit, that’s all. These things can take on a life of their own.’

A long pause follows. Rundle can hear…

Is J.J. grinding his teeth?

It sounds like it. Maybe it’s the medication he’s on, or some kind of adrenaline rush. Maybe it’s the onset of PTSD. According to what Don Ribcoff was able to find out the incident was fairly horrendous, but J.J.’s involvement was minimal, his injury minor, and they managed to get him out of there pretty damn fast. The important thing is it happened after he saw Colonel Kimbela.

‘Anyway, look,’ Rundle goes on, clearing his throat, ‘I’m sure it was awful, but we need to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘About what did happen. Beforehand, I mean. The colonel. About what he had to say.’

‘Right.’

Rundle waits. He glances over at the bathroom door again – anticipates it opening, anticipates Nora emerging… her dark glistening skin as it contrasts with the white cotton of her towelling robe, the belt loosely knotted, pullable…

‘The thing is, Clark, I…’

Start of round two.

‘Yeah?’

Value for his four grand.

‘I’m a little confused. I -’

Rundle turns back to the window, his eyes widening all of a sudden. He presses the phone to his ear, listens hard. Is J.J… is he crying?

J.J.?

‘I’m sorry, Clark, I -’

What?

‘Look, you’ve no idea what it was like, the noise, looking down the barrel of that gun, blood everywhere, those kids…’

J.J.

‘And what happened beforehand? Meeting with Kimbela? Talking to him? That’s all a blur now. I’m just not sure I can recall any of it.’

* * *

Jimmy spends the rest of the afternoon and that evening in front of his iMac trawling the web for articles about Larry Bolger. He has a knot in his stomach the whole time. The evening is punctuated by three further calls from Phil Sweeney. The first, at around seven o’clock, is to go over a few ground rules – terms of reference, what’s off limits, what isn’t, contractual details, conditions. This is stuff they clear up easily enough. The second, an hour later, is to announce that Bolger has agreed to the arrangement, in principle at least, but would like a face to face with Jimmy before making his final decision – a meeting he thinks should take place quite soon, within the next week or so. The third call, after ten, is to say that Bolger has been in touch again and would actually like to get moving straightaway, so is Jimmy available to meet the following morning?

At Bolger’s hotel, say, ten o’clock?

For what will be, in effect, a job interview.

With the phone cradled on his shoulder, Jimmy stares at an article on the screen about the ‘palace coup’ that originally led to Bolger taking over as Taoiseach. It’s a fascinating analysis of the intrigues, the backstabbings and the fallout, but at the same time, as with so much of this kind of stuff, it is tantalisingly incomplete and raises more questions than it answers.

Yes, he says.

Knot still in his stomach.

One of the conditions – and Jimmy’s not sure if this comes directly from Bolger himself or just from Phil Sweeney – is that the job is to be exclusive. He must suspend or abandon any work he currently has in hand and must turn down any new offers of work.

For the duration of the project.

Which could take anything up to six months or a year. And occupy his every waking hour. But also help pay off his mortgage. And enhance his reputation. Phil Sweeney has said he wouldn’t be ghosting the book, he’d be getting a co-credit. Which, in turn, could lead to any amount of other interesting work.

Jimmy scrolls down through a few more search results.

Squirming in his chair as he does so.

Because while this whole thing is clearly a no-brainer, there’s also something deeply insidious about it, about the way it’s making him re-evaluate the Susie Monaghan story… which all of a sudden has begun to seem inconsequential and tawdry. Why should he spend his time and energy writing about some coke-addled soap star, the argument appears to run, when he could be writing about national politics, and at the highest level?

Quite.

But how is he supposed to explain that to Maria?

In his head, he tries to – spins it one way, then another, contextualises it, rationalises it, brings in the old man…

Ends up feeling sick.

At eleven o’clock he turns off the computer. He tries to watch some television, but can’t concentrate. He goes to bed and tries to sleep, but can’t do that either. There is a loud bass sound thumping through the walls from across the corridor. It’s those students in the apartment directly opposite his. Now and again, he can hear their raised voices as well. What are they arguing about? Climate change? Afghanistan? Quentin Tarantino vs. Shakespeare? Which of them left an open tin of beans on a shelf in the kitchen for five days? They’re two guys, maybe three, it varies, modern languages, engineering, he’s not sure. He hung out with them once and after two hits on a joint felt so stoned he forgot his own name.

The bass thump goes on and on, works its way into his dreams. When he next looks at the bedside clock, it is 4.35, the thump still there, but muffled now, more like a heartbeat.

He looks over at the window.

It’s dark, too early to get up, but he knows that further sleep is out of the question. His thoughts are up. And it’s the same queasy merry-go-round – excitement about meeting Larry Bolger, shame at having to blow off Maria, excitement about meeting -