“Fuckin’ A &E, fucking four-and five-and ten-hour waits, fucking government. You know the real scandal? No matter what you can afford to pay, you have an accident and you have to go to A &E, you end up with all the muck-savages and lepers and scum who don’t have an arse to their trousers. How can that be fair, that even if you have the fucking cash, they won’t let you jump the fucking queue?”
The chandelier above him gave his hair a sculpted, artificial appearance, as if it were a wig and he were channeling the spirit of some elegant, grasping ghost who once bestrode Fitzwilliam Square with imperial entitlement. I got up and looked at Tommy; he grimaced at me, still shamefaced. I gave him a wink, then turned back to Brock Taylor.
“Are those your cars? The lockup in Woodpark, and around the city? Hot cars made over for the less fussy type of client?”
Taylor grinned, as if I’d touched on one of his roguish but endearing foibles.
“Tommy tell you that, did he? Heard about that. I knew he remembered me. That’s how I knew you too, Edward Loy. I used to work for your da, Eamonn, that garage he ran between Woodpark and Seafield. Years ago. Worked alongside head-the-ball, when he was just out of school. Did he not tell you?”
“Is that where you’re from then, Brock? Woodpark?”
“Nah. Blessington Street. Northside boy me. Come up in the world, haven’t I?” And he beamed expansively around the beautiful elegant old room he now owned.
I paused at the door.
“Eileen Casey. Name mean anything to you?”
Not a flicker.
“No. Should it?”
“Eileen Dalton.”
He shook his large head.
“But you did ride a motorcycle, right?”
“A Norton Commando,” Tommy said.
“It speaks,” Brock said, and laughed his rugby-club laugh again. “A Norton Commando is right. Cross the county in twenty minutes back then. Happy days, lads, happy days.”
Before we left the house, I had Tommy put the Steyr in the bag with the money. We didn’t speak until we were down on Stephen’s Green. Then he said, “I didn’t know she was, you know, being forced. I swear, Ed, I didn’t. And I didn’t take a go myself.”
“Okay,” I said. His face looked like it had taken a few blows. I tried to think of something else that would make him feel better about it all, but nothing came to mind. I gave him something to do instead.
“I need my car,” I said, passing Tommy the keys.
“No problem,” Tommy said. “What about the money? Should I drop it up to Mr. H?”
“Nah, just stick it in the trunk. The press are camped up around his house. But get a cab. You don’t want to get caught on the street with a submachine gun.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“Call me when you’re on the road, and I’ll let you know.”
Tommy rested a hand quickly on my forearm, then turned and walked away.
Sixteen
IT’S NOT DIFFICULT TO FIND SOMEONE WITH ROOMS IN Trinity College; the names are listed outside each door. And it didn’t take long to find Jonathan O’Connor, because he lived in one of the first buildings on the right in Front Square, which is where I started looking. I did have to lean on the bell for a while to persuade him to let me in, but that didn’t take very long either. After about ten minutes he clattered down the stairs and opened the door.
“What do you want?” he said, attempting to block my path.
“I want to talk to you, Jonny. Ask you a few more questions.”
“Anything you have to say, you can say out here. I’m very busy at the moment, I’ve an essay to finish.”
A couple of female students had come in Front Gate and were heading in our direction. “All right then,” I said in a much louder voice. “I want to ask you about your use of prostitutes in the pornographic films you made, and whether you feared some of them were having sex in those films under duress: being raped, in other words.”
Jonathan looked at me in shock, then at the approaching women, then withdrew and said, “Come up. Second floor.”
I followed him up two flights of stairs and into his “rums,” which consisted of a kitchen the size of a telephone kiosk, two tiny bedrooms and a living room with the kind of furniture junk shops no longer accept. There was a gas fire and no other form of heating; the bathroom was in the hall.
“Wow,” I said. “Where do you have to live if you don’t win Schol? On the street?”
“The privilege resides in living on campus,” he said, his little accent at its snootiest. “And I don’t have to share; one normally would. And of course I could fix it up and buy all sorts of furniture and so on, but how vulgar would that be?”
I nodded, impatient already with the idea of teasing him any further. I sat down on a steel-frame sofa and nearly fell through one of the cushions; Jonathan perched on an orange plastic chair in his expensive jeans and his expensive sweatshirt and looked at me with a supercilious grin. A silver laptop computer lay open on the table beside him. The walls were decorated with pictures of airbrushed, orange plastic women in and out of their underwear cut from the pages of FHM and Loaded and Maxim; the women looked as if they were all dying for sex; none of them looked like they came fitted with the flesh you need to do it properly. There were two portraits of Dr. John Howard, and an aerial photograph of the three towers of the Howard Medical Center. I was cold, and I had just seen two men killed; I needed a meal and a drink and a good night’s sleep. One out of three would do.
“Do you have anything to drink?” I said.
“I’m not running a pub, you know,” Jonathan said in an exceptionally spoiled and shrill voice. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to smack him in the head. At some level, I think he may have picked up on this. He trudged off to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Absolut vodka and a carton of orange juice and two glass tumblers. I ignored the juice, poured off a slug of Absolut and threw it back.
“The blond girl in the second sex film you made,” I said. “What was her name?”
“Wendy. At least, that’s what they called her. She was in the film with Emily too.”
“Was she Eastern European? And if you say you didn’t check her passport, I’m going to toss you out the fucking window.”
Jonathan looked gratifyingly frightened at my threat. I kept looking at the window, not because I was going to throw him out of it but because through it, you could see straight up Grafton Street; you were right in the heart of the city. I was starting to see the point of these “rums.”
“I think so,” he said. “She didn’t really speak very much, but when she did it was with an accent. Polish, or Russian, I don’t know. And no, in answer to your next question, it didn’t seem like she was being forced. She wasn’t wildly enthusiastic either, but…I just figured she was being paid, she needed the money.”
“That’s as far as you thought about it?”
He looked at the floor and began to rub his wrists together; when he looked up again his eyes were glistening, and he was shaking.
“I don’t know. I…the other woman was Irish, Petra, Sean Moon called her, but that was bullshit, she was a hooker really, extremely coarse…she wasn’t very happy about it either…I think she was pregnant…the whole thing was a bit of a nightmare, actually…”
He started to retch, then ran out to the kitchen, where I could hear him vomit. I was giving him a hard time, bullying him, taking out on him the anger I should have used on Brock Taylor. I told myself I should have as much patience with Jonathan as I had with Emily; it looked like their family had put them both through the mill, and if I didn’t find him as sympathetic, that wasn’t necessarily his fault. When he came back in, his eyes burned red in his grey face.
“Are you all right?”
“What do you care? Just ask your questions and get out,” he said. “What are you after, anyway? The Guards are dealing with Uncle Shane. Either they have enough evidence to charge him or they don’t. It’s pretty straightforward, I should have thought. Why are you trying to complicate it?”