Read Online Bloodland: A Novel by Alan Glynn - Free Book Online Page B

time she should be the one to make contact.
    If, and when – that is – she felt ready.
    Jimmy turns around.
    But that mightn’t be for days, weeks even.
    He looks over at the research material laid out on his desk, at the folders, notes, printouts – all of it generated from secondary sources, all of it useful … but all of it fairly limited. So his impulse is to pick up the phone right now and call her.
    He could rationalise this in six different ways.
    But it’d still be ridiculous.
    She only agreed to meet him last night because he’d been so persistent. If he pushes it now, she mightn’t ever talk to him again.
    He leans back against the window and surveys the room. The bookshelves to the left contain those Penguins and Picadors he inherited, along with hundreds more, and hundreds of his own. To the right is his cluttered workspace, desk, computer, printer, and then a music system of stacked stereo separates – another legacy of the old man’s and about as anachronistic-looking as a Bakelite telephone. Two leather sofas in the middle, and a coffee table. Kitchen at the back. Kitchen ette . Adjoining bedroom and tiny bathroom.
    Fourth floor. Small seafront apartment building.
    Thirty-two years to go on the mortgage.
    For that money he could have got a slightly bigger place somewhere else, but as far as Jimmy was concerned the living space wasn’t what mattered. His apartment could just as easily have been a tent, or a nice arrangement of cardboard boxes. What mattered was the view, the ability at any time of the day or night to look out of his window and behold – to open his window and breathe in – the sea.
    To be beside the.
    Jimmy then finds himself wondering where Maria lives, and if she is involved with anyone. Or married even. He didn’t notice if she was wearing a ring.
    He slides down and sits on the windowsill.
    At which point his phone rings.
    He hesitates for a second, then gets up and goes over to the desk. He can see who it is before his hand has even reached the phone.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Jimmy, hi, it’s Maria.’
    ‘Hi. How are you ?’
    ‘I’m fine. But listen.’ He’s listening. ‘You’ve started me thinking about this, and now I can’t stop. But I need to do more than think about it, I need to talk about it.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘So can we meet again?’ She pauses. ‘Today?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Yeah .
    ‘How about for lunch?’
    ‘Sure.’ Leaning his free hand on the desk, he turns and slowly lowers himself into the chair. ‘Where did you have in mind?’
    *   *   *
    He acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He takes the bottle of Jameson from the cabinet and places it on the fold-out shelf. He takes a glass – Waterford cut crystal, one of a set, a gift from Paddy Norton – and drops four ice cubes into it. Then, as he opens the bottle, whiskey fumes hit his nostrils – molecules of it rising to his brain, like tracker scouts, seeking out receptive lobes and cortices. He tilts the bottle and pours, watching mesmerised as the golden liquid cascades over the ice cubes, one of which cracks loudly and splits. When the glass is nearly full he puts the bottle down and screws the cap back on, an act which feels measured, grown-up.
    He looks over his shoulder.
    He’s alone here, but you never know. Mary’s in town and the girls are off doing whatever they’re doing. They don’t even live here anymore, but they both have keys.
    He doesn’t want to be disturbed.
    He takes the glass in his hand, ice cubes clinking.
    Tinkling.
    Oh Jesus, like music .
    But has he overdone it? It’s a greedy-looking affair, practically full to the brim. He’d never serve a drink like this. On top of which it’s not even lunchtime. It’s not even mid-morning. But does that matter? The time of day it is? If it was half past seven in the evening and he was in a tuxedo holding a Manhattan in his hand he’d still be a fucking alcoholic.
    Still be a degenerate lowlife.
    Still be