'Turned him inside out. Got down to brass tacks with the real world. Hegel was airy-fairy basically. Everything was ideas for him at the end of the day.'
'Is this part of your training to be a teacher?' Kathleen asked.
'No. Pat told me. He's interested in that stuff, too. As well as the psychology.'
Electrodes. Conditioning. Primates. Hegel, Minogue reflected. This Pat might yet be troublesome.
'Aren't you very'lucky to have met a philosopher and psychologist in one?' Minogue murmured.
CHAPTER 9
Kenyon had his first contact from Moore just after three o'clock that afternoon. It had arrived from the bank, typed up, marked 'transcribed and complete.' The envelope, which was addressed to Mr Glover, had been hand- delivered to Bowers. On the face of it, Moore was reporting his progress to his liaison in Sampson Coutts Bank. He had telephoned and, as arranged, asked that his news be passed on the Mr Glover. His message was that he was landed and installed in a hotel. He had spoken with the investigating officer, Sergeant Minogue. He was to meet him on Wednesday at mid-day. Moore would phone later 're accreditation.' That telegraphic term meant that Moore had sought what clearances he needed to get into Combs' house.
Moore's second message came at seven-thirty. The secretary who took the call merely announced herself and taped a monologue. It took her forty minutes to transcribe what Moore had said. She photocopied the three pages and telephoned Mr Glover. A messenger had the envelope on Kenyon's desk within twenty minutes.
Moore had moved quickly, he read. The leisurely, remote phone manner must have been for public consumption, Kenyon mused. Moore had been in Dublin only since lunchtime, but he had already contacted Minogue and a senior civil servant in the Department of Justice. He had also been in touch with a Mr Hynes, who went by the deceptive title of Assistant Secretary in a department called Foreign Affairs. It was Hynes who had prompted him to call the Department of Justice, where his call would now be expected, seeing as Hynes had referred to them the matter of what Moore might want. Moore, that bookish and slightly arrogant don, calculated that he'd have the necessary authorisation, in writing, by mid-day tomorrow.
Kenyon sniggered and shook his head. He felt his stomach loosen, a late reminder of the tension which he didn't want to admit. The phrase which offered him the relief and mirth had come at the end of the lawyer's call. Had Moore purposely uttered the phrase: subject to verification from my principals at the firm? Kenyon wondered if spy paperbacks which called MI5 'The Firm' were known at all in Ireland.
Minogue laid Mme Bovary and her waning fortunes aside. Iseult was baking something in the kitchen. This disturbed him. She didn't cook as a habit. Perhaps she was preparing for the domestic role with yours truly, Pat the Brain. Marx stood Hegel on his head. Ireland stood Minogue on his head. Pat the Brain has stood my daughter on her head. Was this a good thing?
He listened to Kathleen's fountain pen. The living room scene could have been a study for the Dutch school. Twilight, wan evening glow on the side of Kathleen's face. What on earth was she writing? Letters, still? Maybe she was writing poems. Had he not noticed? Maybe that's what one of her poems was about, too: 'On the blind narcissism of men: my husband, for example.' God help him if she slashed like Sylvia Plath.
'What are you at?' he tried.
'I'm writing letters. It's not often I do it, so I'm going to plug away at it until I get sick of it,' she murmured.
'What's your daughter up to with the cooking? Nest-building?'
'Don't be interrupting me. She's making muffins.'
Sorry for asking. Where was Daithi? Better not ask the boy's mother.
Minogue fingered the Magritte postcard. He looked at it again in the yellowing light. He was afraid to turn on the light for fear of disturbing Kathleen. She was pacing herself to the daylight. Like talk, it didn't matter that the daylight had almost gone. Soon she'd look up from her papers astounded: do you know, she'd say, I didn't know it was dark; no wonder I can't see what I'm writing.
Things inverted, things turned upside down. Very clever boyo, that Magritte. Look at it. The promise of water, all ready to drink in a tumbler, the umbrella skin-tight against its ribs waiting for the water that wouldn't come. Sort of impossible but possible too, maybe? It was an odd feeling, one that made him smile, a feeling of reordering after that vagueness of recognition. He thought of Magritte's Key of Dreams, pictures of objects with wrong names. Ha ha, very clever entirely.
The phone rang. Minogue knew it was Kilmartin before Iseult picked up the phone. She called out of him. There was flour on the handle of the phone.
'Hello, is this Matt?'
It was a woman's voice, not unfamiliar. She sounded breathless. x
'Yes, it is. Speaking.'
'This is Maura, Matt. I'm calling from the hospital. Jim had a bit of a turn.'
Her voice wavered a little.
'Today around four. He called the nurse on the buzzer because he was feeling a bit queer,' she continued. 'But he was able to say a few words to me and he asked me to call you. Maybe it was something important ye were dealing with together, I don't know. Work.'
'What is it, Maura?'
'They think it's a lightning infection,' she replied. 'They told us there was a big risk of infection on account of the part of the system, the body, don't you know. And he was taken very quickly with the symptoms.'
Minogue heard rustling. Maura sniffed.
'How serious is this, Maura?'
'Wisha, you know how they fib to you. I think they don't know. Jim's no spring chicken anymore. They do be talking about an inflammation. Then it's some-thing-itis. Then it's shock.''
Minogue heard more rustling, the phone being pushed into clothes, held.
'You know how he consults you, Matt,' she resumed nasally now. 'This isn't the time to be beating around the bush. And I'm not phoning you to come in or anything. It's just that he mentioned you.'
'I'll be in directly. Would you like me to bring you in a bit of grub? Have you tea and a few fags for yourself?'
'No, no, no. He's fast asleep, so he is. They have a tube in him and they want him conked out for a while. They have machines and yokes plugged into him so he's in no danger. Ah no, there's no point in you coming in, thanks very much.'
'Any little thing now, Maura?'
'No, no thanks. Tomorrow maybe.'
Minogue remembered their son in the States.
'Have you anyone with you?'
'My sister and her husband are up staying. The will of God they came up to Dublin yesterday. Margaret'll stay as long as she's needed.'
She sounded strong, too, Minogue surmised as he hung up. He went slowly toward the kitchen to make the tea which customarily saw Kathleen and himself in front of the telly watching the news. Kathleen came out from the living room, squinting.
'I'm half-blind, I am. Who was that on the phone?' she said.
'Maura Kilmartin. Jimmy took a turn in the hospital. Nothing we can do for her tonight, I'm afraid. He's looked after as best as can be done. It's an infection, some blood thing. He was very chipper the other day, I will say. Maybe that was a sign,' Minogue reflected.
''You know not the day nor the hour,'' Kathleen whispered in awe.
Although the muffins were warm and piquant from the lemon, Minogue received little succour from them. Later, when the news began splashing images of Beirut on the screen, he levered himself up from the chair. As he stood up, the Magritte postcard fell out of his book. He picked it up and replaced it inside the front cover. Turned on its head; inside out. Inverted, the surprise: a fresh approach. Minogue took a swallow of tea and turned a page. The print was meaningless, but he tried harder to read.
