Winterland (51 page)

But what Gina is most afraid of now, as she pushes on against the wind, past the Martello Tower, is that Norton is pulling her towards something else again, something awful – a confession she doesn’t want to hear, a revelation she doesn’t need to know about. She’s afraid that he is pulling her towards a place from which there can be no route back, that he is pulling her towards annihilation.

She looks ahead, along the remaining stretch of promenade, and thinks of the two Noels. She thinks of Dermot Flynn, of Mark Griffin’s parents and sister. She thinks of all their lost, stolen futures.

Then she thinks of Mark himself, of his uncertain future, and of her own future, the reality and promise of each diminishing, slipping away with the passing hours, and as a plea, almost as a prayer, she gazes up and asks out loud what it will take, if anything, to save them.

*

What he did that night …

As Norton approaches the level crossing, the light turns red and the gates come down.

He waits, feeling overwhelmed all of a sudden – exhausted, short of breath.

What he did that night barely seems real to him anymore. It was so long ago now, and seems less like a sequence of concrete actions than a fragment from a dream – and a half-remembered,
mis
remembered one at that.

He stares through the gates, over to Strand Road.

But he was only doing what had to be done … to protect his interests, his family, his business. Just like tonight. Just like that other night, a while back, with Fitz.

In a sudden burst, the DART train, an illuminated streak of green, hurtles past along the railway line, click-clacking, click-clacking, the force of it seeming to correspond to – seeming to be commensurate with – the sudden force now pressing in on Norton’s chest.

He closes his eyes, and the pain subsides.

Frank Bolger came to the house that night. The house on Griffith Avenue. He was on his way to a meeting in Drogheda and stopped by to have a quick word with Norton about the proposed rezoning of the Dunbrogan estate. Standing at the front door, he said he wanted to clarify his position – and face to face, man to man, not through the usual, twisted, sniping back channels that were so typical of local politics. He felt that Norton was a reasonable man and would respect Frank’s position if it was presented to him in a proper and honest fashion. Norton invited him in. He was alone in the house. Miriam was out for the evening, at the theatre. They went through to the kitchen and sat down. Frank was nervous, but coming here like this showed he had balls.

Norton actually admired him.

Click-clack, click-clack …

No compromise was going to be possible between them, though – because there was nothing new in Frank’s much-vaunted ‘position’. Dunbrogan House was a part of our heritage, he argued, and taking the wrecking ball to it would be nothing less than a tragedy. Blah, blah, blah. He then added – his voice a little shaky, but desperately earnest – that he wasn’t going to be bullied or intimidated. He knew his old man wasn’t happy about the stand he was taking either, but this was a matter of principle for him. So not only did he intend lobbying further against the rezoning,
and
speaking out about the dubious voting records of certain councillors, he also intended to publicly berate Miriam’s father for selling off the property in the first place. And he made no apology for the fact.

Norton stared at him in disbelief.

Click-clack, click-clack …

‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,’ he remembers saying.

Frank was the one who laughed, but nervously. Then he looked at his watch.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘I just wanted to get that straight, put it on the record.’ He cleared his throat and made a move to get up. ‘Right. I’d better be going. I don’t want to be late.’

Norton waved a dismissive hand at this.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘The roads will be quiet at this hour. You’ll fly up.’

It was in that moment – panic rising in his throat, like bile – that it came to him.

Click-clack, click-clack …

What he could do.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Frank. I can see there’s no point. But I want to thank you for coming, I respect you for it.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, you’ll have a drop for the road? Call it a peace offering.’

Frank hesitated, and then said, ‘Sure, why not?’

‘Good. I’ll … just be a minute.’

Click-clack, click-clack …

Norton left the kitchen. The drinks cabinet was in the living room. But he went upstairs first, and into the bedroom. He went over to Miriam’s bedside table. He picked up her bottle of sleeping pills. He opened it and shook one out into the palm of his hand. He went back downstairs. In the living room he poured out two drinks, whiskey with a splash of soda water. He crushed the pill between his thumb and forefinger and sprinkled it into the glass for Frank. He watched it dissolve. He had no real idea what he was doing, if it would work or not, or what effect it would have – but it was
something
, and he was desperate, because although Frank Bolger was earnest and naive, he was popular, he had that sheen to him, people listened, they paid attention …

Click-clack, click-clack …

Norton brought the glasses into the kitchen, handed one to Frank and raised his own.

‘Your health.’

‘Cheers.’

A few minutes later, Frank Bolger left. Got into his car. Took the airport road.

Click-clack, click-clack …

Drove north. Then came, at one point – drowsy, dreamy, seeing double – to a sharp bend in the road, where another …

Click-clack, click-clack …

Norton opens his eyes.

As suddenly as it appeared, the DART train is gone … and he’s staring through the gates again at Strand Road.

But staring vacantly, distractedly.

Because it’s a long time since he’s done
that
, recalled it in sequence, recalled it whole. It’s a long time since he’s even thought about it at all.

But then, as the gates lift, the pain in his chest returns …

How easy it would be, Mark thinks, to surrender here, to drift off, to lose consciousness …

Which he probably
would
do, if it weren’t for the incredible tension in his right arm and wrist, and the effort it’s taking to hold this sharp-edged piece of ceramic tightly against the side of his neck.

A few feet away, leaning against the opposite wall, the guard is chewing his lip, jigging his right leg, waiting.

After he’d frantically fed Mark’s instructions into his walkie-talkie and then listened for a moment, he’d held the walkie-talkie up and said, ‘Couple of minutes. Two or three.
Tops
.’

But a hundred and eighty seconds?

That’s an eternity.

And it’s already been longer than that.

Farther down the hall, people are hovering, watching. Mark can’t see them clearly.

He can’t see anything clearly.

At his feet, the trickle of blood is inching forward and will soon be making contact with the pool of clear fluid from the burst infusion bag.

Mark glares at the guard.

‘
Tell them to hurry up
.’

This time the pain is in Norton’s shoulder, too, and all down his left arm.

He struggles to release the handbrake. Then he struggles to get a firm grip on the gearstick. When the bastard in the car behind beeps him several times in rapid succession, Norton rallies briefly and somehow manages to shunt the car forward – over the tracks and around to the left.

But once he is on this short tree-lined stretch of road that leads to the seafront, the pain intensifies, and is so severe for a couple of seconds that all he can see is a blinding flash of white light.

But he rallies again.

He spots a parking space on the right, in front of a large grey house, and on the spur of the moment – but awkwardly, without indicating – swerves over and pulls into it.

The car behind beeps him once more as it passes.

Closing his eyes, Norton heaves a long, nervous sigh.

At the end of the promenade, Gina turns around and starts walking back towards the Martello Tower. Behind it, looming in the distance, is that other tower, Richmond Plaza. Glimmering through the mist, white points of light dotted here and there, the building looks ghostly and insubstantial – though Gina understands that teams of welders are already in place, busily working around the clock to make headway on the repairs.

She looks away, a little queasy at the thought of her direct involvement in all of this. It’s like an anxiety dream, one in which she has somehow – improbably, and with disastrous consequences – got mixed up in her brother’s affairs.

She glances out across the bay, and then looks at her watch.

But it’s not a dream, is it?

She stops at a bench and sits down.

In the background, she hears a car horn – a quick, impatient series of beeps.

She takes the glass paperweight out of her pocket, holds it in her lap, looks at it.

Millefiori.

A thousand flowers. What’s she going to do? Hit him over the head with a thousand flowers?

Oh
God
, she suddenly thinks.

This is hopeless. It’s insanity.

She gazes out into the heaving darkness.

Then she gets up, replaces the paperweight in her pocket, walks back towards the end of the promenade and passes over to the pavement running along by the main road.

Norton opens his eyes, tries to focus.

A few feet ahead of him there is another parked car, and several more beyond that. Farther on again, he can see the promenade.

But he can also –

He leans forward and stares for a second.

He can also see …
Gina
…

She’s maybe a hundred yards away, at the end of the promenade, and walking in this direction.

He’s pretty sure it’s her.

Jesus
.

He reaches across to the glove compartment and opens it.

With any luck he mightn’t even have to get out of the car. He could be gone from here in minutes, before anyone …

He presses the button for the window. It hums open.

He looks ahead. She’s getting closer, but slowly.

He puts a hand up to his chest.

Jesus, woman, come
on
.

There is a crackle of static and the guard holds the walkie talkie up to his ear.

‘Yeah?’

Mark leans forward on the bench, straining to hear, every nerve end in his body alert now.

The guard fumbles in his breast pocket for a notebook and pen.

Mark takes a deep breath.

He glances down the corridor.

There is some activity at the far end, through a set of double doors, but he can’t make out what’s going on.

He looks back at the guard.

‘Come
on
.’

The guard tears a page from his notebook and steps forward, nervously, arm outstretched, as though feeding a lion through the bars of a cage.

Mark grabs the piece of paper with his free hand and puts it down beside him on the bench.

With the same hand he fishes the mobile phone out of his gown pocket. He glances around and then quickly starts punching in the number.

*

Where the hell is Norton?

This is the direction he should be coming from.

She keeps moving.

Up ahead there are some parked cars, but somehow she doesn’t feel good about this.

After another few paces her mobile starts vibrating in the pocket of her jeans.

She slows down.

Maybe it’s Norton.

She stops, extracts the phone.

Looks at the display. New number.

Shit
.

She hesitates. Not
now
. But still brings the phone up to her ear.

‘Hello?’

‘
Gina?
’

It takes her a second.

‘
Mark?
’ She spins around to face the sea again, something inside her also turning. ‘Thank God. You’re OK.’

Grinding the nurse’s phone into the side of his skull, Mark wonders if this is true, if he
is
OK, because he doesn’t feel it, doesn’t feel he has the strength to go on.

But all he has said so far is her name.

And that’s not enough.

‘
Listen
to me,’ he then says, each syllable on its own taking so much effort he can’t even be sure they’re coming out in a logical sequence. ‘
Stay away from Paddy Norton. Don’t go to meet him
.’

Gina is taken aback by this – not so much by the fact that Mark seems to know where she’s going, but by his tone. It’s a command, and for weeks that’s all she’s been hearing, commands, and negative ones, don’t do this, don’t do that …

Not something she responds well to.

And yet … and yet …

Isn’t there something different about this one? Isn’t he someone, of all people, she
should
listen to?

For his part, Mark – hanging on by a thread, waiting for some kind of reaction from Gina – can’t help suspecting that he might be seriously deluded here, or insane, or just
too late
– a feeling that is compounded when he suddenly hears, down the phone line, a dull thud … followed by shattering glass and the sound of an alarm …

He freezes.

Waits.

Is she there?
Please
. Let her still be there, let her
say
it –

‘
Gina?
’ he whispers, unable to bear it any longer. ‘
What was
that?
’

Then, for what feels like ages, but can be only a few seconds, there is silence, nothing, just the muted, filtered wailing of the alarm.

He is about to erupt when Gina speaks, her voice muffled and quiet.