Jimmy takes a step forward. ‘Shut up about what, though? Something like this? I don’t think so, Phil. In fact, it was playing the game, playing your game, that made him sick in the first place, shutting up about stuff… but it was the small stuff, the tawdry stuff, the personal stuff, not anything like this.’ He pauses. ‘And tell me Phil, do you actually know what this is, what we’re talking about here?’
Phil Sweeney stares back at him. He doesn’t answer.
‘A helicopter crash, six people dead, but not an accident? That’s the allegation that came out of Larry Bolger’s mouth. And that’s what you want me to shut up about? That’s what you think Dec Gilroy would shut up about?’
‘Yeah, but come on, it’s ridiculous -’
‘Is it? I don’t know, Phil. I’ve already peeled away a layer or two and I’m not so sure.’ He pauses. ‘And how can you be so sure?’
‘Because -’
‘Who are you representing anyway? Not Larry Bolger surely, not directly. And I doubt that it’s Ted Walker’s family, so -’
‘Shut up.’
Jimmy is taken aback at this, but to his surprise he does shut up.
He turns around and goes back to the desk. He sits down.
There is silence for a while. Phil Sweeney remains standing in the middle of the room, swaying gently, almost imperceptibly, like a tall building.
Jimmy closes his eyes. An image comes to him, of the old man lying in his bed, gaunt, reduced, getting weaker by the day, diminishing, but never diminished…
Eventually, in a quiet voice, Phil Sweeney says, ‘What layers, Jimmy? Peeled away what layers? What have you…’
Jimmy opens his eyes, looks up, meets his gaze. ‘Just stuff, Phil. Leads.’ He lays a hand on some papers on the desk.
Phil Sweeney stares at him for a moment, then exhales loudly. He turns and heads for the door, slamming it shut as he leaves.
Jimmy moves his hand from the papers on the desk to the keyboard. He straightens up. He clicks a few keys and within seconds is on the Ryanair website checking out prices and times for a flight to Verona.
All through the function – the annual Leinster Vintners Society lunch – Larry Bolger feels horribly queasy. He’d forgotten that he promised to attend this and when Mary reminded him of it earlier he immediately started looking for a reason to cancel. But she was having none of it. He attends very few events these days, only the occasional dinner or speaking engagement, and Mary’s feeling is that he needs to get out more – especially after what happened yesterday, and especially if he wants to get back in the game, as he keeps saying.
But Bolger doesn’t understand why kick-starting this get-out-more policy has to coincide with his first hangover in a decade. Or is it his second already? A thick, extended hangover it is anyway, one laced with shame, anxiety, dread, and one that, just possibly, it’s beginning to feel, might never end. He doesn’t have to speak today, which is a gargantuan mercy, but he does have to smile and chat and act like he’s on the brink of staging a military coup in order to get this benighted country back on its feet.
He has to shake a lot of hands, and the comments come thick and fast.
You can’t beat Bolger.
Go on, you good thing.
But he gets through it, even managing to crack the odd joke himself.
The queasiness never lifts, though – and whenever the details of this bloody mess he’s created for himself pop into his head, which is about once every ten minutes, it actually intensifies. Talking to the young journalist was bad enough, but leaving that message for James Vaughan was insane. It remains to be seen what the consequences of any of this will be, but it’s hard to imagine that they won’t be extreme.
On the return journey, alone in the back of the state car – which is provided to him for life by the Irish taxpayer – Bolger reacquaints himself with that purest form of melancholy, the brittle, unforgiving, all-pervading kind that comes with an acute hangover. As he gazes out at the passing city, his city, he sees no route forward anymore, no plausible future for himself, nothing new beyond what he’s got, which is retirement and anonymity, and a curdling sense of his own worth.
Because his last act as a political animal may well prove to be that pathetic phone call to James Vaughan. Silence and exile maybe, but certainly not cunning.
I want a job… or else…
Vaughan isn’t going to take a threat like that seriously. He isn’t even going to dignify it with a response. But it also means that Bolger has effectively disqualified himself from consideration for any future employment opportunities – proper ones, at any rate. International ones. The only kind he’s interested in.
At the hotel, things are quiet and he manages to get across the lobby and into an elevator without having to engage with any staff members or random, excitable guests. On the way up it occurs to him that his hangover might actually be far enough along now for him to be in danger of… a little bit of…
Temptation.
A little bit of recidivism.
Very sweet, and very welcome.
Because frankly, what difference would it make?
Walking along the corridor, he feels his body chemistry stirring.
It would make a difference to Mary, he supposes, but maybe Mary is just going to have to get used to it.
Anyway, she’s out at the moment.
He gets to the door of the apartment and as he’s opening it he hears the phone ringing.
Shit.
He gets inside and grabs the cordless unit from the table.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Bolger?’
‘Speaking.’
He doesn’t recognise the voice. Not many people have this number.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Bolger, my name is Bernard Lund from Adelphi Solutions in London.’
An accent. Australian, or maybe South African.
‘Who? Adel-’
‘Adelphi Solutions. We are an affiliate of the Jordan Group.’
The name’s vaguely familiar. He glances over at the drinks cabinet. ‘OK, Mr Lund.’
‘I am calling on behalf of a private client -’
Bolger’s eyes widen. ‘Sorry, what… private?’
‘Yes.’
There is brief silence.
‘And?’
‘Well, we were wondering if you would you be available to present for an interview on Monday of next week? In London?’
‘An interview?’
‘Yes, Mr Bolger. I am not at liberty to be more specific over the phone, as I’m sure you will appreciate, but our client is looking to promote a suitable candidate for a high-level position in a leading international regulatory agency.’
Ruth groans. ‘Not again.’
‘I got it,’ Conway says, and rolls out of the bed.
He was wide awake in any case.
Stomach jumping, head racing.
He wanders down the corridor and into Jack’s room, the small night lamp by the cot illuminating this cyclorama of Pooh and Piglet and Tigger.
Tiny face looking up.
Wide awake, too.
And displaying something like smug satisfaction. No sign of the distress he was clearly faking half a minute earlier.
Conway reaches down and pulls him up, rests his head on his shoulder.
Molly and Danny were always good sleepers. From day one, Jack was a nightmare.
Conway brings him downstairs. He heads towards the kitchen, but stops at the door, hesitates. It’s not a bottle Jack wants, it’s company, body heat, someone else’s pulse and rhythm.