edge of one and saw cables and filters. He remembered watching the goings-on at a film shoot in Kilmainham last year. The miles of cable, lights, everything up on stalks. He shoved the cable aside and examined the clamps and holders. One of them would be the bees knees entirely for holding joints to be glued on that bloody antique table Kathleen wanted.
“Here, boss. Come here.”
Minogue laid the clamp down and closed the lid.
“Come up here and have a look.”
Minogue worked his way around the lid. Malone had pulled out a console covered with sliding buttons. Minogue eyed it for an instant as he maneuvred around the cables. He heard Malone breathing hard in his nostrils from the exertion. He looked down. He felt no surprise. He wondered why: was he in some weird state, drifting along after the shooting, disconnected somehow?; And when he woke up?
It looked so familiar. Maybe it was because he was so used to seeing pictures of things like this over the years. The outlines of the face were shadowed but he’d seen eyes like that before. It had struck him before that children drew eyes the same way as those forgotten and unknown carvers in ancient Ireland. And modern art, whatever that was, did the same. He followed the lines until they met. Whose hands had worked this so long ago, what efforts had gone into it, with their tools and their faith?
He crouched and pulled the cloth back further, tucked it down between the edge of the stone and the side of the box. He ran his hands across the lines. A collar, he guessed, a necklace maybe. Royalty? Malone was muttering something.
He glanced up at him.
“You’re magic, boss,” he whispered. “Fucking magic.”
Minogue looked down again. There were sharp edges in places on the granite. He dropped to one knee and let his hand down the length of the stone. Something which could be excitement, or awe, or even some kind of fear began to leak into his mind.
“What in the name of Jases is that?”
He hadn’t heard Paddy Mac walking over. His knee was locked now, but the ache from the graze was gone. He watched his own shadow stir on the stone as he labored to get up. Paddy Mac was scratching hard with his nails in his sideburns.
“A prop or something?” he asked. “All that stuff they haul up on stage, the oul plaster casts and the bits of cars?”
“No,” said Malone. Paddy Mac turned to him.
“What’s it, then?”
Minogue didn’t know whether Malone had been waiting to get in the dig.
“That,” Malone said. “That is the king.”
Minogue had been dozing. The chimes and flight announcements had lulled him. Airports, waiting, dentists, hospital — they all made him drowsy.
“Here they are,” said Malone again. “Hey. Boss?”
He opened his eyes slowly. There were three dozen people or so by the arrivals gate, four Guards in uniform. He was locked up tight, from his shoulders down his back to his legs: stiff as a board. Malone watched him lever himself upright.
“Give Fergal the word then,” he said to Malone.
He’d have to take the next bit handy, the getting to his feet. He ran his hand down to the rip in the knee of his trousers: wasn’t that big, really. He had been dreaming of pigeons. It was a Magritte painting too, he was sure, the one with the birdcage in place of the man’s chest, under a cloak. He should look for it in Hanna’s bookshop. As well as getting some scientific answer for how pigeons, and other birds for that matter, found their way from so far off.
He stood slowly, made his way over to the railing. There were three girls arguing with a sergeant. One of them shrieked. The sergeant eyed her. She covered her mouth in embarrassment. He made a space for four photographers. Others pressed forward. A cheer started at the far end of the railing. The Guards walked to the glass doors. Minogue wondered how anybody could see anything. People began to drift over from the pub, glasses in hand. Malone pocketed the phone. Two of the girls were hopping now. The doors slid open.
First out were two APFS. Cortina Byrne came next, smoking and laughing. He threw his arm around a woman with a blond stubble on her head. She was somebody famous, Minogue realized. He couldn’t place her. She wore one of those plastic, shiny jackets: the ones that looked like they were made in a doll factory in 1962. The flashes began to go off.
Then Daly looked warily up and down the passageway the Guards had cleared. The shoulder bag was the size of a suitcase. Soft leather, and one of those purses -
“Jee-zuzz, Jimmy!”
Minogue recoiled at the scream and glared at the girl. The screamer had a white face and a lot of metal around her face.
“Come here, I want you!” she shrieked.
Two more girls came tripping over.
“Come on home to Artane, will you!” another shouted.
Daly looked over to the scream. His eyes settled on Minogue’s for a moment and then returned to a darting survey of the crowd. Minogue elbowed Malone and took out his card. Daly eyed him again as Minogue moved around the sergeant. A chant started.
“ In the future…”
One of the girls elbowed Minogue. He tried to get around her but she shifted and elbowed him again. She got by him to the end of the railing. The sergeant had seen her.
“ We’ll have freedom.”
She tried to wiggle by but the sergeant jammed his knee against the upright.
“ In the future, we’ll have love.”
“Mr. Daly,” he called out.
Daly had heard him all right. He lifted the overnight bag on his shoulder and turned to look back at the band.
Minogue walked alongside him.
“Mr. Daly, I need to talk to you.”
“What,” said Daly. He looked at the Guards who had made way for Minogue to get to him. “Who are you?”
“I’m a Garda inspector. But I don’t want to be waving me card here now.”
Daly slowed and frowned.
“Yeah,” he said. “You were here before, weren’t you?”
He stopped and turned and called out to the band. Minogue looked at the outstretched arms, the pieces of paper waving. How could anybody hear anything back there?
“ In the future, we’ll have freedom…”
Two of the band began to grasp some of the papers and sign them. Malone edged by Minogue. He had his notebook open. He was flapping it gently on the back of his sleeve.
“I have to ask you a few things, Mr. Daly.”
Daly turned back.
“What? Now? You can’t be serious.”
“I can wait until your outfit has gotten through here, yes.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
Minogue leaned in.
“I said I can wait a few minutes, but.”
“Ah, come on, you’re joking me,” said Daly. “Look at this. This is all happening, Christ, this has to be done right. We came in the terminal, to try and undo the bad rap we got for sneaking out of the country there, you know? There’s been enough fu — enough crap over the other thing. The scrap with the fans and those people from the Indonesian embassy…”
