Actually, she thinks, if anyone is unhinged here it’s surely the two men she met this morning, both of whom seemed to be under a great deal of pressure.
Though presumably for different reasons.
Or maybe not.
She starts walking.
If there is a connection between them, it’s not as easy to see right now as the contrast. Because Dermot Flynn – she’s pretty sure – was afraid of something or someone, and seemed vulnerable, whereas Mark Griffin was more like a wounded animal, and seemed, quite frankly, a little dangerous.
He waits for a van to pass, and then a bus, before striding across the street himself. It may be a stroke of luck that Bolger appeared when he did, but that’s certainly not how it feels. Walking down to the corner, heart pounding, Mark feels a keen sense of inevitability about what’s happening. It’s as though the confrontation ahead could no more be avoided than the setting of the sun.
He turns the corner and goes up the steps of the hotel. Before going inside he takes out his mobile phone and switches it off. He enters the lobby and immediately spots Larry Bolger, who is over to the left, standing at the entrance to the bar with the two men he came in with. It strikes Mark how amazingly informal all of this is. Bolger is a government minister, and yet he doesn’t seem to have any security around him, or an entourage.
Maybe it’s the place. This small hotel opposite Leinster House does have that kind of reputation. It’s known to be a sort of home away from home for politicians.
Mark walks across the lobby, and as he does so Bolger and the two men he’s with separate. The two men turn towards the bar, and Bolger heads for a corridor to the right of the reception desk.
Mark follows him – and continues to follow him, seconds later, into the men’s room.
Which is empty.
‘Er… Mr Bolger, can I have a word?’
Mark’s voice is quite shaky and even in danger of sounding a little hysterical.
Two feet away from the urinal, hands already working his fly, Bolger stops and turns around. He looks alarmed. ‘What?’
‘I want to ask you a question.’
‘Hold on a second… who are you?’
Bolger looks smaller than he does on TV. He’s quite a dapper little man, all groomed and primped. He’s wearing a silk suit, cuff links, a gold watch. Even from across the room Mark can smell his cologne.
‘The crash,’ Mark then says, ‘the one… the one your brother was killed in, did you -’
‘Jesus,’ Bolger interrupts. ‘Are you fucking serious? In here? Get the -’
Mark holds a hand up. ‘No, no, simple question. Did you cover it up? Did -’
‘Cover what up? I don’t -’
‘The fact that he was the one who was drunk, he was the one who caused the accident, your brother, and not -’
‘That’s outrageous. Jesus Christ. That’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever -’
‘Is it? Things worked out pretty well for you though, didn’t they?’
‘How dare you. I -’
Sensing movement from behind, Mark spins around.
A young guy in uniform – a hotel staff-member presumably, a bellhop or a porter – is coming through the door.
Mark freezes.
The guy in uniform stops and looks around for a moment. ‘Mr Bolger,’ he says, a little suspiciously, ‘are you -’
‘I’m grand, Tim,’ Bolger says. ‘But I think this gentleman here might have lost his way looking for the exit.’
Mark turns back to Bolger. ‘Well, did you?’
‘Did I what?’ Bolger snaps. Then he shakes his head. ‘You fucking journalists are a breed apart.’
‘I’m not a journalist, I’m -’
‘I don’t give a shite what you are, you’re only a scumbag as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Come on, sir,’ the bellhop says, ‘this way.’
As Mark turns again, he glances into the large mirror above the row of washbasins. All of a sudden the room seems crowded, and the situation a little trickier than he’d imagined. At the same time, Mark can’t believe who he’s standing next to. This man’s name – the word, the very sound of it – is something he has lived with all his life, as he has lived with ambivalence, confusion, shame…
And anger.
‘Sir.’
An emotion he has always managed to repress.
‘Sir.’
Mark holds a hand up, a warning hand.
But he hesitates.
This isn’t the time or the place.
He steps around the bellhop and quickly makes it over to the door. Avoiding eye contact with Bolger, he leaves.
Less than an hour later, he is pulling into his driveway on Glanmore Road.
In the hall he sees that there’s a message on his answering machine. It’s from Susan. She wants to know if he’s on for tonight. They had a semi-arrangement to go for dinner. ‘… so anyway, Mark, call me when you get this. I did try you on your mobile, but it was -’
Before the message ends, he reaches down and presses the Erase button.
He takes out his mobile and throws it down, along with his keys, onto the hall table.
He goes into the living room and looks around. The bottle of Bombay is still on the coffee table from the night before. He goes over, picks it up and takes a slug – neat, straight from the bottle. Then he holds the bottle up and examines it.
There’s only half of it left, less even – which is not going to be enough.
He lowers his arm and thinks for a moment.
There’s red wine in the house. Somewhere. A bottle of Barolo one of his suppliers gave him. He’s pretty sure it’s in the kitchen, in one of the cupboards.
That’ll do.
Then he raises his arm again, slowly, deliberately, and as the bottle makes contact with his lips, he closes his eyes.
7
‘… he was a young fella, I don’t know, late twenties, early thirties, Jesus -’
‘Calm down, Larry, would you?’
‘No, Paddy, I’m very upset. I mean, Christ, I’m under enough pressure as it is, with all this crap in the papers.’
Norton has come outside to take the call. The French doors are open behind him, and he can hear Miriam inside going on about the nation’s obsession with reality TV and how vulgar it all is.
‘What did he say exactly?’
‘He asked me about the accident. I don’t know. He seemed to be implying that it was Frank who caused it.’
It may be chilly out here in the moonlight, but it’s nothing compared to the more abstract chill that Norton feels creeping up on him.
‘I see.’ This comes out almost in a whisper. ‘What else did he say?’
‘He accused me of covering it up.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said that that was outrageous. I mean, what else -’
‘How did he react?’
‘I’m not sure. It all happened very fast. Tim came in, and then he left. He just walked out. We were in the fucking jacks, for Christ’s sake.’
Norton stares out across the floodlit lawn. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Well not like a journalist, that’s for -’
‘Hold on, did he say he was a journalist?’
‘No, he actually said he wasn’t one, but sure what else could he be?’
‘Hmm.’
Norton turns, the gravel crunching under his feet. He glances in through the French doors at everyone gathered around the dining table – at the Doyles, the Shanahans, the Gallaghers.
Miriam is still holding forth.
‘I don’t know, Larry, he probably was a journalist. From one of the tabloids. It’s the only explanation.’ He pauses. ‘I mean, Jesus, you’re a sitting duck at the moment.’