But who is he? Who is he working for?
Isn’t that obvious, too?
On Monday evening Mark said he approached Larry Bolger, and just a while ago he said he actually tried to attack him – so even though Gina’s own suspicions have moved on from Bolger, Mark’s clearly haven’t, and must be the source of all this unwelcome attention he’s receiving.
But how does that explain Ratface here? There’s no way he’s… official. In any capacity. Representing a government minister?
Look at him.
Gina is confused.
‘So who are you working for?’ she asks. ‘Whose message are you supposed to be delivering?’
‘Supposed to be? We’ll see about that.’ He steps farther away from the door.
‘It’s Larry Bolger, isn’t it?’ Gina says. ‘You’re working for Larry Bolger.’
Ratface laughs at this and says, ‘You haven’t a fuckin’ clue, love, have you?’
He starts walking around her, slowly, in a wide arc, never taking his eyes off her.
Gina glances over at the door but doesn’t move. Did he lock it?
She turns back.
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ he says, ‘You wouldn’t get very far.’
She swallows again.
She’s definitely uneasy now – OK, scared – but her need to understand what is going on seems to be even greater. Because she keeps wondering… if this guy doesn’t work for Bolger, then who does he work for?
It’s frustrating.
‘OK, look,’ she says, fishing now for some hard information, ‘this message of yours. What is it?’
Ratface grunts. ‘The message? You want the message?’
‘Yes. Of course I do.’
‘All right.’
He puts a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and slowly withdraws something.
Gina’s heart stops.
It’s a gun.
Oh fuck.
‘So, I was going to just give you the message,’ he says. ‘If you know what I mean.’ He waves the gun in the air between them. ‘Get it over with. But now I don’t know. I might give you something else first. Because you’re not being very nice, are you? I think you need some manners put on you.’
Gina watches in horror as he then brings his free hand around to his crotch, applies a little pressure to it and breathes in sharply.
‘Right, come on,’ he says, nodding at her, almost in distaste. ‘Get some of that off you. We haven’t got all night.’
He puts the gun back into his jacket pocket and pats it.
‘Oh Christ,’ Gina says in a barely audible whisper, ‘you’ve got to be kidding.’
She steps away, reeling slightly, and turns to the right.
In front of her is the small forklift truck. Feeling weak, she bends forward, arms outstretched, and leans against it, unsure if she isn’t going to throw up. Then her eyes focus, and she sees what is lying on the forklift’s shiny, worn plastic seat.
‘Oh yeah,’ the man says, from behind her. ‘I like that.’ There is a slight tremor in his voice now. ‘Stay that way… in that position.’
Gina listens hard, gauging the man’s steps as he approaches. Then she reaches down and grabs the crowbar with both hands. Summoning all her strength, she swings it up and around, keeps it moving and smashes it bang on target into the side of the man’s flushed and pudgy face.
‘It’s all about the optics,’ Ray Sullivan is saying. ‘It’s about perception. These days, post-Enron, post-Spitzer, whatever, you just can’t afford to dick around.’
Norton looks at his watch. It’s too soon, he knows. But he can’t help it.
Then he looks at his plate. He has barely touched his chicken livers. Which is another thing. Narolet never used to affect his appetite like this. But maybe it’s not the Nalprox. Maybe he wouldn’t be hungry anyway.
‘What was it Ike said, that phrase he used in relation to Nixon?’ Sullivan slices one of his artichoke hearts in two. ‘After the funding scandal in fifty-two? “Clean as a hound’s tooth?” Even back then, he understood. Ike was no idiot, you know.’
Norton shakes his head. ‘Look, Ray, if we’re talking about Larry here, you’ve got it out of proportion. The media have already pretty much filed away what happened under peccadillo and consigned it to last week’s news. The story this week is how Larry has snookered the Taoiseach into supporting him one hundred per cent.’ He pauses. ‘And on the basis of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I’d say Larry is well on course for the top job, and maybe even sooner than we expected.’
Giving this some thought, Sullivan dips and drags one of his pieces of artichoke heart in the sauce, a spoory trail, running around the plate, of Marsala and honey. ‘I like that,’ he says, the fork poised at his mouth. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’
‘I know, I know. Who said that?’
As Norton laughs, leaning back, he steals another glance at his watch.
For Gina, each passing second now is elastic, a nanocentury of experience and sensory overload – the fluorescent lights above her too bright, the air around her too cold, the thumping in her ears and chest too loud, too persistent. She’s not sure she’s going to be able to cope.
Without taking her eyes off Ratface, however, and still clutching the crowbar, she staggers backwards a few feet and manages to straighten up.
She tries to assess what she has done. Ratface isn’t moving. He staggered a little himself as he fell and is now lying on his side, facing away from her – so she can’t see where she hit him. Holding the crowbar up, ready to strike again if necessary, she retraces a couple of her steps and takes as close a look as she can bear at the…
At the body?
She remains still for a moment and stares. There’s a slight movement. It’s hardly perceptible. But he’s definitely breathing.
She pulls back.
Fuck.
She’s relieved and not relieved – relieved that she hasn’t killed him and not at all relieved because what does she do now?
What if he wakes up?
Fuck.
She looks around. Sticking out from under one of the raised wooden platforms that the pallets are stacked on is a loose, thin strap of plastic. It’s the stuff they use for securing industrial loads. She puts down the crowbar, walks over and picks it up. She feels under the wooden platform and finds another one.
She goes back, kneels down beside Ratface and proceeds to tie his ankles together with one of the plastic straps. It’s awkward, but she manages to get it done. Then, in order to tie his wrists behind his back with the second strap, she has to shift his weight a bit and pull his right arm out from under him.
When she’s satisfied that he has been sufficiently restrained, she puts her hand into his jacket pocket. Very slowly, she pulls out his gun. She holds it between her index finger and thumb. It’s solid-feeling and quite heavy. She stands back up, careful to keep it at arm’s length. She goes over to the wooden crate next to the first row of stacked pallets and places the gun on top of it.
Then, leaning back against the crate, still in shock, she wonders what to do next. Does she leave? Does she wait to see if he is all right? Does she call the police? Does she call an ambulance? What?
As Gina considers these questions, she glances down at the floor and notices in a distracted way that she’s standing on something, a piece of paper or card. She bends down to pick it up. Her hand is shaking as she turns it over.
It’s a photograph – old, slightly faded, and now slightly smudged as well. It’s of a little girl. She’s thin, has dark hair and is wearing a blue denim dress. She isn’t quite smiling but looks impish, as though she’s doing her best to withhold a smile, as though this is a game she’s playing.