Bloodland

by Alan Glynn

  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.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Yeah, whiskey.’ Some throat clearing. ‘Please.’

  As Conway fixes the drinks, thinking maybe this isn’t such a good idea, Sweeney – standing right behind him – starts talking.

  ‘I can’t do anything about Jimmy Gilroy, Dave, I tried, he’s got his teeth into this thing, and . . . you said so yourself, he’s young, he thinks he’s Bob fucking Woodward, thinks he’s – I don’t know – on to something. But the thing is, and here’s my question, how could he be? On to something, I mean?’ Conway listening, not moving, bottle suspended over a glass. ‘I flagged this Susie Monaghan thing for you because my understanding is that you don’t want anything out there drawing attention to the First Continental deal. Which means the conference. Which means that weekend. And which also means, for whatever reason – I never asked, but you were very clear about it at the time – her.’

  Conway pours a measure into the glass, turns around and hands it to Sweeney.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I assumed you’d had a thing with her, didn’t want connections being made.’

  What is this?

  ‘And?’

  ‘Now Larry Bolger is . . .’

  ‘Larry? Jesus, Phil, have you gone soft in the head? The man is demented. He’s delusional.’

  ‘Isn’t that supposed to be my line, D
ave?’

  ‘Yeah, well, why aren’t you sticking to it?’

  ‘Because . . . I don’t know . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s real here and what isn’t, what’s spin and what’s truth.’

  ‘I thought that was the whole point, Phil. Of Marino Communications. Of you. Of why we all pay you so much.’

  ‘For the little stuff, maybe, expense sheets and zipper trouble, for papering over the cracks, but this . . .’ He shrugs, shakes his head, searching for the words.

  ‘This, Phil?’

  ‘Something about this stinks to high heaven.’

  Conway’s had enough, and snaps. He swipes the glass out of Sweeney’s hand. ‘Get out of my house, Phil. And you know what? I don’t think I’ll need your services anymore. Consider yourself fired.’ He puts the glass down. ‘Go on, get out.’

  Sweeney stares at him. ‘So Jimmy’s on the right track, is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I’m not telling you anything, Phil. You can choose to believe whatever shit you like. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?’

  Sweeney flinches. ‘Fuck you, Dave.’ He turns and walks out of the room.

  A few seconds later, Conway hears the hall door slamming shut. He reaches around for the drink he took from Sweeney. He knocks it back in one go. He pours another one and knocks that back. Then he notices the one he poured for himself and knocks that back, too.

  7

  Jimmy doesn’t e-mail Francesca Bonacci again until he arrives in Treviso on Monday morning. This is deliberate. He wants to exert a little pressure – both on her and on himself. He tells her he’s getting a train to Verona and will be there by early afternoon. Can they meet? Can he call by? Talk to her mother?

  He sends this while he’s still in the airport terminal.

  Then, in the taxi and on the train, he keeps checking for a reply, until he remembers that she’s seventeen and is probably still at school.

  He has the phone number, but decides to wait a while before using it, at least until he’s settled somewhere, in a hotel or a pensione.

  At this point he allows himself to take it easy for a bit. He sits back, looks out of the window and registers, almost for the first time, that he’s in Italy.

  The views flitting past are a curious mix – lush countryside and dense pockets of industrial activity, rolling green hills and boxy grey factory units. As the train snakes into the city, this gives way to another curious mix – dusty, high-rise apartment blocks and elegant two-storey villas with pink slate roofing and green shutters.

  He gets a taxi from the station into the city centre. It takes no more than five minutes. He could have easily walked it, but he didn’t know. This is because he omitted to do any travel research before leaving Dublin, a situation he now rectifies by stopping at a newsstand and buying a guidebook.

  It’s a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and as he sits on a bench in Piazza Bra, beneath the cedar trees, looking through the gushing fountain to the Arena, Jimmy wonders what he’s doing here. He has a very limited budget and his grand plan doesn’t seem to extend a whole lot beyond doorstepping Gianni Bonacci’s widow.

  But what choice does he have? What other course of action was open to him? None that he can think of. Because talking on the phone and exchanging e-mails wasn’t ever going to be enough. To get at the truth, you need eye contact, body language. Especially with a story like this. In any case, he’ll give it a couple of days, and see. Maybe something will come of it. Maybe nothing will.

  Isn’t that how it works?

  He flicks through the guidebook and marks down three possible places to stay.

  He walks along Via Mazzini, a narrow pedestrianised street of luxury boutiques and jewellery shops. This leads onto another piazza, one dominated by an enormous medieval tower.

  He keeps wandering, and consulting the map in his guidebook, until he eventually finds the first of the three hotels. It’s fine – cheap and clean – and when he’s checked in he falls on the bed and dozes for a while. Then he takes a shower.

  At about five o’clock, an e-mail arrives from Francesca.

  She seems slightly alarmed that he’s here and says she’ll have to talk with her mother first, before anything can happen.

  Jimmy replies, giving her his mobile number. Then he flops onto the bed again, and waits. He turns on the TV and flicks around for a while, but there’s no CNN or Sky, just what seem like local channels, with endless ads, cartoons and chat shows. None of which he can follow. After about twenty minutes, his mobile rings.

  He reaches over and grabs it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Gilroy?’

  ‘Yes. Hi. Francesca.’

  ‘Hi. Mr Gilroy. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He shunts over and sits up on the edge of the bed. ‘But please, call me Jimmy.’

  ‘OK. Jimmy.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘I am well. Thank you. Jimmy.’

  ‘Good, good.’ This is awkward. He stands up. ‘So?’

  ‘Er, allora, I spoke with my mother, and –’

  ‘Yes?’

  Jimmy braces himself.

  ‘She would like to invite you to dinner. At our house. For this evening. If you are free.’

  *

  Sitting in the back of a black taxi, as it inches its way along Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square, Bolger sends Mary a quick text. He tells her he’s arrived and is on his way to the hotel. Over the weekend, they’d talked about her coming with him, for moral support, but they eventually decided against it. Bolger’s exclusive focus, they agreed, should be on the interview. All going to plan, however, there’s no reason they couldn’t both come over in the near future, and do some shopping, or maybe even, if appropriate, a spot of house hunting.

  The traffic in London this morning is heavy and the weather is unseasonably warm. Bolger feels a headache coming on.

  When he gets to the hotel in Bloomsbury he takes a quick shower and then goes over some notes he made. The interview is at three o’clock. It’s in another hotel, somewhere in Knightsbridge.

  Though really, interview.

  It’s not quite how he sees it, not quite the word he’d use.

  A process maybe, a getting-to-know-you type of thing.

  Terms and conditions.

  He’s never actually sat for a job interview before. Unless you count getting elected. Multiple times. The closest he’s probably ever come was that lunch in the Wilson, which –

  Oh.

  He sees it now. Another hotel. A certain symmetry.

  The hand of Vaughan.

  Well, whatever. He’ll do what he has to do. The jobs pool for ex-prime ministers isn’t that big. There also tends to be a window for these things and he hasn’t exactly been making the best use of his time. The manner in which he was forced to relinquish office didn’t help either, of course. And he’ll admit it now, he left in a huff. He withdrew from public life altogether, wouldn’t give interviews, didn’t take a staff with him. It wasn’t a good strategy. It wasn’t a strategy at all. The two things he did do were lobby for that IMF job and sign the contract to write his memoirs – but look how he got on with both of those.

  So in a sense this is a reprieve – a second chance, maybe even a last chance – and he’s determined not to squander it. He’s still quite nervous, though. And with good reason. He might have dodged one bullet, from Vaughan, but there are others out there – that thing in the paper last week, the couple out walking their dog, and then the young journalist he shot his mouth off to. That was an extraordinary lapse of judgement. OK, he’d been drinking, but when was that ever a valid excuse? Anyway, he’s heard nothing about it since, and can only suppose that Dave Conway has taken the matter in hand.

  Bolger has a light lunch in the hotel restaurant. Then he freshens up – shaves, changes – and gets ready to go.

  As the porter is hailing him a cab, a text message arrives from Mary, wishing him
luck. In the cab he sends her one back, saying that he doesn’t need luck, he has her. Bolger doesn’t often get sentimental, but he’s not a fool either, he appreciates what he’s got in Mary, the love, the attentiveness, the unquestioning support. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to function. Without it, his career would have gone belly-up years ago.

  The hotel in Knightsbridge is called the Marlow and is a boutique establishment owned – Bolger is assuming – by the Oberon Capital Group. It’s a medium-sized modern building sandwiched in between two ugly redbrick residential piles typical of this part of London.

  He enters the lobby, which is spacious and very chic, a swirl of design elements he couldn’t possibly absorb at a single glance. He approaches the desk and is greeted by the receptionist, an attractive young woman in a discreet uniform. She is blonde and has bright blue eyes.

  And blood-red lipstick.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the Marlow.’

  And a slightly haughty English accent of the kind that Bolger, as an Irishman of a certain age, still finds it impossible, somewhere deep inside himself, not to be intimidated by.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ He clears his throat. ‘Er . . . for Mr Lund. I’m Mr Bolger.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Bolger, of course. Would you care to take a seat?’ She indicates an area next to a decorative reflection pond in the centre of the lobby. ‘Mr Lund will be with you shortly.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He turns away from the desk and glances around. Then he walks over towards the reflection pond.

  When he was Taoiseach, Bolger would never have found himself alone at a location like this. There would always have been staff, civil servants, advisors, not to mention a security detail.

  You wouldn’t get a former British PM wandering around alone. It’s a difference in scale, he supposes, between the two countries. Or a question of resources. Until recently, the Irish state provided round-the-clock security outside the homes of its former leaders. Then, for whatever reason, they decided to pull the plug.

  He’s lucky he still has the state car.

  ‘Excuse me.’