by Alan Glynn
Rundle nods. There’s nothing new in this, nothing different from what Don Ribcoff was able to tell him last night, but still, he’s relieved to have it confirmed first-hand.
‘You’re in the American Hospital?’
‘Yeah.’
OK.
So, next stage.
‘Tell me, Herb, have you thought about how to handle this?’
‘Er . . . I’ve thought about it, sure, Mr Rundle, but I’m at something of a disadvantage here.’ He pauses. ‘In that I’m not exactly in possession of all the facts. The Senator goes AWOL for a couple of days and then turns up with a serious injury? No real explanation? I’ve been dealt better hands in my time.’
Rundle clicks his tongue.
‘Right.’ He turns around and leans back against the marble counter. ‘What have the doctors said? Is he going to need a plaster cast? A brace of some kind? How’s it going to look?’
Herb Felder sighs, probably frustrated at not having his concerns addressed. When he replies his tone is more clipped than before. ‘He’ll have a brace. There won’t be any way of hiding it.’
Now Rundle sighs.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Here’s what we do. I’m going to talk to Don Ribcoff. He’s got people on the ground over there –’
‘But I thought Gideon –’
‘PR people, it’s an affiliate company. They do strategic communications. The Jordan Group.’
‘Oh.’
Oh? Rundle makes a face. What the fuck? The guy’s feelings are hurt? ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it’s better if they take care of this. Better if you stay out of it, in fact.’
‘Why?’
‘In case it comes back and bites you in the ass, that’s why. The Jordan people will feed something into the news cycle and you just run with it. The less you know about how it got there the better.’
‘Mr Rundle, with respect, I know how this works.’
Rundle rolls his eyes. ‘Well then, I shouldn’t have to tell you how important maintaining distance and deniability is, should I?’
He pictures Herb Felder rolling his eyes.
‘No, Mr Rundle, I suppose not.’
Herb’s a smart guy and will probably go all the way with J.J., but he’s a wonk, his strong suit is policy, explaining it, packaging it.
This is a little different.
Some of the other aides around J.J. – the campaign veterans, the oppo men – would be more up to speed, more au fait with the techniques here, with the philosophy, but Herb’s the one he got through to.
‘So when the Senator wakes up, Herb, tell him we spoke, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And tell him to call me.’
Rundle closes the phone and puts it back on the counter. He looks around.
What does he do now?
He can either put on some coffee and work for a bit – send a few e-mails, read the online editions of the morning papers – or he can go back to bed and just lie there tormenting himself with different shit until it’s time to get up.
He looks at the display on the cooker.
5:01.
He knows what the old man would do. Or, at any rate, would have done. Taken advantage of the situation. Maximised it.
Rundle reaches up to an overhead shelf and takes down the coffee grinder.
Though no doubt old Henry C. would have been up at five in any case, so it’s a moot point.
He puts beans in the grinder and switches it on.
But to be fair – he thinks, holding the grinder down – fair to himself . . . hasn’t he always maximised his opportunities? Hasn’t he transformed BRX Mining & Engineering out of all recognition, way beyond anything the old man, if he were alive today, would even comprehend?
Yeah, yeah.
He releases the grinder. Its whirr slows gradually, then stops.
So does that mean he can go back to bed?
He actually considers it for a moment.
But what would be the point? It’d only lead to more dreams. More Irishmen and Chinamen.
Forget it.
He looks around for the coffee filters.
*
From the moment he wakes up Jimmy Gilroy is aware that things are different, that there’s been a fundamental shift – tectonic plates, paradigm, take your pick. Yesterday he was working his way in isolation through a mountain of research material. This morning – bloodied, in full view – he’s caught in the barbed wire of human contact.
He gets up and goes over to the bathroom. He didn’t sleep well and he’s tired. He looks in the mirror, holds his own gaze for a moment, sees the old man, then looks away. Everyone says it, and it’s true . . . after a certain age you’re never alone in front of a mirror.
Sitting on the toilet, he wonders what Phil Sweeney is up to. Is he really representing the family of one of the other victims? It’s not implausible and is certainly the sort of thing he might do for a client – though it could just as easily be a strategic move, a ruse.
But if so, what’s behind it?
He gets in the shower.
Then there’s Maria. If she decides to talk to him, to trust him, what will she say? And how much of what she does say will she allow him to put in the book?
After his shower Jimmy gets dressed, puts on coffee, checks his e-mails.
Distracted throughout.
Sweeney pulling him one way, Maria the other.
Then he logs on to the Bank of Ireland website and checks his current account. He knows what he’s going to find here, but seeing it on the screen, the column of figures, is always a shock – and that’s just what he needs. Because whatever arguments there might be for not doing the book, there’s no arguing with this – no arguing with the fact that he has spent half of the advance and would have to return all of it if he abandoned the project.
And then have none of it.
He looks away from the screen, over at the window.
But Phil Sweeney buying out the advance is unthinkable, too. He’d rather pack it in, and starve. It’s a matter of . . . principle maybe, of self-respect – but also, to be honest, of what the old man might think
If he were still here.
Jimmy leans back in the chair.
Phil Sweeney and Dec Gilroy were partners for a time, co-founders of Marino Communications, and good friends, but as basic types they were very different. The old man was a political junkie. He grew up on the Arms Trial and Watergate, on GUBU and Iran-Contra. He was interested in what made public figures tick, psychologically, which meant that the move from clinical work into PR and media training shouldn’t have been that much of a stretch for him. You would think. But it turned out that he was markedly better at analysis than he was at manipulation, and it wasn’t long before the new job started wearing him down.
Phil Sweeney, on the other hand, was a natural and in many ways a more skilled politician than a lot of the people they were dealing with. He’d studied in the US and worked there for years before coming back to set up Marino. The organisational brains behind the outfit, he was also the one with big plans, and this led to a certain amount of friction. In fact, by the time Jimmy’s old man got sick and had to start withdrawing from the business, the process of expanding it beyond all recognition had already begun.
Which maybe explains why Dec Gilroy was so happy when his teenage son first expressed an interest in journalism. He felt that here was a possible route back, a second chance almost. As a result, he pulled down his battered, dog-eared Penguins and Picadors and turned Jimmy on to Mencken, Woodstein, Hunter S. Thompson, Seymour Hersh, Jonathan Schell, others. More than just a crash course in journalism, however, in styles and approaches, this was a declaration of values, a sort of retro-active mission statement.
It’s something that Jimmy has never forgotten, and hopes he never will.
He gets up now, walks over to the window and gazes out. The bay is shrouded in mist.
But that’s not the only reason he won’t be taking Phil Sweeney
up on his offer. There’s a second dynamic at work here, and it has to do with Maria.
The thing is, now that they’ve met, and talked, it’s not so much that the story has gone from uncomplicated black and white to ambivalent grey, it has gone from dreary monochrome to full-on colour, from one dimension to three, from glossy pixels to flesh and blood. Maria’s perspective in the mix, her intimate knowledge of Susie, always had the potential to take the project from a showbiz cut-and-paste job to something a bit more substantial – that’s why he wanted to meet her in the first place.
But this is something else.
The fact is he liked her. He enjoyed her company. And now he’s excited at the prospect of seeing her again. The only problem is, last night at the top of Grafton Street they sort of semi-agreed that next time she should be the one to make contact.
If, and when – that is – she felt ready.
Jimmy turns around.
But that mightn’t be for days, weeks even.
He looks over at the research material laid out on his desk, at the folders, notes, printouts – all of it generated from secondary sources, all of it useful . . . but all of it fairly limited. So his impulse is to pick up the phone right now and call her.
He could rationalise this in six different ways.
But it’d still be ridiculous.
She only agreed to meet him last night because he’d been so persistent. If he pushes it now, she mightn’t ever talk to him again.
He leans back against the window and surveys the room. The bookshelves to the left contain those Penguins and Picadors he inherited, along with hundreds more, and hundreds of his own. To the right is his cluttered workspace, desk, computer, printer, and then a music system of stacked stereo separates – another legacy of the old man’s and about as anachronistic-looking as a Bakelite telephone. Two leather sofas in the middle, and a coffee table. Kitchen at the back. Kitchenette. Adjoining bedroom and tiny bathroom.
Fourth floor. Small seafront apartment building.
Thirty-two years to go on the mortgage.
For that money he could have got a slightly bigger place somewhere else, but as far as Jimmy was concerned the living space wasn’t what mattered. His apartment could just as easily have been a tent, or a nice arrangement of cardboard boxes. What mattered was the view, the ability at any time of the day or night to look out of his window and behold – to open his window and breathe in – the sea.
To be beside the.
Jimmy then finds himself wondering where Maria lives, and if she is involved with anyone. Or married even. He didn’t notice if she was wearing a ring.
He slides down and sits on the windowsill.
At which point his phone rings.
He hesitates for a second, then gets up and goes over to the desk. He can see who it is before his hand has even reached the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Jimmy, hi, it’s Maria.’
‘Hi. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. But listen.’ He’s listening. ‘You’ve started me thinking about this, and now I can’t stop. But I need to do more than think about it, I need to talk about it.’
‘OK.’
‘So can we meet again?’ She pauses. ‘Today?’
‘Yeah.’
Yeah.
‘How about for lunch?’
‘Sure.’ Leaning his free hand on the desk, he turns and slowly lowers himself into the chair. ‘Where did you have in mind?’
*
He acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He takes the bottle of Jameson’s from the cabinet and places it on the fold-out shelf. He takes a glass – Waterford cut crystal, one of a set, a gift from Paddy Norton – and drops four ice cubes into it. Then, as he opens the bottle, whiskey fumes hit his nostrils – molecules of it rising to his brain, like tracker scouts, seeking out receptive lobes and cortices. He tilts the bottle and pours, watching mesmerised as the golden liquid cascades over the ice cubes, one of which cracks loudly and splits. When the glass is nearly full he puts the bottle down and screws the cap back on, an act which feels measured, grown-up.
He looks over his shoulder.
He’s alone here, but you never know. Mary’s in town and the girls are off doing whatever they’re doing. They don’t even live here anymore, but they both have keys.
He doesn’t want to be disturbed.
He takes the glass in his hand, ice cubes clinking.
Tinkling.
Oh Jesus, like music.
But has he overdone it? It’s a greedy-looking affair, practically full to the brim. He’d never serve a drink like this. On top of which it’s not even lunchtime. It’s not even mid-morning. But does that matter? The time of day it is? If it was half past seven in the evening and he was in a tuxedo holding a Manhattan in his hand he’d still be a fucking alcoholic.
Still be a degenerate lowlife.
Still be –
Oh just shut up and drink the bloody thing.
He raises the glass to his lips and slurps.
Slurps whiskey.
The taste of it, the feel of it going down.
Oh.
My.
God.
He holds the glass in front of him, stares at it in disbelief. Raises it to his lips again. Takes a couple of genteel sips. Just for confirmation.
Then another slurp.
Puts the glass down. Turns around.
Stands, waits.
Already he can feel it, that burning sensation in his stomach, that hesitant acceleration in his brain chemistry, like a fluorescent tube-light clicking and stuttering into life. Already he can feel those familiar cravings, sudden and impatient . . .
For a cigarette, for company . . . for another sip . . .
He turns around and takes one.
Then goes over and switches on the radio. He picks up the remote and switches on the TV as well, tunes it to Sky. He presses the mute button and drops the remote onto the sofa.
He goes back to the corner and retrieves his drink.
He stands there, taking sips, looking into the glass, swirling its contents around.
The last time he did this was nearly ten years ago. He was a cabinet minister trying to stay on top of a very difficult portfolio. But he was gambling at the same time – and obsessively, any chance he could get, the races, card games, whether this or that bill would pass and by how many votes, whatever. Plus, to crown it all, he was having an affair with his bookie’s wife, Avril Byrne. It was the only time he ever cheated on Mary, but it was enough to last him a lifetime. Big and messy, it was all hotel corridors, hidden credit card bills, misplaced packets of condoms, blinding headaches, rows, shouting, lies, more lies and fucking endless rivers of booze. He doesn’t know how he survived it. A few of the lads – including Paddy Norton – took him aside one day and told him he was becoming a liability. They said that if he wanted his shot at the leadership – which had always been on the cards, sort of – then he’d have to get his shit together in pretty quick order.
And weirdly enough that’s just what he did. He stopped. From one day to the next.
The gambling was little more than a question of impulse control, which he’d let slip, so apart from a huge pile of unpaid debts there was no problem there. Avril was easy, too – he never liked her that much anyway, and besides, she seemed more relieved than he was.
No, it was the other part that was really hard, the not drinking part. That part took forever. The shakes, the sweats, the vivid dreams, my sweet Jesus. But it worked out in the end. He lost weight, got in shape, had the laser surgery on his eyes, smartened up.
Moved up.
Ironically, a few years later, it was the affair and the gambling that nearly scuppered his leadership chances. Some prick at party HQ loyal to the Taoiseach resurrected the whole thing and leaked it to the press in some sort of preemptive strike. But he weathered that one as well and took power soon afterwards.
In fact, the closest he came to taking a dr
ink during all of that time was when Mark Griffin showed up, and when Paddy Norton –
Bolger clicks his tongue.
Fuck it.
He’s not going there.
He takes another sip, and then two more.
The weather girl is on Sky – though not the one he fancies. There’s some choral thing on the radio.
He looks into his glass.
He’s fallen off the wagon now. It’s official. He can release a statement to the media. Ex-Taoiseach succumbs to demons, has a little drinkie, feels he deserves it . . .
But then, in the next moment –
Couple out walking their dog.
To which he says, fuck it, he’s not going there either.
He turns around and replenishes his drink.
But what does he do now? Trapped in the apartment like this, a caged beast, the clock ticking until Mary gets back.
He looks at his watch.
There’s plenty of time, though – hours in fact. He’ll be able to sleep it off, drink some coffee, say he’s feeling under the weather, say he even detects a cold coming on . . .
He grunts. Sniffs.
Jesus, what is he, twelve?
He takes another long slurp from the glass and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.
Then he walks across the room, glass in hand, not sure where he’s going exactly. He almost loses his footing at one point, but somehow ends up in the study.
Standing over his desk.
He picks up a wad of pages, photocopies from a folder, and looks at them for a while.
What? Is he kidding? In these memoirs the publishers aren’t going to want him re-hashing some select committee report on quarterly budget estimates – if that’s what this is, he can’t quite focus on it properly – they’re going to want juicy anecdotes, an interesting angle on events, they’re going to want a book people can read.
He sits down and puts his drink on the desk.
What he should do is lay everything out straight, shoot from the hip, no pussyfooting around or lilding the gilly. Gilding the lily. He should write a warts-and-all account of what it’s like to hold down the top job – the in-fighting, the petty rivalries, the smoke-filled back rooms, all of that stuff, of which there was plenty, though without the smoke of course, because no one does that anymore.