‘No… it’s OK.’ He exhales again. ‘But I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?’
Gina feels her stomach sinking. How coherent an answer to this question can she give?
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’m probably on shaky ground here, and I don’t want to stir up any bad memories or upset you in any way, but I was talking to someone last night, someone who remembers the crash from twenty-five years ago, a cop, and he was saying that the official story was that your father -’ she pauses, swallows, ‘that your father caused the accident. Because he’d been drinking. But that… maybe things weren’t so clear-cut. This guy said that at the time there was a question mark over whether your father even drank at all, and that maybe it was Frank Bolger who was drunk. He said there could well have been a cover-up to protect his reputation… and that Larry Bolger was the one person who had the most to gain from…’
Gina has never had anyone look at her the way Griffin is looking at her now. It’s a queasy kaleidoscope of disbelief, hurt, confusion, fury. He puts a hand on the edge of the table to steady himself.
‘This is insane,’ he whispers.
‘Oh God,’ Gina says, ‘I’m sorry.’
He’s looking away now, over her shoulder, and shaking his head.
Does she go on or shut up?
‘I don’t know,’ she says after a moment, the silence unbearable, ‘it just seemed to be a pattern… accusations of drunk driving used deliberately and maliciously to…’
Her voice trails off.
Twenty-five years apart, different circumstances, the link with Bolger tenuous at best and probably just a coincidence – is that a pattern? Gina has a sudden sense of how flimsy all of this is, and of how irresponsible she’s being in presenting it to someone who has such a profound emotional involvement in what she’s talking about.
‘All my life,’ Griffin says, still whispering, still staring into the distance, ‘all the time I was growing up and in all the years since, I have lived with the horror, with the shame, of knowing that my father was responsible for that crash, and for the deaths of four people… including my sister and my mother…’ He looks directly at Gina now. ‘It was like some sort of black creation myth. And I never talked about it to anyone, I never discussed it with anyone… but it was always there.’
Gina swallows again. She wants to retract and apologise. She wants to get up and leave. She wants to reverse time.
‘And now,’ Griffin goes on, ‘after all these years, out of the blue, I’m faced with the possibility that maybe it wasn’t his fault? That it could have been someone else’s fault? That there was… that there was even some uncertainty at the time? Jesus Christ.’
The edge in his voice unnerves Gina. The thing is, this is only a theory, and her impulse now is to play it down a little.
‘Mark,’ she says softly, ‘I can’t prove any of this.’
But he doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. She’s about to elaborate on her point when he suddenly stands up and shuffles out from behind the table.
‘Mark, please, listen -’
He holds a hand up to silence her. There are tears in his eyes.
He walks off.
Gina swivels around and watches as he goes out the door of the café. He turns right, passes along by the window and quickly disappears from view.
3
Norton looks at his watch. It’s almost midday. He picks up the remote from his desk and flicks on the TV.
Sky News.
He leaves it on mute. Then he slumps back in his ergonomic swivel chair and glances around. He doesn’t like this office anymore. He has set aside an entire floor of the new building for Winterland Properties and can’t wait until it’s ready.
That’s assuming, of course, that everything goes smoothly. Because there are plenty of people out there who’d love to see Norton fall flat on his face, people who said at the outset that the project wasn’t financially viable, that Richmond Plaza would lie vacant for years.
Well, they don’t have much longer to wait.
Norton reaches for the remote again and switches over to RTÉ. On the bulletin at midday there should be some mention of the press conference at the Carlton.
As he waits, he goes over some paperwork relating to the agreement-for-lease of one of the smaller tenants moving into Richmond Plaza. There’s been some dispute over the net lettable area – which bits, exactly, they will or won’t be renting – and he needs to be on top of this before a meeting with their agent at two o’clock.
After a while, he glances over and sees that the news bulletin is starting. He picks up the remote and turns on the sound. The press conference is the lead story.
Norton shakes his head. Is there nothing else happening in the world? No earthquake or hostage crisis? No development in the Middle East? No further slump in the housing market or surge in inflation? Is there nothing to deflect attention from Larry fucking Bolger?
Norton couldn’t believe the coverage in the papers yesterday. It was savage, with the rushed and giddy feel of a premature obituary. What he’s increasingly afraid of, however, is that if they push it and finish him off, Bolger mightn’t be the only one who gets buried.
On screen, it cuts from the studio to the press conference. The minister is sitting at a table in front of a bank of microphones.
‘… and I want to reassure people,’ he’s saying, ‘that I have the full support, the full backing, of my family, my friends and my colleagues.’ He hunches forward. ‘But look, I want people to see this for what it is, which is a witch hunt, pure and simple… it’s a sinister attempt to undermine…’
Norton’s mobile phone goes off. He whips it up and looks at the display. No number. He hesitates, then answers it. ‘Yeah?’
‘Paddy, Ray Sullivan.’
Closing his eyes, Norton emits a low groan. Then he says, ‘Ray, listen, can I put you on hold for a second?’
‘Er… sure.’
Norton lowers his arm and dangles the phone by the side of his chair. He refocuses his attention on the press conference.
‘… and on the other hand accountability, so that I as a public representative, going forward, can get on with the job I was first elected to do as an ambitious young man more than twenty-five years ago.’
Abruptly, the clip ends, and they cut back to the newsreader in the studio. Norton presses the Mute button on the remote. He raises his arm and puts the phone up to his ear again. ‘Ray?’
He’s been dreading this call.
‘Paddy. What the hell is going on over there? I thought you might have gotten in touch by now.’
Norton squirms. ‘I know, I know. I was just waiting to see if it’d blow over.’
‘But… it hasn’t.’
‘Not as yet.’
‘Not as yet.’ Sullivan clears his throat. ‘So let me ask, how’s your boy doing?’
Norton is irritated by the phrasing. ‘He’s OK. He’s stonewalling. Which he’s pretty good at. He’s a politician.’
‘Fine, Paddy, but get this, the story has just come up on the old man’s radar screen, and I have to tell you, he’s pretty pissed. I wasn’t going to mention it to him, at least not yet, but it turns out he’s no stranger to the blogosphere.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, I know, at his age.’ Sullivan clicks his tongue. ‘But anyway, the thing is, he feels let down. Oberon’s put a lot into this and let’s just say that Mr V. thinks any scandal or unpleasantness should have been flagged way in advance.’
‘Ray, believe me,’ Norton says, ‘this will blow over. It’s just… it’s part of the process. Larry’s getting himself into position and… the gloves are off. Don’t tell me shit like this doesn’t happen all the time up on the Hill.’