Bloodland: A Novel (20 page)

Phil Sweeney stares at him for a moment, then exhales loudly. He turns and heads for the door, slamming it shut as he leaves.

Jimmy moves his hand from the papers on the desk to the keyboard. He straightens up. He clicks a few keys and within seconds is on the Ryanair website checking out prices and times for a flight to Verona.

*   *   *

All through the function – the annual Leinster Vintners Society lunch – Larry Bolger feels horribly queasy. He’d forgotten that he promised to attend this and when Mary reminded him of it earlier he immediately started looking for a reason to cancel. But she was having none of it. He attends very few events these days, only the occasional dinner or speaking engagement, and Mary’s feeling is that he needs to get out more – especially after what happened yesterday, and
especially
if he wants to get back in the game, as he keeps saying.

But Bolger doesn’t understand why kick-starting this get-out-more policy has to coincide with his first hangover in a decade. Or is it his second already? A thick, extended hangover it is anyway, one laced with shame, anxiety, dread, and one that, just possibly, it’s beginning to feel, might never end. He doesn’t have to speak today, which is a gargantuan mercy, but he does have to smile and chat and act like he’s on the brink of staging a military coup in order to get this benighted country
back on its feet
.

He has to shake a lot of hands, and the comments come thick and fast.

You can’t beat Bolger.

Go on, you good thing.

But he gets through it, even managing to crack the odd joke himself.

The queasiness never lifts, though – and whenever the details of this bloody mess he’s created for himself pop into his head, which is about once every ten minutes, it actually intensifies. Talking to the young journalist was bad enough, but leaving that message for James Vaughan was insane. It remains to be seen what the consequences of any of this will be, but it’s hard to imagine that they won’t be extreme.

On the return journey, alone in the back of the state car – which is provided to him for life by the Irish taxpayer – Bolger reacquaints himself with that purest form of melancholy, the brittle, unforgiving, all-pervading kind that comes with an acute hangover. As he gazes out at the passing city, his city, he sees no route forward anymore, no plausible future for himself, nothing new beyond what he’s got, which is retirement and anonymity, and a curdling sense of his own worth.

Because his last act as a political animal may well prove to be that pathetic phone call to James Vaughan. Silence and exile maybe, but certainly not cunning.

I want a job … or else …

Vaughan isn’t going to take a threat like that seriously. He isn’t even going to dignify it with a response. But it also means that Bolger has effectively disqualified himself from consideration for any future employment opportunities – proper ones, at any rate. International ones. The only kind he’s interested in.

At the hotel, things are quiet and he manages to get across the lobby and into an elevator without having to engage with any staff members or random, excitable guests. On the way up it occurs to him that his hangover might actually be far enough along now for him to be in danger of … a little bit of …

Temptation.

A little bit of recidivism.

Very sweet, and very welcome.

Because frankly, what difference would it make?

Walking along the corridor, he feels his body chemistry stirring.

It would make a difference to Mary, he supposes, but maybe Mary is just going to have to get used to it.

Anyway, she’s out at the moment.

He gets to the door of the apartment and as he’s opening it he hears the phone ringing.

Shit
.

He gets inside and grabs the cordless unit from the table.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Bolger?’

‘Speaking.’

He doesn’t recognise the voice. Not many people have this number.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Bolger, my name is Bernard Lund from Adelphi Solutions in London.’

An accent. Australian, or maybe South African.

‘Who? Adel—’

‘Adelphi Solutions. We are an affiliate of the Jordan Group.’

The name’s vaguely familiar. He glances over at the drinks cabinet. ‘OK, Mr Lund.’

‘I am calling on behalf of a private client –’

Bolger’s eyes widen. ‘Sorry, what …
private
?’

‘Yes.’

There is brief silence.

‘And?’

‘Well, we were wondering if you would you be available to present for an interview on Monday of next week? In London?’

‘An interview?’

‘Yes, Mr Bolger. I am not at liberty to be more specific over the phone, as I’m sure you will appreciate, but our client is looking to promote a suitable candidate for a high-level position in a leading international regulatory agency.’

*   *   *

Ruth groans. ‘Not
again
.’

‘I got it,’ Conway says, and rolls out of the bed.

He was wide awake in any case.

Stomach jumping, head racing.

He wanders down the corridor and into Jack’s room, the small night lamp by the cot illuminating this cyclorama of Pooh and Piglet and Tigger.

Tiny face looking up.

Wide awake, too.

And displaying something like smug satisfaction. No sign of the distress he was clearly faking half a minute earlier.

Conway reaches down and pulls him up, rests his head on his shoulder.

Molly and Danny were always good sleepers. From day one, Jack was a nightmare.

Conway brings him downstairs. He heads towards the kitchen, but stops at the door, hesitates. It’s not a bottle Jack wants, it’s company, body heat, someone else’s pulse and rhythm.

He turns back. They go into the big reception room at the front.

Over to the window.

Conway looks out at the darkness, which is tinged now with the merest hint of blue. The tall trees beyond the lawn are swaying in the wind.

He can hear Jack breathing, a tiny whistle, back to sleep already.

So.

Where was he? Larry Bolger. Don Ribcoff. Susie Monaghan.

Fuck.

Couple out walking their dog.

Fuck.

Black Vine people on Monday, and a big part of what they want to talk about, apparently, is the First Continental deal.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It’s all going round in circles.

And he can’t make it stop.

He turns, wanders over to the sofa.

The jumping in his stomach won’t stop either. Which means
he’s
not going to get any sleep. A drink would smother it, but only for a while. Then he’d have to have another. And another.

It wouldn’t work.

Besides, it’s too late. Too close to morning.

In a way, he’d prefer to have a headache, because with a headache, you can’t think straight. It drowns everything out, blurs everything. With this, it’s different. What you’re thinking
is
what you’re feeling – in an objective correlative sort of way, each stabbing sensation a specific reminder of some awful fact or memory.

He sits down in the semi-darkness, settles Jack in his arms.

Swallows.

Earlier Ruth asked, in passing, why it was so long since they’d been to Guilbaud’s.

Conway laughed at her.

Doesn’t she get it?

The house here? The stables?
This
little bastard? His inheritance? Any sense of entitlement he might be expected to feel growing up? Let
alone
one more dinner at Guilbaud’s for Mum and Dad?

It’s all gone. It’s over.

Effectively.

Not that he said that to her, or anything like it, but maybe he should have. From the perspective of 4 a.m. it seems self-evident, undeniable.

It’s not
her
perspective, though. It’s his, and is based on stuff only he knows. It’s also a perspective he resolves not to carry with him through the weekend, resolves not to impose on Ruth, on the kids. This is partly because he’s aware he’d more than likely crack under the pressure. Which wouldn’t be pleasant, or edifying, for anyone.

And partly because he
has
to believe there’s still a chance.

*   *   *

Jimmy spends Saturday morning trawling websites for references to Gianni Bonacci and builds up quite a collection of articles and quotes, none of which he understands a word of. In the afternoon he goes and knocks on the door of the students’ apartment across the hall. The engineering one answers, looking tired and not a little bleary.

‘How’s it going?’ Rubbing his eyes. ‘Jimmy, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Not bad, thanks. Er, I can’t remember your –’

‘Matt.’

‘Right. Is Finbarr around?’

The modern languages one.

‘Yeah, come on in.’

The place is in semi-darkness, windows closed, curtains drawn. The air is dense, toxic.

‘Sit down,’ Matt says, turning. ‘And, er, ’scuse the…’ He waves a hand around to indicate the entire apartment. ‘I’ll get Finbarr.’

Jimmy doesn’t sit. He looks down at a low table in front of the sofa – coffee mugs, sticky spoons, ashtrays, controllers, remotes, crushed cans, crisp packets, socks.

Last time he was in here was months ago, and it was late at night, and he was drunk.

He’s not drunk now and would very much like to leave.

‘
Ciao, bello
.’

He turns around to see Finbarr emerging from a bedroom. Sweats and a T-shirt, glasses, stubble, thick curly black hair.

Jimmy was going to ask Finbarr to translate a few things for him but now he decides against it.

Let Francesca do all the explaining.

‘Hi, Finbarr.’

‘What can I do you for at this ungodly hour?’ There’s a beat. ‘What time is it anyway?’

‘It’s three o’clock,’ Jimmy says. Another beat. ‘In the afternoon.’

A loud groan.

‘Miss something?’

Finbarr looks at him. ‘No, just … where does all the
time
go, you know?’

‘Tell me about it. Listen, I’m going to Italy on Monday morning and I was wondering if you’d keep an eye on the place for me.’

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks. Let me give you my mobile number.’

He takes a page from his notebook and writes it down.

Finbarr looks at it. ‘Where are you headed? What part?’

‘Verona. Flying to Treviso.’

‘Cool.’

‘Ever been there?’

‘Once. Day trip from Venice.’ He scratches his belly. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

They move towards the door.

‘So,’ Finbarr stifling a yawn, ‘what’s the scoop?’

Jimmy steps out into the corridor, turns around, looks at Finbarr. ‘The scoop? I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘Remains to be seen.’

*   *   *

At Mass on Sunday morning, during the homily – that Zen space between the Gospel and the Eucharist – Bolger goes over the situation one more time in his head. He thinks he’s got it figured out. James Vaughan has capitulated, but very much on his own terms. Which is typical of the man. He’s not folding outright, he’s playing a little hardball first, saying fine, you want a job that bad,
here’s
a job.

Now, it may not be what Bolger had in mind, he may even have to jump through a few hoops to get it, but – and this would seem to be Vaughan’s point – given Bolger’s behaviour of late, his recalcitrance, to put it mildly, isn’t running an international regulatory agency about as much as he can reasonably expect?

No real argument from Bolger there, and he can decipher the code, as well – do
this
right for a couple of years, behave, and who knows? Besides, it’s often performance at these quiet, under-the-radar jobs that really counts when it comes to choosing candidates for the bigger, more high-profile jobs later on.

Not to get ahead of himself or anything.

He glances around, at the congregation, up at the priest.

It still surprises Bolger that his own little bit of hardball actually paid off. It wasn’t so much a high-risk strategy, being honest about it, as sheer recklessness on his part. Still, Vaughan seems to have responded to it, and who knows, maybe even on some level respects him for it.

He’s trying to be low-key with Mary about the whole thing, to play it cool, but it’s not easy. After Mass, they’re having lunch in town with Lisa, and he won’t be able to resist telling
her
.

Of course, Bolger has no details yet, no idea of what the job will entail. Or of where they’ll be based.

Brussels, maybe, or Strasbourg.

Or London – given that that’s where the interview is taking place. In fact, he wouldn’t mind London at all, and is looking forward to his trip there tomorrow.

The priest wraps up his homily, turns from the lectern and walks back to the altar.

Bolger shuffles forward and kneels.

He isn’t superstitious, but he’s almost reluctant to admit it – this is the most excited, the most energised, he has felt in a long time.

*   *   *

Conway has been doing well all weekend, compartmentalising like fuck, spending some time with his family, and some with his legal team, but never enough with either, or with anyone else, to lose perspective. Until late on Sunday evening, that is, when the doorbell rings and he opens it to find Phil Sweeney standing there, looking – is Conway imagining it? – slightly the worse for wear.

‘Phil. This is a surprise.’

More than. It’s not like he’s ever told Phil Sweeney to drop by the house if he happened to be passing. Their relationship is a business one, conducted mainly over the phone or by e-mail. Down through the years, there have been sensitive issues, of course, and conversations that have occasionally crossed a shadowy line between the professional and the personal, but they’ve maintained their distance.

That’s not what this is.

‘Can I come in? Have a question I need to ask.’

Conway stands back, gets the tell-tale whiff from Sweeney’s breath as he passes.

They go into the main reception room. Conway automatically heads for where the booze is kept.