Pagan turned Gene Vincent down. The connection with London was bad and Foxie’s voice echoed.
‘Cold,’ Pagan said. ‘Brass-monkey weather.’
‘I have a tiny snippet of info for you, Frank. It may interest you.’
Pagan massaged a bare foot. He stared at the window where the midday light, filtered by a drape, was pallid.
Foxie said, ‘Our old chum Ivor the Terrible is practically your next-door neighbour. Did you know that?’
‘McInnes is here? In New York?’
‘I am reliably informed by a young gal who works at the American fortress in Grosvenor Square that the Reverend Ivor McInnes obtained a temporary visa for research purposes.’
‘What’s he researching? New ways to boil Catholics?’
‘Would you believe a book? A work of history?’
‘Didn’t know he could read,’ Pagan said.
‘He’s staying at the Essex House,’ Foxie said. ‘Thought you might like to know.’
Later, when he’d replaced the telephone and turned up the volume of the radio to catch Buddy Holly’s Rock Around the Ollie Vee, he sat cross-legged on the bed and closed his eyes and turned Foxie’s news around in his mind. It was the familiar old labyrinth again. It was the Irish version of Join the Dots. Why was McInnes in New York at this particular time? Pagan didn’t buy the idea of Ivor writing a book unless it was a polemic concerning the satanic ideology of the Roman Catholic Church and nobody was going to issue him a visa for that kind of lunacy. So why was he here? Coincidence? Pagan never trusted coincidence.
He opened his eyes. There was a knock on his door. He went across the room, undid the lock. Zuboric came inside, rubbing his cold hands together. He sat down in an armchair and made a face at the music that filled the room.
‘Does it have to be that loud?’ the agent asked.
‘Is there any other way, Artie? Great rock was intended to be deafening.’ Pagan made no move to adjust the volume. Quite the contrary. He wished he could make it even louder, but the tiny radio was already at maximum.
‘What is with you and this music, Frank? You caught in a time warp?’ Zuboric took a notebook out of his coat.
‘They don’t make music like this any more. It’s all so bloody humourless these days. People with pink and green hair taking themselves seriously, spouting messages I don’t want to hear.’ Pagan sat on the edge of the bed. The music had changed to Chuck Berry. Maybelline.
Zuboric had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise. ‘The shop in Little Italy belongs to a certain Michelangelo “The Saint” Santacroce.’
‘The Saint?’
‘That’s what they call him. He doesn’t exactly live up to it, though. Two terms in Attica. One for tampering with a jury. The other for illegal possession of automatic weapons.’ Zuboric paused, looking over the top of his notebook. ‘Here’s the kicker, Frank. The weapons were all nicely crated when Santacroce was busted. Crated and labelled. Guess where they were going?’
‘Ireland,’ Pagan said.
‘You got it.’
‘What did the crates say? Butter?’
‘Holy Bibles.’
Frank Pagan lay back across the bed and inspected the ceiling. ‘What will they think of next?’ he asked.
11
Roscommon, New York
It was seven o’clock before Celestine persuaded Harry Cairney he should retire. She escorted him upstairs, helped him undress. He was already sound asleep when she left the bedroom and went back down to the library, where Patrick Cairney sat in front of the log fire with a brandy glass in his hand. There was music playing on the stereo, Harry’s music, the old Irish stuff he loved. Celestine turned the record player off. She sat down in the chair facing her stepson and picked up her own brandy from the coffee table. She looked at Patrick, as if she were trying to see some resemblance to his father in the young man’s face.
‘Don’t tell your father,’ she said. ‘But I can only take Irish music in small doses. He’s been playing it all afternoon. Too much.’
Patrick Cairney smiled. He’d been pleased to see his father leave the room because Harry had been headed in the direction of garrulous reminiscence, induced no doubt by the music. The entire afternoon had been filled with Irish tunes, ranging from If You Ever Go Across the Sea to Ireland to the inevitable rebel song Kevin Barry. Too much indeed, Patrick Cairney thought. An onslaught that dulled the senses after a while. Only Harry himself had been animated by the music, tapping his feet, rapping his fingertips on his knees, sitting sometimes with eyes closed and mouth half open, an old man travelling in old realms.
Once or twice, Patrick Cairney had felt so irritated that he’d wanted to turn the music off and go grab his father and shake him, as if to impress upon the old man the fact that all the songs in the world couldn’t bring his private Ireland back to him. The same damn music, the same damn memories, and Patrick Cairney had heard them all a hundred times before. The brainwashed childhood, he thought. The childhood riddled through and rotted by Harry Cairney’s nostalgia, his fake dreams. If Harry loved Ireland the way he claimed, then why had he never done anything about the troubles there? Why had he never – not once in all his years in Washington – gone on record as condemning sectarian violence and supporting some kind of acceptable solution? The answer was simple – it was enough for Harry to sit with his eyes shut and his foot tapping and listen to the same old goddam songs. His dreams were safe things, retreats from a world where men and women and children died needlessly, and torture and terror were a part of every child’s vocabulary.
In the glow from the fire, which was the only source of light in the large panelled room, Celestine’s face was half hidden by rippling shadows. Cairney thought the firelight gave her beauty a mysterious quality. She sipped some brandy, then set the glass down and extended her long fingers in front of the flames. She continued to look at Cairney, her stare disarming.
‘You don’t understand this marriage, do you? You see a relatively young woman married to a man much older, and you wonder why.’
Cairney made a small sound of protest, but the truth was otherwise. He had been wondering.
‘Maybe you’re even thinking I married Harry for money and security,’ she said.
Again Cairney protested. ‘It never crossed my mind.’
‘I love him,’ she said. ‘It’s really that simple.’
Cairney finished his drink. ‘And he dotes on you.’
Celestine settled back in her armchair, crossing her legs. ‘I met your father quite by chance. I was doing PR work for one of those companies he lends his name to, a textile concern in Boston. They like to have Senator Harry Cairney on their stationery. He came to visit the company, and there was a luncheon in his honour, and we talked, and we met again the next day. He proposed to me within the week. I accepted.’
A whirlwind, Cairney thought. All during the afternoon he’d watched Celestine and Harry’s mutual adoration society, the little touches between them, the long looks of affection they shared. And still, somehow, it didn’t sit right with him except he wasn’t sure why. The age difference, that was all. The curious contrast between this obviously healthy young woman and Harry Cairney’s frailty. The other question that had gone through his mind was why a woman as vivacious as Celestine would want to lock herself away in the isolation of Roscommon. He had underestimated love, nothing more. It was an emotion he always underestimated.
Celestine stood up. ‘I wasn’t looking for anybody, Patrick. Marriage was the very last thing on my mind. I’d already been through one, and I wasn’t enchanted by the experience. And I’m not interested in Harry’s money. I want you to know that.’
Celestine’s shadow was large on the wall behind her. She stretched her arms, then ran her fingers through hair that settled back in place immediately, as if it hadn’t been disturbed at all.
‘He charmed the heart out of me, Patrick. He’s capable of that. He paid so much attention to me – he still does �
� that I felt like the centre of his universe. I was never in awe of him or his position. I didn’t even notice the difference in our ages. It was all perfectly natural. I don’t think anything in my entire life has ever been so natural.’ She was quiet a moment, staring at Cairney with a frank look on her face. ‘Why do I feel I have to explain myself to you?’
‘You don’t,’ Cairney said.
‘Maybe I want you to like me. Maybe I don’t want you to have any doubts about me. Maybe all I really need is for you to understand that I love your father and that I’ll take care of him. He’s a wonderful man, Patrick, and I want him to be really healthy again. It’s just such a heartache to see him sick.’ She smiled now and the expression of concern that had appeared on her lovely face dissolved. ‘Do you like to walk?’
‘Sure.’
‘I always take a stroll about this time,’ she said. ‘Want to keep me company?’
Cairney got up. He turned to look from the window. Roscommon was in darkness. The moon lay under thick clouds.
They went downstairs. Cairney put on his overcoat, and Celestine dressed in a fur jacket. Outside, they crossed the expanse of front lawn in silence until they reached the shore of Roscommon Lake, a dark disc stretching in front of them.
They walked the shoreline to a stand of bare trees. There, Celestine paused and looked out across the water. The lake made a soft knocking sound, a whisper of reeds. Cairney glanced back the way they’d come, seeing the black outline of the house. He had a brief image of his mother, Kathleen, a tall, round-faced woman with the kindest eyes he’d ever seen on any human being. Kathleen, who had never really been at home in Roscommon because she disliked its size and location, had presided over the big house like some unwilling empress whose emperor was constantly elsewhere. Cairney smiled to himself because the memory was warm and good. It had about it the tranquillity of recollected love.
The sound of a vehicle broke the stillness. Headlights appeared through the trees. It was the security jeep, which parked some yards away. A man came towards them, carrying a flashlight. He was the same man Cairney had seen that afternoon.
‘Cold enough for you, Mrs. Cairney?’ the man asked.
Celestine didn’t answer. In the beam of the flashlight she looked unhappy. The man stood very still, shining the beam towards the shore of the lake.
‘Just the routine check,’ the guard said.
Celestine turned away. When the man had returned to the jeep and the vehicle had moved off in a southerly direction, she said, ‘I hate them. They’re always nearby. Even when I can’t see them, I feel them.’
‘Why are they here?’ Cairney asked.
‘Harry’s idea. He mumbled something about protecting his valuables. He thinks somebody is going to rob this place. I pretend the security goons don’t bother me. But they’re a nuisance.’
She moved along the shore. Cairney followed. The moon broke free from clouds and showered the lake with silver. Celestine stopped, turned to him, laid a hand on his arm.
‘The trouble with your father is he thinks he’s a young man all over again,’ she said. ‘He thinks he can do all the things he used to do when he was in his twenties. I can’t get him to stay in bed. He won’t follow his physician’s orders.’ She sighed. She dropped her hand to her side. ‘I’m tired of telling him things for his own good.’
‘He’s a stubborn man,’ Cairney said.
‘Maybe he’d listen to you,’ she said.
‘I doubt it. The Senator’s never been much of a listener.’
‘Why do you call him that?’ she asked.
‘The Senator?’ Cairney shrugged. ‘I’m not absolutely sure. I guess I’ve always thought of him that way. The Senator from New York.’
‘It’s just the way you say it. It’s almost as if you resent the sound of the word. Or the man behind it.’
‘I don’t resent him,’ Cairney replied. ‘And I don’t mean to sound that way either.’ He paused now, listening to the rustle of some night creature foraging nearby. If you listened closely, as he always did, even the most superficially placid nights were alive with undercurrents of noise. Resentment, he thought. That was only a part of it. It was more, the sense of being locked constantly in a relationship that was composed of conflicting emotions. Pity and love. Annoyance and admiration. It was a deep conflict and there were times – especially in Ireland, where he felt as if he were stalked by the ghost of Harry Cairney’s younger self, a spectre who had the knowledgeable persistence of a tourist guide – when it twisted inside him with the certainty of a knife.
Celestine turned her face around to him just as the moon poked through cloud again. Staring at her, looking at the moonlight in her hair and the shadows under her cheekbones and the silvery flecks in her eyes, Cairney felt a little flicker of attraction that he pushed away almost as soon as it touched him. He moved back from Celestine. Your stepmother, for God’s sake. Your father’s wife. He wondered if she’d noticed, if his expression had betrayed anything. He was annoyed with himself. He didn’t like unwanted feelings coming up out of nowhere and startling him. They suggested hidden places inside himself that he didn’t know about, unmapped territory within his own psyche.
She went on talking about Harry’s health. How his bronchial condition had recently worsened. How sometimes in the night she’d sit listening to his breathing, actually waiting in dread for the sound to stop. Cairney was hardly listening. Her words swept past him. He wanted to go back indoors. Get out of this moonlight, which was affecting him in uncomfortable ways. He shivered and looked towards the house. He thought of his father asleep in the upstairs bedroom.
‘I don’t want anything to happen to him,’ she said.
‘He’s made of old shoe leather,’ Cairney said. ‘As a kid, I used to think he was indestructible.’
‘That’s the trouble, Patrick. He isn’t.’
Cairney was silent. He put his hands into the pockets of his coat. A wind rose off Roscommon Lake. Cairney started to move in the direction of the house. Celestine followed.
‘You’re tired,’ she said.
‘A little.’
They walked back. Celestine paused on the steps of the house. Cairney, who had reached the door, looked back down at her.
She said, ‘I don’t want to lose him, Patrick. But Tully says his lungs are badly congested. This last bronchial attack really hit him where it hurts.’
Cairney didn’t say anything. He gazed at the expression of concern on Celestine’s face. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. Instead, he ushered her inside the entrance room, where it was warm.
Celestine removed her fur jacket. ‘At least there’s one consolation, Patrick. His doctor says he has shad been a heart like an ox. That’s something.’
Cairney smiled. ‘What do you expect? It’s a good Irish heart. They don’t make them that way anymore.’
Celestine laughed. She pushed open the door that led to the sitting room. She hesitated in the doorway a moment, watching Cairney’s face. Then she said, ‘Let’s have a nightcap.’
The White House, Washington D.C.
Thomas Dawson, President of the United States, former senator from Connecticut, ate only yoghurt and raisins for his evening meal. He had a phobia about putting on weight, and he monitored his caloric intake carefully, using a small calculator he carried with him everywhere. He stuck his plastic spoon inside his yoghurt carton and sat back in his chair, punching the buttons of his calculator.
When he was through he looked up at his brother Kevin, who was standing on the other side of the desk. Kevin was pale and nervous and his voice a little higher than usual on this particular evening. With damn good reason, the President thought.
Thomas Dawson stood up. He fixed Kevin with the Dawson Grin, which had been patented years before during the first Senate campaign. It was a bright expression suggesting honesty and easy confidence. It appealed to women and it didn’t threaten men, and it was perhaps the most important expression any politician
could be blessed with, attractive and unmenacing. It was the smile of a man from whom you would buy a used car and go home feeling good about it, and you’d never think to complain when it started to leak oil on the second day.
‘Kevin,’ he said, using the tone of one brother to another, reassuring and almost conspiratorial.
Kevin Dawson shifted his feet. Whenever he visited his brother in the Oval Office, he felt the weight of history pressing down on him, and he was overawed like a schoolboy. Jesus, this was his own brother! They’d been brought up together, played together, shared a bedroom – and he could hardly talk to the man! Even now, when he’d come here to speak about his fears and look for a little support, words hadn’t come easily. This meekness, which often took the form of a rather elaborate politeness, had long been the fatal flaw in his character. He was a man who found it easy to be overcome, whose arguments were always the first to be swept aside in any debate. Sometimes he wished he had the heart for confronting the world face on.
‘The Irish question’s a delicate one for me,’ Thomas Dawson said. ‘My general policy, at least in public, has been to ignore it. Leave it to the British. We pump in a few bucks to Belfast every now and then, and we do considerable trade with Dublin. But we don’t play favourites. Don’t take sides. Keep everybody happy. It’s a balancing act and it’s goddam tricky.’
Kevin Dawson watched his brother come around the large desk. He reflected on the fact that the politics of the presidency changed a man. Thomas Dawson had become sombre, more serious, and at the same time somewhat devious. Even the Dawson Grin seemed jaded, little more than a reflex.
‘Privately, it’s another matter. You know that as well as anyone, Kevin. God, it’s only been a hundred years since old Noel Dawson sailed from Killarney. How could I not feel some kind of attachment to the old country? How could I not take sides?’ The President smiled sadly. ‘The trouble is, I’m not a private person any more. It’s one of the first things you find out in this job. Every damn thing you do is public. Even my diet, Kevin. I had a publisher offer me a ridiculous sum of money for my goddam diet! Can you imagine that? Wanted to call it the White House Diet or some such thing.’
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