wondering if he avoided her question just now, or evaded it? Was he being honest, or was he lying through his teeth? The thing is, she has no way of knowing. Her instincts aren’t telling her anything. Except that what happened to her brother – what is supposed to have happened to her brother – makes absolutely no sense at all …
2
Miriam chooses his tie, as usual – burgundy, to go with his dark suit. Years ago, Norton used to have a weakness for garish ties – multicoloured, psychedelic affairs, ones depicting cartoon characters even – but Miriam eventually put a stop to that.
‘If you want to dress like a politician ,’ she said with contempt, ‘go up for election.’
Norton sees the sense in this now. Larry Bolger still wears a Homer Simpson tie occasionally and he looks like a fool in it. But it gets him noticed.
Norton has no interest in being noticed. It took him years to understand this about himself. Politicians live to be noticed, it’s like photosynthesis to them, attention is their light – and that’s why they’re so easy to manipulate. Take it away and they’re fucked. Give it to them, a steady supply, and they’ll do anything for you.
Men like Norton, on the other hand, thrive in the shadows. Miriam – with her background – understood this instinctively, and it was she who steered him in the right direction. It was she who taught him what to wear, and how to present himself. It was she who made him realise that being rich meant never having to smile for the cameras.
Shaved and fully dressed now, Norton stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom and puts on some cologne.
So is that what drove him earlier in the week? Not just a dread of negative publicity, but a dread of any publicity at all? Maybe. In part. But he’s not an idiot. He knows, for instance, that the official opening of Richmond Plaza is going to involve some exposure, that he might have to appear in a few press photos or on the six o’clock news. But so what. He’ll be anonymous, just another suit in the background. The real focus will be on the architect, on Ray Sullivan’s people, on Larry Bolger.
Norton stares at himself in the mirror.
In terms of publicity, however, the alternative scenario doesn’t even bear thinking about. He’d get caught up in it personally. He’d be fodder for the tabloids and for the radio talk shows. They’d run an identifying clip of him on the TV news, and repeat it night after night as they spun the story to death – maybe a shot of him walking along a street, looking shifty, or struggling to get out of a car.
The idea horrifies him.
Exposure like that, of course, would be the least of his worries – because there’d also be protracted litigation, followed, almost certainly, by bankruptcy, disgrace, ruin.
Norton straightens his jacket and runs a hand across his hair.
Definitely, on reflection, he did the right thing.
He goes through the bedroom and out onto the landing. He looks at his watch: 4.45.
‘Miriam!’
‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’
Miriam appears from her bedroom. She is wearing a navy suit, navy shoes and a navy pillbox hat. She looks elegant and appropriately sombre.
‘Which church is it?’ she says, adjusting one of her earrings.
‘Donnybrook.’
Miriam stands in front of the full-length mirror on the landing and repositions her hat. ‘Do you think there’ll be many people there?’
‘I’d say so, yeah,’ Norton replies. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s packed to the rafters.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He was very popular.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not very. I had dealings with him the odd time.’
Most recently, of course – Norton thinks – in the last week or so. And given what he soon found himself contemplating, that fact had naturally raised something of a red flag in his mind. But then he also remembered reading about Rafferty’s nephew in the paper, in a report about local gangs and DVD
2
Miriam chooses his tie, as usual – burgundy, to go with his dark suit. Years ago, Norton used to have a weakness for garish ties – multicoloured, psychedelic affairs, ones depicting cartoon characters even – but Miriam eventually put a stop to that.
‘If you want to dress like a politician ,’ she said with contempt, ‘go up for election.’
Norton sees the sense in this now. Larry Bolger still wears a Homer Simpson tie occasionally and he looks like a fool in it. But it gets him noticed.
Norton has no interest in being noticed. It took him years to understand this about himself. Politicians live to be noticed, it’s like photosynthesis to them, attention is their light – and that’s why they’re so easy to manipulate. Take it away and they’re fucked. Give it to them, a steady supply, and they’ll do anything for you.
Men like Norton, on the other hand, thrive in the shadows. Miriam – with her background – understood this instinctively, and it was she who steered him in the right direction. It was she who taught him what to wear, and how to present himself. It was she who made him realise that being rich meant never having to smile for the cameras.
Shaved and fully dressed now, Norton stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom and puts on some cologne.
So is that what drove him earlier in the week? Not just a dread of negative publicity, but a dread of any publicity at all? Maybe. In part. But he’s not an idiot. He knows, for instance, that the official opening of Richmond Plaza is going to involve some exposure, that he might have to appear in a few press photos or on the six o’clock news. But so what. He’ll be anonymous, just another suit in the background. The real focus will be on the architect, on Ray Sullivan’s people, on Larry Bolger.
Norton stares at himself in the mirror.
In terms of publicity, however, the alternative scenario doesn’t even bear thinking about. He’d get caught up in it personally. He’d be fodder for the tabloids and for the radio talk shows. They’d run an identifying clip of him on the TV news, and repeat it night after night as they spun the story to death – maybe a shot of him walking along a street, looking shifty, or struggling to get out of a car.
The idea horrifies him.
Exposure like that, of course, would be the least of his worries – because there’d also be protracted litigation, followed, almost certainly, by bankruptcy, disgrace, ruin.
Norton straightens his jacket and runs a hand across his hair.
Definitely, on reflection, he did the right thing.
He goes through the bedroom and out onto the landing. He looks at his watch: 4.45.
‘Miriam!’
‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’
Miriam appears from her bedroom. She is wearing a navy suit, navy shoes and a navy pillbox hat. She looks elegant and appropriately sombre.
‘Which church is it?’ she says, adjusting one of her earrings.
‘Donnybrook.’
Miriam stands in front of the full-length mirror on the landing and repositions her hat. ‘Do you think there’ll be many people there?’
‘I’d say so, yeah,’ Norton replies. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s packed to the rafters.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He was very popular.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not very. I had dealings with him the odd time.’
Most recently, of course – Norton thinks – in the last week or so. And given what he soon found himself contemplating, that fact had naturally raised something of a red flag in his mind. But then he also remembered reading about Rafferty’s nephew in the paper, in a report about local gangs and DVD
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