The taxi driver whistles. ‘Jaysus, that was shocking, wasn’t it?’ A nanosecond before the light turns green, he accelerates. ‘Anyway, they’ve named your man, the one in hospital, the last one. Seems he’s in a bad way. Internal bleeding, organ failure, what have you.’
‘You don’t happen to remember the name, do you?’
Gina is keenly aware of having asked this same question not so long ago.
‘Owhhh,’ the driver says, as though in pain, ‘come here, what was it… Mark something, I think. Yeah, that was it.’
Gina closes her eyes.
‘Apparently, he had nothing to do with it,’ the driver goes on. ‘They said he was just unlucky to be there.’ He laughs. ‘I lost a hundred euros on the gee-gees last weekend. That was unlucky, but I mean your man? A bullet in the back? For fuck’s sake.’
Gina opens her eyes.
The reality of this hits her hard, as does an inescapable corollary: the bullet concerned almost certainly – well, very probably – came from the gun she’s now holding tightly in her hand.
The taxi begins to slow down. ‘So, here on the left somewhere, is it, love, yeah?’
Gina looks around her and out of the window. She sees her building up ahead. As usual at this time of night the place is more or less deserted – a pedestrian or two, a few parked cars, but that’s it.
‘Er… yeah,’ she says, releasing her grip on the gun. ‘But you know what? Keep going. If you don’t mind. Change of plan.’
‘No problem,’ he says, picking up speed again.
They cruise past her building.
‘So,’ the driver says. ‘Where to?’
Gina feels foolish, and even considers getting him to turn around and go back, but what she eventually says is, ‘Take the toll bridge, would you? Thanks. Then head for Blackrock.’
4
The sight of the parsley-flecked potatoes, the poached salmon, the yellowish sauce, it’s all making him a little sick – as is everything else on this large round table in front of him… the silverware, the curlicued edges of the condiment sets and serving tureens, not to mention the wider room’s busy, crimsony, five-star decor…
There is a mildly hallucinatory aspect to everything.
James Vaughan, sitting opposite him, concentratedly guiding his fork towards his mouth, looks like a wizened, hundred-year-old baby. Ray Sullivan, in his shiny grey suit and silver hair, reminds him of the Tin Man.
Norton is exhausted. From lack of sleep, and possibly from not having eaten for… at least since breakfast yesterday, now that he thinks of it.
In fact, did he eat at all yesterday? He can’t remember.
Last night he stayed outside Gina Rafferty’s building until 2 a.m., to no avail, and when he finally got home to bed he couldn’t sleep. Not for ages anyway – though he must have dozed off at some point, because when the alarm clock went off at 6.30 he woke up. From a muddled dream. And with a blinding headache.
He immediately took three Nalprox tablets – his new standard dose.
‘And what about the press,’ Vaughan says, taking a breather from his food. ‘What kind of a ride do you think they’ll give him?’
‘I haven’t looked at the papers today,’ Norton says. ‘But they did their best to crucify him recently, and failed, so I’d say they might just go all out and canonise the man this time.’
‘It’s been quite a turnaround.’
‘Yeah, but Larry’s a survivor. He’s got the human factor as well, vulnerability, people tend to like that. The thing is, he never really lost public support, which I think is crucial.’
Norton is waffling here. He wishes he could just go somewhere and lie down.
‘Ray, old sport,’ Vaughan then says, dabbing his lips with his napkin. ‘Pour me some more wine there, would you?’
Sullivan obliges, and Norton idly watches as the golden liquid passes, glugging loudly, from bottle to glass.
Norton could probably do with some coffee or something, but doesn’t think he’d be able to hold it down.
‘Sure you won’t have something to eat, Paddy?’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Thanks.’
He’s about to pat his stomach and say something moronic like Watching my figure, but he manages to restrain himself.
It’s going to be a long afternoon. After they leave the hotel here, they’re heading down to the site for a quick tour and then Norton and Sullivan will be officially signing the tenancy contract. They’ll hang around the newly named Amcan Building for a while, and then Vaughan and Sullivan want to play some golf, so it’ll be out to the K Club.
Norton is their host for the afternoon, and won’t have time for anything else.
He’s about to ask Vaughan a question when he detects some kind of a commotion behind him.
‘Ahh,’ Vaughan says, raising an arm, ‘here he is, the man of the moment.’
Norton turns around in his seat. Entering the dining room with his entourage, like a Roman emperor, is Larry Bolger. When he gets to the table, he stretches out his arm and shakes hands with Vaughan and Sullivan in turn. He nods at Norton but doesn’t look him in the eye.
A waiter pulls out a chair and Bolger sits down. His entourage – Paula Duff and various others, secretaries, advisers – hover in the background and look busy with their PDAs and mobile phones.
‘It’s great to see you again, James,’ Bolger says. ‘Everything is to your satisfaction, I hope?’
James.
Jesus.
Norton knows for a fact that people call Vaughan either Mr Vaughan or Jimmy. There is no James.
‘Oh, excellent, Taoiseach, excellent. But tell me, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, but let’s not jump the gun. There is a ratification process to be gone through.’
Vaughan waves this away.
Norton leans back in his chair and exhales. He barely listens to the ensuing conversation, but he can tell from the body language that it’s all good-humoured banter – skilful and professional. Norton’s in a foul mood, OK, but he can’t deny that Bolger is carrying himself very well here. He also has to remember that this is what they’ve both been working towards, in one way or another, for many, many years. The thought helps to elevate Norton’s mood a bit, and he even allows himself, fleetingly, to speculate that Gina Rafferty poses no real threat… that she knows nothing of substance, or is too stupid to act on what she does know – or too frightened.
After about ten minutes, Bolger rises, as do Vaughan and Sullivan, and there is another flurry of formal handshakes. The imperial party then sweeps out of the dining room.
Vaughan remains standing. He picks up his napkin, wipes his mouth with it and then throws it back down.
‘OK, fellas,’ he says, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’
They move out of the dining room and into the lobby, where Sullivan stops by a marble pillar to take a call on his mobile. Norton and Vaughan stand and wait. Near the reception desk, by a large potted plant, a burly man in a grey suit and dark glasses is flicking through a brochure or guidebook. Ostensibly. This is Jimmy Vaughan’s bodyguard. The lobby is quite busy. At the reception desk, there are a few obvious stragglers from the media, hovering, trying to pick up crumbs of information in the wake of Bolger’s brief visit.
‘I have to hand it to you, Paddy,’ Vaughan says. ‘You’ve done a good job here. I only wish things were this easy over in London.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Oh.’ Vaughan’s face contorts briefly. ‘Please. Dealing with the Brits? It’s hard work, believe me. Same language, OK, but you still need an interpreter, and I’m not talking differences in vocabulary – elevator, lift, that kind of thing, cell, mobile.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘It’s approach I’m talking about. In this country I feel we understand each other.’