Free Winterland by Alan Glynn Page B

other locations in Europe and from further afield.’
    Bolger shifts in his seat and at the same time adjusts his headphones slightly. He’s done countless radio interviews over the years, but he’s never liked them. He gets restless and fidgety. TV is better, he thinks, because it’s more of a full-on performance. Besides, radio presenters tend to grill you a little harder.
    ‘In your view, Minister, what does today’s announcement mean for the Waterford area?’
    Though some interviews, like this one, he could do in his sleep.
    ‘Well, Sean, I don’t think it’s overstating it to say that the investment we’ve just announced will go a long way towards mitigating the fallout from recent job losses in the south and south-east. Paloma is going to employ upwards of four hundred people at the plant, but many more jobs will be created in surrounding communities. So there’s no doubt about it, this is win-win economics.’
    And win-win press coverage, too, Bolger thinks.
    ‘OK, we’ll leave it there, Minister,’ the interviewer says after a few more questions. ‘Thank you for joining us.’
    Bolger takes off the headphones, nods at the production assistant who’s working the console to his left and gets up from the table.
    He needs to take a leak. He leaves the little studio and makes straight for the men’s room down the corridor. He had a press conference before this radio slot, and after lunch he has a couple of newspaper interviews to do. Then he leaves for an appointment in Athlone and a reception this evening in Tuam. His PA, advisers and media handlers will all want a piece of him, and at every stage, even as he gets something to eat, so taking a leak – or even better, a crap – is about the only way he can find a moment to himself these days.
    Not that he’s complaining. He loves this. The last time he was in the cabinet, over five years ago, he practically had a nervous breakdown. He couldn’t take the pressure, the hours, the constant infighting, and besides, he was still drinking back then, and carrying on with your woman, what was her name, Avril, his bookie’s wife …
    He finishes, and does up his zip.
    It was a miracle that he survived that period of his life, politically let alone any other way. This time around he’s sober, celibate and extremely focused, and the weird thing is, not only does he have his sights set on the leadership of the party, but it seems to be what a few other people want for him as well.
    At fifty-three, he feels that his time has come.
    As he washes his hands, he glances at himself in the mirror. He’s better-looking now, too – that distinguished grey fleck in his hair, laser surgery taking care of the glasses, the sharper suits.
    Fuck it, he positively exudes gravitas.
     
    Bolger comes out of the men’s room and stands in the corridor. He’ll get a quick call in to Paddy Norton before the vultures descend on him again. He only heard the news about Noel Rafferty as he was going on air, and he wants to check that there isn’t anything about the story he needs to be up to speed on.
    But as he’s getting the phone out of his pocket, it rings.
    ‘Larry, Paddy.’
    ‘Oh, I was just about to –’
    ‘Listen, I was on to our friend in New York earlier, and you remember that thing we talked about? Well, it seems they want to go ahead with it.’
    ‘Right. Jesus. Good.’ He pauses. ‘That’s great .’
    ‘Yeah, but keep it under wraps, OK? Don’t go around mouthing off about it to anyone.’
    ‘Paddy, give me a little credit, would you?’
    ‘No, I’m just saying . I mean, you know what this town is like.’
    ‘OK, OK, whatever.’
    ‘But anyway, I’ll get back to you later with the details.’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Right.’
    There is a pause.
    ‘Listen,’ Bolger then says, ‘I was going to ask you about this Noel Rafferty thing.’
    ‘Oh? What about it?’
    ‘I was wondering, you know, what’s the story?’
    Bolger knew Noel Rafferty fairly well and