Alan Glynn - Winterland

She will fucking crucify him.

He glances over at the glove compartment.

So what choice does he have?

There is a wide curve in the road ahead. As he takes it, the sparkling city, spread out below, reveals itself. There in the distance, in the bay, imposing, magnificent, like a flourish – like a signature – is Richmond Plaza.

Norton feels an unexpected rush of pride, and it strikes him that maybe all hope is not lost. OK, Amcan is pulling out, other clients have already pulled out, and the building may well stand empty for a considerable period of time. But when the hysteria dies down, and the repairs are done, when further studies prove that there was never any danger in the first place , and when the economy picks up again – people will come around. The building will get a second chance. He’ll get a second chance. He’ll be able to rebuild his reputation, and to end his career on a high.

He stops at a red light.

But again, not if she starts tugging at the other end of it…

With his left hand he picks up the blister of Nalprox tablets from where he tossed it on the passenger seat. There are five left. He quickly takes three, swallows them dry. Then he turns on the CD player – that clarinet thing… or is it an oboe? Or a cor anglais ? He stares at the dashboard, listening.

The car behind beeps its horn.

Norton looks up. The light has turned green. He’s in the middle lane, traffic on either side already surging forward.

Shit .

He accelerates, his heart racing.

What he’s doing tonight…

His mind wandering.

What he did that night…

The thing is, there on the stairs, when Miriam handed him the phone, Norton felt the weirdest mix of emotions – irritation, but with a tinge of curiosity… fear, but with this undeniable throb of longing…

The Stillorgan Park Hotel flits past on the right.

It was almost like a homecoming.

Soon he’s approaching Booterstown Avenue.

Sort of in the way this is…

He indicates, and turns. Then, before he knows it he’s on the Rock Road, heading for Merrion Gates.

His insides lurch.

There’s no way around it, is there?

He glances over at the glove compartment again.

She was depressed… unhinged really. She should have been in therapy, or on medication…

He tries to imagine how it will be… Gina there beside him on the bench, talking… it’s windy and cold, traffic rumbles past in the background. There aren’t that many people about, almost no one in fact. The sea is in front of them – shadowy, vast, heaving. He looks around, chooses his moment, turns to her, puts the gun right up against the side of her head and pulls the trigger.

Then he steadies her as best he can, settles her on the bench, puts the gun into her right hand, and walks away.

It’s not exactly how he wants it, but what choice does he have ?

At the end of Booterstown Avenue, he turns left, onto the Rock Road, his mind in turmoil now, spinning, flipping… forwards, backwards, conjuring it all up…

What he’s going to do tonight.

What he did that night…

Mark pulls the covers back, moves his legs to the edge of the bed again and slides them over. He shunts up into a sitting position and eases himself off the bed. He picks the mobile phone up and slips it into the pocket of his gown. Then, without giving it a second’s thought, he yanks off the catheter tube from below. There is immediate and considerable pain involved in this, but Mark does his best to absorb it. He then takes a hold of the mobile drip stand and starts moving across the room with it, wheeling it slowly, focusing all his attention on getting as far as the door.

When he’s almost there, he notices that there are spots of blood on the floor and on his feet.

But he has to keep moving, because…

How could he have been so fucking stupid?

He opens the door.

The guard, who is on the bench draining a mug of tea or coffee, sees him and is immediately up on his feet.

‘ Whoa! ’

He puts the mug down and reaches out in support.

‘Jesus, what are you doing there?’ He looks around. ‘ Nurse! ’

Mark takes the support for a moment, then pulls away.

The alarm on the guard’s face is curiously reassuring. At least, Mark feels, it’s not going to be him .

Up and down the corridor there is a ripple effect as people take notice and react – but after the guard, the closest person, and quickest on the move, is his own nurse.

What did she say her name was?

Helen?

‘Mark, my God, what are you doing?’

She moves in front of the guard and takes Mark by the elbow. She guides him to the bench, making sure to keep the drip stand, with its various dangling bags of fluid, in position. She sits down next to him. Then, noticing the splats of blood on the floor, she takes a couple of deep breaths.

‘OK, OK,’ she says slowly, ‘we have to get you back inside. We -’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘No.’

He looks up. The guard and some others, a nurse, a doctor or two, are standing around watching.

‘I need to get a number, a mobile number,’ he says, in a half whisper, and wincing now from the pain. ‘I need -’

‘Yes, yes, we’ll get whatever you want, Mark, but you have to get back inside, into bed - ’

‘ No , I said.’

The guard takes a couple of tentative steps forward. ‘Easy on there, pal, all right? There’s no problem here. There’s no problem.’

Mark watches him, feeling dizzy suddenly, and weak.

‘In a few minutes,’ the guard goes on, ‘the detectives will be here to see you. They’re on their way…’ – he waves his walkie-talkie – ‘… and we can sort it out then, whatever it is -’

The detectives…

Mark shoots a look up and down the corridor.

Everyone is watching. No one is moving. The light is harsh and uncomfortable, the atmosphere unnaturally still.

‘ NO ,’ he says.

Lifting his hand – and almost before he knows what he’s doing – he takes a hold of the strip on the side of his neck and starts trying to rip it off.

‘My God, STOP! ’ the nurse screams, and grabs him by the wrist. ‘What are you doing? Jesus. That’s… that’s your jugular .’

Mark pauses, allowing her to hold his wrist. She’s leaning in close now, their faces inches apart.

‘You can’t just…’ She hesitates.

He looks into her eyes. ‘What?’

‘Those tubes,’ she says. ‘You can’t just remove them like that. You’ll bleed. You’re bleeding now. You could give yourself an embolism. You could die .’

He nods.

He can already feel a trickle of blood on his neck.

‘Well, Helen,’ he whispers, ‘it’s either that, or you get me the number.’

‘ Mark ,’ she pleads, tightening her grip on his wrist, ‘this is crazy -’

‘No,’ he says, ‘it isn’t,’ and with his free hand he reaches around her and punches one of the bags of fluid on the drip stand. The bag bursts and its contents splat loudly onto the floor.

There is a general gasp of disbelief.

The nurse, in shock, releases her grip on Mark’s wrist and pulls away. But as she’s doing this Mark reaches along the bench and grabs the mug. Taking it by the handle, he swings it around and smashes it into the wall behind him. Pieces fly everywhere. Then he brings what’s left – a jagged shard of ceramic earthenware – up to the side of his neck.

‘ Get away… move .’

Slowly, reluctantly, people comply. The nurse does too, but looks appalled, her arms held out in a desperate appeal to reason.