the seafront, but the moon was full, casting its cold brilliance over the deserted scene.
‘You’ve made me very curious, Sean,’ Hathaway said. He indicated the briefcase Reilly had brought with him. ‘Especially with that.’
Reilly looked down.
‘Oh that.’ He reached in and withdrew a pile of thin books. ‘I’ve seen you’re a bit of a reader, John,’ he said.
‘It’s Elaine. She’s studying American literature. But you wanted to see me in the middle of the night to lend me books?’
Reilly smiled.
‘I’ve been carrying them round for days. Just thought I’d take this opportunity. American literature, eh? Not enough good books at home for her? Well, the Yanks have always been good at finishing what somebody else has started.’
‘She says they’ve colonized our imaginations.’
‘Does she now? That’s a nice bit of phrase-making.’
Reilly passed the books across to Hathaway.
‘I don’t think she invented it. It would be from one of her lectures.’
He looked at the cover of the top book on the pile.
‘ The Great Gatsby.’
‘That is one up to the Americans, that book there. A perfect little thing. If she’s studying American literature, you’ll impress her casually flaunting that around the place.’
Hathaway frowned.
‘I don’t need to impress her, Sean.’
‘I’m sure you don’t, but nevertheless a bit of impressing never goes amiss. Stores up points for the future, when your stock may have dipped. And I’m sure some of her literary friends will be stuffed full of opinion.’
Hathaway smiled and shuffled through the other books.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of proposing that the best of English literature is actually Irish, which I know is an Irish kind of thing to say. Ulysses is a mountain you need to come up on slow, when you’ve trained a bit, so to say. So here’s by way of a foothill.’
‘ Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man by James Joyce. You know he was a bicycle-seat sniffer?’
Reilly gave him a look.
‘Apparently.’ Hathaway said.
‘You’ll see I’ve chosen them all for their brevity, attention spans being what they are among young people today.’
‘Flann O’Brien?’ Hathaway said, holding up the next.
‘Sheer comic genius but he also understands the world better than any politician or priest.’
‘ At Swim Two Birds – strange title.’
‘Strange book. And your last one is a gift from God. W.B. Yeats. Read his “Aedh wishes for the cloths of heaven” and she’ll be putty in your hands – though I’m sure she already is.’
Hathaway grinned and nodded.
‘Thanks, Sean. But I don’t quite understand…’
Sean took a drink and looked up at the moon.
‘I’m not sure I do. I just… your father isn’t a sensitive man.’
‘Agreed.’
‘You’re how old now?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Well, you can understand it. At your age most men of your dad’s generation were killing each other. But, still, the family business…’
‘What about it?’
Reilly’s eyes glittered.
‘It kills the soul,’ he said softly. ‘Before I took up soldiering I was all kinds of things. Maybe I’ll get back to some of them one day.’ He pushed out his lower lip. ‘But probably it’s too late.’
Hathaway put the books down on the floor beside him.
‘I’ll take a look at them, I promise.’ He gave a false smile. ‘If only to impress Elaine’s poncy friends.’
‘What I’m trying to say, John, is that I wasn’t really joking about the Mephistophelean pact. Once you fully commit to the family business, there’s no way back.’ He looked at Hathaway sharply. ‘But maybe it’s too late already.’
Hathaway watched him over the rim of his glass.
‘I don’t hear you talk about your sister much.’
‘Dawn? Dawn goes her own way, as always.’
‘From what I hear, she could do with some brotherly support.’
‘It was only an abortion, for God’s sake,’ Hathaway said. ‘Women have them every day.’
Reilly looked at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes.
‘And Barbara? Do women get cancer every day?’
‘Probably. Is she why you’re really here? Did she send you?’
Reilly shook his head.
‘She has more class than that.’
‘Class? Running seedy Dutch brothels?’
‘They’re quite classy too, actually. The clientele are usually judges and senior politicians.’
Reilly leaned over and put his hand on Hathaway’s arm.
‘Don’t you owe her anything?’
‘The price of a few fucks?’ Hathaway said.
Reilly removed his arm and sat back. He looked into the sky again. A seagull swooped silently by, ghostly in the moonlight.
‘Maybe it’s too late for you already. Did you or Charlie shoot the Boroni brothers?’
Hathaway refilled their glasses.
‘Slainte,’ Reilly said, chinking his glass against Hathaway’s and keeping his eyes on him.
‘Charlie,’ Hathaway said.
Reilly gave a small nod.
‘But you both had guns?’
Hathaway’s turn to nod.
‘Did you get rid of them?’
‘Charlie did. Mine hadn’t been fired.’
‘Get rid of it. Some people say a gun is just a tool. And, of course, it is. But a gun is also a seducer. A gun wants to be fired. And, sooner or later, whoever has one will fire it.’
‘So what should I do if I don’t go into the family business?’
‘You’ve met this bright young girl, Elaine. Think about a future with her.’
‘In an ashram in India? Will that save my soul?’
Reilly gave a low laugh.
‘Your dad isn’t really Mephistopheles. Your soul is still safe.’
‘Is yours, Sean?’
Reilly looked into his glass.
‘No, there’s no hope for me. I’m for the fiery pit all right.’ He pointed at the books. ‘Books feed my spirit. Music too. But nothing can save my long-lost, long-damned soul.’ He started to rise. ‘But you give those books a try some time. If only to wean yourself off those penny dreadfuls you and your father favour.’
Hathaway nodded absently, still seated. Knowing what neither Sean nor any living being knew: that his soul had been lost years before and there was nothing he could ever do to save it.
