Cold Eye of Heaven, The (10 page)

He hears himself talking about his trip. ‘Well, you see, I've decided to organize it from London.' And regrets not having something more definite to say, something that sounds a bit less pie-in-the-sky. Maybe along the lines of, ‘After the States, I'll be heading to Hong Kong and then on to Australia, you see, in time for the Melbourne Cup.'

Each time he puts down the phone he has a moment of calm; the doubts disappear, his skin eases. And he stops worrying about Tony and his meeting this evening, the fact that Frank won't be there, the absence of accountants. It's only a chat, after all. Probably just to make Tony feel a part of the process. In fact, it could well be a ploy to get him out of the way while the rest of the staff organize a little something before the party; balloons, drinks, all that jazz. But as the minutes tick on, his skin starts to tighten again, the lump expands in his stomach and a dread starts to take shape and blazes into a fully formed notion. That fucker, he thinks, that fucker is going to do me.

He has to get out for a while. Have a stroll up the quays, maybe wander in through the courts or up to the Deeds, see who he might run into. He feels the need for some sort of diversion, or even acknowledgement on this, his last day. ‘I'm going out for a bit,' he says to Brendan who gives him a watery look. Farley picks up a file as a mark of purpose and tucks it under his elbow.

He opens the front door and she's standing there. Even with the blinding belt of sunlight in his face, he still knows the shape of her.

‘Kathleen?'

She nods a few times, like she's answering a question or agreeing with something he hasn't yet said. Then her hand goes up to her forehead. He sees her mouth open to speak but no words come out of it.

‘What's the matter, Kathleen?' He stands back to allow her to step into the hall, but she remains frozen on the doorstep.

‘Are you alright?'

She shakes her head, looks up at him now and he sees a few small tears squeeze out from the corners of her eyes. For a moment he thinks Slowey has died, there's been a plane crash, or that his jam tart has packed up on the way from the airport in the back of a taxi. He steps out, reaches down to her and, taking her elbow in the cup of his hand, draws her in.

In the subdued light of the hall he sees her face.

‘I feel so… so stupid,' she begins.

‘Why?' He keeps her elbow in his hand.

‘They mugged me, Farley.'

‘Ah Jaysus, no. That's terrible.'

‘Just snatched the bag off me shoulder outside Arnott's. One of them started pulling at me. The other at the bag and—'

‘They didn't hurt you, did they?'

‘Farley, they were just kids. That's what's the worst of it, like children – that size.' She lifts out her hand to show a height of around four feet.

‘But they didn't hit you or anything?'

‘No, just frightened me. I feel so stupid. So.'

‘Jesus, if I thought they hurt you,' Farley says.

She looks at him then reclaims her elbow, folding her arms.

‘Look, come on into Frank's office and we'll sit you down. Get you a nip of brandy for the shock.'

‘I don't want any—'

‘Tea, then, I'll get you a cup of tea and after I'll take you home in a taxi.'

‘No, really, I'll be alright,' she says but follows him through the open door anyway. Farley closes it behind them. She sits on one side of her husband's desk. Farley sits opposite her in Frank's chair. He picks up the internal phone and calls Noreen. ‘You wouldn't do us a favour, Nor? Bring a cup of tea into Frank's office for Mrs Slowey, plenty of sugar. She's had a bit of a shock.'

He glances across and sees Kathleen's eyes filling up again, like she's remembering. He reaches into his pocket for a hanky but she's ahead of him, with a tissue pulled out of her own coat pocket.

‘I'd love a smoke,' Kathleen says.

‘Yea, of course. Go ahead. There should be an ashtray around somewhere.' He lifts his head to look.

‘They're in me bag, Farley.'

‘O Christ, yea, sorry.'

‘Have a look there in Frank's drawer, he might have some old ones lying around.'

He can't say he's already had a look in Frank's drawer today and knows there's only cigars in there. ‘Ah, they'd be stale, only make you sick. Hold on there, I'll get you one from one of the lads.' He's about to get up when the door opens and Tony comes in. ‘Your mother…' Farley begins, ‘she's—'

‘Tony, I was mugged.'

Tony eyes pop. ‘Christ, Ma, are you alright? Did you call the cops?'

‘I told the garda on beat in Henry Street, yes. They took the whole bag, everything in it.'

‘Did you cancel the cards?'

‘Not yet.'

‘That was the first thing you should have done, Ma. Right come on, I'll do it now.'

He stands beside Farley and waits for him to vacate his father's seat. Farley gets up and moves away from the desk.

‘And Tony,' she continues, ‘the cross and chain was in the side pocket, you know, from when I was a bridesmaid for—' She breaks down now. Farley takes a step towards her, then stops.

‘Alright, Ma, alright. Just let me cancel the cards. The car is up in Jervis Street, I'll go up and get it, then drive you home.'

‘I was just about to go out, get a taxi,' Farley says.

‘I'm not havin her going home in a taxi on her own,' Tony says.

‘Ah no, of course not. I'll go with her.'

‘And why would you do that?'

‘I only thought.'

‘You only thought what, Farley?'

‘Well, by the time you get your car out the car park and drive round in the traffic, we'd be halfway home.'

‘Ah, stop it,' Kathleen says, ‘stop fussin the pair of you. I'll be grand in the taxi on me own. Your da will be home shortly. I'll be fine.'

‘That's right. Da'll be home. Da'll look after you.'

Noreen is standing at the door, mug of tea in her hand. ‘Look, why don't I go with you, Mrs Slowey? I'll wait with you till Frank gets home.'

‘Would you? O thanks, Noreen.'

She stands. He watches her tighten her coat around her, slip her hands in and out of her pockets, pull up her collar, roll it down again, fidget with a scarf. ‘Me hands,' she says, ‘I don't know where to be putting them.'

She moves past Noreen out to the hall. Noreen steps in, hands Farley the mug of tea. ‘Here,' she says, ‘stick your gob around that.'

He can't get near the courts, what with the cameras, the television vans, the amount of journalists hanging around. There's photographers perch -ed along the Liffey wall and another standing on the roof of a van.

Between Catherine Nevin's trial and Gilligan's extradition, he knows this could go on all day. He decides to try the side entrance in Chancery Place. Into a squeeze of black cloaks and brief-clutching elbows, he tries getting up the steps and he feels like shouting into the shove and push of it, ‘Ah, what do you have to do to get into this place, for fuck sake – murder someone?'

Farley gives up. He thinks about going round the back way, even walks as far as the corner, but sees the police have cordoned off the entrance. He could tell them he needs to go in for the purpose of work, but he doesn't feel like standing there explaining himself. And besides he's forgotten his file, so there's nothing really for him to do when he does get in. Except hang around and look like a spare waiting on someone to talk to him.

He stands on the street corner painted in shadow. Across the way, the two markets send out their own personal odours – fish gut and ammonia from one; the boozy smell of overripe fruit from the other. Down the way
a young man splashed in sunshine loads the back of a lorry with sacks of spuds. A girl sits on the wall outside River House, leaning back on her hands, face tipped to the sun. But on this side of the street the chilled spring air passes through his clothes, then through his skin, before settling down on his bones. He doesn't want to go back to work. Not yet. But if he hasn't got work to go to, where has he got? Farley pulls himself away from this thought. His eye falls on Hughes's pub. And he imagines it inside; the soft glow of lamplight, the warm, quiet corners where the few lone drinkers at this time of day sit behind cover of newspapers. He crosses the road and pushes against the door. A belch of sullied air comes out to meet him: Bovril, cigarettes, porter, whiskey. He feels slightly elated. Something he hasn't done for years is go into a pub during the day for no other pur pose than to drink.

He makes his way back to the office the long way round; from Hughes's to Slattery's, the Oval, the Bachelor: a pint in each one, till the afternoon has crumbled away and it's only by chance he happens to notice it's nearly time for his meeting with Tony. He can still hold his drink anyway, as he tells his pleased self in the mirror of the jacks of the Ormonde Hotel. And he can still remember all the old tricks, like plenty of grub to line the stomach and to keep the smell of gargle at bay; toasted cheese to stick to your gut; a ham sanger or two smeared with mustard; peanuts. And a few peppermints on the way back up the quays; sucked not chewed, because chewing makes the smell too obvious and also stings the fuck out of your tongue. He thinks of an oulfella, used to drink in around Queen Street, who kept a rotten orange in the cubbyhole of his car, and any time he was stopped by a garda checkpoint, he'd take a bite out of it so when he rolled down the window it smelled like he had the most God-awful halitosis and the garda, of course, would immediately back away and wave him on. Farley finds a chuckle bubbling in his throat at the thought of this, the orange, the oulfella, the recoiling garda. He bites down on his lip but the giddiness stays. He has to stop at an antique shop, pretend to be all
interested in the statue of a Red Indian outside it while he takes out his hanky, blows his nose into it, pushing the laugh out along with the snots and then literally wiping the grin off his face.

On the way in he meets Noreen coming out. ‘Jesus, where were you?'

‘Ah now, if I can't go on the hop on me last day, Noreen.'

‘Your man's waiting inside. I'm off to see if I can get Jim settled, I'll be back later. Now it mightn't be for too long, Farley – you'll understand?'

He nods and kisses her on the face. Noreen starts. ‘Have you drink on you?' she laughs.

‘Go on now, you loved it,' he says.

She goes down the steps.

‘Noreen!' He says it a little too loudly.

‘What? Jesus, what are you roarin for?'

‘O sorry, I was just like wondering, how was Kathleen after?'

‘Alright. A bit upset. Over the cross and chain, mostly.'

‘Ah yea. She would be. She…'

‘Farley?'

‘What?'

‘Take my advice now and shut up about Kathleen.'

‘What are you on about? I was only askin.'

‘O, never mind. Look, just go in and see Tony. And here, Farley, best maybe just listen to what he says. Say as little as you can get away with saying, if you know what I mean. And good luck.'

‘But about Kathleen, I was only—'

‘Farley – let me put it this way – have you ever discussed Kathleen with me?'

‘No. No I haven't.'

‘That's right, and you don't have to either. People aren't stupid, you know.' She pauses, puts her hand on his arm, ‘Look, I know you'd never do anything.'

‘No, no of course I wouldn't.'

‘But still and all, Farley – you know?'

Then she looks at the sky and trots off up the quay.

But he can't seem to help saying it to Tony. ‘Your ma? How was she after?'

‘Yea, grand, yea, ta. Sit down, Farley, rest your legs there. Been out and about?'

‘That's right.'

‘Sure why not? Not as if we're goin sack you – wha'?' Tony throws him a wink, then inserts his little finger into the spine of a file and flips it open. The file has his name on it.

‘You have a file on me?'

Tony looks up. ‘Yea? Of course we have – why wouldn't we?'

Farley nods. ‘No, I just, yea, grand. Go on.'

‘Right,' Tony says, ‘before we begin here, I want you to know this is just a bit of a chat about your retirement package. Nothing written in stone, you can go away, have a think about things, come back and we can talk again – right? Good stuff. Now, I've been looking at the figures. At your end there's the years of service to the company and all that and anyway, this is what I consider to be a fair amount.'

He writes something on a page, twists it around and slides it across the table.

Farley looks down. Then he puts on his reading glasses and blinks.

‘What's this?'

‘This is what I was thinking.'

‘No, no, I mean what is it
for
exactly?'

‘Well, obviously, it doesn't include your pension. Your pension is your own business from now on. We've paid it up to date since you started it. It's up to you to decide with the brokers what you want to do about that. It's a pity you didn't start it sooner though, Farley, but there you go.'

‘The company couldn't afford it sooner.'

‘Right. Anyway, that figure I've just given you is, well, I suppose, it's to say thanks for the years of service.'

‘And that's it?'

‘Well, yea.'

‘I thought you were supposed to be buying me out?'

‘What do you mean buying you out?'

‘I am a partner in this company – remember? I own a quarter share.'

Tony joins his hands, begins tapping a knuckle off his chin. ‘Look, I don't know where you're getting that from, Farley.'

‘I bought into this company. I own a quarter share. Don't try and tell me you didn't know that.'

‘Do you mean legally, like? Because so far as I'm aware there's no contract.' Tony rocks in his chair, shaking his head, vaguely bewildered.