Winterland

by Alan Glynn

  Bolger opens his eyes again. They’re almost at Leeson Street Bridge.

  It’s certainly been a long time coming. He entered politics in the mid-eighties – though as far as he remembers, and it’s all a bit vague now, standing for election hadn’t even been his idea. Frank, his brother, had held the seat originally but died, and then somehow Larry was persuaded to come back from Boston and contest it in the ensuing by-election. With plenty of backing from within the party, and much to his own surprise, he won the seat. What followed was a blur that has lasted two and a half decades, a blur of clinics, funerals, functions, branch meetings, Oireachtas committees and, every few years or so, like a recurring anxiety dream, the curious sensation of being raised shoulder-high by screaming mobs of your own supporters at a count centre. Eventually, a junior ministry materialised, along with a little national exposure – on Morning Ireland, on Questions and Answers, on Tonight with Vincent Browne. Other junior portfolios came along, and then, at last, his first full seat at the cabinet table.

  After that it was all very serious and grown-up – access, privilege, power.

  Compromise.

  He opens his eyes. They’re on Morehampton Road now, passing the old Sach’s Hotel.

  But all of a sudden, for some reason, his mood has shifted. He feels anxious. He feels that familiar jumping in the pit of his stomach.

  Then, as the car approaches the gates of the church, and he sees a big silver BMW pulling in just ahead of them, he realises why.

  It’s because no matter how he looks at it, no matter from what angle, there is one constant in all of this, in his career, in his life, stretching right back to that surprise by-election of nineteen eighty whenever-it-was, and stretching right into his future, too, inescapable, looming like an Atlantic weather front. And that constant – over there now, struggling to climb out of his BMW – is, of course, Paddy Norton.

  3

  Despite her exhaustion (she didn’t get any sleep last night, and young Noel’s funeral was this morning), Gina immediately registers the contrast between yesterday’s removal in Dolanstown and the one today here in Donnybrook. Passing through the gates on the way in, she can’t help noticing all the BMWs, Mercs, Saabs and Jags. The church is smaller, too, but the crowd seems to be bigger. As she and Jennifer and her sisters (except for Catherine, who is at home, in bed, unconscious) get out of the funeral car and follow the coffin into the church and up the aisle towards the altar, Gina glances left and right at this congregation of what appear to be well-groomed middle-aged men and their brittle, pampered wives. There isn’t a hoodie or a tracksuit in sight. Instead, she sees silk suits, cashmere overcoats, fur coats – and hats, dozens of them (how many women yesterday were wearing hats?). And is it her imagination or is there something in the air, a certain pungency – a subtle fusion, perhaps, of incense, cologne and expensive perfume?

  The ceremony passes quickly. It is dreamlike – the same words as yesterday, the same sentiments, the same skewed sense that none of this can possibly be for real. The hardest part – again, like yesterday – is when the members of the congregation file past the front pew to express their condolences. Although a form of torture, this also happens to be when Gina realises for the first time just how far Noel travelled in his life. She always knew that he was successful, but she is surprised to see certain people file past here, people he must have known, people whose circles he must have moved in – politicians, businessmen, sports stars, TV personalities. She realises how little she really knew him, and this adds to her heartache.

  Afterwards, outside the church, the mood is sombre, but there is still an air of conviviality, as people greet each other, shake hands, slap shoulders and talk.

  Jenny is very dignified, but she is frozen in her grief, moving slowly and saying almost nothing. Yvonne and Michelle, who are as tired as Gina, also find it hard to speak.

  Gina, though, forces herself. She doesn’t know where to begin, or who to talk to, but she moves around, introducing herself to people, determined to get some kind of a fix on Monday night. It seems obvious to her that the sequence of events, at the very least, needs to be established. What she finds hard to take, however, is that no one else is asking any questions. An official version of Noel’s accident very quickly fell into place, and was accepted, but hasn’t it occurred to anyone that what happened was, well … strange? There is the supposed coincidence of the two deaths, Noel’s unaccounted-for trip into Wicklow and the downright unacceptable notion that he was drunk behind the wheel.

  But it’s not that easy. Actually, it’s very awkward. How do you quiz people without coming across as abrupt, or rude, or possibly even – given how exhausted she is and must look – unhinged? Perhaps now is not the most suitable time for this. But when is? When else does she find practically everyone Noel knew herded together in the one location?

  She talks, then, to people who knew Noel through work but didn’t really know him. She talks to people who knew him well but hadn’t seen him for ages. She talks to someone who regales her with anecdotes about Noel’s capacity for work, his dedication, his legendary perfectionism. She introduces herself to a TV presenter who apparently played a lot of poker with Noel.

  As things break up and people begin leaving, Gina feels frustrated, as if she’s blown her one chance at this. But trying to get someone’s life into focus, trying to square up different people’s perspectives on the same person, is difficult. More than difficult. It’s like trying to pick mercury up with a fork. How do private investigators do it? How do biographers do it? Although she’s only starting, she already has a nagging sense of how futile this might prove to be.

  There is a general invitation to come back to the house – Noel and Jenny’s new spread on Clyde Road. Despite how tired she is, Gina decides to go, and accepts a lift from Jenny’s brother, Harry. Yvonne and Michelle have to get back to Catherine’s and they leave. Goodbyes are said and very quickly the crowd disperses – cars inching towards the gates and feeding out into the evening traffic.

  In the house people are received, coats are taken, drinks are served. Jenny sits in the main reception room, in an armchair, sipping a cup of tea. The room gradually fills up, as does the hallway outside, as well as a large kitchen area at the back. Gina hasn’t been here before and is amazed at how grand the place is. Noel and Jenny only moved into it from their place in Kilmacud a few weeks back and had been meaning to have family over. Gina stands with a glass of wine at the bay window in the main reception room – which is more like a ballroom – and looks out onto the floodlit front lawn.

  She is alone, and her will has flagged, but when someone approaches her she musters energy from somewhere and introduces herself. She quickly finds that she is talking to a Detective Superintendent Jackie Merrigan. He is the first person she has met today who it turns out actually spoke to Noel on Monday night, and this fact animates her further. He tells her that he was a friend of Noel’s from years back and that it was he who informed Noel about their nephew’s murder.

  ‘You phoned him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gina latches on to this and tries to find out as much as she can about the conversation. Merrigan is tall and slightly stooped. He’s in his fifties and has a shock of silvery white hair. He seems to understand Gina’s desperate need for information, that it’s part of the grieving process, and she, in turn, seems to understand that he is indulging her in this, and is grateful.

  One fact that comes out of their exchange is that when Merrigan made the call, Noel was having a drink somewhere with Paddy Norton, the developer.

  Gina nods along at this. ‘I see.’

  Merrigan then turns to his left and looks around the room. ‘In fact,’ he says, pointing, ‘that’s him over there, in that group. The one in the dark red tie.’

  Gina scans the room and zeroes in on the red tie.

  She takes a sip from her wine. ‘Thanks,’ she says, almost in a whisper.

  The room is full. Most peopl
e are in clusters of two or three, but standing in front of the fireplace (a huge marble affair, the fire roaring), and in a rough circle, are five men in suits. They are holding glasses of wine or whiskey, and two of them are smoking cigars. One of them is young, twenty-four or twenty-five, but the rest of them look older, mid-fifties maybe, or late fifties. The man wearing the dark red tie is holding forth about something. The others are listening.

  As she makes her way across the room towards the group, Gina recognises one of them, and then another. The young guy, tall and thickset, is the captain of the Ireland rugby team. The man on Norton’s right, standing with his back to the fire, is a cabinet minister, Larry Bolger. The other two she doesn’t recognise, but they look generic – they could be barristers, solicitors, accountants, anything, bank executives, equity-fund managers.

  She reaches the edge of the circle and stops, uncertain how to proceed. She can’t just break in here – though she could.

  Jenny’s brother passes with a bottle of wine and offers her a refill.

  She holds up her glass. ‘Thanks. How’s Jen?’

  ‘She’s OK. Well. I don’t think it’s really hit her yet.’

  ‘No, me neither.’

  ‘It’s sad, you know,’ Harry goes on. ‘She keeps looking around this place in disbelief. There are still a few boxes upstairs they haven’t unpacked yet.’

  This hits Gina hard, and she groans, ‘Oh God.’ It’s another unexpected little window into her brother’s life.

  Then, as Harry turns one way to refill someone else’s glass, Gina turns the other, and finds herself looking directly at Paddy Norton. He’s not speaking now, but is listening to one of the barristers or equity-fund managers and staring down at the carpet. After a moment, he lifts his head and looks in Gina’s direction. Their eyes meet. Gina instinctively raises her eyebrows and gestures to him, pointing to the side. Surprised, Norton immediately moves, mumbling a word of excuse to no one in particular, and exits the circle. Gina moves around it and they meet head on.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Norton,’ she says, extending a hand. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt, but my name is Gina. I’m one of Noel’s sisters.’

  ‘My dear,’ Norton says, shaking her hand vigorously, ‘my dear. Of course. Gina. How are you? I’m very sorry. You have my deepest sympathies.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How are you?’

  People keep asking her this – how are you? – as if they really want to know, but it’s just a formula.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She pauses. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Of course. It’s … it’s very hard on all of you.’

  She nods. Norton is holding a glass of whiskey. As he speaks, he looks into it and swirls the whiskey around. Up close, he is quite portly, but his tailored charcoal grey suit does a lot to disguise this. He has chubby manicured hands and beads of sweat on his upper lip. His eyes are blue and very intense.

  ‘How well did you know my brother?’

  Here she goes.

  ‘Not very well, I’m afraid. We liaised, of course, on the project.’

  ‘On Richmond Plaza?’

  ‘Yes. Which, incidentally, you know, will be a tremendous tribute to your brother when it’s finished.’

  ‘I’m sure it will, yes.’ She pauses. ‘But you didn’t know him socially.’

  ‘Not really, no.’ Norton takes a sip of whiskey from his glass.

  ‘Because, I was just wondering –’ she half turns here, vaguely indicating behind her, ‘you see, I was talking a minute ago to a Detective Superintendent … Merrigan I think it was, and he says that you had a drink with Noel on Monday night. Is that correct?’

  She doesn’t mean this to sound quite so inquisitorial. But she’s very tired and it’s weird standing here. It’s almost surreal. She’s aware of the government minister a few feet away from her, and the rugby captain, and she’s just spotted – over Norton’s shoulder – the presenter of a popular new reality TV show.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Norton says. ‘There’s social, I suppose, and social. If a quick drink after work to go over some notes qualifies as social, then yes.’

  What she really wants to ask him is the question she asked Terry Stack, only in reverse – because it seems to her, on reflection, that Stack was lying. But she has to build up to it.

  ‘I see,’ she says, ‘and what … notes were these?’

  ‘Just, you know … work-related stuff.’

  ‘Right.’ She nods. ‘When I saw Noel later he did seem fairly stressed all right.’

  ‘Stressed?’

  ‘Yes, very, in fact, I’d say. About work.’

  She keeps glancing over his shoulder. How does she phrase this without putting him off the way she put Terry Stack off?

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘What did he say?’ She looks at him now, directly. ‘Um, he …’ She goes on staring into his eyes, as she struggles to recall what Noel said, to summon up his words – even though she’s tired, even though time seems elastic … but eventually something comes to her. ‘He mentioned the situation … he said it was an unholy mess.’

  Norton nods. ‘I see.’ He continues nodding, and Gina feels compelled to nod along with him. She also feels that the wine she’s been drinking has kicked in and that she needs to be a little more focused here.

  ‘I see,’ Norton says again.

  Maybe she should start by asking him out straight if he knows who Terry Stack is. Take it from there.

  ‘Mr Norton, do –’

  ‘Look, Gina –’

  Just then the government minister appears behind Norton and slaps him on the back.

  ‘I’ve got to be pushing on, Paddy,’ Bolger says. He smiles at Gina, and then, as if remembering he’s a politician, stretches out his hand. ‘Larry Bolger,’ he says. ‘Deepest sympathies. Your brother was a fine man.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gina says, shaking his hand. ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Oh indeed, quite well. Noel beat me at poker on more than one occasion – humiliated me, you might say.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was a quite serious card player, your brother.’

  Gina wants to pursue this, but just then a tall woman in a navy suit appears and Bolger takes a couple of steps back. The woman says to Norton, ‘Sweetheart, we should be leaving, too.’ She reaches out to take the glass from his hand.

  Norton, who looks a little pale now, lets her.

  Gina sees her chance slipping away here. But Norton leans towards her and whispers, ‘We should talk about this again.’

  She can smell the whiskey on his breath.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  Someone with an empty tray is passing, and the woman in the navy suit puts Norton’s glass onto it.

  ‘Phone my office in Baggot Street,’ Norton says, handing her a business card, ‘and we can arrange to meet, or … if you could just come there?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gina says, nodding. ‘The funeral’s tomorrow, so – I don’t know – Monday?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Absolutely.’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Ten o’clock?’

  She nods again. ‘OK.’

  The woman in the navy suit, Norton’s wife presumably, tugs at his sleeve and leads him away.

  Larry Bolger moves away as well. The captain of the Ireland team and the two solicitors – or fund managers, or whatever they are – continue talking by the fire.

  Gina turns and walks back across the room to the bay window. She glances at Norton’s business card and then slips it into her pocket. What just happened there? She’s not quite sure. He seemed eager to meet – which might mean something, or it might not. At least in the privacy of an office, and when she’s not so tired, she’ll have a better chance of assessing what Norton has to say – and she’ll ask him then, out straight, if he or anyone in his organisation has links with Terry Stack.

  Once a couple of people have left, others start leaving as well, and the room quickly thins out.
<
br />   After a while, Gina gathers her strength and goes over to have a few words with Jenny.

  4

  ‘You drive.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You drive. I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Paddy. Give me the keys.’

  Norton hands Miriam the keys and goes around to the passenger side. He gets in and immediately fumbles in his jacket pocket for his silver pillbox. As Miriam is putting on her seatbelt she looks at what he’s doing and says, ‘You’re not still taking those, are you?’

  He pops two of the tablets into his mouth and turns to her. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, Paddy. On top of … what were you drinking in there, whiskey?’

  ‘Just drive, would you? Jesus.’

  Norton swallows the pills. He can still see those eyes, staring at him accusingly. He’s assuming accusingly. The thing he can’t believe is that Noel Rafferty blabbered about this to his kid sister. But how much did he tell her? How much does she know? Maybe he should have stayed and had it out with her, but he felt weak standing there, like he was going to faint. He needed to get away and was glad when Bolger and Miriam appeared.

  His mind is racing. He goes back over the conversation. First she wouldn’t look him in the eye and then she wouldn’t look away, taking ages over it, going for maximum effect – the situation … he mentioned the situation …

  Jesus Christ.

  And what was that about a detective superintendent knowing where he was on Monday night?

  This is too much.

  ‘Are you feeling ill?’

  ‘What?’

  Miriam is tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Are you feeling ill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Those pills won’t help, you know.’

  ‘Yes they will.’

  They already are.

  ‘You’re not in pain, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can they help? They’re meant to be painkillers, aren’t they?’