‘Yeah, away from Paris, get into some policy thing, an issue. Move it forward.’
Rundle nods. ‘Look, J.J., I sent you down there for a reason. It was important. And this -’ he points at the brace, then indicates behind him, at Herb Felder and the others ‘- it’s all very well, and I hope it works out for you, I do, but right this minute I couldn’t give a fuck about any of it.’ He leans forward, hands out, pleading. ‘I need to know what Kimbela said to you.’
J.J. sighs and slumps back in his chair.
‘I know, Clark, I know. I’ve been trying.’
‘You’ve been trying? I need comprehensive notes on what you guys talked about. I need minutes. Come on, J.J., you’ve sat on a thousand committees, you know the drill.’
‘This wasn’t like any committee, Clark. This was the weirdest fucking experience of my life.’ He leans forward as well. ‘And I’m not just talking about the shooting, which was bad enough, believe me, because I can still see… I can still see the pools of blood, and those little vacant, limp faces, shit -’
‘OK, OK.’ Rundle glances around. ‘Take it easy.’
‘But it was already weird before that, at the compound, from the very moment I arrived there. It’s bizarre, he has this half-built… villa, with a portico and fake-looking Louis Quinze shit inside it, and then nearby there’s this row of concrete shacks, like interrogation rooms or something, whatever, I don’t know. And that’s where we went, straight from the house into one of these, Kimbela leading the way, his permanent entourage right behind him, these heavily armed, heavily drugged children… and meanwhile all I’ve got on either side of me is a couple of pumped-up Gideon guys -’
‘J.J. -’
‘One of whom, by the way, turns out to be a complete fucking psycho.’
‘J.J. -’
‘I’m just telling you what happened, Clark, OK?’ He shakes his head. ‘So we’re in this shack, right, sitting at a metal table, bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, it’s dank and smelly, and I’m waiting for… I don’t know what I’m waiting for… a pair of pliers to be produced, a blowtorch, a chainsaw, but then in comes this little girl, eight or nine years old, real cute from a distance, but scrawny up close, and with these sunken eye sockets, like a fucking zombie or something, and she’s carrying a tray of… tea things, which she then puts on the table and proceeds to serve us tea from, this ornate pot, these old china cups, it was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. Meanwhile Kimbela is sitting opposite me, talking his fat sweaty face off, arms flailing, every part of him in constant motion, and the thing is Clark, I’m so freaked out by this stage, I’m so fucking terrified, that I’m just not taking anything in, I’m not hearing a word he’s saying.’
Rundle can feel himself deflating.
‘Did you even -’
He stops and looks his brother in the eye. What was he thinking of, sending him down there? J.J. has never done anything real in his life. It’s all been campaigns and poll numbers, finance bills and select committees, he’s never served in the armed forces, hasn’t travelled that much outside of trade delegations, and he has certainly never met anyone remotely like Arnold Kimbela before.
Rundle thinks back to when he first met the colonel himself. It was about three years ago, and in Paris of all places. A darkened apartment in the Bastille district, Rundle sitting opposite the enigmatic, chunky thirty-nine-year-old, armed guards lurking in the shadows. It was a master class, as he recalls it, in various dark arts, in contract negotiation, in price structuring, in sheer ballsiness. And he expected J.J. to be able to do something similar? And not even in the familiar surroundings of a western city, but actually down in the insane heat and chaos of Congo itself.
He must have been out of his mind.
‘Look, J.J.,’ he says, one last shot. ‘Did you hear any mention of renegotiating the terms? Anything about redrafting -’
‘Clark, listen to me, it’s a miracle I didn’t shit in my pants, OK? And if I’d known what was round the corner, on the ride back to the airstrip, I… Jesus, even thinking about it now.’
‘Relax, J.J., would you? You did what you could, and I’m grateful.’
‘I’m sorry, Clark.’
Rundle shrugs. He leans back in his chair.
Damn.
It comes to him as he’s having a dump in the en suite bathroom. Humiliation. If you’re looking for a unified field theory of all things Larry Bolger, then that’s it, humiliation. It’s the linking thread, the connective tissue, it’s the recurring theme throughout his life and career. When he was a young man, for instance, his father treated him like a fool, kept comparing him unfavourably to his older brother, Frank. Then there was Paddy Norton, who bossed him around – effectively bullied him – and for the best part of twenty-five years. There was his disastrous visit to Tokyo. His interview with Hot Press. That series of snubs by the German Chancellor when he was EU Council president. And also, let’s not forget, the ignominy of being forced out of office by the same Gang of Three who got him into office in the first place.
Bolger can’t dwell on that one for too long.
But now he has, what? James Vaughan giving him the runaround and the likes of Dave Conway telling him what he is or isn’t allowed to do.
Not to mention that little prick of a journalist.
A sudden rap on the door interrupts his train of thought.
Coming here and…
‘Are we all right in there?’
… having the nerve to…
Bolger closes his eyes.
‘Yes, Mary,’ he says, ‘we are all right.’
Jesus.
Silence follows, then footsteps moving quietly away.
Bolger clenches his fists now, and winces. Something is happening.
Finally.
In agony, he fixes his gaze on the gleaming white tiles of the bathroom floor, his fists still clenched. He’s going to have to do something about this, go to the doctor with it, get it seen to.
Which of course will mean only one thing. More fucking humiliation.
After a while, his mind in a fog, the pain subsides.
He finishes up, and a few minutes later he’s back out in the living room, pacing up and down. Mary is running a bath and he’s decided to wait until she’s in it before he -
Before he -
Places the call.
Through the open door of the bathroom, the roar of the water comes to a sudden halt.
He glances over at the drinks cabinet, but doesn’t feel a thing. In fact, the thought now of a drink makes him a little nauseous.
He’s still hungover and suspects he will remain so well into tomorrow.
He hears Mary getting into the bath, the gentle slosh of the water, the displacement – your man, what’s his name, Archimedes.
He gets his mobile phone from the table and sits down in the armchair, facing the TV. He puts on Sky News with the sound off. He finds the number and hits Call.
It’ll be the same as before, he bets, straight into message. He’s not even sure what this number is, if it’s an office or home number, a service, or what.
‘You have reached…’
Bolger rolls his eyes, waits.
‘Yes, Mr Vaughan, it’s Larry Bolger again. Listen, I’ve been thinking and I’ve come to a decision. You promised me that IMF thing, and fine, maybe it didn’t work out for some reason, whatever, but it seems to me that your obligation in the matter remains… unfulfilled.’ He stares at the TV as he speaks, at the Sky newscaster, his heart pounding. ‘Well, time is running out, let’s put it that way. Or let’s put it another way. I want a job. Do you understand me? A real position, something commensurate with my experience. Like we talked about. Because here’s the deal. Drumcoolie Castle, yeah? Are you with me?’ He clears his throat. ‘I was at that table along with the rest of them, don’t forget that. I heard everything. Yeah? And I followed it all afterwards, too.’ He lets that hang in the air for a second. ‘Now, the thing is… there’s a nuclear option here, which I won’t hesitate to use, believe me. And I think you know what I mean.’ He clears his throat again. ‘So I expect to hear back from you this time.’