Winterland

by Alan Glynn

  Sitting at a long table, huddled over colouring books, are two small … replicas of Claire. They look up. One smiles, the other doesn’t. Claire herself is standing behind them, leaning back against a counter. Standing next to Claire is yet another replica – though this one’s hair is grey rather than red.

  ‘Hi,’ Gina says, waving at everyone. ‘Claire?’

  As Gina retreats into the hallway, she notices the older girl eyeing her suspiciously, and then hears her whispering, ‘That’s my daddy’s computer,’ and the grandmother saying, ‘Ssshh, pet, it’s OK.’

  When Claire appears, Gina gets straight into it – both of them standing there in the hallway. She holds up the laptop. ‘Lots of technical stuff, like you said. Papers, drafts of papers, articles. Going way back. But the thing is, I checked out the activity logs and he … he didn’t throw much stuff out, did he? Tended to hang on to –’

  ‘To everything, emails, letters, magazines, total magpie. You saw the floor there in the study.’

  ‘Yeah, so, the day after Noel died … Dermot seems to have deleted some stuff.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Well, a couple of files anyway. And some emails. Maybe it’s nothing, but … the timing is strange.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gina hesitates, and then says, ‘Claire, if you let me take this away, I can probably retrieve the stuff he deleted.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She won’t actually be able to do it herself. She’ll have to get one of the guys in the back room to do it. But that isn’t anything Claire needs to know.

  ‘It’s what the company I work for does,’ she goes on. ‘And it’s actually pretty straightforward. We have software back at the office, applications that can –’

  ‘OK. Take it.’

  Gina looks at her. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. If there’s something there … well.’ Her eyes are glistening. ‘We need to find it, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes. We do.’

  Up close like this, Gina can see that Claire is barely keeping it together. She reaches over, places a hand on her arm and gives it a gentle squeeze.

  On the DART into town, she phones the office and talks to one of the guys in the back – Steve, her favourite, a lanky, laconic programmer from Cork. She asks him if he could do her a favour. ‘OK,’ he says, a little cagey, ‘I suppose, yeah. What is it?’ Looking out at a sombre, overcast Ringsend and clutching the laptop to her chest, Gina says she’ll see him in twenty minutes and will explain it to him then.

  ‘How?’ Bolger says, after a long pause. ‘I don’t understand what you mean. Broke his heart how?’

  ‘Well …’ Romy exhales. ‘You know. It was a long time ago now, and maybe –’

  ‘No, no, tell me. Explain what you mean.’

  Romy shifts his position slightly in the wheelchair, wincing as he does so. The move looks uncomfortable but is clearly a delaying tactic.

  Eventually, he says, ‘Our party stands for certain things, right? You embody those things. Frank didn’t. It’s that simple. He started out OK, and he was a natural, he had charm, he appealed to people, but pretty quickly he became an embarrassment to the party. He started shifting his position on things. He took up, what’ll we call them, inconvenient causes. He was using the word environment a lot. Back then that was bordering on the radical. I don’t know what he was reading or who he was talking to, but I can tell you one thing, if he’d survived he wouldn’t have got renominated, to say nothing of getting re-elected. And if he was alive today … well, more than likely he’d be wearing a woolly jumper and canvassing for the bloody Greens.’

  Bolger looks past Romy now, to the wall on the far side of the room.

  What he’s hearing here flatly contradicts what he has always understood, but he doesn’t dispute what he’s hearing either, not for a second – because there’s something in Romy’s voice, a weary, resigned authority, a convincing absence of the need anymore to lie or dissemble. And in a weird way it even accords with Bolger’s own memory of Frank as a kid. He was a contrary little fucker. He’d twist everything around until it was on his own terms. But he got away with it because he was also a star.

  ‘Look,’ Romy says, ‘when you came back from the States, right, you were wet behind the ears, you were bloody clueless – and I don’t mind telling you that now, because this time tomorrow you’re going to be the fucking Taoiseach – but you had no idea what’d been going on here, and in fairness you had no time to find out either. Because it was all about moving forward. You were thrown straight into the campaign, knocking on doors, tramping through housing estates in the rain.’ He pauses. ‘That must have been quite a shock to the system after Boston.’

  Bolger nods, still not looking Romy in the eye, still not speaking.

  ‘Anyway,’ Romy goes on, ‘in those last couple of weeks before the accident things were chaotic here. Frank got into a row about the rezoning of a piece of land out beyond the airport. He started making threats, saying he’d expose the voting records of a few of the councillors who were in favour of the rezoning – the implication being, of course, that they were on the take.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘After more than ten years of the planning tribunal up in Dublin Castle I think we all know how that one goes, but back then you simply didn’t talk about it. There was consternation in the party. These were councillors your old man sat with, people he’d known for twenty, thirty years.’

  Bolger is white now.

  ‘And he was mortified. Because there was nothing he could do about it.’ Romy pauses, and sighs. He looks exhausted all of a sudden, his skin virtually translucent, like rice paper. ‘So if you have issues with your old man, as they say nowadays … I think it might be less about anything you ever did or didn’t do, and more about the fact that he has issues with himself.’

  Bolger finally turns his head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, this is difficult,’ Romy says, speaking in a whisper now. ‘Liam suffered a lot of guilt because … he adored Frank, you’re right about that, but he also had to live with the knowledge that a small part of him was actually relieved when he heard the news that Frank had died. He was saved any further embarrassments in the party. That’s how he felt. I know it. I was with him. I saw it in his face. And I saw him try to bury it. But he never succeeded. And that tormented him for the rest of his life.’

  Bolger gets up out of the chair and walks across the room. He stands motionless, staring at the beige wall, trying to process what he has just heard, trying to steady his nerves, his heartbeat, the ripple of chemical reactions in his brain.

  After a few moments, Romy says, ‘Your old man thought the world of you, too, you know. He did. He was just never able to say it. He was probably afraid to. Afraid how it’d sound, to himself. Afraid that putting it into words might be another act of betrayal.’

  Bolger exhales loudly and then turns around.

  ‘My God,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘we all think we know what’s going on, but we haven’t a bloody clue, have we?’

  ‘Not really, no.’ Romy shifts his wheelchair so that he’s facing Bolger again. ‘Listen, Larry. That all just came spilling out there. I’m sorry. Ten minutes ago I was trying to decide whether I preferred turnips or parsnips. I’m not used to adult company anymore.’

  Bolger shakes his head. ‘I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. I’m sorry.’

  Romy shrugs.

  Bolger then takes a deep breath. He hesitates before speaking. ‘Three other people died that night, Romy.’

  ‘I know. It was awful. And there was that kid who survived.’

  Bolger stares at him, remembering, making the connection. ‘Yes, yes … of course.’

  ‘There was a whip-around done for him, you know. In the party. Some sort of fund was set up. He was looked after. It was actually your old man who organised it.’

  Bolger nods.

  After a while, he looks at his watch. ‘Look, I have to go,�
� he says, his voice a little shaky. ‘Thanks for talking to me.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Romy says. ‘And good luck.’ There is an awkward pause. ‘Keep the head, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Bolger walks towards the door, but stops halfway. ‘As a matter of interest,’ he says, still facing the door, ‘that land you mentioned, the land that was up for rezoning?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  Romy snorts. ‘Well, Taoiseach, what do you think?’

  ‘Right.’ Bolger turns around. ‘And where’s this you said it was again?’

  Romy narrows his eyes. ‘Beyond the airport somewhere. It was one of those old ascendancy piles. On a few hundred acres. It’s probably a bloody golf course now, or an estate.’

  Bolger narrows his eyes. ‘Hang on a second,’ he says, staring at Romy. ‘You’re not talking about Dunbrogan House, are you?’

  ‘Er …yes.’

  Bolger immediately sees it on Romy’s face, the merest hint of confusion, a flicker of doubt, as though he’s just given something away but doesn’t quite know what – and the feeling seems to be as unfamiliar to him as it is unwelcome.

  Bolger’s pulse quickens.

  ‘Yes,’ Romy repeats, in a smaller voice now, ‘Dunbrogan House, that was it.’

  3

  The programmer from Cork is one of those geeky obsessives who can sit at a computer terminal for hours on end and seem to move only the muscles in his eyeballs and fingertips – except for one or two, now and again, in his eyeballs maybe, or his fingertips. It’s a level of concentration that Gina envies. She watches from the other room, through the open doors, and wonders how he doesn’t need to fidget, squirm, stretch, yawn – all things she’s been doing non-stop herself since she sat down here.

  She looks around. Everyone else has left, and the place is eerily quiet.

  It’s already dark outside.

  Gina was a little self-conscious walking into the office with a laptop under her arm, given that she’s effectively been using her bereavement to justify not coming to work, but she didn’t have any choice. She got a bewildered, slightly frosty reception from Siobhan, and was relieved to discover that P.J. was in Belfast for the day. She went straight through to the back and over to Steve’s workstation. When she apologised for taking him away from whatever he was working on, he shrugged and said, ‘Same difference sure’ – the implication no doubt being that it didn’t matter what he was working on since the company was going down the tubes anyway. Which was maybe true, but Gina didn’t want to get into it. She handed him the laptop and explained what she needed. At first he was reluctant; then he started to focus – as she knew he would – and before long he was totally absorbed.

  Gina tried to get busy at her own desk, organising work stuff and answering emails, but she couldn’t concentrate and after a while fell into idly monitoring Steve through the open doors.

  She looks at her watch now, and something occurs to her.

  She reaches back over the chair to one of the pockets of her jacket. She pulls out the three photographs she found in the warehouse and puts them on her desk. She switches on her printer and scans the photos. Then she puts them together in a file and emails the file to her own address as an attachment.

  After that, she leans back in the chair and looks over at Steve. ‘So, how’re we doing?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t look up. ‘We’re getting there.’

  ‘I’ve never seen him like this before,’ Paula says, and chews her lower lip for a second. ‘I think he’s getting cold feet. Or something.’

  ‘No, he’ll be fine,’ Norton says. ‘He’s probably just tired.’

  ‘Well, he should get some caffeine into his system then, and plenty of it, because the next couple of hours are going to be crucial.’

  Norton has a headache and is finding Paula’s voice grating. They are in the corridor outside Bolger’s offices in Government Buildings. There are two people ahead of them, with three others already inside, camped in the Private Secretary’s office. Behind them, and all along the corridor, little groups are huddled – whispering, texting, shuffling, waiting. Everyone is hoping for five minutes with the Minister.

  The atmosphere around Government Buildings this evening – and around Leinster House, and even out on Kildare Street – is electric. Speculation is rife that a major development is imminent.

  The Taoiseach is isolated. The numbers stack up. The prize is there for the taking.

  So what’s wrong?

  Alarm bells rang for Norton when he got the message, through Paula, that Bolger wanted to see him in his office – and this evening, straightaway, A-S-A-fucking-P. Because that isn’t how it works between them. Larry doesn’t summon Norton. Though maybe he’s trying to mark out his new turf, establish a new set of ground rules. Maybe. But Norton doubts it. He suspects it has more to do with this trip Bolger made out to Wicklow earlier.

  The door of the Secretary’s office opens and a current of expectancy ripples down the corridor.

  Bolger himself appears. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his tie is loose. He looks frazzled. He points at Paddy and indicates inside with his head. Gritting his teeth, Paddy follows Bolger into the Secretary’s office and then through to the inner sanctum. They pass anxious-looking party officials and civil servants. At the door, Bolger turns. He allows Norton in but puts a hand up to block Paula.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ he says, not looking at her, and shuts the door.

  Bolger’s office is spacious, all mahogany panels and red leather. Norton has been in here only a couple of times – because again, if they have business to do, it tends to be on Norton’s terms, and on Norton’s turf.

  ‘Jesus,’ Bolger says, pacing up and down in front of his desk, ‘I don’t know if I can handle this. They’re like fucking vultures out there.’

  ‘Come on,’ Norton says, forcing a smile, ‘you can tell your grandchildren about it someday.’

  Bolger ignores this.

  The smile drops from Norton’s face. His head is pounding. He’s about to say something when Bolger stops moving and turns to face him. ‘Paddy, I was out in Glenalba this afternoon.’

  ‘So I gather. How is he?’

  ‘Shite. Awful. He didn’t know who I was. He’s … he’s gone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Norton wasn’t aware that the old man’s condition was as bad as all that, and he shakes his head. At the same time, he’s mildly relieved at the news. It’s one more thing out of the way, one more little dose of closure.

  But Bolger doesn’t seem to be finished. He takes a step forward.

  ‘I ran into someone else, though.’

  ‘Oh, you did? Who was that?’

  ‘Romy Mulcahy.’

  Norton releases a barely audible groan.

  Bolger says, ‘You remember him then?’

  ‘Yeah. I do. Very much.’ Norton pauses. ‘So. The old bollocks hasn’t kicked it yet?’

  ‘No. In fact, he’s very much alive.’ Bolger points a finger at the side of his head. ‘Upstairs, anyway. We were raking over some ancient history.’

  ‘I see.’

  Romy Mulcahy and Liam Bolger. That whole crowd. Norton shakes his head again. They were among the first people he ever had dealings with in his business career, and the strange truth of it is, in some ways he’s still dealing with them.

  ‘He had a couple of interesting things to say, Paddy.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. A couple of very interesting things.’

  Bolger lets that hang in the air for a moment. But Norton snaps. He’s had enough.

  ‘OK, Larry,’ he says, ‘get to the fucking point, would you? I don’t appreciate being dragged in here like this. You’re not the only one who’s busy, so come on, what is it?’

  ‘It’s Frank,’ Bolger says, getting red in the face now. ‘It’s Dunbrogan House. It’s you.’

  ‘What are you ta
lking about?’

  ‘I’ve been on the phone,’ Bolger says, and points at his desk. ‘I’ve been talking to people, checking some facts. Dunbrogan House and estate, that was the site Frank didn’t think should be rezoned, wasn’t it? It was the site that he kicked up a stink over.’ He pauses. ‘That he became a right pain in the arse over.’ He pauses again. ‘The hundred-and-fifty-acre site that you owned.’

  Norton rolls his eyes.

  Bolger holds up a finger. ‘No, no, Paddy, not so fast. You bought it off Miriam’s old man for a few thousand quid and then sold it after it was rezoned for a quarter of a fucking million. It was the deal that made your fortune. It set you up, it –’

  ‘So fucking what?’ Norton roars.

  ‘It was –’

  ‘It was perfectly legitimate is what it was. A bloody land deal. I’ve made hundreds of them. What’s so –’

  ‘Frank dies in a car crash days before a county-council meeting on the issue, a meeting he’s declared he’s going to disrupt? Come on.’

  ‘Ah, would you fuck off, Larry. Really. You’re losing the run of yourself here.’ Norton’s head is ready to burst.

  ‘I’m not,’ Bolger says. ‘I’m not.’ He turns and slaps the palm of his hand down on the desk. ‘Something weird went on back then, Paddy, and there’s something weird going on now, too. Because that young fella the other day in Buswell’s Hotel? I know who he was. He was the kid who survived the crash. He was Mark Griffin. He had to be. I thought he was just some journalist looking for a story, but a couple of hours ago –’ he motions back at his desk again, at the phone, ‘I get a call, and do you know what? The Guards have identified that second guy who’s in intensive care out in St Felim’s, from last night, from that thing in Cherryvale. It’s going to be on the news at nine o’clock.’ He pauses to let that sink in. ‘And do you know who it is? They said he’s in a bad way and mightn’t make it, but it’s him, Paddy. Mark Griffin.’ He holds up his hands. ‘Explain that to me.’

  Norton stares at Bolger for a long time.