by Alan Glynn
She really can’t believe this is happening.
Back at the house someone offered her a Xanax, but she refused it. She knows that Yvonne and Michelle took a half one each, and already, coming from the funeral parlour to the church, she could see the medication taking effect, could see her sisters retreating into its quiet, chilly cocoon.
Gina can understand the attraction here. Her own mind is a riot of thoughts and emotions, and she’d love to put it temporarily out of commission, or even calm it down – but not at the expense of clarity, or of rawness, or of anger.
Most of what she’s feeling makes a kind of sense to her, and she doesn’t want to lose that. The rawness certainly makes sense. She has cried a lot over these past couple of days and has felt a depth of sorrow she hadn’t previously known was possible.
But she’s been angry a lot of the time, too, and although that makes sense to a degree, it doesn’t make sense entirely. Her anger at the seeming randomness of what happened makes sense. Her anger at what she’s learned about her nephew’s activities makes sense, as does her anger at what’s been suggested might have caused her brother’s accident – but she’s angry about something else as well, and she doesn’t know what that is.
It’s below the surface. It’s like a scrambled password, a piece of code.
It’s what doesn’t make sense.
It’s the two Noels.
As Gina listens to the liturgy, and to the readings, and to the extravagant promises about souls reposing in the afterlife, she strains to see a pattern in events, something that might explain what happened. She’s sure there is one, because randomness only goes so far – it’s an easy way out, shorthand for I give up, for defeat, for what her mother’s generation would have called God’s will. But for Gina that’s not enough. For Gina, what happened on Monday night is simply too random.
There has to be a more satisfactory explanation.
As Father Kerrigan steps forward to say a few words, Gina braces herself, expecting the worst, platitudes, condescension. Soon, though, she has to admit that he’s doing a pretty good job in the circumstances. Young Noel isn’t exactly a shoo-in for Paradise and yet the priest manages to say some simple, affecting things about life – regardless of how it is lived – and about death.
But it is when the ceremony ends and the members of the congregation file past the front pew that Gina wishes she’d taken a tranquilliser after all. Because this most public part of the ordeal is very intense. It’s exhausting, and emotionally draining. Knowing that they have to go through it again tomorrow doesn’t exactly help either.
Every once in a while Gina glances to her left to see how the others are coping. Of course it’s a lot harder for Catherine, who not unreasonably breaks down several times, the sudden appearance of a familiar face triggering fresh waves of tears and sobbing.
For her part, Gina doesn’t recognise many of the faces at all. Sophie passes, as does P.J., and a couple of others from work. She recognises a few of the neighbours from when she was a kid. She thinks she recognises one or two of Noel’s associates. She’s seen their photos in the papers.
She definitely recognises Terry Stack.
He has an unmistakable air about him, of arrogance, of self-regard. He’s quite short and lean and rugged-looking. When he reaches out to shake her hand, Gina notices a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Who’s your one?
He nods. She nods back but keeps her head down. The line shuffles on.
Afterwards, on the steps of the church and in the car park, people mingle and things loosen up a bit. Sophie comes up to Gina and they hug. P.J. comes up to her as well. They haven’t spoken since the other day on the phone, and they clearly need to talk, but – equally clearly – that’s not going to happen now. At one point, Father Kerrigan is passing. Gina stops him, shakes his hand and thanks him. Yvonne sticks close by Catherine, holding her arm, as they move slowly through the crowd. Michelle stands at the side with Dan, her partner, and her two kids. She’s clutching an unlit cigarette in one hand, a lighter in the other, and looks lost.
People are invited back to the house for something to drink, or at least that was the idea before it became clear how many people this might involve. But then word quickly gets around that Terry Stack is taking over Kennedy’s pub down the road, and that tea, coffee, sandwiches and drink are available for anyone who wants to come along, all taken care of, all in honour of Noel.
Gina sees Stack over with Catherine now, arms around her for a second, then looking into her eyes, talking to her – Noel this, she imagines, Noel that. Catherine was always ambivalent about Noel’s association with Stack, but she’s vulnerable at the moment and he’s probably laying it on with a trowel.
At one point Stack looks over in Gina’s direction, and their eyes meet. That’s when she knows he’ll be coming up to her, sooner or later, to introduce himself.
It happens about ten minutes later. Having shared a few words with a neighbour of Catherine’s, Gina turns around and there he is.
‘Howa’ya,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Terry Stack. Gina, right?’
He’s already done his homework.
‘Yes.’
They shake.
‘I’m sorry for your troubles.’
‘Thanks.’
Stack is flanked by two younger guys. He’s wearing a suit. They’re in jeans and hoodies. He looks like he could be a businessman, or a teacher, or even a priest in civvies. They look like drug dealers.
‘Noel was a sound bloke,’ Stack says, ‘and a good earner. He didn’t deserve this.’
‘No.’
Gina isn’t being tight-lipped here. She wants to say something, but just isn’t sure what, exactly.
‘Listen, love, I’d like you and your sisters to know something. I’m not going to let this rest.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Stack shakes his head. ‘Whoever done this is going to fucking pay, believe me.’ His face contorts with the emphasis he places on the word pay. Normally, Gina would be freaked out by this – boys in hoodies, threats, lingo – but what’s normal here?
‘Excuse my French,’ Stack then adds, a gentlemanly afterthought.
Gina notices one of the hoodies eyeing her up. He has a tattoo on his neck. She is freaked out.
‘Look, Mr Stack,’ she says, ‘I suppose –’
‘Call me Terry.’
‘OK. Terry. I suppose you know that my brother died on Monday night as well?’
‘Yeah, terrible,’ he says, nodding.
‘Well, what I want to know is … could there be any connection between the two deaths? It seems weird that –’
‘I doubt that very much, love. Your brother had a car accident. It’s terrible, it’s awful, but … it’s a coincidence.’
Gina exhales. ‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’
She turns directly to the hoodie who’s been eyeing her up and holds his gaze until he looks away.
She then turns back to Stack and waits for a response.
‘I don’t either,’ he says eventually, and a little uncomfortably, ‘but I don’t see what connection there could be, because I mean –’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Gina goes on, ‘but am I right in thinking that you don’t have any idea why my nephew was killed?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head.
‘Or who did it?’
He pauses. ‘No.’
‘Or who was behind it even?’
‘No.’ He swallows, and pauses again, clearly uneasy at the way this is going. ‘No, not yet, but –’
‘So it’s wide open. Anything is possible.’
Now it’s Stack’s turn to exhale.
‘I … suppose.’
Gina can see him thinking, What’s this mad bitch on about? But she doesn’t care. She mightn’t get the chance again.
‘OK, so Terry, let me ask you another question. Do you people have any links maybe with the building trade? With suppliers? Unions? Coul
d there –’
‘Ah, hold on here, love. For Jaysus’ sake. You’re losing the run of yourself.’ Half turning back to one of his hoodies, he says, with a smirk, ‘You people. I like that.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t –’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Stack looks at his watch. ‘Anyway, listen,’ he says, ‘are you coming down to Kennedy’s? We can continue this little chat over a drink.’
Gina hesitates, and closes her eyes. What is she doing? What does she expect here? Some kind of revelation? Hardly. In the following few seconds it all breaks up anyway. When she opens her eyes, someone has approached Stack and is asking him a question. The tattooed hoodie is gazing down at her legs again. The other hoodie is texting.
She stands there for a moment, but then just walks off. She goes over to Sophie and throws her eyes up.
‘Who was that?’ Sophie asks.
‘Terry Stack.’
‘Oh my God.’ She puts a hand up to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, but this is very weird.’
‘Yeah.’ Gina nods. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I was just reading about him,’ Sophie says, ‘before I came here, in the paper. They call him the Electrician. Apparently because he is one, or trained as one, but it’s more because he uses electric shock as a –’ she stops suddenly, and looks at Gina, not knowing where to go with this, ‘– form of …’
‘Thanks, Soph. I really needed to know that.’
‘Oh God. Sorry.’
As they stand there for a while, not speaking, Gina trawls back through everything in her mind – everything that happened the other night. She thinks about the conversation she had with her brother outside Catherine’s house. Noel said he was going into town, so how did he end up out in Wicklow? He was tired and maybe a bit stressed, but he certainly wasn’t – as some people seem to be suggesting – drunk. Besides, Noel wouldn’t drive a car if he was drunk. Noel was one of the straightest and most responsible people she’s ever known.
Gina feels dizzy. It’s as if she’s standing on the edge of a cliff, fighting the impulse to jump.
She swallows, and looks over at Terry Stack again. He’s talking into his mobile. She can’t help wondering if he avoided her question just now, or evaded it? Was he being honest, or was he lying through his teeth? The thing is, she has no way of knowing. Her instincts aren’t telling her anything. Except that what happened to her brother – what is supposed to have happened to her brother – makes absolutely no sense at all …
2
Miriam chooses his tie, as usual – burgundy, to go with his dark suit. Years ago, Norton used to have a weakness for garish ties – multicoloured, psychedelic affairs, ones depicting cartoon characters even – but Miriam eventually put a stop to that.
‘If you want to dress like a politician,’ she said with contempt, ‘go up for election.’
Norton sees the sense in this now. Larry Bolger still wears a Homer Simpson tie occasionally and he looks like a fool in it. But it gets him noticed.
Norton has no interest in being noticed. It took him years to understand this about himself. Politicians live to be noticed, it’s like photosynthesis to them, attention is their light – and that’s why they’re so easy to manipulate. Take it away and they’re fucked. Give it to them, a steady supply, and they’ll do anything for you.
Men like Norton, on the other hand, thrive in the shadows. Miriam – with her background – understood this instinctively, and it was she who steered him in the right direction. It was she who taught him what to wear, and how to present himself. It was she who made him realise that being rich meant never having to smile for the cameras.
Shaved and fully dressed now, Norton stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom and puts on some cologne.
So is that what drove him earlier in the week? Not just a dread of negative publicity, but a dread of any publicity at all? Maybe. In part. But he’s not an idiot. He knows, for instance, that the official opening of Richmond Plaza is going to involve some exposure, that he might have to appear in a few press photos or on the six o’clock news. But so what. He’ll be anonymous, just another suit in the background. The real focus will be on the architect, on Ray Sullivan’s people, on Larry Bolger.
Norton stares at himself in the mirror.
In terms of publicity, however, the alternative scenario doesn’t even bear thinking about. He’d get caught up in it personally. He’d be fodder for the tabloids and for the radio talk shows. They’d run an identifying clip of him on the TV news, and repeat it night after night as they spun the story to death – maybe a shot of him walking along a street, looking shifty, or struggling to get out of a car.
The idea horrifies him.
Exposure like that, of course, would be the least of his worries – because there’d also be protracted litigation, followed, almost certainly, by bankruptcy, disgrace, ruin.
Norton straightens his jacket and runs a hand across his hair.
Definitely, on reflection, he did the right thing.
He goes through the bedroom and out onto the landing. He looks at his watch: 4.45.
‘Miriam!’
‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’
Miriam appears from her bedroom. She is wearing a navy suit, navy shoes and a navy pillbox hat. She looks elegant and appropriately sombre.
‘Which church is it?’ she says, adjusting one of her earrings.
‘Donnybrook.’
Miriam stands in front of the full-length mirror on the landing and repositions her hat. ‘Do you think there’ll be many people there?’
‘I’d say so, yeah,’ Norton replies. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s packed to the rafters.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He was very popular.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not very. I had dealings with him the odd time.’
Most recently, of course – Norton thinks – in the last week or so. And given what he soon found himself contemplating, that fact had naturally raised something of a red flag in his mind. But then he also remembered reading about Rafferty’s nephew in the paper, in a report about local gangs and DVD piracy.
‘Come on, Mo. There’ll be traffic.’
‘I’m coming.’
She finishes at the mirror and they both head downstairs.
It had seemed like a good plan – a few words in the back of his car with Fitz and that should have been more or less the size of it, at least as far as his own involvement was concerned.
But then look what happened.
They leave the house and get in the car. As he drives slowly across the gravel to the gates, Norton runs it through his mind once again. Monday night, the panic, the sleeplessness, the hours of waiting – how close he came to self-destructing. Then, on Tuesday morning, the phone call. It took him a long time to calm down after that, but as the day progressed, and he spoke to different people, the story did gel into place. He nevertheless found it hard to shake his sense of unease. It had been a very close thing.
Now though, on Thursday afternoon, as he drives to the church for the removal – where he will sit and pray in front of Noel Rafferty’s earthly remains – Norton feels calm again, and secure.
The panic is gone. The threat has been lifted.
It’s almost five o’clock and Larry Bolger is on the plinth outside Leinster House. He is looking over at Buswell’s. He has just left the chamber after a debate on stamp-duty reform and is waiting for his car. He knows that a group of four or five backbenchers is meeting in the hotel to discuss what are euphemistically called ‘developments’ and he wonders how they’re getting on.
The weirdest thing about this stage of a leadership challenge is that all you are required to do is behave as if it isn’t happening. Other people do the important stuff for you – the mobilising, the lobbying, the whispering.
‘Er … Larry, can I have a word?’
Bolger looks around and releases a low groan. ‘A word? T
here’s no such thing, Ken, not where you’re concerned, so no –’
‘Yeah, but this is –’
‘Look, I’ve no time at the moment.’ Miraculously, the car pulls up. ‘I’m on my way to a removal. Tomorrow maybe, or when I get back from the States.’
Bolger hurries down the steps and opens the back door of the car.
‘Larry, you’re going to want to hear this, believe me, because it’s –’
‘Some other time, OK? I’m busy.’
He gets in the car and bangs the door shut behind him.
The driver knows enough not to delay. ‘Good evening, Minister,’ he says, pulling away. ‘Where are we off to?’
Bolger takes a deep breath.
‘Er … Donnybrook, Billy. The church there on the corner. Thanks.’
Billy nods. They go out the main gates and turn left onto Kildare Street.
Bolger then leans back in his seat and exhales. Is he alone in finding the chief political correspondent of the Irish Independent an epic pain in the arse? Like one or two of the other hacks in the press gallery, Ken Murphy is never off the radio talk shows and seems to claim ownership of practically every story that makes it into the news.
But at the same time, if this leadership bid is to succeed, Bolger realises – be it a messy heave, or a bloodless coup – he is going to have to be … well, a little more accommodating, and play the game.
He closes his eyes, luxuriating in a kind of steely clear-headedness – something he associates these days with not drinking.
The choreography of the next few months is going to be crucial, of course. The Paloma announcement the other day, his upcoming trade mission to the States, the opening of Richmond Plaza in the new year … each of these, incrementally, will ratchet up his profile – in the party, with the media, with the public at large.