The room seemed smaller with the bishop in it. O’Brien perspired uncontrollably and the glass slipped slightly in his hand. He placed it on the mantelpiece behind him.
‘You and I know how important it is that nothing is uncovered.’ With one step, Connor moved into O’Brien’s personal space. He flicked a flake of dandruff from the banker’s shoulder. ‘Secrets have to remain just that. Secrets.’
O’Brien stepped back. His ankle collided with the fireguard. He had nowhere to go. Both men stood eye to eye. The sour whiskey odour turned his stomach. Connor’s neck was naked of any religious collar and his carotid artery throbbed visibly in his pulsing throat. He watched it expand and contract, hypnotised, imagining it pumping blood into the bishop’s heart, if he had one. He held his breath.
‘What do you mean?’ O’Brien asked, eventually.
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’
‘No . . . no, I don’t think so.’
Connor’s eyes darkened. He put his glass beside the Lladro boy and planted his two hands on O’Brien’s shoulders.
‘Good. I cannot afford to lose out on this deal,’ said Connor. ‘You are the money man. You see to it that my finances and . . . everything else, remain untraceable.’
Each word reverberated throughout the room. He gave O’Brien a shake, removed his hands, picked up his whiskey glass, drained it and replaced it on the mantle. He turned away. Only then did O’Brien exhale.
‘I hate cats,’ Connor said again on his way out to the hall.
O’Brien didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The odour from the bishop’s breath almost suffocated him. He rested against the fireplace for support.
Connor put on his coat.
‘No need to see me out,’ he said.
When the cat appeared from beneath the chair and rubbed against his leg, only then did O’Brien move.
To reach the position of a local authority county manager required a lot of hard work, brains and a good business acumen. It also helped that your father had once been a county manager. Gerry Dunne was no fool, he knew his father had worked behind the scenes to ensure his success. Now he regretted it. The job brought him too many problems for which he had the final decision. He hated making tough decisions, especially when he would be held responsible.
He had left work earlier but returned to check the file once more and silently cursed his interfering father. He flicked through St Angela’s planning application file, thankful that James Brown had handed it over to him for final consideration, just before his untimely death. Consigned it to his desk drawer. Locked it. The project wasn’t as contentious as it should be since they’d succeeded in contravening the development plan. But Tom Rickard wanted to be doubly sure, so he was willing to pay over more cash. Dunne wasn’t about to decline the offer. Soon he hoped he could forget about it and get on with his life, without Rickard’s claws scratching all over him. He looked out at the falling snow and wondered where the hell he was going to procure salt from, to last the rest of the week.
He picked up his coat, switched off the light and headed for home. Never before in his life had he felt this much pressure.
Switching the shower to full power, Mike O’Brien allowed the hot water to pinch his skin. He stood in the cubicle feeling very small.
Demons crawled along the inside of his scarred epidermis, choking out gasps of panic. He willed them away. He didn’t like being reminded of the past. It was buried. For good. No one was going to resurrect it. No one. He scrubbed harder, his nails drawing red streaks along his arms and torso. He tried to drown the escalating rage that threatened to suffuse him.
He needed to escape the mental torment that was quickly overtaking his brain. Switching off the water, he allowed the bathroom air to cool his naked body.
There was only one way to calm his inner torment.
He dressed, fed his cat and went out into the night.
Bishop Terence Connor drove around for a while, then parked and sat for a long time. Going over and over his encounter with O’Brien.
He worried that he might have pushed too hard. Desperation was getting the better of him. Too many worms were escaping the can and he urgently needed to put a lid on it and nail it down tight. He didn’t need another loose cannon, plus he had to make sure Tom Rickard kept his part of the bargain. They were all in this together. Drastic times called for extreme measures. He wondered if they were all up for it.
He sat there for a long time looking through the sleet, out over the frozen lake, visualising a sunny day, playing golf on the new St Angela’s development. Yes, he thought, there were good days on the horizon.
Fifty-Eight
‘I’ve had a visit from our friend, the bishop,’ O’Brien said, settling into an armchair.
‘What’s that ugly bastard after now?’ Rickard asked, offering O’Brien a drink.
O’Brien shook his head.
‘I’m driving and I’ve had a couple already.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Rickard poured his own. ‘You look nervous.’
‘Yes, well, he has a way of scaring the shit out of me.’
Tom Rickard laughed loudly. ‘Oh come on, don’t be such a wanker. What’d he want?’
‘He doesn’t like the gardaí, especially Inspector Parker, snooping around our business.’
‘Too late for that. Two of the victims have a link with our project, tenuous though it is. But we have nothing to hide.’ Rickard scrutinised O’Brien. ‘Have we?’
‘No . . . no. I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Rickard towered over O’Brien. ‘You better know so.’
‘It’s just . . . all those loans. I’ll be in deep shit if you don’t repay them soon.’
‘That has nothing to do with our mutual friend.’
‘Your loans support the deal.’
‘I know my own business.’ Rickard walked around his white leather couch. ‘It’d answer Bishop Connor better if he minded his own business.’
‘There are other things . . .’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I . . . I can’t say. But if they come out . . .’
‘Jesus Christ man! Spit it out.’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘I’ll tell you now, if the gardaí find something that I don’t know about, this deal is off the table. Do you hear me? Off . . . the . . . table.’ Rickard slammed down his glass, splashing whiskey on the arm of the couch. This night was going from bad to worse.
‘You’re not serious?’ O’Brien said, widening his eyes in dismay.
‘Oh, but I am. If you and Connor have concocted something behind my back, I will pull out.’ Rickard folded his arms over his wide girth. ‘Where will that leave the two of you then?’
‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’ O’Brien stood up, waving his hands in the air.
‘I don’t like you, O’Brien. But you know what? I don’t have to like you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know me, I call a spade a spade and you are the shite waiting to be scooped up. So you make sure the money is safe and keep out of my face.’ Rickard turned to the door and opened it. ‘Get out of my house.’
‘I . . . I’m going.’
‘You know what, O’Brien?’