“You tell her then.”
“I will not. But I’ll let her know it.”
“What are you saying? You’ll tell her, but you won’t tell her?”
“Something like that. How did you get on at work?”
Kathleen rested her chin on cupped hands. Minogue smiled.
“Huh. Those apartments in Donnybrook are selling like hot cakes. We were run off our feet.”
“Investors no doubt.”
“A lot of them, yes.”
“Spelled with an F, as the bold James Kilmartin might say.”
“They stimulate the economy, Matt.”
“My economy’s not for stimulating. It’s trying to get rid of stuff I am.”
He spotted Iseult’s head above the lilacs. She stooped. Had Iseult inherited, learned to mimic, his unease with the world? At least she had that flair for life, that appetite and gaiety which he now remembered had been native to his mother. It had come to him late enough. There was no knowing. It might well be one of those mysteries Kathleen fortified herself with. But Iseult, she had a lot of living to do to get to that stage. He suddenly feared for her, for the bills she’d be presented with daily for being different and averse, bills she could never pay. An innocent, for all her tough talk, and she hadn’t a clue about the price of things. Her words, the look on her face, had stayed in his thoughts: teach me how to be alone.
He launched himself up from the chair.
“Come down to Dun Laoghaire,” he said. “We’ll do the pier. I’ll buy you ice-cream.”
Kathleen stayed looking at the garden.
“Be still my heart. I’ll go and change, so I will.”
“Thanks now. Thanks a lot. Stonewalled at work, sarcasm at home.”
“What about Iseult?” Kathleen called out from the foot of the stairs.
“I’ll ask her.”
He trudged up the garden. Iseult was examining the underside of a leaf. She declined his invitation with a murmur. He didn’t ask a second time.
“Slugs,” he said. “There better not be. It’s too dry, sure.”
“Maybe there are under one of the leaves. I was looking for Pat.”
“Ah, give over. Are you going to get a voodoo doll next?”
She let go of the leaf and the stem swished back. There was a glint in her eye.
“He let me down, Da. I’d never tell him how much either.”
“Consider it a free installment in the marriage preparation classes.”
“Go to hell. You think it’s funny.” She jerked her head away. He felt ice in his veins. A swarm of midges moved in under the hedge. “Sorry,” she said.
“It’s me that’s sorry,” he said.
“Well, I can take the details,” the cop said again. He had a culchie accent. Probably a big fat lug with the shirt hanging out of his trousers. He took another swig of the vodka. A belch came up from deep in his belly. Christ. Maybe he shouldn’t have started so early, but he’d started only to try to stay clear of going looking for a hit. And it wasn’t early anyway, it was after tea. He realized that he was swaying slightly. He leaned his shoulder against the side of the telephone box. The cop was still jabbering away.
“What,” he said. “What are you fucking rabbiting on about there?”
The cop’s voice stayed the same. It was like he hadn’t heard him.
“Leave me a number and I can have them get in touch with you very shortly.”
At least he hadn’t tried asking for the name again. As if he was stupid enough, or pissed enough. He focussed on the window where the phone was telling him he had two pence credit left. The telephone box stank. Someone had pissed in it. He watched the traffic turn up Hatch Street. His stomach gave another wormy twist. Christ, enough is enough! He’d been on the phone too long already.
“But why isn’t there someone there right now?”
The cop kept talking in that careful, polite voice.
“Well, it’s the kind of section where people are on the go at irregular times now. Calls are routed through that number you dialled if-”
“Are you fucking deaf or something? You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do here? You think I’m a gobshite or something, is that it?”
Another belch stole his words.
“I’m not exactly sure now what you-”
“Shut up a minute! I’m talking. You hear? This is fucking important. This is about someone getting killed, man, someone getting murdered. Did you get that? You’re trying to keep me talking here so as yous can trace me!”
“Wait, wait a minute. What would we want to do that for? We’re always glad to get calls from the public now-”
“Sure you are! Fucking liar! Listen! This is the second time I’ve called and still I’m getting the run-around! You’d think in the case of a bloody murder that you’d be on the ball here, you crowd of-”
“All you have to do is-”
“I don’t have to fucking do anything! Just tell them that we have to talk. Only over the phone, a coupla minutes at a time.”
He was breathing hard now. He took another gulp from the bottle. This one burned worse. He squeezed his eyes tight and leaned his head on the glass. He felt giddy when his eyes were closed. The cop was saying something. Still spinning it out, trying to coax stuff out. Everything’d be on tape, probably.
“Well, at least let me have an idea when you’d be calling so I can pass it on. To be sure someone’s there to handle the matter, like.”
“Sometime in the morning then, that’s when they better be there.”
“You’ll phone in the morning-”
“Yeah. Maybe. And tell them another thing, okay? You listening?”
“Yes. Go ahead, now.”
“Tell them this. I had nothing to do with it. Nothing! I’m getting the fucking rap but I’m not going to take it sitting down. No way, you hear? No fucking way! You tell them. Tell them the Egans are after me too, so I’m not just going to sit here like a fucking-”
The warning beeps sounded.
“Hey! Did you get what I said!”
The line was dead. He threw the receiver against the base. It swung and clattered again and again. Had to get out of here. Jesus Christ! Nearly night-time and it was still frigging boiling. It was like someone had put a wet rag around his face and he couldn’t breathe. He had a headache now. He stepped out of the booth. Definitely not too steady on the feet now. It could have been the last few swigs, took them too quick. He stopped to think. Now: how the hell was he supposed to get back to the Park now? At night?
He found himself heading along Baggot Street toward the Green. He began to count the pints he’d had since the afternoon. How much was left of the vodka? Poxy, cheap shite, it was only fit for… The next belch brought a sour burn to his throat. There was something in his chest, something moving. He began to walk faster but it seemed he was hardly moving. He heard his shoes scuffing on the footpath. He was startled when a car bumped into his leg. It was parked. He pushed away from it. Things were beginning to slow down and slide around on his eyes like they were smeared on with grease. People were looking at him, every bloody light was shining into his eyes. He turned down a laneway. The streetlamps were still moving when he sat down. He reached in and took the knife from his pocket. Maybe he should have another pint or something to settle the stomach, get him over this bit. The thought of it made his belly go airy again. He began passing the knife from hand to hand until he dropped it.
His cigarettes had been squashed. He had to rip off half of one to get a proper smoke out of it. The first pull on it made him shiver. Christ, he was knackered enough to sleep right now. If he didn’t try to have a rest he’d be shagged, wouldn’t be able to think even. He thought of the trees and the long grass in the Park. He was imagining a
