'Well, he said hello.'
'Who did you talk to?'
'There was no one there really. The regulars had moved on. I caught up with them in O'Neill's. It's a moveable feast.'
'Nobody?'
The playwright didn't answer for a moment. Then he said,
'I know what you want. You want to know about that Garda that was killed the other day in Blackrock. You're going at in a roundabout way, aren't you?'
'Shut up and answer the question.'
'I hadn't planned on meeting anyone specifically. Is that the right answer?' Minogue stood up and left the room. He dialled home from a phone on the front desk.
'I'll be kind of late, sorry.'
'What's up, Matt?' Kathleen asked.
'Well. You'll find out sooner or later. A Garda was shot. Another one. I'm with Jimmy Kilmartin. We're sort of observing right now. He'll be wanting me for something, I'm sure.'
Minogue's ear prickled against the phone. He listened to the sound of his wife breathing. He could hear the radio in the background.
Barely audible, she said, 'All right so.'
'I'll be all right now. Don't worry. Leave it in the oven for me, whatever it is.'
By the time they reached Swords, Allen noticed that Agnes had relaxed into the seat.
'Let the seat back if you want,' he said.
She smiled.
Allen thought that this must be what a honeymoon couple felt, the man at least. He wanted to believe that they belonged like this, she sitting beside him in the car, not needing to talk. If his instincts were right, soon they'd be laughing about it. She would laugh and say, 'And I thought it was only me.' Or would she?
Sleepily, Agnes said, 'You don't have to drive me to Belfast you know. I can get the bus from Newry. What's the point, you have to drive back to Newry again. Really.'
'It's nothing, Agnes,' Allen said, relishing the echoed name in his memory. 'I'm a day early. I'll probably stay over in Belfast anyway.'
'I write plays and articles. Didn't you read my file? I talk to anyone and everyone.'
Minogue sat down again. Over the speaker he heard someone walking, opening a door and then closing it. Minogue recognised one of the two plain clothes who had been in the room with the playwright.
Without being asked, one of the men at the table said,
'Can't tell. He knows the routine, that's the thing.'
The other at the table nodded. Kilmartin folded his arms.
'Check with the barmen and his pals anyway.'
Kilmartin cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice,
'Tell him why he's here. He won't be expecting that. Just tell him.'
'I don't think he did it either,' Kilmartin continued, 'but I'll bet that our patriotic bloody playwright will see he's in over his head with this. The man is a complete hypocrite. He's probably never been in on a shooting or the like in his life. Tell him. Put the fear of God in him and stop farting around. We don't have too much time if whoever did it is on the move.'
Plain clothes left the room. They heard him returning to the interview room.
'We're holding you on suspicion of murder. A Garda officer was murdered today in the middle of Dublin. Murder of a Garda, who's in the course of his duty, is a capital offence in this state. You'll be tested for evidence that you discharged a firearm recently-'
'You'll find out then that I didn't,' the playwright interrupted.
'You won't be able to worm out of being an accomplice. Same thing in the end and you'll not find the climate too sympathetic when it comes to sentencing. Judges don't like policemen being shot dead.'
'You're out of your mind,' the playwright said slowly.
There was a minute's silence over the speaker.
'Anything to add, McCarthy?'
Minogue listened keenly. When the playwright spoke, Minogue felt a mixture of relief and loathing. McCarthy had lived up to Kilmartin's expectations. He had realised that the rules had changed. Like Kilmartin and Minogue, this was suddenly not his Ireland either.
'Look. I meet all kinds of people. I didn't know I was being followed. There's plenty of lunatics out there. There's this fellow who started to tell me-his story. He's an American. Said he knew of me and wanted to get in touch with republicans or something. I tried to give him the brush. Who knows what kind of a nutcase he might be?'
Minogue's sixth sense told him this was only part of it. McCarthy was parcelling out bits to sell off.
'I don't know the first thing about him.'
'How did you meet him?'
'He came over to me in the pub.'
Minogue saw Kilmartin shaking his head slowly. He wondered what infinitesimal signs had brought Kilmartin to the same conclusion as himself that McCarthy was lying. There was something else to it.
'Just walked over? Never saw him before?'
'Never.'
'Describe him.'
'Youngish, I'd say. He'd be in his late thirties. He dresses fancy, sort of.'
'A man with no name?'
'Never told me a name. I didn't ask. I could care less what his name is.'
Kilmartin turned to the detectives listening to the speaker.
'What's the story on the business in Blackrock?' he asked.
'We've picked up more suspects off the lists anyway. No sign of the actual killers, but they have to turn up somewhere. They might steal a car or turn up at a house under surveillance,' one of the detectives replied cagily.
'See any links with today?' Kilmartin murmured.
No one answered. This is the belief, Minogue thought, that is why nobody can say it.
'The place is full of Yanks, that's the thing. It'd be like McCarthy to work up an imaginary Yank to explain everything,' the Special Branch man said.
'Yes, but what kind of a Yank would pull a stunt like this? Assuming this Yank really exists at all and McCarthy isn't spinning out rope for someone else's neck…?'
Kilmartin's belly ached. It was like someone had stabbed him. He stole a glance at Minogue. No awkwardness rubbed against them now. They listened again to the speaker.
'How do you know he was American?'
'Accent.'
'Drawl? New York maybe?'
'I don't know anything about that. He didn't sound like a cowboy.'
'Where is he staying?'
'Jases, I don't know. He just came up to me out of the blue,' the playwright replied.
'How did he know to go to you?'
'How would I know? Maybe I have fans out there and they put him my way.'
'What did he talk to you about? You said he wanted to meet republicans.'
'Said he wanted to write a piece on the Troubles here. Wanted to get'the real story,' he says. I told him to shag off but he kept on yapping and asking me things.'
'What things?'
'It's hard to know where to start…'
The playwright was back in role now, Minogue thought. The confidence was returning to him. He was off acting again. The wall between his inner landscape and the real world had collapsed years ago. Maybe he wanted
