He turns off the water, steps out of the shower and puts on his towelling robe.
An official in the Taoiseach’s own department? The irony is too rich.
Bolger looks at himself in the mirror.
So, a plan was hatched.
The idea was that once this new angle on the story got fed to the media – and preferably this morning – senior figures in the party would persuade the Taoiseach to stand down and cede power. To none other than the Minister himself. There’d be no need for a divisive leadership contest.
It was perfect – a bloodless coup.
But then someone decided to turn on the radio.
Bolger picks out a shirt, and as he’s putting it on, his phone rings. He looks at the display. Paula. He puts the phone on his shoulder, cocks his head to one side and starts buttoning up his shirt. ‘Paula, yeah, what is it? I’m tired.’
In the brief moment before she answers, Bolger can picture Paula rolling her eyes and thinking, Jesus, Larry, we’re all tired.
‘Have you heard any of the details of this thing?’
‘What, the shooting?’
‘Shoot-out more like. Bloody OK Corral stuff. And fifty euro says at least one subeditor sticks that in a headline somewhere.’
‘Do they know who’s involved?’ All Bolger heard on the early bulletin was the body count. No names had been released at that stage.
‘Yeah, the main players seem to be Terry Stack and someone else called… er… Martin Fitzgerald.’
Bolger stops, hands poised to do up the top button of his shirt. He looks at himself in the mirror again. These two names… there’s a resonance here, an echo…
‘Larry?’
‘Is that the Martin Fitzgerald who owns High King Security?’
‘I think so,’ Paula says. ‘But they’re playing up a paramilitary angle. I don’t know, ex-INLA, some crap like that. Two scumbag smack dealers blowing each other away obviously isn’t sexy enough for them.’
Bolger doesn’t quite know what to make of this.
‘But I’ll tell you one thing,’ Paula goes on, ‘we were right to hold off, because it’s going to be wall to wall today, the law-and-order agenda for breakfast, dinner and bloody tea.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Bolger says, doing up the button. ‘But anyway, listen.’ He slips the phone from his shoulder into his hand. ‘This little delay actually suits me. Because there’s something I need to do this afternoon.’
‘Oh.’ Suspicious. ‘What’s that?’
He tells her about how he intends going out to the nursing home in Wicklow to see his father. But as he speaks – still staring at himself in the mirror – his unease deepens.
What’s he expecting to find when he gets out there?
He doesn’t know. Maybe nothing. Clarification. If he’s lucky.
Answers.
Though how much he thinks the old man will be able to tell him – in fact how much he thinks the old man will be able to remember, and about anything – well, that’s another matter altogether.
When Gina wakes up, it takes her a moment to remember where she is. Leaning on one elbow, she raises herself up a little in the bed and looks around.
She’s in the spare room of Sophie’s new apartment.
But…
Oh God. Of course.
She throws the duvet back and swings her legs out.
After what happened last night, she can’t believe she actually slept.
Sitting on the edge of the bed now, she runs her hands through her hair and tries to pull everything into focus. But there’s really only one point to consider here, one central fact: no Mark Griffin. The warehouse, Fitz, Terry Stack, those other guys who came, the awful carnage that ensued…
But where the hell was Mark through all of it?
Where is he now? She’s got to -
Then a stab of panic hits her as she registers the morning sunlight and realises that hours must have passed – six, seven, eight hours – since she left the warehouse.
She looks at her watch.
A quarter past nine.
Jesus, how did she sleep so -
What did Sophie give her?
She stands up but feels weak, her movements sluggish, her limbs heavy.
She sits back on the bed and closes her eyes.
Once beyond the roundabout last night she hailed a cab and came directly out here – because there was no way she could face going back to her own place. But she needed somewhere to regroup, to think, to work out a strategy. Once inside the door, though, she made it plain that she didn’t want to answer any questions, and Soph went along with that. She offered Gina a drink, which Gina didn’t want, and then offered her a Valium.
Gina opens her eyes.
Maybe that explains why she’s still so groggy, why she was able to sleep. She just took what Sophie gave her and didn’t check its strength. But it’s obvious now that it wasn’t a tranquilliser; it was a bloody sleeping pill.
She looks down. She’s still in her clothes, black jeans and a sweater. Her leather jacket is on the end of the bed, folded neatly.
She looks around.
Where are her shoes?
She has to get out of here. She has to find out where Mark is and what happened to him.
She stands up and walks over to the door in her bare feet. The door opens directly onto the living room, and there, sitting on a leather couch, dressed for work, looking up at her a little nervously, is Sophie.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ Gina says back, and shrugs. ‘What the hell was that you gave me, Soph? It knocked me out.’
‘You asked for something. Do you know how upset you were when you got here last night? You were…’
Gina shakes her head. ‘I don’t really remember, not in any detail, but look, I… I have to get out of here. I’ve got -’
‘You were bordering on hysterical,’ Sophie says, leaning forward on the couch. ‘But you wouldn’t talk to me, you -’
‘I’m sorry, Soph, I didn’t mean to put you through that. You were the only pers-’
‘I didn’t mind, you idiot. But I was worried. I figured that maybe you’d…’ She stops here and stands up. ‘Look Gina,’ she says, as though about to make a formal announcement. ‘There was something on the news this morning.’
Gina looks at her. Oh God. Of course there was. Media coverage. It had never occurred to her.
But then something else occurs to her, and she looks over at the main door of the apartment. What kind of a trail did she leave behind her last night?
She swallows.
Should she even be here? Is it safe for Sophie? Is it safe -
‘Gina.’
She looks back. ‘What?’
‘On the news. There’s been this, I don’t know, gangland thing. In a warehouse somewhere. Three people are dead, including that guy who was at your nephew’s funeral.’
Gina stares at her, nods. ‘Three? You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
The hoodie must have made it.
‘Anything else?’
‘Anything else? Christ, Gina, didn’t you hear what I just said?’
‘Yeah, Soph, I heard. Now what else was there?’
‘OK, OK. Let me think.’ She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘They also said there are two guys in intensive care.’
Gina looks at her.
‘Two?’
‘Yeah, one of them was stabbed and the other one was shot. I can’t believe I’m even saying this. The one who was shot they found in an alleyway or something. Nearby.’