‘He’s fine, everything’s fine.’ He was glad she didn’t offer him any examples of exactly how fine her husband’s life was. She told him a story about a carpenter who’d been hired to fit shelves in the new shop, a perfectionist who insisted it wasn’t good enough that the shelves be strong enough to hold things up, everything had to be rebated or bevelled or dovetailed. ‘The difference between ordinary and
extra
ordinary is that little bit extra.’ She imitated his avuncular tones and his knowing nod. ‘He’s a charmer. Before we knew it, a three-hundred-euro job was looking like a bargain at twice the price.’
Callaghan was smiling. ‘Some genius hired him on an hourly rate, right?’
Hannah nodded. ‘I fired him this morning.’ She smiled. ‘This afternoon, I’m firing the genius who hired him.’
Same old Hannah.
More than a decade earlier, when Callaghan had quit college and set up his cabinet-making business, Hannah had acted as an unofficial, unpaid back office, hustling for work for him and chasing debtors. It was like she pulled on a new personality when she was doing business. No mercy, no limit, forever thinking five moves ahead, anticipating sharp practice and prepared to respond in kind.
Callaghan had never grown used to the contrast between that Hannah and the woman who could make his blood flow faster just by showing up. She smiled at him now, aware that he was appraising her. Her dark hair was shorter than it had been the last time they’d met, otherwise she was the same as ever. Her clothes expensive, conservative, mostly dark colours, her skin pale, a minimum of make-up, and the small smile that peeled him open and left him deeply aware of his vulnerability.
She asked him about the training course he’d mentioned the last time they met and he said he’d decided to give it a miss. ‘The driving, for now, that’s the kind of work I need.’ There was a time when she would have insisted on discussing that, gently nudging him one way or another, but for now she seemed to accept that what he needed was work without pressure, life without ambition.
‘Made up your mind about the takeover offer?’
She said, ‘Almost. Soon as the print shop’s up and running, I’ll appoint a manager and move on.’
‘Congratulations.’
Hannah made a small pumping gesture with a fist, a triumphal signal that she used to mark a victory. It was one of the countless minor intimacies he remembered from their time together. He’d long accepted the finality of his detachment from her life, at the same time aware that for him the sense of their intimacy had never faded. He didn’t know if it was affection or a sense of obligation that moved Hannah, and now it didn’t matter – he accepted things as they were. His remoteness from her life seemed to exist comfortably along with the elation he still felt when he saw, heard or thought of her.
‘Anything else?’
The waiter was back. The lunchtime trade was drifting in. Hannah had taken only sips of her coffee. Callaghan hadn’t touched his.
As Callaghan paid, Hannah leaned forward and said, ‘You probably think I’ve forgotten – Saturday night?’
Callaghan said, ‘Saturday – what?’ He tried to sound puzzled, but he knew he wasn’t convincing.
‘Dinner party?’
The phone call from Hannah had been ten days ago. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he’d said. Now, as they emerged onto the pavement outside the restaurant, Hannah raised her eyebrows and waited.
Callaghan shrugged. ‘What I said – it’s really not my kind of thing.’
‘What you said was you’d think about it.’
Callaghan said, ‘I’ve never been a big fan of dinner parties. Dinner’s something you eat – and what I remember about parties is they’re places where you drink a lot and make a show of yourself trying to get off with someone.’
‘We’re not teenagers any more. Besides, how many parties have you been to, the last seven months?’
There were three men standing several feet away, the two younger ones seemingly awed as they watched an older man swear viciously into his mobile, telling someone that was fucking
it
. ‘Too
late
, old flower. The deal’s done and you’re
out
. You’ve just destroyed yourself.’
Callaghan said, ‘Some people love their work.’ He and Hannah began to walk towards her office.
Hannah said, ‘What about Saturday?’
‘You really don’t have to organise my social life.’
‘Come for my sake, then – I’d love to see you there. Just a couple of hours with pleasant people, no pressure.’
‘I’ll see.’
Her smile said she knew he was saying it to shut her up.
When they came out of the casino Rowe was sober, Warner was mildly pissed, but the guy from 257 Solutions was walking like his
legs had been disconnected from his brain. Pissed or stoned, more probably both. His expression was tight, worried, as though he’d just begun to wonder if he was making a fool of himself.
Callaghan had spent the afternoon ferrying Rowe and Warner to and from their meetings, and waiting in between. Then he dropped them back to the hotel at Northern Cross and had a couple of hours off. He went home, cooked his first real meal of the day and watched something mindless on television. When he got back to the Hilton he found he now had three passengers. The 257 Solutions guy – name of Costigan – had volunteered to take the visitors on the town. The private casino, widely touted as the coolest hang-out for the financially overconfident, was the final stop. The kind of place it was, the drink was sold at a discount, ensuring that idiots like Costigan swallowed enough alcohol to boost their self-belief in direct proportion to the rate at which it dimmed their judgement. An evening of showing off meant that Costigan would spend the next few months clearing his credit card bill.
Callaghan had the rear kerbside door open when they reached the Tuareg and he helped Rowe ease the drunk inside. ‘We’ll drop him off first,’ Rowe said. Callaghan nodded. When he got behind the wheel he looked back and Rowe was helping the drunk into his seat belt. Warner slid into the front passenger seat.
‘Where are we off to?’ As Callaghan eased away from the kerb the drunk moaned. Callaghan was already pushing his door open as he braked, then he slid out of the car and was reaching to open the rear right passenger door when a blue Ford van coming from behind almost clipped him.
Shit
.
As Callaghan pressed himself back against the car to avoid the blue van, he figured the delay might well make his effort pointless. After the van was past – dark blue with white writing on the side – he jerked open the door, then stood back as the drunk’s upper body flopped forward and vomit splashed onto the road.
Getting the door open in time made the difference between going straight home after he’d dropped his passengers and spending an hour in Novak’s garage, ridding the car of the stains and the smell.
‘He needs a minute,’ Rowe said. He got out of the car and lit up a cigarette. Callaghan shook his head at the offer of a smoke.
‘You work for that idiot?’ he said. Costigan from 257 Solutions was taking long, noisy breaths.
‘We’re freelance consultants,’ Rowe said. ‘We work for a lot of people, most of them far more clueless than our friend. He’s kept that company alive single-handed for the past year.’
‘You give advice?’
‘Mostly we take the blame. These days, the world’s full of corporate heroes who’re paid so much they’re terrified to make a decision in case it’s the wrong one. So they hire consultants to draw up reports and recommendations. Then they make a wild guess. If things go well they take the praise. If things go wrong they blame the consultants.’
‘Professional scapegoats?’
Rowe smiled. ‘Very highly paid scapegoats. Consultants are God’s way of telling a company it has too much money.’
‘You get much work over here?’
‘Dublin’s been a gold mine for years. Things are tighter now.’
An advance party of raindrops danced on the car roof. Callaghan leaned into the car and asked the 257 Solutions guy if he was okay.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ There was an edge to his voice, as though the question was preposterous and offensive.
Rowe took a last drag on his cigarette. ‘I’ll give you warning if there’s a problem.’
Callaghan said, ‘Thanks.’
When the phone rang, Lar Mackendrick ignored it, his attention focused on the book he was reading.
The Art of War
, written by a
Chinaman named Sun Tzu. It wasn’t an easy read. Mackendrick was rereading a paragraph that had puzzled him first time around. He let the phone ring, as he took his time with the troublesome paragraph.
The phone finally stopped.
Three minutes later it rang again.
Lar put down the Chinaman’s book.
‘Mr Mackendrick?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Walter Bennett, Mr Mackendrick.’
For a moment Mackendrick didn’t register the name. Little over twenty-four hours since Walter had survived Karl Prowse’s best efforts. The last thing Lar expected was a call from the little fucker.
‘Walter, how the hell are you?’
Mackendrick wondered had the little man gone to the police after all, and was the phone call being recorded.
Bennett paused, as though surprised by the warmth in Mackendrick’s voice.
‘I did nothing, Mr Mackendrick, nothing to deserve this.’
‘What?’
‘Please, Mr Mackendrick—’
‘Is everything okay, Walter?’
‘I want to know why Karl Prowse tried to kill me.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘I did nothing wrong—’
‘Walter, what’s this about?’
‘I did nothing—’
Mackendrick applied a layer of shock to his voice. ‘Please, Walter – from the beginning – when did this happen?’
Bullshit
.
No way he didn’t know
.
‘Walter?’
Walter said nothing.
‘Please, Walter, what happened?’
It was misting rain and Walter leaned back against the steel shutters of the flower shop. A couple of teenage girls, both slightly drunk, came chattering past. They went into the café next door. Walter had been having a late-night snack when the anxiety became too much. On an impulse he went outside to find privacy for the phone call. No answer. He felt relieved and went back into the café and ordered another pot of tea. He’d hardly sat when the anxiety propelled him back outside, making the call again.
‘There’s no way Karl – you
had
to know!’
‘Walter, I swear – obviously someone’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Whatever’s happened, we can sort it out. Now,
please
, Walter, what the fuck
happened
?’
Mackendrick sounded pissed to be in the dark about this. Maybe—
Karl – the shithead—
If Mackendrick doesn’t know what happened, that means Karl’s been afraid to tell him. Fucker’s running a thing of his own
.
‘Swear to me, Mr Mackendrick.’
‘I swear to you, Walter, on my mother’s grave, that I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Karl and someone else, I think it was Robbie Nugent, I didn’t see his face but it had to be – look, Karl’s always—’
‘What did he do?’
‘They had guns, Mr Mackendrick, they came into a pub, both of them – I was fucking lucky to get out of there alive.’
‘Walter, I’ll come round to your place – we need to—’
‘I’m not at home.’
‘Where are you staying?’
Walter shook his head. He kept respect in his voice when he said, ‘Mr Mackendrick, it’s not that I – I just don’t want to say.’
‘That’s fair enough. A thing like this – look, Walter – whatever happened, it had nothing to do with me and I’m really angry. You know I’m depending on you, Walter, and – I swear to you, whatever caused this balls-up, nothing like this will happen again.
Ever
.’
Walter opened his mouth, desperately needing to believe in Mackendrick, and closed it again, afraid of his own need for reassurance.
‘You ring me back tomorrow, Walter, or the next day, whenever you feel okay with that. I won’t sleep on it – tonight, soon as I hang up, I’m going to find out what the hell’s going on. When you’re ready, we’ll meet, we’ll sort this out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I can’t imagine what it’s about, but – Jesus Christ—’
Walter had never heard Mackendrick lose his composure. Where there had only been dread, there was now a sliver of hope.
‘Leave it with me, Walter, leave it with me.’
When the call ended, Walter stood in the street, holding the phone down by his side, wondering if he dared go home after all. The rain was heavier now and his jacket was soaked. He decided going home would be stupid. It’d have to be Sissy’s sofa again tonight.
Danny Callaghan was on his second Scotch, standing at the window of his apartment, the lights out. He let his tongue play with the taste, then let the liquid down.
A good day
.
Behind him, the radio was playing something soft and melodic. It was a classical station he’d listened to a lot in prison. Callaghan didn’t know any of the composers, he hardly ever registered the titles of pieces. He just liked the feeling that came with the music. In prison the radio had been important, and it remained a part
of his day. Mostly music, usually switching to RTE to get news on the hour. He listened to most of the news shows and the phone-ins. When he was inside, news of the real world had been important. If he knew what was happening he could have opinions about it, he could feel like he was still part of that world. He read a couple of newspapers each day, the real ones, the ones you could almost believe were telling something close to the truth.