Bloodland: A Novel (10 page)

Rundle rubs his stomach again. He presses it at different points. There’s something going on in there, ulcers or …

Or
what
? Go on, say it.

Stomach cancer.

It’s what killed his mother. Came out of the blue, then
bam
, six weeks and she was gone.

He takes a deep breath.

But that was after six
decades
of corrosive boredom, of Pall Malls and dissatisfaction, of private education and public marriage, of being an heiress, a corporate wife, a matriarch.

A socialite and a churchgoer.

Rundle stands up.

This
isn’t boredom, though. This is coiling, knotty anxiety. It’s fear. Fear of losing control, of not measuring up, of not having measured up in the past. It’s any number of unresolved issues.

He glances around the office, wondering which is more corrosive, boredom or fear, and if it has to be a competition.

Newly redesigned, the office is all ultra-thin tempered glass and different coloured metals.

All transparency and jagged edges.

It gets on his nerves.

What he needs is an hour or two with Nora. He’ll call her later. He might even call her this afternoon. Arrange to meet her at the Wilson.

He swallows, rubs his stomach one more time.

Maybe it’s indigestion. Unresolved
dinner
.

They were all pretty tense in there last night, in the Orpheus Room – talking over each other, mapping out different scenarios, calculating the potential loss in offtake, working their BlackBerrys like a trio of hopped-up beboppers. And Orpheus food is good, but it’s not that good. It wouldn’t ever be his first choice, and certainly not for dinner.

Rundle stands up suddenly, grabs the
Times
from his desk and rushes across the office to the door in the corner that leads to his private washroom.

*   *   *

Jimmy watches as Maria stirs three sugars into her double espresso, an energy fix he imagines she’ll need to make up for the energy she’s just expended in talking to him about her sister.

He takes his own espresso without sugar. Not that he even needs the caffeine. Listening to Maria for the last hour or so has energised him in a way he hasn’t experienced for ages, and had almost forgotten could happen.

They met here at Rastelli’s just after one o’clock, found a table and got straight into it. Maria said she’d been thinking about their conversation non-stop since last night and couldn’t see that she had a choice. Once Jimmy had put the idea out there – released the genie from the bottle, so to speak – there was no going back. They
had
to do this.

And
for
Susie.

Not that Maria imagined the book would turn out to be some kind of cheesy tribute or anything, a hagiography – more an honest account of how Susie had lived her life, but with no backing away from the ugly stuff either, the behaviour, the compulsions, the stuff that had made her sister who she was. Maria said she hated the word ‘closure’, didn’t even know what it meant, but felt that after three years here might be a chance to grab a little of it, see what everyone was talking about.

Jimmy nodded along to most of this, taken aback at the shift in mood and tone. Last night Maria had been subdued, circumspect, now she was … what? Ebullient? Irrationally exuberant? Off her meds?
On
her meds? He didn’t know. Maybe she was crazy. Though she didn’t seem to be. If he didn’t know any better – and actually he didn’t – he might have thought she was drunk.

But then again, at the same time, she seemed quite … centred.

Self-possessed.

Maybe she was just sold on the idea all of a sudden.

Maybe he’d done a better job last night than he was giving himself credit for.

Plus … it was as if she …

As if –

But he didn’t really have time to think here, or editorialise. She was talking too fast, covering too much ground, giving him in broad strokes what they would have to go back over later on, but in excruciating, forensic slo-mo – Susie the wild schoolgirl, for instance, in her white blouse and plaid skirt (replete with tell-tale residues, cigarette smoke, vodka, Red Bull, bubblegum, cum), Susie on the modelling circuit, alternating between blind ambition and almost existential despair, Susie’s first line of coke, first magazine cover, first potential husband, then
that
audition for
Phoenix Road
and how her personal input into the character of Sharon O’Dwyer transformed a bit part into a pivotal one, a whiny young drug-dealer’s girlfriend into a semi-tragic gangland widow … a pretty face on TV into nothing less than a national sweetheart, all of which was followed by an increasingly desperate need to
escape
the role and take her career to what everyone around her, agents, publicists, showbiz columnists, insisted on calling, maddeningly, ‘the next level’. Which would be what? A presenting gig on TV? A part in a
movie
? She didn’t know, but on the road to this chimerical future there always seemed to be one more opening to go to, one more reality show to take part in – the last of these being the ill-fated
Celebrity Death Row
, in which Susie and seven others were to court the public vote in order to be spared a mock execution in the series finale. But accusations of bad taste and a frenzied debate over declining standards led to the show being cancelled after only two episodes, and hot on the heels of
that
came a messy break-up with corporate executive, Gary Lynch, number five in Susie’s usual-suspects line-up of potential husbands. The last few weeks of Susie’s life, therefore – and this seemed to be emerging as Maria’s central thesis – were extremely difficult ones. OK, she was out of control, taking too many drugs, smoking too many cigarettes, operating on little more than seething resentment and the energy rush that comes from a suppressed appetite – but she was also suffering at a much deeper level … she was miserably,
profoundly
unhappy and didn’t have the first clue what to do about it …

Watching Maria as she tells him all of this, Jimmy is struck by how animated she is, but also by how beautiful – and not in that overly obvious, cosmetics-model way that Susie had, it’s something more natural than that, and more vivid. In fact, it’s as if Maria has come alive, as if all along, despite appearances, each sister had been playing the other one’s role, and now in the quickening light of an outsider’s attention these roles were reversing, reverting.

Susie no longer alive.

Maria no longer dead.

As he drains his espresso, Jimmy is acutely aware of how twisted and fucked-up it is of him to be thinking like this, how unprofessional – but that’s what can happen when you leave the second-hand stuff on your desk and engage directly with a source, the game sometimes changes.

You lose your bearings.

Maria drains her espresso now, too. Looking around her in silence, she seems a little dazed from all the talking.

Jimmy studies her face – the devouring eyes, the pale skin, the freckles around her nose.

Then she starts up again. ‘So. Told you I was a talker. It feels good, though, and I suppose it means I trust you, Jimmy. Or that I’ve decided to trust you. Or something.’

He smiles. ‘That’s great, Maria, because as far as I’m concerned the more you talk the better it’ll be. But more talk will also mean more work.’ He gives a little back-and-forth flick to his hand. ‘More meetings like this one. Because up to now I’ve been focusing on the last chapter.’ He pauses. ‘The idea was to kind of … to try and get that out of the way first, and then –’

‘I understand,’ Maria says. ‘But don’t…’ She hesitates. ‘Look, in a weird way the crash
should
be the focus of the story. It’s what it builds up to. And it’s almost like the perfect metaphor. I mean, we’ll never know exactly what happened, but everything in Susie’s life seemed to be … inclining towards that moment.’

Jimmy swallows, then nods in agreement.

He wants to remind her that the metaphor mightn’t quite work for the other victims, but he holds back. It’s a tricky enough point – and maybe on one level Phil Sweeney is right – but they’ll find a way around it.

He’ll
find a way around it. It’s his job.

Maria picks up her phone and looks at it. ‘I have to get back to work.’

‘Sure.’

Outside on Dawson Street they chat for a bit and seem reluctant to separate. At least that’s how it feels to Jimmy. After they do say their goodbyes, and Jimmy is heading along Duke Street – in something, it has to be said, of a dreamy haze – his phone rings.

He pulls it out and looks at the display.

Shit
.

He hesitates, but then answers it. ‘Hi, Phil.’

‘Jimmy, how are you doing? Look, I’ve been feeling bad since yesterday. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that, I really didn’t, it was a terrible thing to do, and I’m sorry.’ Jimmy slows down, doesn’t say anything, waits. ‘So I thought of you today when something else came up, a job you might be interested in.’

‘I’m already working on a job, Phil.’

‘There are jobs, Jimmy, and there are jobs. This is a fucking
job
.’

‘But –’

‘Just listen to me for a minute, will you? The Susie Monaghan book, dress it up whatever way you like, it’s only fluff, it’ll cause a blip in the Christmas market if you’re lucky and then that’s it, no one’ll ever hear of it again. But what I’ve got –’

‘Jesus, Phil –’

‘No wait, and don’t hang up on me, Jimmy, please. What
I’ve
got – and this only came up today, I swear to you – is a substantial piece of work. It’s something your old man would have
loved
.’

Jimmy stops.

‘It’s political. A political memoir. You’d get to shape something that’ll be read and mulled over and put in reference libraries.’ He lets that hang for a second, then goes on. ‘Larry Bolger, yeah? He’s supposed to be putting his memoirs together, but the man can’t write to save his life, he needs help, someone who can organise his notes, interview him, someone who can turn a decent phrase … a fucking
writer
.’

Jimmy stands there, outside the Bailey, with the phone up to his ear.

He doesn’t speak.

Sweeney goes on. ‘You get access to his private papers, details of his meetings with Bush, Putin, the
Pope
, everyone, plus all the domestic stuff, the heaves and backroom intrigues, all that shit you love.’ Another pause. ‘Plus.
Plus
. It hasn’t been worked out yet, hasn’t been finalised, but what might actually turn out to be the most substantial part in all of this is the fee. Larry’s got a big contract, so you’d do pretty well out of it. Might even get to pay off that mortgage of yours…’

He leaves it there.

Jimmy’s insides turn. He stares down at the pavement. People pass in both directions, but no one gives him a second glance. Nothing odd in that, not anymore – man standing alone in the street, hand up at the side of his head, staring into space.

‘Jimmy? You interested? There’s a clock running on this. He’s already missed one deadline.’

Still nothing.

‘Jimmy?
Jimmy?
You there?’

After a long pause, Jimmy exhales loudly.

‘Yeah, Phil,’ he says, ‘take it easy.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I’m here.’

3

B
OLGER’S MOUTH FEELS LIKE THE BOTTOM OF A BIRDCAGE
. He’s slumped in the armchair and suspects he has been asleep, though he can’t be sure. There weren’t any dreams, which for him would be weird, because his brain usually manages to concoct
some
twisted combination of … of …

Of what? He can’t even think of an example. His brain won’t oblige.

He looks around.

Oh
fuck
.

What time is it?

The plan was to clean up and
then
go for a nap. There are at least two empty glasses he can see from here, one on the dining table and the other on the arm of the sofa. The drinks cabinet looks like a bomb site. He can also smell cigarette smoke. There was an old packet of Silk Cut he found in a bag in the wardrobe. It must have been there for, what, six, seven years?

He takes a deep breath.

What time is it?

Mary will be home soon.

Then he hears a sound from the kitchen, a clattering of implements, and realises that Mary is already home, and that he
was
asleep. He looks over at the door.

‘Mary,’ he says, in a loud voice, louder than he intended, ‘what time is it?’

There is silence.

After a moment she appears in the doorway. Bolger can’t be sure from this distance, but her eyes look a bit red.

Oh Jesus.

It’s then, too, that he remembers leaving a message on James Vaughan’s answering machine or voicemail or whatever the fuck it was.

He groans. Feels a hot flush of shame and humiliation. Why did he do this? What on earth drove him to it, what could possib—

Oh yeah.

Of course.

He remembers now.

Couple out walking their dog. Body in the woods. Paranoia, anxiety … traceability, rogue pig farmers …

Pig farmers?

What is he,
still
drunk?

Mary steps forward from the doorway. ‘Larry, I don’t … I –’

‘
WHAT FUCKING TIME IS IT, WOMAN?
’ he roars.

In that same moment he sees what time it is on the display of the digital decoder box. Then, as he watches Mary cower in shock and retreat into the kitchen, he remembers something else: what a mean fucking drunk he was.

Is.

The thought lingers for a moment, becomes unstuck and dissolves. Some time passes, a minute, maybe two. During this brief period his mind remains blank. Then he struggles up out of the armchair, feeling twenty years older than he did when he got out of bed that morning. His head is splitting. The room shifts slightly, its relationship to gravity and fixed points seeming like a loose enough arrangement.

He walks over to the dining table and leans on it with both hands. Next to the empty glass there is a saucer. In it is a dirty pile of cigarette ash and four stubbed-out butts.