Bloodland

by Alan Glynn

  Jimmy looks at his untouched coffee, which is probably lukewarm by now.

  He should have ordered a drink.

  ‘Maria,’ he says, ‘all I can do is try to reassure you. I don’t work for a tabloid. I’m not out to trap you. This is a book, commissioned by a publisher. And yeah, there’s a sales and marketing aspect to it, of course there is, but I want to do a good job, and your insights can only help to round it out, give it substance.’

  Maria looks at him, holds his gaze for what feels like a long time. She seems to be calculating something. Then she says, ‘You know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid something will come out.’

  Jimmy swallows. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, but . . . the crash? There was never really any explanation for it, was there? There was no faulty or missing bit they could find, nothing mechanical, the weather wasn’t particularly bad. It was just a crash, a disaster. What was the verdict at the inquest? Accidental death? Then, case closed. Just like that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be honest with you, Jimmy, I knew Susie better than anyone, and she was wild, she liked to make scenes and kick up a fuss for no apparent reason. So my darkest fear, what I’m afraid might come out, is that in some way . . .’ She stops for a moment and takes a deep breath. ‘Look, it was a helicopter, right, a small, confined space, six people, she was probably coked out of it, even at that time of the day, plus she’d been sending those weird texts, and clearly wasn’t in a stable frame of mind, so . . . who knows?’ Maria’s eyes well up again. ‘Maybe she made some kind of a scene, maybe she got hysterical about something, went crazy. Maybe the accident was her fault.’ Maria pulls the tissue out of her sleeve again. ‘There, I said it.’

  Jimmy’s heart is racing. ‘This is just . . . speculation, right?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. But I can see it. I can visualise it. It’d be so typical, so . . . Susie.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘This idea has haunted me for three years, Jimmy. I still have nightmares about it.’ She pauses, wipes a tear from her cheek. ‘Though you could never write that I said that. I’d sue you if you did –’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  She looks him in the eye again.

  ‘But then with that . . . that image in my head, how could I possibly co-operate on a book with you, how could –’

  ‘Maria –’

  Jimmy doesn’t know what to say, blindsided himself by what she has conjured up.

  ‘Look,’ Maria goes on, ‘I know I’m probably not being very rational here, but –’

  ‘No, no, you are. Jesus. You’re fine. You’re allowed.’

  She nods, then blows her nose again. As she does so, Jimmy looks down at the floor, gazes at a pattern in the carpet.

  Some sort of commotion in the cockpit? Instigated by Susie? It’s a tantalising idea. But even if that’s what happened, who could prove it now?

  Who would want to?

  He would. That’s for sure. And Maria, if it ever came to it – the thing is – probably wouldn’t.

  See?

  This is how it goes. You get talking to someone, you interact, and it all starts to fall apart.

  Then something occurs to him.

  ‘Those texts,’ he says. ‘Did Susie send one to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the actual helicopter?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘It was before. From the hotel. From her room.’

  Jimmy waits. He wants to ask her what was in the text, but he’s assuming that if she’s prepared to tell him she will. When she doesn’t, he says, ‘In all the documentation there is reference to four texts she sent that morning. Yours would make it five.’

  Maria shrugs. ‘It was just a text. It was no smoking gun, believe me. Susie was a text head. She would have loved Twitter.’

  ‘She sounded kind of hysterical in the one she sent to her agent.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Maria pauses, and almost smiles. ‘Look at you. You’re all intrigued now, aren’t you? I’m sorry. This is precisely the opposite of what I wanted to happen.’

  ‘Intrigued by this or not, Maria, I still want to write the book. There’s enough there as it is. But it’d be great if you went on the record.’

  She studies him for a moment.

  ‘You know,’ she says, ‘you do have a sympathetic face. But I actually don’t think you’re trying to hustle me.’

  Jimmy remains silent.

  She picks up her glass of wine again and takes a sip from it. ‘Nothing in life is easy, is it?’ she says.

  Jimmy smiles. ‘No. So does that mean you’ll talk to me?’

  *

  Flanked by two senior civil servants, he emerges from Government Buildings and steps out onto the landscaped courtyard, where a car is waiting. But something isn’t right . . . it’s one of the civil servants . . . he turns to look . . .

  The man is bleeding from his eyes . . .

  Bolger grunts, shifts in the armchair.

  ‘What?’

  The door clicks shut. He opens his eyes. The TV is still on, Frasier Crane, looking harried.

  What time is it?

  He turns. ‘Mary?’

  ‘Hi, were you asleep?’

  She approaches, stands over him.

  ‘Christ,’ he says. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Not late. Just after ten, I think.’

  ‘Why are you home so early?’

  He has the feeling of being caught out. She wouldn’t normally be home before eleven, and by that time he’d have ensconced himself in the study with a cup of hot chocolate.

  To make it seem like he’d been slaving away all evening.

  ‘I had a bit of a headache,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t in the mood.’

  He feels guilty, slumped here in the armchair, watching television.

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’ she then asks, turning and unbuttoning her coat.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  He rubs his eyes. How long was he asleep?

  A civil servant bleeding from . . .

  What is wrong with him? He stands up and walks around the room, trying to get his circulation going. Mary is in the kitchen now. He can see her through the door filling the kettle.

  ‘Did you get any work done?’ she asks over her shoulder.

  ‘A little, yeah.’

  He throws his eyes up.

  Chapter a hundred.

  He has barely started is the truth. He doesn’t know where to start.

  Chapter one. I grew up in the shadow of my older brother, and despite how things may have come to seem in later years – I never really got out from under it . . .

  Yeah. Fuck off.

  ‘How are the crowd anyway?’ he says, deflecting a follow-up question.

  ‘They’re grand. Everyone asking for you.’

  Mary comes out of the kitchen, smiling, grabs her coat from the back of the chair where she left it and heads into the bedroom.

  Bolger stands in front of the fireplace, looking down at the carpet, listening as the dull hum of the kettle in the next room ascends to a muffled roar.

  He is sick with anxiety, and that’s about the size of it.

  Meeting Dave Conway tomorrow is supposed to make him feel like he’s taking some kind of action. But he won’t be really. All he’ll be doing is asking Dave if he saw that thing in the paper last week.

  Saying, I saw it. Did you see it? I saw it.

  And I haven’t been right since.

  Reading the Irish Independent that morning, alone in the apartment, Bolger came as close as he has in nearly ten years to falling off the wagon.

  He glances over once again at the corner of the room, at the drinks cabinet.

  Takes a deep breath, holds it in.

  Couple out walking their dog. In Wicklow. Remains of a body in a ditch – just bones really, and a set of clothes. Reckoned to have been there for at least two years. Unidentified, but no shortage of speculation.
/>   He breathes out slowly.

  Mary emerges from the bedroom in her at-homes and goes back into the kitchen.

  Bolger stands there, not moving.

  Couple out walking their dog.

  In Wicklow.

  Is this it? Is this beginning?

  *

  It’s nearly eleven thirty.

  Too late to phone now, but then again maybe the perfect time to phone. Catch him off guard.

  Jimmy is walking along by St Stephen’s Green.

  He left Maria at the top of Grafton Street and while they didn’t make a specific arrangement to meet again, the understanding is that they’ll be in touch – once Maria has had a little time to think, and maybe consult a lawyer. Once he’s had time – not that this came up in conversation – to clear the decks with Phil Sweeney.

  He gets his phone out and looks at it.

  There’s no point in putting this off. Besides, things have changed. He’s on his own now, no longer a valuable asset working at a national newspaper . . .

  He finds the number.

  What has he got to lose?

  He brings the phone up to his ear, and waits.

  He glances over at the Shelbourne Hotel.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Phil. Hi. I hope I’m not calling too late.’

  ‘No, no, you’re grand. Thanks for getting back to me. I appreciate it. I wouldn’t want there to be a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jimmy says, deciding to get straight into it. ‘Really? What’ll we call it then, an absence of understanding? Because you know what? I’m at a loss here. You call me up –’

  ‘I was just trying to help –’

  ‘How? By insulting me? And where did you hear about what I’m working on anyway?’

  There’s probably no straight answer Sweeney can give to this, at least not one Jimmy will find acceptable.

  ‘The flow of information,’ he says. ‘I pay attention to it.’

  ‘Oh please.’

  ‘Look, I often hear things I don’t necessarily ask about, things I maybe shouldn’t even be privy to. Whatever. It is what it is.’ He pauses. ‘So, did you have a think about what I said?’

  ‘Yeah, I did, and the thing is –’

  ‘No, Jimmy, there’s no thing. Just take it on board, OK? Please.’

  Jimmy stops in his tracks. A group of American tourists walk past him, one of them talking loudly, a big guy with a beard saying something about ‘this giant Ponzi scheme’.

  At the taxi rank to his left a young couple appear to be having an argument.

  ‘I told you, he’s from work.’

  Beyond them are lights, colours, a kaleidoscope, traffic stopping and starting.

  Jimmy turns, takes a few steps towards the railings of the Green.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Phil,’ he says in a loud whisper, ‘you can’t just dangle something like this in my face, and not expect me to bite. I’m supposed to be a fucking journalist.’

  Sweeney exhales loudly.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he says. ‘There’s no story here. It’s not –’

  ‘Susie Monaghan? No story? Her name on a magazine cover, let alone her picture, and you still get a huge spike in circulation, even after all this time, so don’t tell me –’

  ‘It’s not about her. Believe me.’

  Jimmy reaches out and takes a hold of one of the railings.

  ‘Then what is it about?’

  Sweeney clicks his tongue. ‘I know this is tricky for you,’ he says, ‘professionally, being told, being asked, to stay away from something, a story, it goes against the grain, I get that, but . . . the thing is, I’m good friends with Freddie Walker. Yeah?’ He pauses. ‘Ted Walker’s brother? And . . . they’re still suffering. Every time the story comes up, every time Susie Monaghan’s name gets mentioned, it brings the whole thing back, the tragedy, everything, and the prospect of a book, with all the publicity, the photos, dredging through the details again, and having it all be about her, with only a cursory mention of Ted and the others who died, it’s . . . well, frankly it’d be fucking torture for them.’ He pauses again. ‘So I’m asking you, Jimmy. As a favour. Give it a miss.’ He clears his throat. ‘And I certainly didn’t mean to insult you.’

  Jimmy squeezes the railings until his knuckles are white.

  Motherfucker.

  He didn’t see this coming.

  Black, white, headachy grey.

  ‘Freddie Walker?’ he says.

  This is a question, sort of, but they both know what the answer is. It’s a no-brainer. It’s Yeah, sonny Jim, back in your box now and shut the fuck up.

  Jimmy releases his grip on the railing. Behind him is kinesis, light and noise, the streets. Ahead, through the bars, is stillness, a dark blanket of shadows, the Green at night.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sweeney says, ‘Freddie Walker, he’s a client, lovely guy, you’d really like him, and of course –’

  ‘No,’ Jimmy says. ‘Stop it, right? I’m not listening to any more of this.’ He turns around and walks towards the head of the taxi rank. ‘Good night, Phil. I’m sorry, I can’t help you out.’

  He snaps the phone shut and puts it away.

  Steps around the arguing couple.

  ‘Hey –’

  And opens the back door of the waiting taxi –

  ‘That’s our –’

  – anticipating a musty whiff, the residue of long hours, long years, of sweat, smoke and overheated opinion.

  ‘Take that one,’ Jimmy says, pointing at the next car along, and gets in the back of the Nissan.

  Maria will talk to him, he’s pretty sure of that, and it’ll add a whole new dimension to the story.

  ‘Sandymount,’ he says to the driver, ‘Strand Road.’

  So Phil Sweeney can just . . .

  ‘That’s not a bad one.’

  ‘No,’ Jimmy says, as they cruise past the spot where he left Maria a few minutes earlier, ‘no, not a bad one at all.’

  *

  On his way down in the elevator of the BRX Building in Manhattan, Clark Rundle is about to flick through the latest issue of Vanity Fair to look for the article when he gets a call from Don Ribcoff.

  ‘Yeah, Don,’ he says, putting the magazine under his arm, ‘what’s up?’

  ‘Clark, I need five minutes. Are you around?’

  Rundle looks at his watch. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock, Don. I’m leaving the building. It’s been a long day.’ He’s also had this copy of Vanity Fair in his possession since lunchtime, and has managed to hold off opening it until now. He resents the intrusion.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Not really, Clark, no. Where are you headed? Let me meet you there.’

  ‘I’m going to the Orpheus Room. I’m meeting Jimmy Vaughan for a drink.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘Look, why don’t you join us?’

  ‘Twenty minutes?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Rundle closes the phone. The elevator door hums open and he steps out into the lobby area.

  Seems he’s not the only one leaving the building.

  As he walks through the crowds, Rundle keeps the Vanity Fair under his arm, with the cover concealed. It’s absurd, but he feels a little self-conscious. He’s been interviewed before, many times, but usually under controlled conditions and not until multiple confidentiality clauses have been agreed to and signed.

  None of which applied with Vanity Fair, of course.

  Rundle didn’t mind, though. He was doing it for J.J., for this campaign he might be running. Plus, he finds there’s a certain cachet to being profiled in VF that even he isn’t immune to.

  He’ll read the article in the car.

  Out on Fifth it is warm. The air is still heavy and the evening sun is struggling to break through the haze.

  He crosses the sidewalk. His driver holds open the door of the waiting limo and he gets in. As far as Rundle is concerned, the interior of a car like this, with its tinted windows and chilled hum, is a
refuge, one of the modern world’s few remaining private spaces. Advances in telecommunications haven’t helped much in this regard, but he still tries his best. Phone-time is kept to a minimum, and e-mails are ignored.

  Settling in now, he places the magazine in his lap and looks at the cover. It shows an actress he doesn’t recognise. She is pale and blonde, with icy blue eyes. She’s got blood-red lipstick on and is wearing a mantilla.

  Pastiche forties.

  A Veronica Lake wannabe. A Veronica Lake-alike. She’s pretty cute, though.

  Her name, apparently, is Brandi Klugmann and she’s in some new blockbuster franchise.

  He scans the rest of the cover for article titles. He finds what he’s looking for at the bottom.

  The Rundle Supremacy. How brothers Senator John Rundle and BRX chairman Clark Rundle are taking on the world . . . and winning.

  He reads this over a couple of times and nods, as though in agreement with someone sitting in front of him. He then lifts the magazine and gives a preliminary riffle through its glossy, scented pages, catching a rush of images, ads mostly, promissory shards of the erotic and the streamlined.

  Perfume, watches, banks, celebs, real estate porn.

  He looks up and out of the window for a moment. Traffic is light and flowing easily. They’ll be at the Orpheus Room sooner than he expected.

  He goes back to the magazine and quickly locates the article.

  It opens with a two-page spread of photos, some colour, some black and white – he and J.J. at various stages in their lives, together and apart . . . grainy images, weird clothes and, of course, hair, from the seventies, suits thereafter, and less hair . . . J.J. with Karl Rove, J.J. on Meet the Press . . . Clark looking inscrutable at some charity ball, Clark in the cabin of his G-V.

  He scans the text.

  It actually is something of a puff piece – the Rundle brothers, John, 50, and Clark, 48, sons of the legendary Henry C. Rundle, each on a trajectory to stellar success, one in politics, setting his sights on the White House, and the other in business, steering long-held family concern, mining and engineering giant BRX, to global domination. The ‘narrative’ in the article is how close the brothers are, no sibling rivalry, just mutual support, the kind of bond you’d expect from identical twins sort of thing, with anecdotes emanating from the usual sources, how J.J. ceded control of his part of the company to Clark against all legal advice, and how Clark chose to withdraw his name for consideration as commerce secretary under Bush so as not to steal J.J.’s thunder.