He finds a parking space on Nassau Street.
But what is really strange here is that the subject has come up twice, and separately, in the space of a few days.
Is that just a coincidence, or is there something going on?
Mark doesn’t know. But either way, this is the single most formative event of his life, and never once – it occurs to him – never once has he had a proper conversation about it, ever… with anyone.
He looks at his watch and wonders now, nervously, as he walks back towards Dawson Street, if that isn’t about to change.
Gina leaves the office and walks along Harcourt Street. As she’s approaching the junction with St Stephen’s Green, a silver Luas, bell ringing, glides by. She crosses at the lights after the tram and enters the Green.
So much about Dublin has changed in recent years, but this great garden square with its winding pathways and formal flower beds isn’t one of them. In fact, if it weren’t for people’s clothes – Gina thinks – and their mobile phones, this could be twenty-five, fifty, even a hundred years ago. There’s something reassuring about that – even if it doesn’t make today, or what she’s about to do, any less real.
Not that she’s at all clear in her mind what that is.
A lot will depend on Mark Griffin. He was a kid when the accident – the crash – happened, so how much does he know about it? How much was he told when he was growing up? Is he aware that at the time there was lots of what Jackie Merrigan called ‘talk’? Griffin sounded relatively normal on the phone, but how will he respond to the fact that Gina’s theory, pretty shaky to start with, is not backed up by a single shred of evidence?
The thing is, for her theory to come into any kind of focus, for a discernible pattern to emerge, there needs to be a stronger connection between her brother and Larry Bolger. What she has is that they played poker sometimes, and apparently weren’t evenly matched. Meaning what? Bolger owed Noel money? He couldn’t pay it back?
Gina groans.
That’s pretty weak.
But then she remembers what Terry Stack had to say and it makes her want to scream.
She crosses the stone bridge over the pond and heads for the Dawson Street exit.
There’s something else, too, not a connection exactly, not anything she can use – but a memory… from when she was a kid. It came to her last night after she got off the phone with Jackie Merrigan and was on the sofa taking another look at that two-page spread in the Sunday World.
It was of the house in Dolanstown… the front room with its old wallpaper, thick carpet and ornaments on the mantelpiece. The TV was on and her mother was in the armchair, cigarette dangling, glass in hand. Gina herself was playing on the floor when out of the blue – and almost shouting – her mother said, ‘Ah Jesus, Mary and Joseph, no.’
Gina turned around. Her mother was pointing at the TV screen.
‘Look at that. Oh God isn’t it awful.’
Gina looked.
What she remembers now is more like an abstract image than anything else, because how was she supposed to make sense of what she was seeing – of what must have been a closeup shot of the second car, mangled and crushed out of all recognition? She didn’t understand what she was hearing either, though one thing she does remember is a man in uniform saying, ‘tragic altogether, the mother and father, and their little girl…’
What sticks in Gina’s mind the most, however, is her mother saying over and over again, ‘That poor little boy, that poor little boy… my Jesus, that poor unfortunate little boy.’ Gina was puzzled at this and wanted to say, No, no, Mammy, it was their little girl, it was their little girl, Mammy… the man said…
But she remained silent.
In time, Gina learned how to handle her mother when drink was involved, but back then she just used to keep her head down and stay quiet. Besides, she was the only one left in the house at that stage – all of the others had gone, even Catherine and the baby.
Or was Catherine still there? Was little Noel still there? Upstairs asleep in his cot maybe?
The memory doesn’t stretch to that kind of detail, but what seems pretty certain now – as Gina crosses at the light and heads down Dawson Street – is that when she was a kid, six or seven years old, she saw a report on TV of the car crash that killed both Larry Bolger’s brother and the parents and sister of the man she’s about to meet.
Already scanning the room as she walks through the door, Gina identifies Mark Griffin more or less immediately. He’s sitting alone in a corner. The place is quite busy, but he’s the only person she can see who fits the age profile.
She goes straight over to him.
‘Mark?’
‘Yeah. Gina?’ He half stands up and puts out his hand.
They shake and Gina sits down, her back to the room.
‘So,’ she says, feeling horribly awkward.
Their eyes meet for a second. Then he looks over her shoulder.
‘What would you like?’ he asks, raising a finger. ‘Coffee, tea, juice?’
Gina glances down at what he’s having. It seems to be a large black coffee.
‘Er…’
A young Chinese guy appears at her side and says, ‘Hi, good morning. What would you like?’
‘Er… I’ll have a double espresso, please.’
The Chinese guy takes a moment to write this down and then goes away.
Thankful for that little breather, but sorry now it’s over, Gina looks up and smiles.
Mark Griffin is dark. He has dark hair, dark eyes and a dark complexion. He’s wearing a very nice dark suit and a plain dark tie. But he’s also unshaven and looks somewhat the worse for wear. Gina doesn’t know what she was expecting – although a small, irrational part of her was expecting a five-year-old boy in short grey trousers and a V-necked jumper.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ she says. ‘I realise this must be difficult for you, but I just wanted to, er…’ She hasn’t really worked out how to put this. ‘I just wanted…’
‘Look,’ Mark Griffin says, leaning forward, ‘it isn’t easy for me, that’s true, but from what you said on the phone I’m sure it isn’t easy for you either.’ He pauses. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me what happened to your brother?’
Gina nods and says, ‘OK.’
She intends to go for a slow build, with plenty of context and detail, but by the time the waiter arrives back with her double espresso a couple of minutes later, she finds she’s already blurted most of it out – even to the extent of using phrases like ‘faked accident’ and ‘professional hit’.
She does stop short, though, of mentioning Larry Bolger.
She leans forward and takes a sip from the espresso. She looks at Griffin for a reaction, but there isn’t one.
After a moment he reaches out and takes a sip from his own cup.
What is he thinking?
Gina doesn’t know, but it would seem reasonable to assume that he’s torn between wanting to hear more of her theory and wanting to be told what the fuck any of this has to do with him.
He looks at her. ‘You didn’t say why you think anyone would want to kill your brother.’
‘Well, I don’t really know why. That’s what I’m trying to find out. But the thing is’ – here goes, she looks into his eyes – ‘the thing is, he did some work over the years with Larry Bolger… and I -’
Griffin blanches. ‘Sorry… Larry Bolger?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what this is about? Something to do with Larry Bolger?’
‘Well maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Jesus.’ He exhales. ‘Jesus.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to -’