‘I don’t understand. What is wrong with you?’
Ruth doesn’t look at him when she says this. It’s more of a rhetorical question. He’s reluctant to fight with her, but it’s inevitable, he supposes.
They’re a few rows back from the graveside, seated, and it’s chilly, uncomfortably so. He doesn’t recognise anyone on either side of them. No one seems to be listening anyway, everyone caught up in their own whispered conversations.
He stares at her, waits until she turns.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ he then says, almost giddy with the knowledge that he’s about to obliterate any annoying thoughts she might have about him and the au pair. ‘I’m as close to being bankrupt as makes no difference. That’s what.’
She stares at him, eyes widening.
His stomach turns.
He can see her trying to take this in.
But he won’t have to say anything more, that much is clear. She gets it. Every time he tried to imagine the scene it took him ages, working through it, just to explain.
Not necessary, it seems.
Ruth can put the pieces together. And can probably extrapolate from it, too, see the ramifications.
All the way to the poor house.
‘You fool,’ she hisses.
God, Conway thinks, if only that’s all I was.
‘And what about the kids? Jesus.’
At least he doesn’t have to go into any of the other stuff with her. The Larry Bolger stuff. The Susie Monaghan stuff.
The Don Ribcoff stuff.
‘The house is in your name,’ he says quietly, aware now of her starting to tremble beside him. ‘Remember? So are half of the companies. It’ll take ten years to sort it all out.’
Something occurs to him at that point. Phil Sweeney. Where is he? He didn’t see him at the church. He should be here somewhere.
Conway looks around, over his shoulder.
He’s assuming that despite their little falling-out things are OK there. With Phil. With the young guy, whatshisname, Jimmy Gilroy.
Now that Bolger is -
Well…
He’s just assuming.
Big crowd here. He turns back, stares straight ahead, at the grave, at the coffin.
But maybe he shouldn’t be making assumptions like that.
In the distance, a black state car glides into view.
Maybe he shouldn’t be making assumptions like that at all.
Jimmy sits huddled behind his Honda on a low wall opposite the entrance to the cemetery. There’s a large crowd here and they’ve all just watched the funeral cortège snake its way along the Cherryvale Road and disappear in through the imposing iron gates of St Felim’s.
Earlier on, Jimmy spotted Dave Conway and his wife coming out of the church in Donnybrook and getting into a dark green BMW. There was a large crowd there too and it wasn’t easy, but Jimmy knew it was him – recognised him from photographs. He wasn’t going to be able to follow them directly, because of how the cortège was organised, but he knew where they were headed and made his own way out. He took an alternative and much quicker route, but when he arrived at the cemetery he found, not surprisingly, that access to it was restricted.
With more crowds gathering, he decided to pick a spot, sit down and just let the afternoon unfold at its own glacial pace.
He glances over at the gates again now.
The thing is, Conway will reappear at some point and Jimmy will follow him.
Until then all he can do is watch and wait. Besides, it’s a nice day, cool, intermittently sunny, and there’s a gentle breeze.
There are worse things he could be doing.
He feels strange, though. He’s not here as a punter, not here to gawk or pay his respects. Nor does he feel, at the same time, like one of the journalists or photographers he keeps spotting about the place, guys he knows from his days at the paper.
In any case, they wouldn’t allow that. He’s officially out of the system, on the fringes at best.
They’re a very protected species.
When one of them wanders past, in fact, Jimmy gets the look, the slight double-take.
Fuck are you doing here?
‘Hi, Chris.’
‘Jimmy.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Not bad. Nice day for it.’
Chris Sullivan. Political correspondent. Late forties. Inside track on just about everything.
Jimmy looks up at him, squints. ‘Shouldn’t you be inside?’
‘On my way.’ Sullivan checks his watch. ‘Larry’s not going anywhere.’ Then, eyebrows furrowed, ‘You working?’
It crosses Jimmy’s mind to say something here, maybe even to say everything. He has what he has, information-wise, story-wise. What he doesn’t have is the back-up and resources of a legitimate news organisation.
If there is such a thing anymore.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t call it work.’ He holds a hand up to his face to block out the light. ‘Though mind you, I was wondering.’
‘Yeah?’
‘What did you make of it?’ He gestures towards the cemetery. ‘A heart attack? In London?’
Sullivan shrugs. ‘If that’s how you’re going, I don’t think you get to choose where it happens.’
‘He was relatively young, though. Healthy. Bit strange.’
Sullivan looks at him. ‘What?’ Long pause. Then, ‘Would you fuck off. Larry Bolger? What are you saying?’
Jimmy hesitates.
That I talked to him a few days ago? That he implicated some pretty influential people in a horrendous crime, and that now he’s dead?
He clears his throat.
‘Nothing. I’m not saying anything.’
‘Apparently.’ Sullivan shakes his head. ‘And I’d keep it that way. Take it easy, Jimmy.’ He walks a few yards along the path, turns and crosses the road.
Jimmy watches as Sullivan approaches the cemetery gates. A uniformed guard lets him in. He disappears.
It wouldn’t have worked out.
Jimmy doesn’t have anything concrete, and if he did he’d be more or less giving it away. Guys like Chris Sullivan don’t share their by-lines.
Jimmy leans forward and rests his head on the side of the motorbike.
He’s a long way off a by-line on this one.
But what choice does he have? He has to keep going.
Has to keep waiting.
And it’s at least another ninety minutes before the first few cars start trickling out of the cemetery. During this time the crowd pretty much disperses. Nothing left to gawk at.
Jimmy then gets ready and keeps his eyes peeled for the green BMW.
After a couple of minutes, and about five or six cars, he sees it.
9
A GIDEON CONVOY TAKES CLARK RUNDLE FROM THE AIRPORT, which is just inside the Congolese border, to a lakeshore hotel near the old governor’s mansion in Bukavu. The hotel has spectacular views of the lake and seems to be fairly comfortable, with spacious rooms and a functioning AC system, but Rundle is focused on only one thing now – seeing Arnold Kimbela and then getting the hell out of here.
It has been the longest two days of his life.
The flight from Paris to Kigali was bad enough, but then there was a ten-hour overnight delay before he could take the short flight to Bukavu. At all times he has been surrounded – cocooned, indeed – by Gideon personnel, and there has never been the slightest question about his safety, but something about the… the atmosphere, clammy and dense, and the people, staring faces seen in the distance, harsh voices carried on the air… he doesn’t know, there’s a general hard-to-define looseness here, a dreamlike, nightmarish feeling that everything is about to fall apart, slide into chaos, and it bothers him, it’s like an incipient headache, or a rising wave of nausea.
Alone in his room, he gags and rushes to the toilet, but nothing happens.