Mark looks up.
The man in the suit is about fifty and has the air of an ex-rugby player.
The nurse is standing behind him.
‘Henry Dillon,’ the man says, producing a penlight from his breast pocket and clicking it. ‘Shall we?’
He then proceeds to examine Mark thoroughly, prodding, probing, moving him on his side, testing his reflexes.
He makes adjustments to the various IV drips.
Mark remains anxious, but at the same time – for the moment, at least – he’s relieved.
‘So,’ the consultant says, folding his arms, ‘that bullet? Looks like it had your name on it all right.’
Mark’s eyes widen. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, just that you may have it for life. We can’t take it out. Well we could, but it wouldn’t be worth the extra damage the operation would cause. But you’ll be fine. It’s more common than you might think. People leave hospitals with foreign objects in their bodies all the time.’
Mark stares at him, unsure what to think. Foreign objects? Is this some kind of code? Is he being threatened here? Or warned?
He remains silent.
‘Well, you seem to be making a remarkable recovery,’ the consultant says, heading for the door. ‘We’ll probably move you to a step-down unit later today or tomorrow. By the way, there are some people who want to have a word with you and I’m going to go ahead and authorise them to pop in for a chat. Is that OK?’
Mark swallows.
Some people? A chat?
‘Yeah, but… what people?’
Halfway out the door, the consultant glances back.
‘Why, the police, of course.’
As Gina walks down Grafton Street, around College Green and onto the quays, she hears Merrigan’s words in her head.
I can see this becoming an obsession. I can see it destroying your life.
She doesn’t think he’s wrong.
She knows she’s under the influence of a compulsion that she doesn’t understand or currently have the energy to resist. She thought after Friday that it would dissipate, that she could settle for how things had turned out, for a lesser form of justice.
But it only intensified.
And hearing last night that Norton was refusing to press charges actually made it worse. Something crystallised for her in that moment. It was the realisation that she needs to press some form of charges against him.
But now, in the cold light of day, that seems like a remote possibility. Because how does she pursue this? How does she even approach him after everything that has happened?
Walking along by the river, Gina looks up at Richmond Plaza and finds it hard to believe that she’s not still up there, not still holding a loaded gun in her hand, not still pointing it at Norton’s head, because compared to the intensity of that experience, everything else seems unreal to her, pallid and insubstantial.
But at the same time she can’t give up.
That’s not an option.
So when she arrives at her building, gets upstairs and through the door of her apartment, she walks straight over to the desk in the corner. She takes off her jacket. She puts down keys, wallet, phone.
And stares for a while, first at the wall, then at the keyboard of her computer.
She could call him on his mobile.
But that might be too direct. What if he doesn’t answer? What if he decides to alert the guards?
She needs something that will give him pause, something to provoke him.
Sitting down, Gina pictures Mark Griffin lying in an ICU ward, on life support, and it occurs to her again that his involvement in all of this is something she has never challenged Norton on. It’s actually the one aspect of the whole business that doesn’t fit, that she doesn’t understand.
So with the queasy self-awareness of a compulsive gambler about to place one more – one last – bet, she taps the centre of the keyboard and activates her computer. She opens the file. She turns on the printer.
She looks at her watch: 4.25.
I can see this becoming an obsession. I can see it destroying your life.
Then she picks up her mobile and calls a local courier service.
When Mark mentions Gina Rafferty’s name to the nurse, she recognises it immediately and is able to inform him that not only is Gina all right, she’s been in the news and has made quite a splash…
Mark finds this alarming, and then confusing. It just doesn’t make sense.
Richmond Plaza? Paddy Norton?
He is relieved to find out that Gina is OK, that she’s alive, but he doesn’t get what she is up to, he doesn’t -
Which is when the nurse suggests that she might try and get a hold of one of yesterday’s newspapers for him, an Independent or a Tribune. There was plenty of coverage in all the Sunday papers, and at least one of the patients in the next ward along is sure to have something left over.
She’ll go and have a scout around when she gets a chance.
But maybe in the meantime Mark might like to watch some TV?
‘There’ll be news on in a while.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Fine. Thanks.’
The nurse switches on the TV and hands him the remote.
‘Er, Nurse,’ Mark then says, ‘look, there isn’t any chance I could get my hands on a mobile phone, is there?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. You could borrow mine if you really need to make a call… or -’
‘Do they sell them downstairs, at reception? Is there a shop? Could -’
She nods. ‘Yes, don’t worry about it. I’ll arrange something.’
After she leaves, Mark stares up at the screen for a while but is unable to focus on anything.
He keeps glancing over at the door.
When are the police going to show up? And what are they going to ask him when they do?
He exhales loudly.
But let’s face it, are they really going to bother asking him anything at all? Because in whose interest is it to hear what he has to say?
It’s in his interest. And in no one else’s.
Mark may no longer be a threat to anyone physically, but he is still a threat, just of a very different kind. The mere fact that he’s alive and has a story to tell not only threatens Bolger’s advancement in the party, it may also seriously threaten the reputation and stability of the great party itself.
Mark feels as though he’s emerging from a dense fog, which he puts down to a combination of the adjustments the doctor made to his IV drips and what he imagines to be a natural surge in his own adrenaline levels. But the result is that he’s now extremely agitated and doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to be able to just lie here like this.
Doing nothing, waiting for…
For what?
He looks at the door, and then up at the TV again.
The news is coming on.
The programme’s signature tune rises portentously, and fades.
He tries to focus.
The doorbell rings.
Norton doesn’t move.
He has no intention of answering it, given that it’s probably a journalist out at the front gate. They’ve tried this on a few times over the past three days.
He’s been drinking coffee and his heart is racing. The whiskey earlier made him sick. For the first half an hour he felt fine, even a little exhilarated – which was probably due to the mix with the pills – but then he got nauseous and threw up. The switch to coffee was fine at first, too – but now he feels jittery and anxious and has a tightness in his chest.
He should eat something, but… maybe later.
The TV is on. He’s not focused on it, though.
Then the phone rings. In the hall.
He has no intention of answering that either.