Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

I stare at the page. It reminds me eerily of the painting I saw in William O’Hara’s house, some deathly message coiled just beneath its surface.

‘Looks like someone’s marked your cards, Claude-o,’ Gary says, without looking away from his screen.

‘Bollocks, it’s just some student trying to use up our ink supply,’ Jocelyn says.

‘Look out, capitalism,’ Gary says.

The lift doors open. I spin round in my chair just as Ish emerges. No security guards with her: that’s a good sign. Yet she looks shell-shocked — grey as ashes, her eyes wide but focused on nothing.

‘Are you all right? What happened?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You’re not sure?’

Ish begins to speak, then, glancing up, realizes that everyone in the office is staring at her — with a kind of appreciative mystification, as if five minutes previously they’d seen her jump out the window. Tugging my sleeve, she leads me into the lobby.

‘Rachael was livid about that email,’ she says. ‘You’d think I’d sent Blankly a photocopy of my arse.’

‘But she didn’t … you’re not … ?’

‘She was going to, I have no fucking doubt. But then in the middle of everything — Howie called.’

‘Howie?’

‘Yeah, he phoned down and insisted he be put through to her, there and then. So she listens to him for a couple of minutes, barely says a word herself. Next thing you know, she’s sending me back downstairs, telling me in the future to keep her in the loop.’

‘What loop?’

‘From what she said it sounded like the island was part of some ATCM investment strategy.’

‘ATCM? Howie’s fund?’ The more she tells me, the more confused I am.

‘She says if I’d clarified that with her, none of this would be an issue.’

‘Wait … Howie’s fund is going to invest in Kokomoko?’ This is like hearing that Hitler has deployed the Waffen-SS to build an owl sanctuary.

‘That’s what he told her. I mean, I presume he just made it up, to get me off the hook.’

She is calling his mobile but there is no answer. ‘Fuck it,’ she says. ‘I’m going to find out what’s going on.’

‘What about the Chinese wall?’ I say. But she has already charged off up the stairs to Agron Torabundo Credit Management.

The factotum who answers the door is not pleased to see us. ‘You can’t be up here!’ he scolds.

Ish just pushes past him; the factotum throws his hands in the air, then promptly vanishes, leaving us to find our own way.

Life is very different here on the ninth floor. There are paintings on the walls, and fresh flowers on every flat surface; operatives zip back and forth in loafers and chinos, exuding an air of easeful mastery that is a million miles from the feverish hamster-wheeling of the research area, to say nothing of the bellowing chaos of the traders’ den. The only discordant note is struck by the two men sitting squeezed into a comically small and ornate chaise longue — burly, lumpen characters with a single eyebrow between them, furrowed menacingly at anyone who happens to look their way.

‘Ish!’ Howie is standing in an office doorway, waving his arm at us as if from the top deck of a yacht. To one side of him, an astonishingly tall and beautiful woman is helping a stubby, moustachioed man into a camel-hair coat. Whatever has happened in the office, the stubby man seems very pleased about it. He shakes Howie’s hand and takes his leave; the burly men rise and button their jackets.

‘Make yourselves at home,’ Howie says, beckoning us in. The office is enormous, with an enormous monitor and an enormous view of the mountains. On the enormous desk sits a holdall filled with banknotes.

‘Are we interrupting something … ?’

‘New client,’ Howie says. He zips the bag closed; a moment later the beautiful woman returns and takes it from his hand. She looks a little like one of the dancers from Velvet Dream’s; her attire — extremely high heels, metallic micro-skirt, huge hoop earrings — might comfortably be described as unsecretarial.

‘Zenya, babes, I’m not taking any calls for the next few minutes, okay?’ Howie tells her.

She trembles doubtfully on the threshold then turns away, pronouncing his words silently to herself as if trying to keep them in her head.

‘ Sex alphabet ,’ Ish mouths to me.

Howie slides into his seat and smiles expansively. ‘So the two of you have practically given Rachael a prolapse,’ he says. ‘That deserves a drink.’ Fishing under his desk, he produces a bottle and three glasses. ‘You heard the Secretary of the US Treasury was on to her about Royal Irish?’

‘The US Treasury?’ I repeat. ‘In Washington?’

‘Very, very concerned that nobody loses money,’ Howie says, pouring out three-finger measures of single malt and passing them to us.

‘Meaning Walter?’ I say.

‘Meaning Danforth,’ Howie says. ‘Danforth’s deep into them.’

‘What’s Royal Irish got to do with the US Treasury?’ Ish says. ‘And what’s Walter got to do with Royal Irish? And Danforth?’

‘Ask Crazy Frog here. His report was all set to nuke the lot of them.’

Ish turns to me questioningly, but I don’t reply. I have no idea how Danforth could be involved in Royal Irish; I’m feeling increasingly like the whole day is one ongoing dream.

‘I don’t know what they’re getting so riled up about,’ Howie says. ‘The Minister’s not making the decisions any more, so your report’s pretty much irrelevant anyway. But you know the Americans, they want every box ticked — cheers.’

We return the toast circumspectly. The exuberant burn of the whiskey seems exactly wrong for this time and situation.

‘So I just met Rachael,’ Ish says.

‘Yeah!’ Howie yelps with laughter. ‘Jesus, Ish. Asking Porter to save a bunch of cavemen in the middle of the Pacific! What were you thinking? Did you have your period or something?’

‘How did you find out?’ Ish asks, in a small, flat voice.

‘Blankly! You should have heard him! Who does this little bitch think she is? I’ll piss those fucking monkeys underwater myself! ’ He laughs to himself. ‘Well, anyway. I managed to sort it out. Just don’t send him any more emails. Seriously, even if the Earth’s about to crash into the sun.’

‘Thanks,’ Ish says meekly, chafing her legs together like a little girl.

‘No problem,’ Howie says.

‘What did you say to him?’

The opulent smile again, dripping diamonds. ‘I told him you were irreplaceable. Which is the truth.’

‘Rachael said something about you investing in Kokomoko.’

‘Yeah,’ Howie chuckles.

‘That was BS, right?’

‘Nope, that was true too,’ Howie says, and then, ‘Well, well, look who’s out of his box.’

Grisha is eyeing us warily from the doorway. He’s lost weight, and gained deep rings around his eyes; in his filthy clothes he looks like a defrocked Rasputin, chained up in some dungeon of the mind.

‘What are you doing here, Ivan? Smell the pretty lady, did you?’

Sticking close to the wall, Grisha sidles in and hovers behind us, a blurred darkness like an unexplained shadow.

‘I’m just telling Ish about Phase Two,’ Howie says to him. Grisha only grunts.

I take the bait. ‘Phase Two?’

‘It’s still in development. We haven’t thought of a name for it yet. Probably Gaia or Ecofund or something like that.’

‘What’s it got to do with the island?’ Ish asks, and only someone who knew her well would pick up the trace of dread in her voice.

‘To get Porter and Rachael off the warpath’ — Howie stretches back, putting his arms behind his head — ‘I had to persuade them you were doing a nixer for me, and that this island of yours had something to do with the fund. Which, let me tell you, was not easy. I mean, it’s got no infrastructure, no exports, no educated workforce. Plus there’s the small matter that it’s about to be buried by a tidal wave. Very difficult to pass it off as a business venture. But then it hit me: maybe that’s the point.’