Anticipa-a-tion.
Soon he’ll have to keep reminding himself that he is, in fact, extremely angry.
The call is answered with a ‘Yep?’
‘What happened?’
Silence at first, then, ‘Jesus, I thought -’
‘What happened?’
More silence, as well as some eye-rolling probably. Then, ‘It went OK.’
‘What do you mean? I’ve just had a fucking drink with the guy.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve just had it confirmed.’
Norton says nothing. His breathing pattern is slow, laboured, quite loud. He waits for more.
‘It happened an hour ago, less.’
In the silence that follows, Norton struggles to contain himself. He wants to be explicit, but he can’t. They’re on mobiles here. They have to be discreet.
‘Well, I don’t understand,’ he says eventually, the Narolet all over him now like a heavy blanket of snow. ‘Something’s gone wrong. Check again. Christ. I’ll ring you back.’
He puts the phone down, but just as he’s about to start the car up, it rings – Vivaldi, one of the seasons.
He grabs the phone again, hoping that it’s Ray Sullivan. New York is five hours behind, so Ray Sullivan could easily still be in his office at this time.
Norton looks at the display on the phone.
But it’s not Ray Sullivan. It’s Noel.
He takes a deep breath.
‘What happened to you?’
‘Listen, Paddy, I’m sorry for skipping off like that, but there’s been an emergency, a family thing. It’s… it’s awful.’
‘Jesus,’ Norton swallows. ‘What?’
‘My nephew’s been shot. In a pub. He’s dead.’
Norton closes his eyes and says, ‘Oh fuck.’ Then he exhales loudly, deflating like a balloon.
‘Yeah,’ Noel says, ‘I’m out at my sister’s house now. She’s in bits of course. The cops are here. It’s chaos.’
‘Well, look, I’m sorry,’ Norton says, very quietly. ‘Your nephew, wasn’t -’
‘Yeah, Catherine’s lad, Noel. He was into all sorts of shit, so I can’t say I’m surprised. But still, it’s a shock.’
Norton exhales again. He can barely believe this.
‘But anyway, the thing is,’ Noel goes on, ‘I left that folder on the bar in -’
‘Yeah,’ Norton says, ‘it’s OK, I’ve got it.’
‘Well, I’m going to need it. Tonight. There are some things in it I want to check -’
‘Look -’
‘- for tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh come on, Noel, come on.’
‘No.’
‘What the fuck am I going to tell Ray Sullivan?’
‘I don’t know. Tell him the truth.’
‘Oh for -’
‘Look, Paddy, I’m sorry, but… it’s just not right.’
Norton stares out across Wicklow Street. On the other side some young women are walking past. Despite the cold, they are all wearing short, skimpy dresses, and despite the acres of flesh on display, thighs, shoulders, backs, there is nothing sexy or attractive about them. They look like a pack of strange animals, roving the plains in search of food and shelter. One of them is lagging behind, weaving drunkenly along the pavement. Norton thinks of his own daughter, pictures her here, like this, and a wave of emotion – unadulterated and operatic – washes over him. The Narolet does this sometimes, makes him a little weepy, leaves him exposed. But that’s fine, he likes it, looks forward to it even.
‘Paddy?’
Norton shakes his head. He looks at the dashboard, refocusing.
‘OK, OK,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to argue with you any more, Noel. Do what you want. Let’s meet someplace and you can pick it up.’
‘I can drop out to the house.’
‘No.’ Norton pauses here, closing one eye. ‘I’m still in town. We can meet halfway somewhere.’
‘Fine.’
They make an arrangement. The car park behind Morahan’s. In forty-five minutes.
‘See you then.’
‘Yeah.’
Norton holds the phone in his hand. It weighs a ton.
He never wanted this.
He’s been in the property business for over thirty years – here and in the UK – and during that time he has put up countless hotels, apartment blocks, office complexes and a shopping centre or two. He has made a considerable reputation for himself, as well as a lot of friends, and a lot of money… so naturally he’s not going to let some self-important little prick like Noel Rafferty flush all of that down the toilet -
Norton shakes his head.
– and especially not over something like this…
In a reflex movement, Norton brings a hand up to his chest, and winces.
He remains still, letting the seconds roll past – five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen seconds. What’s the deal here? Is he just excited or are these actual palpitations? Is this a warning sign or is it the precursor to some kind of massive heart attack?
Who knows?
He waits some more, and it seems to pass.
He looks at his watch, and then back at his mobile. He calls Fitz’s number again and waits.
He never wanted this. He really didn’t.
‘Yep?’
‘We need to meet.’
‘What? When?’
‘Right now. In the next twenty minutes.’
5
Coming out of Isosceles, after the gig, after the minimalist repetitions and phase-shifting polyrhythms of Icelandic trio, Barcode, Gina Rafferty is feeling transported. This is the first proper night out she’s had in weeks, and although there is something ironic in the fact that the complex, patterned music actually reminds her of work, of computer code, of the alternating ones and zeroes they all toil so endlessly over in the office, she doesn’t feel cheated or shortchanged. It’s the same mechanism in each case, for sure – it’s the language of order, the language of structure – but the context is quite different. So it’d be like comparing, say, legalese with poetry, the syntax of a contract with the metre of a sonnet…
Though the truth is, in any case, be it in a legal document or a poem – or a musical composition – Gina likes it, she likes order and structure.
Unapologetically so, in fact.
Which is probably just as well, given the attitude she’s already picking up from these two guys she and her friend Sophie came with – not that she’s in the least bit concerned about their huffing and sighing. Time was when she would have been mortified and felt she had to explain herself somehow, account for her opinions, even feign opinions she didn’t have, but not anymore, not these days, and as they shuffle through the foyer now, she turns to one of them, the tall guy with the beard, and says, ‘So, I thought that was pretty cool.’
‘What?’ the guy says, looking down at her. ‘Jesus. No. I thought it was torture.’
The other guy laughs.
Gina rolls her eyes.
Torture? Why is she not surprised? She knew that Barcode wouldn’t particularly be Sophie’s bag, but she hadn’t anticipated that these two guys – colleagues of Sophie’s – would be such boneheads.
‘You know what it reminded me of?’ the guy with the beard is saying. ‘Of when I was a kid, at mass, having to sit there. It was fucking awful.’
‘Well,’ Gina says, not interested in hearing any more of this, and reaching into her pocket for her mobile, ‘I thought it was sublime.’
‘Sublime?’ the second guy says. ‘Come on, it was boring.’
With the music still echoing in her head – the subtle patterns, the mathematical precision, the clarity and grace – what’s the point of arguing, Gina thinks. After awful and boring she’s going to counter with words like clarity and grace?