Bloodland: A Novel by Alan Glynn

or relevant. Also, the anxiety and paranoia have receded. Somewhat. Because Dave Conway was probably right, the truth is they weren’t actually involved. So why get all worked up about it?
    What hasn’t receded, though, is this seemingly permanent fog of insecurity he’s been living with, insecurity about his legacy, about his future – and, OK, getting drunk and leaving inappropriate messages on people’s machines may not be the optimum solution here, but what is?
    What it’s always been, work .
    It’s just that as an unemployable ex-premier the only job opportunity he has right now is this stupid book he’s supposed to be writing.
    And isn’t.
    Which sparks something … a vague …
    Does he remember sitting down at his desk earlier on? All fired up and ready to get started? Possibly. Yes. But didn’t he then go off straightaway to do something else?
    His usual m.o.
    He walks over and looks through the door of the study, for confirmation – and indeed there it is, his cluttered desk, un-touched, exactly as it has been for days, weeks.
    He could sit down now and get started. If he didn’t feel nauseous, that is. If he didn’t have to devote whatever shred of energy he might be able to muster over the next few minutes to mollifying, or attempting to mollify, his wife. If he knew how to string two coherent sentences together.
    He turns around and heads over to the kitchen. No point in delaying the inevitable.
    He stands in the doorway. Mary has her back to him. She’s at the counter and appears to be busy, chopping or peeling something. After a moment, she turns around. The look she gives him is withering.
    ‘How dare –’
    And then the phone rings. It’s beside her on the counter.
    ‘ Jesus .’
    She picks it up. Incapable of not.
    ‘Hello?’
    This is a reprieve for Bolger, but not one that lasts.
    ‘Yes.’ Tight-lipped. ‘Hello, Dave.’
    When she looks away for a split second, Bolger rolls his eyes. This micro movement sends a shockwave of nausea through his system. He puts one hand on his stomach and holds the other one out in front of him, flaps it frantically, indicating to Mary that he’s not here.
    ‘Yes, Dave, he’s here. Sure. I’ll put him on.’
    She approaches quickly, holding the phone up. It looks like she’s about to strike him with it. He recoils, but still ends up taking it in his hand, Mary gliding past him out of the room, mouthing something he doesn’t catch.
    *   *   *
    Clark Rundle gazes down at Madison Avenue from the window of his tenth-floor suite in the Wilson Hotel. It is just after two in the afternoon. That’s eight in the evening in Paris, which means it’ll be nine by the time Nora is leaving, so if he hasn’t heard from J.J. by then he’ll have to call someone at the hospital and demand that they put him on.
    Below, traffic flows silently along Madison, only the occasional honking of a horn or wail of a siren making it through the thick glass of the hotel windows. It is a beautiful spring day in Manhattan, cold, crisp and sunny, but inside here it is warm and the atmosphere, along with every nerve ending in Rundle’s body, tingles with expectancy.
    There is a gentle rap at the door.
    He turns and crosses the room, which is a refuge of elegance, with its embroidered drapes and silk wall coverings, its mahogany furnishings and marble floors.
    He opens the door and in she glides.
    Nora is twenty-four years old and very beautiful – extraordinarily so, in fact – with exotic colouring, perfect bone structure and eyes so dark and mysterious they could bring down an empire. She is from Haiti, so her name probably isn’t actually Nora, but Rundle has never got around to asking her about this, or about a whole lot else for that matter. When he’s with her he tends to talk about himself. He was going to say that it’s cheaper than therapy, but actually it isn’t. Nora is very expensive. He’s had an account with Regal Select for over five years now but