Winterland

by Alan Glynn

  Five minutes after Vaughan has left, Gina’s mobile rings.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Gina? Are you all right there?’ A Kerry accent, the voice soft and instantly reassuring. Whoever this is has been trained in the subtle art of hostage negotiation. ‘Listen, can we maybe –’

  ‘I said. I want to talk to Jackie Merrigan. In person.’

  ‘Yeah, Gina, we were looking for him, but he’s on his way now. So, I don’t know, in the meantime –’

  She cuts him off.

  Norton sighs impatiently.

  She looks up at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re a very stupid girl, do you know that?’

  ‘I’m not a girl, Paddy. And we’ll see who’s stupid.’

  Hunkered down at the window, facing the partition units, she doesn’t have a direct view of the rest of Level 48 and can’t tell what is going on. Norton can, and keeps looking around. At one point she catches him trying to gesture or signal to someone.

  ‘Face the window,’ she says. ‘Now.’

  He does.

  ‘There’s a whole bloody army back there,’ he says. ‘They’ve got flak jackets, machine guns, the works.’

  ‘I can hear them, but I’ve got this.’ She points the gun directly at him. ‘I’ve used it once. I’ll use it again.’

  Norton says nothing. After a while, he asks if he can take something out of his pocket.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tablets.’

  ‘You as well? Go on.’

  He takes out a packet, fumbles with it and swallows two – maybe three – tablets.

  ‘What are they for?’

  He looks at her. ‘What do you care?’

  She sighs. ‘You’re right. I don’t.’

  She starts keying something into her mobile.

  ‘You know, Gina,’ Norton then says, ‘this is not going to end well for you. It can’t.’ He clears his throat. ‘Any credibility you might have had before, you cashed in by doing this. So no one’s going to listen to you. And if you think sending that report to Baladur and Lazar is some kind of a trump card, you’re wrong. They’ll close ranks now, everyone will, Vaughan, the contractors, everyone. The spin merchants will be out in force. Coming from Noel, the report might have carried some weight. It was his design. People would have had to listen. But not anymore. No one will endorse it now.’

  She looks up at him. ‘What, no one will admit what you just admitted a few minutes ago?’

  ‘Of course not. And no one has to. No codes or regulations have been broken. The arguments in the report can be torn to shreds in five minutes, and they will be. Because no one’s going to want to be associated with this carry-on.’

  She shrugs, and goes back to what she was doing on her mobile.

  ‘The media won’t take it seriously either,’ Norton continues. ‘They won’t understand it for one thing. And if you persist in making those claims about how I had something to do with your brother’s death I’ll have a restraining order slapped on you so fast you won’t know what hit you.’ He shakes his head. ‘Believe me. I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. I’ll tie you up in legal knots for years.’ He laughs. ‘But sure that won’t matter anyway, because you’ll be in prison.’

  Gina ignores him.

  Behind her, faint at first, but growing louder, is the sound of a helicopter.

  ‘You see, you’re going to be the story in all of this, Gina, not some stupid fucking report. What they’ll be interested in’ – he nods his head forward, indicating the helicopter – ‘is the crazy lady who shot some poor innocent bastard in the leg and then took two hostages. You’ll be tabloid fodder for days, weeks.’ He laughs again. ‘You see, like I said, it’s all about perception.’

  ‘Jesus, Paddy,’ she says, not looking up from her mobile. ‘Would you ever shut up?’

  Fifteen minutes later, her mobile rings again.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Gina? It’s Jackie Merrigan.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m here. Over at the elevator. Do you want me to approach?’

  ‘Yes. Alone.’

  Pressing back against the window, she eases herself up into a standing position. Over the stack of partition units she sees Merrigan walking slowly towards her. ERU personnel are positioned everywhere.

  She glances over her shoulder and down at street level. There is no traffic at all now. Parked alongside the concourse are squad cars and police vans. There are also several large trucks. These are probably Outside Broadcast Units. A couple of hundred yards down the quays barriers have been set up, behind which a sizeable crowd appears to have gathered.

  The helicopter is still out there, cruising a wide area. Every now and again it comes in close and circles the building. When it does, the sound is almost deafening.

  She turns back around.

  Norton is standing a few feet away from her, staring straight ahead.

  Merrigan comes to a stop in front of the partition units. ‘Hello, Gina.’

  She nods.

  He is as she remembers, tall, stooped, white hair. He’s got a heavy overcoat on. From where he’s standing she can’t see his hands. But he was a close friend of Noel’s. She’s not expecting him to pull out a gun and shoot her.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Norton turns around. Merrigan looks at him.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Well what do you think? I’ve got this deranged bitch –’

  Gina raises her hand. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Take it easy, Gina,’ Merrigan says. ‘Let’s all stay calm, yeah?’

  It’s only then that Gina sees it. Merrigan is nervous. And of course why wouldn’t he be? This is a volatile situation, and probably not the sort of thing he’s ever had to deal with before. Besides, he doesn’t really know her …

  ‘Look,’ she says in a hurry, ‘I don’t want to drag this out. I just … I need some assurances from you.’

  He nods.

  ‘One, I saw security cameras on the way in here. At the entrance. One of them was trained on the concourse out front. I don’t know if they’re working, but if they are you’ll see that I was attacked first. The shot I fired was in response to that, to being assaulted. Anyway, there were witnesses, a couple of builders, I think.’

  ‘Fine. Of course. We’ll check it out.’

  ‘Second, I want you to look into Noel’s death. The circumstances. His mobile-phone records. Where he went after he left Catherine’s. Check the brakes on his car.’

  Merrigan hesitates. ‘OK, Gina. I’ll … I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Third thing.’

  She holds up the gun. Merrigan flinches.

  ‘This?’ she says. ‘I’m telling you in advance: it isn’t mine.’

  Merrigan swallows. ‘I didn’t imagine it was.’

  ‘No, but I’ll bet you don’t know whose it is.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘It belonged to Martin Fitzgerald.’

  Merrigan’s eyes widen. ‘That Martin Fitzgerald?’

  She nods, and brings her hand down. ‘I’m not sure, but I think it might be the gun he used to shoot Mark Griffin with.’

  ‘What?’

  Merrigan stops, and for the first time the focus of his attention shifts. Gina can see it in his face, in his eyes.

  He is making connections.

  ‘The thing is,’ she says, ‘I want you to know, before I’m arrested, that this is a complicated situation. I need to know that I’ll be listened to.’

  ‘You will be.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Norton says, ‘there’ll be no shortage of sound bites if that’s what you’re after.’

  She looks at him. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘What about me, love? I’m not the one with the gun.’

  ‘No, but …’

  She stares at him for a moment in silence, then looks back at Merrigan. ‘Last thing. I’ve got an email I need to send.’ She holds her phone up to him. ‘Yea
h?’

  He nods.

  ‘It has an attachment,’ she says. ‘I’m sending it to RTÉ and to Sky News. And to YouTube.’

  She presses a key on the phone and waits for a few moments.

  ‘OK. Gone.’

  ‘What was that?’ Norton says, glaring at the phone.

  ‘It’s very short, only about ten seconds. I hope it’s enough of a sound bite for you.’

  She holds the phone up high, so they can all see the display. The view is of Norton, from a low angle. Gina’s voice is heard first. The sound is tinny.

  Let’s be as explicit as we can, shall we?

  After a pause, Norton’s voice is heard.

  OK, yeah, let’s. In certain extreme weather conditions, this building, Richmond Plaza, has a fifty per cent chance of collapsing. Are you happy now?

  Shock registers on Merrigan’s face.

  Fifty per cent?

  According to these calculations, yes.

  ‘Oh my God …’

  And given the potential for loss of life and damage to surrounding property, you think that’s an acceptable level of risk?

  Absolutely. I’m not worried at all.

  Gina flicks the phone closed and brings her hand down.

  Norton lunges forward. ‘Jesus, I’ll –’

  Merrigan’s arm shoots out. He holds it against Norton’s chest to block him.

  ‘Easy.’

  Norton resists for a second and then backs off, shaking his head. He turns around and moves away, along by the window.

  Gina looks at Merrigan. She feels relieved, but also – she can admit it now, if only to herself – a little insane, a little psychotic. Every muscle in her body is rigid. Every thought in her head is conditional. It’s as if she’s been holding her breath non-stop for the last three weeks.

  She hands him the gun.

  Within seconds armed police officers have swarmed the area and taken full control.

  Gina leans her head back against the glass, and breathes out slowly.

  At the same time, several miles away, in an isolated ward of the intensive care unit of St Felim’s Hospital, Mark Griffin is breathing slowly, too.

  Sixteen times a minute, in fact.

  Unconscious but stable, the thirty-year-old victim of the city’s latest gangland shooting is hooked up to a ventilator. A second machine monitors his heart rate and blood pressure. He also has three IV tubes attached to a strip on his neck. These provide medication for pain control, fluids to keep him hydrated and sedation to prevent him from making any extreme involuntary movements.

  When he was brought in on Wednesday night the first thing they did was give him an X-ray. This showed he had a single perforating wound caused by a bullet that is now lodged in his abdomen. He was then rushed to an operating theatre for an exploratory incision, the results of which showed extensive damage to his liver. Next, they stanched the internal bleeding and stabilised his BP.

  Since then he has had two further operations, one to repair essential organ functions, the other to close the entry wound. And although doctors are concerned about the possibility of his contracting an infection, by this afternoon most of his vital signs seem to be showing a marked improvement.

  Mark’s aunt Lilly spent all of yesterday and several hours this morning at his bedside, but the whole thing has proved so stressful for her, and so exhausting, that one of the doctors took a look at her and recommended that she go home to her own bed – unless she wanted to end up in one of theirs.

  After lunch, the nurse on duty phoned Lilly and reassured her that there was no change, and that Mark was stable. A ten-year veteran of the ICU, this nurse has always found that the word ‘stable’ has a remarkably stabilising effect on those who hear it.

  In any case, she prefers it when there are no visitors – because they get in the way. It’s not called intensive care for nothing.

  Staring at Mark now, she wonders if he is aware of her presence. His eyelids flutter on occasion, but they don’t open, so she can’t be sure. It’s one of the recurring mysteries of her job.

  She chooses, nevertheless, to talk to him.

  ‘It’s me again,’ she says. ‘Helen. How are you? I’m going to take your temperature now, if that’s all right.’

  It seems to be.

  Outside the room, sitting on a bench in the corridor, a full-time guard is on duty. He is listening to a news update on his small pocket radio.

  He stares at the floor.

  There’s a breaking story.

  After a moment, he looks up, takes in the calm, anodyne surroundings of the hospital, and sighs.

  He can’t believe this.

  He’s stuck here and right now, in that new skyscraper down on the quays – apparently, according to the bulletin – there’s a full-blown hostage crisis unfolding …

  5

  And in the twenty-four hours following this so-called crisis, the clip of an Irish property developer’s breathtaking admission – caught on a camera phone during the crisis – has been viewed all over the world, on computers, on mobile phones and on TV news bulletins. The incident is seen as the latest example of how digital technology is driving the definition, generation and delivery of today’s news content. Outside of Ireland, the story has a kind of train-wreck fascination, and proves irresistible to cartoonists and joke writers. But at home the whole business is seen as something altogether more urgent – because as far as the public at large is concerned, and despite numerous assurances to the contrary, this shiny new forty-eight-storey glass box is, in the words of one vox pop contributor, ‘just sitting there waiting to keel over’.

  So it’s no surprise that action is taken quickly. On Saturday afternoon, the tower and surrounding area are evacuated and cordoned off. Emergency meetings are held. The nature and cost of the repairs are discussed and hammered out. Schedules are drawn up, with work to start almost immediately.

  Then on Sunday morning, in the papers and on blogs and radio phone-ins, the affair is parsed endlessly for its cultural and sociological significance. It becomes a kind of template for everything that is wrong with the country, a forum for pofaced investigations of national identity, a vessel for people’s moral outrage, for their feelings of powerlessness and disenfranchisement.

  On the lunchtime news, Taoiseach-in-waiting Larry Bolger says that although he’s been personally assured there’s no immediate danger, he nevertheless regards it as appalling and unconscionable that such a thing could have been allowed to happen in the first place.

  The individual involved, he says, must be held accountable.

  And naturally enough, it is on this ‘individual’ that most of the media attention is now heaped. Who is he? What other buildings has he put up? Where does he live? How rich is he?

  The degree of media attention Gina receives, by contrast, is surprisingly limited. In all, the ‘hostage crisis’ lasted less than an hour, so the story didn’t have time to breathe. No sooner had coverage started than the whole thing came to a head – only to be superseded by the business with the camera phone.

  Legally, she’s not in as much trouble as she expected to be either. She learns on Sunday evening that for some reason Paddy Norton is refusing to press charges, and that the same goes for Phil Mangione. It turns out that Mangione, whose injury was not serious – the bullet just grazed his shin – has already left the country, accompanied by James Vaughan and Ray Sullivan. So the only thing Gina is charged with in court on Monday morning is illegal possession of a firearm.

  She is then released on bail.

  Outside the courthouse, flanked by Yvonne and Michelle, she manages to get away and down the street without having to stop and talk to any reporters. The three sisters go to the lounge of a city-centre hotel, where Gina does her best to give a clear account of what happened. But it’s not easy. Yvonne and Michelle are sceptical. They’re also, to some extent, embarrassed. It reminds Gina of when she was a teenager and they were in their twenties.

  Exce
pt it’s different.

  Except it’s not.

  Leaving the hotel after about an hour – frustrated and tired – Gina gets a call on her mobile. It’s from Jackie Merrigan. Where is she? Can they meet? Can they talk? She says she needs to go back to her apartment, that she hasn’t changed her clothes in more than four days – but that yes, they can meet.

  How about later? Early afternoon?

  They make an arrangement for two o’clock.

  Over in Government Buildings, at around the same time, Larry Bolger is preparing for a meeting of the parliamentary party at which it is expected his colleagues will choose him as their new leader. This will automatically qualify him to become Taoiseach. He will then travel to Áras an Uachtaráin in the Phoenix Park and receive his seal of office from the President.

  Sitting at his desk, in his best suit, he feels the way he remembers feeling when he was about to make his First Holy Communion – stirred by the promise of plenty, and yet uneasy about it all, vaguely humiliated somehow.

  He’d love a drink.

  His secretary buzzes in to say he has a call from Paddy Norton on line one. Bolger hesitates and then says he’ll take it – unlike all the other calls from Norton he’s declined to take since Friday.

  He has to speak to the man sometime.

  He picks up the phone. ‘Paddy?’

  ‘The individual involved? The fucking individual involved? Is that what I am now?’

  Bolger throws his eyes up. ‘Hold on there, Paddy, what did you expect?’

  ‘What did I expect? A bit of loyalty, that’s what.’

  ‘Oh come on, be realistic. With all this stuff going on, and all these questions being asked … no public representative in his right mind would –’

  ‘And what does held accountable mean?’

  Bolger stares at a folder on his desk.

  ‘I think that’s pretty obvious, Paddy, isn’t it? There’s a lot of hysteria at the moment, a lot of anger, and even if it is all bullshit, there’s an election coming in the next twelve to eighteen months. People need to see some action, you know? They’re not going to let this slide.’