Bloodland: A Novel Read Free Page A

TV.’
    He just blurts it out.
    It’s not how he’d answer the same question if it came from a journalist, but God, could he not dredge up something a little more interesting for Dave Conway? Travel maybe? Or a bit of consultancy? The Clinton Foundation? Bilderberg?
    Standing at the window, phone cradled on his shoulder, Larry Bolger gazes out over the rooftops of Donnybrook.
    Usually when a journalist asks him how he’s spending his time these days he’ll say he’s serving on various boards, which is true, and then add that he’s started writing his memoirs, which isn’t. But at least he gives the impression of being busy. And that’s important.
    Or is it?
    Maybe not.
    Serving as a corporate director, in any case, doesn’t take up that much time, and not writing your memoirs doesn’t take up any time at all … so, yeah, big deal, he does have a lot of time on his hands. But is it anyone’s business how he chooses to spend it? No, and if that means he watches six episodes of CSI in a row, or a whole season of Scrubs , or the Hermann Goering Week on the History Channel in its entirety , well then, so be it.
    Because there’s no manual for this, no seven-step recovery programme, no Dr Phil or Deepak-whatshisname bestseller. If you’re an ex-head of state, and you don’t have anything lined up on the jobs front, then that’s pretty much it, you’re on your own.
    ‘What,’ Conway asks, ‘like Primetime , Newsnight ?’
    ‘Yeah, that kind of thing. Current affairs.’
    ‘Keeping ahead of the curve?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Bolger throws his eyes up. He didn’t phone Dave Conway for this, for a chat.
    ‘So listen,’ he says, ‘this week some time, are you free?’
    ‘Er, I’m –’
    ‘I won’t keep you long.’
    ‘OK, Larry. Sure.’
    They make an arrangement for the following morning. Here in the hotel.
    After he hangs up Bolger trades the phone for the remote. He stands in the middle of the room and points it at the 42-inch plasma screen on the wall.
    When he read that thing in the paper last week, he wasn’t sure what to make of it – though it certainly put the shits up him. What use talking to Dave Conway will be he doesn’t know either, probably none, but he needs to talk to someone. He needs reassurance. Besides, he hasn’t had much contact with any of the old crowd since leaving office over a year ago and he’s been feeling isolated.
    He fiddles with the remote.
    It’s amazing, he thinks, how quickly you get cut out of the loop.
    He even swallowed his pride and tried phoning James Vaughan a couple of times, but the old fucker won’t return his calls. They haven’t spoken for about six months, not since that debacle over the IMF job Bolger had been up for and really wanted. Vaughan had championed his candidacy in Washington, or so it had seemed at the time, but then without any explanation he’d blocked it.
    It was awful. Bolger had had everything mapped out, his trajectory over the next ten years – a solid stint at the IMF to hoover up connections and kudos, then a move to some post at the UN, in Trade and Development or one of the agencies or maybe even, if the timing was right, Secretary General. Why not? But if not, Trade, Human Rights, Aid, whatever. It was his dream, his 4 a.m. fantasy, and when Vaughan chose for whatever reason to snuff it out, Bolger was devastated. Because it wasn’t just that job, the first phase of the trajectory, it was the whole fucking trajectory. The thing is, you don’t survive getting passed over like that, it’s too public, too humiliating, so you may as well stuff your CV in a drawer and dig out your golf clubs.
    That is, if you play golf.
    The former Taoiseach, the prime minister, in any case, reckons that James Vaughan owes him at least a phone call.
    But apparently not.
    Bolger often thinks of that lunch in the Wilson Hotel, what was it, four, five years ago now?
    How times change.
    He goes into ‘My Recordings’ on the digital box, which is still