Bloodland: A Novel (15 page)

He and Kimbela sat down together for over an hour.

He has to remember
something
.

Rundle shifts in his chair. ‘Don,’ he says, ‘what time does the flight get in from Paris?’

Ribcoff looks up from his papers and then checks his watch.

‘Around midday. Twelve fifteen, I think.’

‘Don’t let him out of your sight. I want a piece of him before he starts talking to CNN and Fox.’

Ribcoff nods. He shuffles his papers together and stands up. ‘I’ll keep you posted, Clark.’

Rundle watches as Ribcoff crosses the office and leaves. Then he swivels his chair around and sits for a while staring out of the window.

*   *   *

It’s late in the afternoon before Jimmy starts to slow down. He remembers at one point that he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast and goes over to the kitchen to make a sandwich. As he is drizzling olive oil over mozzarella, he runs a reconstruction of the morning’s events through his head.

This is maybe the hundredth time he has done this.

There are variations, but each time it’s essentially the same.

He arrived at the hotel as arranged and met Larry Bolger. They started talking. It quickly became apparent that Bolger was drunk. Bolger then dropped this incredible bombshell.

And after that, it was pretty much downhill.

Jimmy tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but it didn’t really work. Bolger knew he’d said something he shouldn’t have, and though he seemed to be a little confused about what that was exactly, it didn’t take him long to turn the tables and start accusing Jimmy of having tricked him.

Jimmy said he hadn’t tricked anyone, that they were just talking.

Bolger grunted and sidled over towards the corner of the room.

Jimmy did his best to get the conversation back on track, thinking that maybe in a while he could broach the subject again, but within minutes Bolger was pointing at the door and shouting at him, ‘Get out, you bowsie.’

Jimmy left without protest.

On the way down in the elevator he was too stunned to think of writing anything in his notebook. But then outside, walking along Merrion Road, his heart pounding, something would come to him that he didn’t want to forget – a name or a phrase Bolger had used – and he’d stop to jot it down.

When he got back to the apartment he took his notebook out and got straight to work. Names: Clark Rundle, Don Ribcoff.
Who were these people?
Phrases: collateral damage; a nice piece of misdirection; not the only one.
Could these really mean what he thought they meant?

He’s been hard at it ever since, rearranging all the material on his desk, but factoring Susie out this time, trying to reconfigure the narrative, to find a new pattern, an alternative meaning.

Because …

He takes his sandwich and a bottle of water back across the room.

Because Bolger implied – fuck it, he more or less
said
– that the helicopter crash three years ago hadn’t been an accident. Bolger was drunk, at least as far as Jimmy could tell, and the conversation was off the record, fine, so he can’t
prove
Bolger said it.

But –

The thing is, if it somehow turns out to be true, then it won’t matter that Bolger said it. It won’t matter who said it. Who
said
it won’t be the story.

If
it’s true.

But how does he prove that?

Jimmy eats the sandwich, barely aware of its taste or texture. He chews, swallows, takes occasional sips of water, at the same time casting his eye over various open notebooks, printouts, the computer screen.

His phone.

From which, to his surprise, there hasn’t been a peep all afternoon. There
will
be, though. He knows that. Because it’s inconceivable that Phil Sweeney hasn’t already been alerted and fully briefed. Inconceivable that there won’t be significant fallout from this.

He finishes the sandwich, brings the plate back over to the kitchen and puts on some coffee. As he’s waiting for the water to heat up, he stares at the wall.

And if it
is
true, of course,
he’ll
have to alert and fully brief Maria.

Which he’d be more than happy to do.

But then he thinks … this is insane,
he’s
insane. Larry Bolger was drunk and barely coherent. Why would anyone think for a second that a claim like the one he made even
might
be true?
In vino veritas
, sure, but also a lot of the time in vino bullshit. In vino paranoia and delusion. Because if the claim is true, if the crash wasn’t an accident, then what was it? Some sort of a conspiracy? Involving who? These names that were mentioned? And why? Something to do with one of the other passengers?

Suddenly, it all seems a bit far-fetched.

As he makes the coffee, Jimmy considers the possibility that what has happened here is pretty simple:
he
has just blown a good job prospect.

Maybe Larry Bolger likes to tie one on in the mornings and tell stories. So fucking what? Winston Churchill used to have champagne for breakfast. And anyway, wouldn’t that have made the job – and the book – infinitely more interesting?

Or maybe it’s just that Bolger was testing him, seeing how he’d react.

Like an idiot, as it turns out.

He brings his coffee back over to the desk.

On the screen he has pulled up an article from the most recent online edition of
Vanity Fair
. It’s about one of the people Bolger mentioned, Clark Rundle, CEO of something-or-other, and his brother, a US senator.

Jimmy starts reading, but gives up after a few paragraphs.

Some bloke out of
Vanity Fair
?

Fuck off.

He’s tired now, and cranky, this sense creeping up on him that he’s been mugged somehow – by circumstance, by coincidence, by his own stupidity.

He takes a sip of coffee.

His phone rings.

He shakes his head, and picks it up.

*   *   *

By the time he gets to the hotel, Dave Conway is exhausted. He has spent most of the afternoon with Martin Boyle discussing how best to make his pitch to the Black Vine people on Monday and although his concentration mightn’t have been great to start with, the call from Larry Bolger threw him off completely. Dave’s not even sure he fully understood what Bolger was on about – something to do with the young journalist. But the easiest way to get him off the phone was to promise he’d call around and see him later on. Conway then tried Phil Sweeney, but Phil was in a meeting, so he had to leave a message – a message that he found was becoming, in the course of leaving it, increasingly urgent.

On his way up in the elevator now he takes out his mobile and switches it to vibrate.

When Mary Bolger opens the door of the apartment, Conway immediately sees the distress in her face. She doesn’t say anything, just leads him in and points across the room at Bolger, who is slumped in an armchair.

Then she disappears into the kitchen.

No greeting. No peck on the cheek. No offer of tea or a drink. All the usual formalities dispensed with.

Bolger looks over at him and nods, distress equally evident in
his
face.

Conway approaches. He stops at the dining table and pulls out a chair. He turns it around and sits in it. Yesterday, down in the Avondale Lounge, it had seemed as if Bolger was looking for trouble. Today it seems – Conway can’t help thinking – as if he might have found it.

There is silence for a while.

Then Conway says, ‘Right. What is it, Larry? Come on.’

Bolger groans.

Conway doesn’t think he is going to have much patience for this. After all, he’s the one who came up with the idea in the first place, kill two birds with one stone sort of thing, and now Bolger is the one, it appears, who has gone and fucked it up.

‘
So?
’ he says, an edge entering his voice.

Bolger sighs and runs a hand over his stubble. He has always been one of those men who needs to shave in the afternoon. But not today, apparently. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I’ve done something stupid.’

‘O-kay,’ Conway says, and nods, feeling like a priest in the confessional. Then he sees that not only has Bolger not shaved, his eyes look bleary, and his face is a little puffy.

‘Larry,’ he says, ‘have you been
drinking
?’

‘Yes.’

Conway closes his eyes. He didn’t know Bolger in his drinking days, but he’s heard the stories. And he knows how all of this works. He opens his eyes again.

‘Meeting was that bad, yeah?’

Bolger grunts, then says, ‘This was before he arrived.’

‘What?’

‘I was well on when he got here.’

Oh Jesus
.

‘And this stupid thing you did, I assume it wasn’t just
having
the drink…’

Bolger shakes his head.

‘… it was something you said?’

‘Yeah.’

Whatever Bolger may have said to this journalist, and even if he didn’t say anything at all, the mere fact that he had drink on him, and so early in the day, would be enough of a story in itself – a bullshit
tabloid
story, but a story nonetheless – to do him irreparable damage.

Conway shrugs. ‘So, what did you say to him?’

Bolger exhales, though it’s more of a shudder. ‘I don’t fucking know, Dave. I don’t remember exactly. We were talking about other stuff he’s done and he said he’d been working on a book, a biography –’

Dave’s heart sinks.

‘– of Susie Monaghan, and –’

‘Larry, don’t tell me you –’

‘I didn’t go into any detail, none at all, but I may have … I may have intimated that –’

‘
What?
’

‘– that … things weren’t what they seemed.’

‘Why?’

‘
Why?
Because we were talking and because
I was fucking drunk
, that’s why.’

‘
Jesus
, Larry.’

Bolger leans forward, animated all of a sudden. ‘And do you want to know why I was drunk? Do you? Because I’m tired of all this bullshit is why. I’m tired of sitting around in this fucking hotel, I’m tired of watching TV and pretending I’m writing my memoirs, I’m tired of all the remarks and sly comments I have to read every day in the papers, Larry Bolger this, Larry Bolger that, what now for Larry fucking Bolger? I’m tired of being treated as a joke. I’m tired of arrogant pricks like James Vaughan not returning my calls, I’m –’

Conway holds up a hand. ‘
What?
’

Bolger looks at him. ‘James Vaughan? That bastard
owes
me. He did me out of that IMF job and now he won’t talk to me, won’t return my calls.’ He stops here, as something seems to occur to him. ‘But he
will
return my calls, and you know why? Because this Jimmy Gilroy prick has nothing, nada, he can’t prove a bloody thing. But
I
can. And if Vaughan doesn’t start showing a little respect, maybe exert a bit of that legendary influence he’s supposed to have, then I might just be forced to –’

‘Jesus
Christ
, Larry.’ Conway gets up from his chair. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea what you’re
saying
?’

Bolger leans back in the armchair. ‘You know what, Dave? A little bit of respect from
you
mightn’t go amiss either.’

‘What? Is that a threat? Were you smoking crack as well?’

‘Watch it.’

Conway throws his arms up. This is unbelievable. The irrationality of it is breathtaking. ‘Larry,’ he says, a slightly more pleading tone to his voice than he’d like, ‘yesterday you were worried about some small item in the paper, worried that someone might start asking questions, and today you’re ready to, what,
blackmail
James Vaughan? And if that doesn’t work, what? Is there a plan here? Go on fucking
Liveline
? You have to see how insane this is.’

‘I don’t bel—’

‘You have to see that not only would James Vaughan not allow it,
I
wouldn’t allow it, I
couldn’t
. I’m in enough trouble as it is, you drag me into this shit, and I’d be destroyed.’

Bolger looks at him and shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing here.
Allow?
You couldn’t
allow
it? You see … you see, this is what I’m talking about, and frankly I’ve had enough. I’m not putting up with any more of it.’ He bangs his fist on the side of the armchair. ‘I was the fucking Taoiseach for Christ’s sake.’

Conway turns around and runs a hand over his hair.

He takes a deep breath.

This is a nightmare.

He wants to just walk out of here, but he can’t. He has to talk Bolger down, has to bring him back from the precipice.

Plus, he has to find out what Jimmy Gilroy knows.

‘OK,’ he says, turning around again, ‘OK,’ and then adds, in an attempt to defuse the tension, ‘Larry, any chance I could get a cup of coffee or something?’

*   *   *

Jimmy sees from the caller ID that it’s Phil Sweeney. For a second or two he toys with the idea of letting it go into message. But that would just drag things out. He’d have to call him back at
some
point.

He answers it.

‘Phil?’

‘Jimmy. What’s going on?’

‘Er … what do you mean?’

‘I mean what’s going on? I heard something happened. I got a message. But I’ve been in meetings all day.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No. It’s something to do with Larry, isn’t it?
Tell
me.’

Jimmy hesitates, but then decides to get straight into it. What’s the point in being coy, he thinks, or in dissembling? He’ll just tell it straight, describe what happened, because Sweeney is probably going to ridicule him anyway. Then, in hearing himself tell the story, Jimmy realises afresh – with each passing word, with each new detail – just how ridiculous it actually is.

How ridiculous
he
is.

And how he’ll fully deserve to be ridiculed.