But she can hear the comments.
‘Yeah, he’s dead,’ someone says, ‘for sure… must have been a heart attack…’
She leans against the garden railings behind her and glances around.
When the ambulance appears a few minutes later, and is inching its way down from the level crossing, she hears another comment. It comes from one of two young men who are taking turns peering in through the window of Norton’s car.
‘Oh my God,’ she hears him say, ‘What’s that in his hand? Jesus, I think… I think it’s a gun…’
This piece of information passes like a lick of flame out of the window and spreads, almost visibly, from person to person, until the whole scene is engulfed with it.
A gun… a gun… a gun…
Gina swallows.
She sways from side to side now, gently, rhythmically, waiting for the ambulance to get as far as the car and stop.
When it does, the onlookers quickly disperse, and from where she’s standing Gina catches a glimpse of the body.
It’s a really strange scene, simultaneously pathetic and eerie. Norton is just slumped over the wheel. Everything is drenched in a wash of orange and blue, a combination of the streetlights and the slowly rotating beacons on top of the ambulance.
Gina wonders if he has the photographs on him, or in the car somewhere. Not that it matters anymore. Though if they are found, and identified, who knows what may yet transpire?
That’s something she’ll have to tell Mark about. It mightn’t be easy to explain, but at least she now has the chance to try.
One of the paramedics opens the door of the car, and it’s not long before Gina hears the first mention of Paddy Norton’s name. She’s not sure who says it; the words just seem to be floating on the air.
‘Isn’t that… I think… isn’t that your man… it is… Paddy Norton…’
Then someone mentions Richmond Plaza.
At this, Gina immediately leans back against the railings, as far as she can, and looks to the right. There’s a curve in the road, and from the angle she’s standing at the building is just about visible in the crook of the bay. As she gazes at it now a tiny flash of light, a Roman candle effect – what at this distance she can only assume is a gush of welding sparks – seems to shoot off the side of it and into the night-time mist.
It’s as though the building, like a wounded organism, is busy renewing itself, carrying out its own repairs, determined to survive.
Reverting – of course – to Noel’s original specs.
And with this dawning realisation comes an acute sense of relief. Because among other things it means that she can stop now, finally – she can stop.
And maybe even carry out some repairs, engage in a renewal process of her own.
She closes her eyes for a moment.
When she opens them again, a garda squad car is approaching from the seafront section of Strand Road.
Before it pulls up, Gina takes off – and without a further glance at the building, at Norton’s car, or at Norton himself. She passes through the crowd of assembled bystanders and walks along the pavement towards the level crossing.
As she moves, she reaches into her pocket to get the phone out. Her hand is shaking a little. She looks for the number and presses Call, and as she waits, in the background, from over the houses to her left, she can hear seagulls squawking and the faint sound of the tide lapping up onto Sandymount Strand.
About the Author
Alan Glynn is a graduate of Trinity College Dublin, where he studied English Literature, and has worked in magazine publishing in New York and as an EFL teacher in Italy. His first novel, The Dark Fields, was published in the US in 2002. He is married with two children and lives in Dublin.
