He’s pressing the phone so hard against the side of his head that it hurts.
He holds up his other hand. It’s shaking.
Norton remains silent, but as fascination gives way to impatience, and guilt to indignation, he has to make a conscious effort not to lose it.
Because how dare this little bastard talk to him like that? How dare he even call him in the first place, and at home?
It’s outrageous.
Norton manages to pop one of the pills from the blister, but it slips from his hand and falls to the carpet.
Shit.
From his bed, Mark strains to hear, to interpret the silence – but is unable to match it.
‘So if you send anyone near me again,’ he says, ‘in here to the hospital, a cop, some visitor, whoever…’ He pauses, keenly aware of the absurdity of what he’s about to say next, but again, unable not to say it. ‘I’ll kill them with my bare fucking hands, is that clear? And then I’ll come after you myself.’
Norton tries to bend down to get the pill from the carpet, but gives up. Out of breath, wheezing, he fumbles with the blister again for a replacement.
Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.
‘Look,’ Mark goes on, forcing himself to concede a little, but still desperately struggling to deliver a killer blow, ‘maybe… maybe I can’t do anything to get you now, realistically, maybe it’s too late… but we both know I’m not the only one out there. And if you’re thinking, well, this clown will eventually give up, do you really think she will?’ He pauses, waiting, eyes wide open. ‘No,’ he then says, ‘I don’t either, and I hope she doesn’t, I sincerely hope she fucking crucifies you.’
As Norton raises his hand with the pill in it to his mouth, he knows that that’s it, any appeal to willpower, to self-discipline, is futile now – he’s going to let go, he can feel it inside.
It’s like a loose bowel movement about to explode…
But that’s fine. He doesn’t mind. He almost welcomes it.
He places the pill on his tongue and swallows.
‘You know what, you little prick?’ he then says. ‘-You’re absolutely right. And I’m not going to let that happen. Because I think I’ve taken enough shit from her already, don’t you?’ Deliberate implication here being, of course, that he’s not in the market for any from him. Which is maybe a little too subtle for this… this what? This child? But the person he’s talking to is no longer a child, not by a stretch – and in any case, fuck subtlety. ‘I mean, Jesus Christ, Mark,’ he says, and clears his throat. ‘Come on. Let’s face it. Why the hell do you think I’m heading out the door right now to meet her?’
Mark flinches. ‘What?’
His brain automatically rescans the last few seconds. Then it short-circuits, scrambles, cuts for a moment to white noise.
Norton unassailable now.
‘Yeah, to discuss who might be in the new cabinet? I don’t think so.’
Oh God…
And with that, every solid object around Mark seems to start moving – the bed he’s in, the drip stand, the walls, the very room itself – all of them, like tectonic plates, shifting, sliding in different directions…
Why did he have to mention her? Why did he have to bring her into it?
He closes his eyes to block it all out, but the sudden, frenetic darkness is worse, coloured patterns flickering and multiplying in a queasy kaleidoscope.
Why did he have to open his fucking mouth?
Which he tries to do again now, but his voice catches.
‘I’ll -’
It’s as if having used all his energy and resolve to cross this bridge before it collapses, he inexplicably finds himself turning around and rushing headlong back through the flames… back to the other side, to the past, to that desolate, all-too-familiar landscape of guilt and shame and self-loathing.
‘I’m sorry?’ Norton says, looking at his watch now, and over at the door. ‘You’ll what? You’ll do what? I didn’t hear you.’ He starts walking. ‘But anyway, Mark, let me remind you of something, yeah? Little detail.’ He pauses. ‘You’re in the hospital.’
He doesn’t say anything else.
For Mark, the silence that follows is awful. It becomes worse with each passing second.
It becomes unbearable.
He opens his eyes.
He is two or three words into a last, desperate attempt at a sentence when he realises that Norton has already hung up.
Let’s talk about it?
Gina crosses the street and takes the boardwalk.
But talk about what? Dunbrogan House? She has no idea what that refers to. Saying she couldn’t prove what was going on implied she knew something was going on. But she didn’t really.
She was bluffing.
The river is dark and glistening, and moving at speed. Clouds reflected in the water ripple past.
Back in the apartment she considered taking something with her, just in case, a weapon of some sort, a carving knife, a pair of scissors, a skewer – but she felt foolish, standing there in the kitchen, staring into an open cutlery drawer.
What did she imagine was going to happen?
At the last minute, however, picking up her keys and phone from the desk in the corner, she also picked up a glass paperweight that she’s had for years. It’s in the shape of a star, with a millefiori design. It’s made of Venetian crystal. It’s solid, and heavy, and has sharp angles.
She dropped it into the pocket of her leather jacket.
At Matt Talbot Bridge she sees a passing taxi. She hails it. The taxi stops. She gets in.
Her stomach is churning.
‘Sandymount, please. The seafront.’
The car pulls away.
‘That’s a chilly one to be -’
‘Please,’ she says, clutching the paperweight in her pocket. ‘No talking.’
She looks out of the window.
As soon as Norton puts the phone down he leaves the house. He gets in the car, turns it on the gravel driveway, activates the electronic gates and flies out onto the main road.
Moments later he’s turning at the light and joining the Dual Carriageway.
Thinking, for fuck’s sake.
Mark Griffin.
But also thinking, calculating, and quickly coming to the conclusion that Mark Griffin knows nothing, poses no real threat and is clearly deranged – not to say hysterical, not to say out of his fucking mind.
Going by that performance, at any rate.
But he’s not a threat.
No one will listen to him. In fact, if anything, Mark Griffin resurfacing in the public consciousness after all this time will only get people wondering about Larry Bolger, asking questions about him, speculating – the way Griffin himself obviously was.
But that’s not something Norton cares about anymore.
Because no one knows the truth. No one knows what really happened that night.
Only he does. And he’s not telling.
He taps his fingers on the steering wheel.
Of course it’s true what he said on the phone. He didn’t cover anything up. He had nothing to do with it. Larry’s old man, Romy Mulcahy, the party hacks – as far as he knows, they were the ones who did it.