He had lived fast all the way and was renowned for his outrageous parties which mixed politicians and top businessmen with call-girls. All the while, he had his ear out for the next big story and the next sensational headline. Most weekends would find him at The Grafton, his local pub, where he usually had a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other. He loved nothing more than to slap backs and guffaw with friends and acquaintances. Striding down the streets of Dublin's O'Connell Street, he would call out names and crack jokes, always greeted by a chorus of “hellos” from the many people who barely knew him but considered themselves great friends of his.
He always seemed to be in a hurry; rushing about with his coat collar turned up, chewing gum, chain-smoking and constantly attached to his mobile phone. When he talked, it seemed as if he shouted. When he liked a joke, his raucous laugh shot through the room as if fired from a machine gun. He was a free-spirited soul who loved to work as much as he loved to play. Fiercely competitive, he was also somewhat eccentric and delighted in skirting the rules.
From early childhood he’d shown a love for language and a photographic memory that would later serve him well as a journalist and editor. He spoke his first words when he was ten months old and shocked his parents by reciting nursery rhymes at the age of two! His mother quickly recognised his interest in words and began reading extensively to him. He devoured the stories and poems which she read and was soon memorising entire passages.
Before the age of four he was writing; gripping his pencil with two hands and labouring determinedly over each letter. At his desk in his bedroom, which he kept meticulously clean, he began to write short stories which his mother bound together as a book and he would read aloud to entertain his younger brothers and sisters.
Fergus’ twin obsessions; statistics and personalities combined with his ability to recount true stories before a crowd would remain the chief characteristics of his work. He was known for thinking quickly and expressing himself with a unique punch and agility; a style of thought which sparkled through his stories which were held together by a raucous sense of humour and a pungent bite. He wrote the way he spoke; in confident, colourful bursts, employing detail cannily. His love for chasing a story infused his paper with energy.
He was a bright-eyed enthusiast. Ideas came easily to him and he presented his thoughts sharply, renowned for speaking the truth and telling it like it was. He growled and shouted when something or someone disagreed with him but it was all part of who he was; an intense persona who swept people up within his orbit and filled them with his magic. People either loved or hated him, there was no in-between with Fergus Kelly and most people loved him.
“Is there any truth to your story?” Fergus settled his penetrating gaze on Mark.
“Every word is true,” Mark smiled broadly, revelling in his new role as a writer. “Now all we need to do is prove it.” He sat back and watched the reaction of the man sitting opposite him.
“Proving it could take some doing,” Fergus arched a thick eyebrow. “But, as the saying goes “there are no problems, only solutions”.”
“Which is precisely why I came to you,” Mark nodded. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Fergus laughed heartily. “All good, I hope.”
“Of course,” Mark replied promptly. “Everyone who is anyone knows that you have the best nose for a story and I need the best to help prove my innocence.”
“Why not go to the police?”
“I trusted the legal system once before and look where that got me. This time I’ll take the unconventional route.”
“I'm sure we’ll get to the bottom of it, one way or another. I have some contacts in the police force and I think they should be happy to do a few favours for me. I’ve read through your book and I must admit there seems to be some gaping holes in the evidence.” He studied Mark carefully. Already he didn’t like him. He had seen straight through his arrogant act within minutes of meeting him, but he had to grudgingly admit that the man could write well. He was a sucker for a good story and Mark’s book was a hell of a yarn, if nothing else. He’d been glued to the drama from the very first page but he’d come across some deluded characters throughout the course of his career and he wondered how much of Mark’s story was truth and how much was fiction. It never failed to amaze him how so many people could convince themselves of their own lies; if they repeated their version of events often enough, somehow it became true. He wondered if Mark was one such character.
Chapter 2
Mark turned the key in the lock of his new town house. His divorce from Rebecca was finally settled and he’d done well from it. A few short weeks after the papers were signed he’d moved to the pretty house which was situated on the picturesque Joyce's Avenue. It was a narrow, tree-lined road which climbed from the docks. It wasn’t a showy house but its dimensions were certainly luxurious for a man living on his own and it overlooked a garden whose flowering fruit trees and colourful blossoms were a delight in the last warm days of an Indian summer.
He climbed the stairs to the top floor which he’d had converted into his main living area for the panoramic views which it gave over the city; his city. He loved Dublin with her winding streets and rich history. His parents had often referred to it as “The Big Smoke” and from his vantage point high above the crowded streets he could see how the city had blossomed into a real metropolis during the past two decades since he'd first moved there.
Prosperous or not, Dublin had always been unflappable in its commitment to the belief that you didn't need piles of money to enjoy yourself. Still, the transformation of the last few decades; the most radical in its thousand-plus year history, had raised some challenging questions for many Dubliners, who welcomed the city's fortunes but were suspicious of the crass commercialism that came with it. But Mark, like most Dubliners, realised that the so-called “Celtic Tiger” had done wonders for the city too. Most Dubliners took it as a given that their city was a multicultural melting pot where Russians could shop for tinned caviar, Nigerian teenagers discussed the merits of hair extensions and Koreans hawked phone cards from their cars! It was obvious that the city had become so modern that travellers from all over the world couldn't wait to get there and indulge in the many pleasures it had to offer.
Dublin certainly had all the distractions and dressings of a major international capital city, but still managed that rare skill of retaining the friendliness, intimacy and feel of a provincial town, without the small town mentality, which Mark so despised. Dublin understood him, welcomed him, and encouraged his dreams, not like the small-minded country village where he'd grown up. Moving away to “The Big Smoke” had, ironically, felt like a sort of homecoming for him. He'd never belonged in the poky little backwater where he'd grown up, but in Dublin he knew he would always be truly home, his spiritual home.
He poured himself a double whiskey, not bothering with ice, and downed it in one swig. Sighing contentedly, he gazed out over the landscape in front of him and replayed his meeting with Fergus Kelly. He smiled when he recalled the glint of interest which he’d detected in the editor’s eyes and relished the prospect of his story, in his own words, being front page news.
He was too wound up to sit alone in his apartment for long. He wanted to get out and mingle. He'd been cooped up in his small prison cell for too long and in a city like Dublin you never could tell who you might meet on a random stroll. He realised, more than most people, that pleasure was something which Dublin knew all about; from its music, art and literature to the legendary nightlife that had inspired those same musicians, artists and writers. Dublin knew how to have fun and did it with deadly seriousness.
He finished the last of his drink, sprayed himself with cologne and headed out into the bright lights of the capital city, wondering where the evening would take him. It wasn't long until he lost himself in the crowded streets, relishing his anonymity while at the same time enjoying being among people again. He loved Dublin and her ancient history. Every
street had a story tell.
Dublin is a walker's delight. Small and compact, the city centre, which has traditionally been defined as within the boundaries of the Royal Canal to the north and the Grand Canal to the south. The city is split in two by the unremarkable River Liffey, which traditionally marks a psychological and social break between the affluent south-side and the poorer north-side.
He set off towards Trinity College, one of his favourite haunts. Luckily, the bustling crowds were dispersing for another day. There was hardly a more delightful place in Dublin than the grounds of Ireland's most prestigious university. He sighed contentedly as he walked through the tall gates and surveyed the masterpiece of architecture and landscaping which was beautifully preserved in Georgian aspic. Not only was Trinity one of the city's most attractive pieces of historical real estate, but it was also home to one of the world's most famous and arguably most beautiful books; the gloriously illuminated Book of Kells.
Mark enjoyed few activities more than wandering the magnificent gardens and heading to the Old Library's stunning sixty-five metre Long Room which housed about two hundred and fifty thousand of the library's oldest volumes, including the breathtaking Book of Kells. More than half a million visitors stop in each year to see Trinity's top show-stopper. The illuminated manuscript, dating from around AD 800 and thus one of the oldest books in the world, was produced by monks at St. Colmcille's Monastery on the remote island of Iona, off the western coast of Scotland. Repeated looting by marauding Vikings forced the monks to flee to the temporary safety of Kells, County Meath, in AD 806, along with their masterpiece. About eight hundred and fifty years later, the book was brought to the college for safekeeping and has remained there ever since.
He finished his tour around his beloved Trinity College, which stretched its leafy self across a healthy chunk of south-city real estate, before walking a few short steps north-west to Temple Bar, where bacchanalia and bohemia scrap it out for supremacy. When the sun sets, Bacchus is king! Mark had experienced many a wild night within the cobbled precincts of Temple Bar, Dublin's most visited neighbourhood, a maze of streets and alleys sandwiched between Dame Street and the River Liffey, running from Trinity College to Christ Church Cathedral.
He loved the fact that Temple Bar, which was fondly known as Dublin's cultural quarter, wasn't just all booze and infamy. It was a diverse place where visitors could browse for vintage clothes, check out the latest art installations, get their nipples pierced and nibble on Mongolian barbecue! If the weather was good, you could even watch an outdoor film in one square or join in a pulsating drum circle in another.
He turned onto Meeting House Square, which was one of the real success stories of Temple Bar. On one side was the excellent Gallery of Photography which hosted temporary exhibitions of contemporary local and international photographers. The other side of the square was home to the National Photographic Archive which was a magnificent resource for anyone interested in a photographic history of Ireland. On Saturdays it hosted a popular food market where he did much of his weekly grocery shopping. He was rather a food connoisseur, savouring the organic and natural over the processed and mass-produced. He liked the home-made apple pies and fresh eggs which were staples of the market.
He wandered along to the east of Temple Bar, which houses the interesting buildings of Eustace Street, including the 1715 Presbyterian Meeting House, now converted to The Ark, an excellent children's cultural centre.
He carried on towards Merchant's Arch which led to the Ha'penny Bridge, named after the half-penny toll once needed to cross, then on towards The Stock Exchange on Anglesea Street which was located in a striking building dating from 1878.
He passed by the neoclassical masterpiece of the General Post Office building which will forever be linked to the dramatic and tragic events of Easter Week 1916, when Padraig Pearse, James Connolly and other leaders of the Easter Rising read their proclamation of independence from the front steps and made the building the headquarters for their uprising against the British. The building was designed by Francis Johnston in 1818 and burnt out in the subsequent siege. There was bitter fighting in and around the building during the Civil War of 1922, where the pockmarks of the struggle in the Doric columns can still be seen. It has lived through quieter times since its reopening in 1929 but its central role in the history of independent Ireland has made it a prime site for everything from official parades to personal protests.
An involuntary shiver ran through him as he walked past the Four Courts, scene of his memorable trial five years previously. Although he quaked a little inside at the memory, he still couldn't help being amazed by the imposing building of Ireland's uppermost courts of law. The Four Courts was a Georgian masterpiece whose mammoth structure incorporates a one hundred and thirty metre long facade and a collection of statues. The Corinthian-columned central block, connected to flanking wings with enclosed quadrangles, was begun in 1786 and not completed until 1802. The original four courts; The Exchequer, The Common Pleas, The King's Bench, and The Chancery, branch off the central rotunda. Mark spotted a few bewigged barristers conferring, and police officers handcuffed to their charges. He hurried past the building which had sealed his fate five long years ago.
He bounded up the steps of The Guinness Storehouse, which was one of the most popular visits in town. It was a beer-lover's Disneyland, a multimedia bells-and-whistles homage to the country's most famous export and the city's most enduring symbol. The Guinness Storehouse, the only part of the massive, twenty-six hectare of St. James' Gate Brewery which is open to the public, is a suitable cathedral in which to worship the black gold. Shaped like a giant pint of Guinness, it towers seven impressive storeys high around a stunning central atrium, and at the top is the head, represented by The Gravity Bar, which offers panoramic views over Dublin. He made his way to the bar where he quickly ordered a pint of the black stuff, glancing around the busy pub which was packed with revellers who were laughing, talking and enjoying themselves. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the atmosphere, savouring his new-found freedom.
Chapter 3
“Good afternoon, Mr. McNamara, come in,” Margaret Rowan stood up from behind her desk and firmly shook Mark's hand. “It's good to put a face to the name. I'm Margaret Rowan, but everyone calls me Maggie.”
“Please, call me Mark,” he smiled his most charming smile while surreptitiously taking in his surroundings. He was still trying to recover from his climb up the spindly staircase surrounded by walls so heavily repainted that the surfaces had acquired the consistency of cheese.
At the front of the room was a wall of windows so grubby that they hardly let in any light. It was furnished with a large oak desk and a few battered leather chairs which looked like they'd seen better days. His observations didn't go unnoticed.
“Sorry about the mess. I keep meaning to clean but something always seems to get in the way.”
“There's more to life than cleaning,” Mark agreed, surveying the small, crowded room. There were books and papers scattered everywhere. A tower of documents balanced precariously on the large, oak desk, looking as if it might topple over at any moment. Cardboard boxes crammed with documents covered most of the floor space and a house plant had long since given up the fight for survival in the corner. Even the window ledges were stacked with DVD cases and legal books.
Maggie moved a cactus plant out of the way. “It was a present from my brother. He said it reminds him of me; prickly and tough on the outside but a big old softie on the inside.” She threw back her head and laughed loudly at the analogy, causing Mark to jump.
Margaret Rowan was unlike any woman he'd ever met and he certainly would never have guessed she was a private investigator. She was a loud, gregarious woman who clearly didn't stand for any nonsense. Tall and curvy with curly flaming red hair piled high in a loose knot on top of her head. A few stray tendrils kissed her high cheekbones. Her skin was porcelain-pale with an endearing smattering of freckles across
her nose and cheeks. Cerulean blue eyes shone with intelligence beneath heavily mascaraed lashes, and bright red lipstick emphasised her perfect white teeth. Her full bosoms strained against a grey silk blouse and Mark's expert eyes caught a shadow of lace through the light material. A white cashmere cardigan was draped over her shoulders. The material looked so soft that he had to fight his natural impulse to reach out and touch it. A tight black skirt clung to her curvy hips, showcasing her narrow waist and a surprising pair of leather, knee-high boots completed her ensemble. He couldn't resist vaguely wondering if she was wearing stockings and suspenders. She seemed like the sort of woman who would, just for the thrill of it. There was something special about her, something in the chiselled chin, the delicately arched eyebrow, the pouting lip, that added up to more than beauty. His dominatrix fantasy flashed through his mind and he coughed to bring himself back to the present moment.
“Fergus sent you, I mean Mr. Kelly,” she began. “I read your book. It's an intriguing story, I'll give you that much.”
“I think so too.” He smiled smugly at the compliment.
“But what's the point of it?” she asked, lighting up a cigarette and leaning back in her battered black, leather chair.
“I want to prove my innocence and find out who framed me.” He spluttered as a plume of smoke hit him in the face.
“Sorry.” She waved her hands in the air in an effort to dissipate the smoky cloud which hovered over their heads. “I really must quit one of these days, but I've been saying that for years.”
“Indeed.” He wished she'd get on with it. He couldn't wait leave the small, cramped office which clearly hadn't seen a duster or vacuum cleaner in months!
Unfaithful (The Complete Trilogy) Page 37