Winterland

by Alan Glynn

  The door leading to the toilet is open, and from the angle Mark is standing at, he’s –

  But then a sound cuts the air. It’s a mobile ring tone – the theme tune from some movie. An impatient sigh overlies it. The ring tone stops.

  ‘Yeah?’ Silence for a moment. Then, ‘There’s no sign of him, Shay. There’s a fucking car outside all right, but … I don’t know. I’ll have a squint around.’ The voice moves away. ‘Look, I have to go. Your one’ll be here any minute. Give us a bell in half an hour if you haven’t heard from me, right?’

  Footsteps again, back on concrete, receding.

  No sign of him? Your one? Here any minute?

  How does he know all of this?

  Mark pats his jacket pocket for his own mobile, to call Gina, to warn her … but shit, it’s not there. He left it on the floor over by the wooden crate.

  Fuck … what has he done?

  Mark leans back against the wall and slides down into a sitting position on the floor, next to the toilet bowl.

  Calling her in the first place was clearly a mistake because … because whoever this guy is, he must have been listening in …

  And that guy today, at the Garryowen Institute, how did he know that Mark would be there?

  They must have been following him all along; there must have been … operatives, surveillance, everything …

  The pain is almost unbearable now, and Mark can feel himself sliding even further, down into an abyss of darkness, but he fights it, pushes himself back up against the wall, off the floor, and into a standing position again.

  He can’t let this happen.

  He can’t …

  But what he can’t do either is stay here, where he is, in the warehouse, because he wouldn’t stand a chance, not if it came to …

  What he needs is to get away, to raise the alarm, he needs to …

  Up …

  He looks up. High above the toilet there is a window. It’s small, but …

  He puts the lid down on the toilet. He clambers onto it and then onto the cistern. He reaches up to the window and nudges it fully open. Cold, invigorating air streams in. Drawing on some deep reserve of energy, he pulls himself up and wriggles through the opening. When he’s more than halfway out, and facing the wall of the next warehouse along, he realises there isn’t going to be anything to grab on to for leverage and that he’s going to have to drop the six feet or so to the ground.

  Which, a second before he’s ready to do, he does.

  And as much energy as it’s taken him to get out here to this dark alleyway, it takes him as much again, if not more, to absorb the pain of the fall and not to scream …

  He rolls over on the cold, wet concrete, clutching his left arm, which he may have broken, and gags into his chest.

  After a few moments, he raises his head.

  Twenty yards in front of him, at the end of the alleyway, there is a tall coruscating monolith of orange light, and as Mark gazes at it, something flickers past … a figure.

  He recoils, slams his head back against the wall.

  Jesus, who was that?

  And how many of them are there?

  Is he going to be able to get away from here? He needs to get to that phone box out on the main road. That’s where he needs to get to, at the very least.

  If not as far as …

  He tries to move – his right arm, his legs, all of him at once – but he can’t, each option a new route back to the same place, to the same blinding core of pain.

  Very slowly, he turns his neck, directing his eyes back towards the light.

  But his head is spinning now … he’s seeing double, treble … tracers …

  Who was that?

  And then, as his head slumps forward, and he slides back helplessly into the abyss of darkness, the horrifying thought occurs to him that maybe it was Gina.

  The taxi approaches the Cherryvale roundabout, and a few minutes after that they’re approaching the industrial estate. Gina considers asking the driver to hang on, but she decides against it.

  She’s assuming Griffin has a car.

  They stop at the entrance, which is wide open and not very clearly marked. Gina pays and gets out. The taxi turns and leaves.

  She looks around. The place is desolate, cold and windswept, with everything washed in an unreal orange glow from the floodlights positioned at various points along the perimeter.

  Gina goes in, turns right and walks to the third row of buildings. At the far end she can see a wall covered in graffiti. There are two vans and a large truck parked in front of the first unit. Other than that the yard is practically empty, with only a few cars dotted around the place. One of these is parked in front of what she takes to be Unit 46.

  Walking towards it, hugging the buildings on the left, all of which are in complete darkness, she starts to feel nervous.

  What is she doing?

  High in the sky the moon is shimmering. Little scraps of cloud race by. The wind is whistling in the narrow alleyways between the warehouses. As she approaches Unit 46, she sees from a row of frosted-glass windows along the top that there are lights on inside.

  The car, a Saab, is parked directly in front of a steel shutter. Next to this is a black metal door with a bell and an intercom.

  How prepared is she?

  The truth is, not very. What’s driving her forward is this sense of responsibility she’s feeling. In addition to which, if she’s honest about it, she liked Mark Griffin when they met the other day. He was nice. He was interesting. He was good-looking. OK, unstable and possibly dangerous, too – but that’s actually not a state Gina herself feels terribly removed from right now.

  She presses the bell.

  At least ten seconds pass before she hears anything. Then there is a click and the door opens. At first she doesn’t see anyone. It’s as if the door has opened automatically, and maybe it has. She is about to call out Mark’s name when someone else appears from behind the door, holding it open.

  Her heart jumps.

  It’s a short, stocky man in his late forties.

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Are you Gina, are you?’

  The man is wearing black jeans and a zipped-up leather jacket – not unlike the one Gina herself is wearing. He has a round, plump face.

  Gina doesn’t move, or utter a word.

  ‘Because Mark asked me to wait for you,’ the man says. ‘He had to be taken off to hospital, to St Felim’s.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Gina puts a hand up to her mouth. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘Well, I hope so,’ the man says, sighing. ‘He called me in a state. I don’t live that far from here.’ He extends an arm and says, ‘Come in for a second and let me explain.’

  Gina steps forward, the word hospital still resounding in her ears, but she’s barely inside the door when it occurs to her … Mark had her mobile number, why didn’t he just get this guy to phone her, or …

  She turns.

  The man has already closed the door and is leaning back against it.

  ‘Listen,’ Gina says, holding a hand up, ‘I think I should –’

  ‘No, no, you’re grand.’ He winks at her. ‘But I need to have a word with you.’

  Gina doesn’t say anything, doesn’t react, because there’s something quite creepy about this guy. The silence between them thickens, and eventually, in a calm, controlled voice, she says, ‘Where’s Mark?’

  ‘Well, he’s not in the hospital, I can tell you that. Yet. He fucking will be though if he doesn’t watch it.’

  There is a beat, and then Gina deflates.

  She walked right into this. How could she have been so stupid? Jesus. All of her speculation, all of her doubts, her neurotic need to be circumspect, her fear that she might be deluded.

  And now this?

  She shakes her head. It’s her own fault.

  ‘Where is he?’ she repeats.

  ‘Look, don’t …’ The guy pauses, a smirk rising on his face. ‘Don’t be worr
ying that pretty head of yours, not over the likes of him.’

  Gina groans. Who is this vile little person?

  She turns and takes a couple of steps across the floor, but then an even more urgent question occurs to her – are they alone? Is there anyone else here? She doesn’t see anyone. She sees an office partition in the corner, and rows of stacked pallets on raised wooden platforms to her right. A small forklift truck. Loose stuff lying around on the floor. A wooden crate. The place is brightly lit, fluorescent units dangling on chains from the ceiling.

  No sign of anyone else, though. No sign of Mark.

  She turns back and looks at the man again, studies him. He’s doing the same, eyeing her up and down.

  He has a round face, with a florid, unhealthy complexion. His features are small and mean – his mouth hardly more than a slit, his eyes tiny and dark.

  He has the face of an overfed rat.

  Ratface.

  He is still leaning back against the door.

  Gina realises that she’s actually quite nervous now. But she’s also determined not to show it.

  ‘And who the hell are you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m … I’ve been asked to deliver a message,’ he says.

  ‘Well. Let’s hear it then, and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Not so quick, love.’ He steps forward, away from the door. ‘I mean, what’s your hurry?’

  Gina swallows.

  Maybe to deflect attention from herself, maybe because it’s the one thing she actually wants to hear, she repeats her question from earlier. ‘Is Mark OK?’

  Ratface cracks a smile. ‘Well,you know how it is with the old post-traumatic stress. It’s never easy.’

  Gina stares at him in disbelief. He was listening in on Mark’s phone? He overheard their conversation? Well, of course. Isn’t it obvious? That’s why he’s here.

  But who is he? Who is he working for?

  Isn’t that obvious, too?

  On Monday evening Mark said he approached Larry Bolger, and just a while ago he said he actually tried to attack him – so even though Gina’s own suspicions have moved on from Bolger, Mark’s clearly haven’t, and must be the source of all this unwelcome attention he’s receiving.

  But how does that explain Ratface here? There’s no way he’s … official. In any capacity. Representing a government minister?

  Look at him.

  Gina is confused.

  ‘So who are you working for?’ she asks. ‘Whose message are you supposed to be delivering?’

  ‘Supposed to be? We’ll see about that.’ He steps farther away from the door.

  ‘It’s Larry Bolger, isn’t it?’ Gina says. ‘You’re working for Larry Bolger.’

  Ratface laughs at this and says, ‘You haven’t a fuckin’ clue, love, have you?’

  He starts walking around her, slowly, in a wide arc, never taking his eyes off her.

  Gina glances over at the door but doesn’t move. Did he lock it?

  She turns back.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ he says, ‘You wouldn’t get very far.’

  She swallows again.

  She’s definitely uneasy now – OK, scared – but her need to understand what is going on seems to be even greater. Because she keeps wondering … if this guy doesn’t work for Bolger, then who does he work for?

  It’s frustrating.

  ‘OK, look,’ she says, fishing now for some hard information, ‘this message of yours. What is it?’

  Ratface grunts. ‘The message? You want the message?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I do.’

  ‘All right.’

  He puts a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and slowly withdraws something.

  Gina’s heart stops.

  It’s a gun.

  Oh fuck.

  ‘So, I was going to just give you the message,’ he says. ‘If you know what I mean.’ He waves the gun in the air between them. ‘Get it over with. But now I don’t know. I might give you something else first. Because you’re not being very nice, are you? I think you need some manners put on you.’

  Gina watches in horror as he then brings his free hand around to his crotch, applies a little pressure to it and breathes in sharply.

  ‘Right, come on,’ he says, nodding at her, almost in distaste. ‘Get some of that off you. We haven’t got all night.’

  He puts the gun back into his jacket pocket and pats it.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Gina says in a barely audible whisper, ‘you’ve got to be kidding.’

  She steps away, reeling slightly, and turns to the right.

  In front of her is the small forklift truck. Feeling weak, she bends forward, arms outstretched, and leans against it, unsure if she isn’t going to throw up. Then her eyes focus, and she sees what is lying on the forklift’s shiny, worn plastic seat.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ the man says, from behind her. ‘I like that.’ There is a slight tremor in his voice now. ‘Stay that way … in that position.’

  Gina listens hard, gauging the man’s steps as he approaches. Then she reaches down and grabs the crowbar with both hands. Summoning all her strength, she swings it up and around, keeps it moving and smashes it bang on target into the side of the man’s flushed and pudgy face.

  ‘It’s all about the optics,’ Ray Sullivan is saying. ‘It’s about perception. These days, post-Enron, post-Spitzer, whatever, you just can’t afford to dick around.’

  Norton looks at his watch. It’s too soon, he knows. But he can’t help it.

  Then he looks at his plate. He has barely touched his chicken livers. Which is another thing. Narolet never used to affect his appetite like this. But maybe it’s not the Nalprox. Maybe he wouldn’t be hungry anyway.

  ‘What was it Ike said, that phrase he used in relation to Nixon?’ Sullivan slices one of his artichoke hearts in two. ‘After the funding scandal in fifty-two? “Clean as a hound’s tooth?” Even back then, he understood. Ike was no idiot, you know.’

  Norton shakes his head. ‘Look, Ray, if we’re talking about Larry here, you’ve got it out of proportion. The media have already pretty much filed away what happened under peccadillo and consigned it to last week’s news. The story this week is how Larry has snookered the Taoiseach into supporting him one hundred per cent.’ He pauses. ‘And on the basis of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I’d say Larry is well on course for the top job, and maybe even sooner than we expected.’

  Giving this some thought, Sullivan dips and drags one of his pieces of artichoke heart in the sauce, a spoory trail, running around the plate, of Marsala and honey. ‘I like that,’ he says, the fork poised at his mouth. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

  ‘I know, I know. Who said that?’

  As Norton laughs, leaning back, he steals another glance at his watch.

  For Gina, each passing second now is elastic, a nanocentury of experience and sensory overload – the fluorescent lights above her too bright, the air around her too cold, the thumping in her ears and chest too loud, too persistent. She’s not sure she’s going to be able to cope.

  Without taking her eyes off Ratface, however, and still clutching the crowbar, she staggers backwards a few feet and manages to straighten up.

  She tries to assess what she has done. Ratface isn’t moving. He staggered a little himself as he fell and is now lying on his side, facing away from her – so she can’t see where she hit him. Holding the crowbar up, ready to strike again if necessary, she retraces a couple of her steps and takes as close a look as she can bear at the …

  At the body?

  She remains still for a moment and stares. There’s a slight movement. It’s hardly perceptible. But he’s definitely breathing.

  She pulls back.

  Fuck.

  She’s relieved and not relieved – relieved that she hasn’t killed him and not at all relieved because what does she do now?

  What if he wakes up?

  Fuck.

  She looks arou
nd. Sticking out from under one of the raised wooden platforms that the pallets are stacked on is a loose, thin strap of plastic. It’s the stuff they use for securing industrial loads. She puts down the crowbar, walks over and picks it up. She feels under the wooden platform and finds another one.

  She goes back, kneels down beside Ratface and proceeds to tie his ankles together with one of the plastic straps. It’s awkward, but she manages to get it done. Then, in order to tie his wrists behind his back with the second strap, she has to shift his weight a bit and pull his right arm out from under him.

  When she’s satisfied that he has been sufficiently restrained, she puts her hand into his jacket pocket. Very slowly, she pulls out his gun. She holds it between her index finger and thumb. It’s solid-feeling and quite heavy. She stands back up, careful to keep it at arm’s length. She goes over to the wooden crate next to the first row of stacked pallets and places the gun on top of it.

  Then, leaning back against the crate, still in shock, she wonders what to do next. Does she leave? Does she wait to see if he is all right? Does she call the police? Does she call an ambulance? What?

  As Gina considers these questions, she glances down at the floor and notices in a distracted way that she’s standing on something, a piece of paper or card. She bends down to pick it up. Her hand is shaking as she turns it over.

  It’s a photograph – old, slightly faded, and now slightly smudged as well. It’s of a little girl. She’s thin, has dark hair and is wearing a blue denim dress. She isn’t quite smiling but looks impish, as though she’s doing her best to withhold a smile, as though this is a game she’s playing.

  Puzzled, Gina casts her eye around – down at the floor, beside the crate, in behind it. She finds two more photos, one of a man, the other of a woman. She also finds a mobile phone, which she puts on the crate beside the gun. She holds the three photos up together and studies each one in turn.

  My family … I’m looking at them now …

  Gina slides the photos together and puts them down on the wooden crate. With a sinking feeling, she then reaches into her pocket and pulls out her own mobile. She calls the number for Mark Griffin, waits, and a few seconds later the phone on the crate starts ringing. She presses End and puts the phone back into her pocket.