Free Bloodland: A Novel by Alan Glynn

–
    Oh just shut up and drink the bloody thing.
    He raises the glass to his lips and slurps.
    Slurps whiskey.
    The taste of it, the feel of it going down.
    Oh.
    My.
    God.
    He holds the glass in front of him, stares at it in disbelief. Raises it to his lips again. Takes a couple of genteel sips. Just for confirmation.
    Then another slurp.
    Puts the glass down. Turns around.
    Stands, waits.
    Already he can feel it, that burning sensation in his stomach, that hesitant acceleration in his brain chemistry, like a fluorescent tube-light clicking and stuttering into life. Already he can feel those familiar cravings, sudden and impatient …
    For a cigarette, for company … for another sip …
    He turns around and takes one.
    Then goes over and switches on the radio. He picks up the remote and switches on the TV as well, tunes it to Sky. He presses the mute button and drops the remote onto the sofa.
    He goes back to the corner and retrieves his drink.
    He stands there, taking sips, looking into the glass, swirling its contents around.
    The last time he did this was nearly ten years ago. He was a cabinet minister trying to stay on top of a very difficult portfolio. But he was gambling at the same time – and obsessively, any chance he could get, the races, card games, whether this or that bill would pass and by how many votes, whatever. Plus, to crown it all, he was having an affair with his bookie’s wife, Avril Byrne. It was the only time he ever cheated on Mary, but it was enough to last him a lifetime. Big and messy, it was all hotel corridors, hidden credit card bills, misplaced packets of condoms, blinding headaches, rows, shouting, lies, more lies and fucking endless rivers of booze. He doesn’t know how he survived it. A few of the lads – including Paddy Norton – took him aside one day and told him he was becoming a liability. They said that if he wanted his shot at the leadership – which had always been on the cards, sort of – then he’d have to get his shit together in pretty quick order.
    And weirdly enough that’s just what he did. He stopped. From one day to the next.
    The gambling was little more than a question of impulse control, which he’d let slip, so apart from a huge pile of unpaid debts there was no problem there. Avril was easy, too – he never liked her that much anyway, and besides, she seemed more relieved than he was.
    No, it was the other part that was really hard, the not drinking part. That part took forever. The shakes, the sweats, the vivid dreams, my sweet Jesus. But it worked out in the end. He lost weight, got in shape, had the laser surgery on his eyes, smartened up.
    Moved up.
    Ironically, a few years later, it was the affair and the gambling that nearly scuppered his leadership chances. Some prick at party HQ loyal to the Taoiseach resurrected the whole thing and leaked it to the press in some sort of preemptive strike. But he weathered that one as well and took power soon afterwards.
    In fact, the closest he came to taking a drink during all of that time was when Mark Griffin showed up, and when Paddy Norton –
    Bolger clicks his tongue.
    Fuck it.
    He’s not going there .
    He takes another sip, and then two more.
    The weather girl is on Sky – though not the one he fancies. There’s some choral thing on the radio.
    He looks into his glass.
    He’s fallen off the wagon now. It’s official. He can release a statement to the media. Ex-Taoiseach succumbs to demons, has a little drinkie, feels he deserves it …
    But then, in the next moment –
    Couple out walking their dog.
    To which he says, fuck it, he’s not going there either.
    He turns around and replenishes his drink.
    But what does he do now? Trapped in the apartment like this, a caged beast, the clock ticking until Mary gets back.
    He looks at his watch.
    There’s plenty of time, though – hours in fact. He’ll be able to sleep it off, drink some coffee, say he’s feeling under the weather, say he even detects a