been no obituaries, no contact from
reporters wanting to know the circumstances under which he had died. He was an
obscure writer in a largely ignored genre. Maybe there was stuff on the
internet about it, but I didn't check. I was off Augustine Wogan. He had
promised me big things, and backed out. His whole life, in fact, was about
unfulfilled promise.
Alison
said, 'Will I throw this out?'
She
was holding the blood-spattered Irish Times that Augustine appeared to
have been reading prior to his death and which the cleaners had folded and set
to one side.
I nodded.
It was a grisly memento of the great man, and might conceivably have fetched
something on eBay, but it clearly showed my pissedoffness with Augustine that I
wasn't even prepared to check.
Alison
crossed to a pedal bin by the door and deposited the paper. She turned back and
asked if I wanted to go to her place for something to eat, because it just
didn't feel right cooking here in the house with Augustine so recently dead. I
nodded. I was hungry, plus he'd eaten everything and I hadn't had the wherewithal
to restock. She was just asking me what I fancied, when she stopped
mid-sentence and turned back to the bin. She retrieved the newspaper. She
stared down at it. Her lips moved silently. Then she said, 'Bloody hell.'
Followed swiftly by, 'Bloody bloody hell.'
She
looked up and gave a disbelieving shake of her head before holding the paper
out to me.
I
took it, but reluctantly. Augustine's blood.
I
held it at arm's length.
There
was a headline that said Dublin planners accused of corruption .
She
read my lips and said, 'No, the photo, look at the picture.'
I
studied it, although there wasn't much studying involved. A beaming man with a
glamorous woman on his arm. The caption said: Celebrated surgeon to the
stars Dr Igor Yeschenkov pictured at the opening of the Xianth Art Gallery in
Upper Leeson Street with socialite Arabella Wogan .
My
eyes flitted up to Alison.
The
truth, staring up at us.
Augustine
had read these words, and seen her face, and remembered her saying, 'Love you,
honey bun,' and then he had blown his own head off.
----
Chapter 10
We
ate in a Chinese restaurant on Great Victoria Street. I managed to get through
it without an allergic reaction to anything, which I suppose was progress of
some sort. Alison kept talking about Augustine as if she actually knew him, like
he was her father-in-law, or older cousin, or like someone you grew up calling
an uncle but actually he was just a friend of your parents, a little too much
of a friend, a friend whom you actually suspected of having an affair with your
mother except your poor sad father never knew, and who had gone to his grave
taking all the details of his sordid affair with him, save for your mother
locked up in a high-security nursing home, and she would deny it until she was
in the ground as well because she liked to masquerade as pious when in fact she
ranted and raved in her sleep and it was pretty clear that she had had a
voracious sexual appetite. Alison
hadn't
known Augustine personally any better than I did, but my advantage was that at
least I knew him through his work, and was aware that he was a giant in his
field, even though he was well camouflaged in that field.
At
the end of the night I dropped Alison home, and she invited me in. I said no,
I'd things to think about, and she said that I thought too much, which was just
ridiculous. The case was gone, Augustine was gone, my reputation in the
mysterious world was probably gone, plus I needed to find money to redecorate
Mother's bedroom.
I
stayed up thinking about Augustine. I hadn't slept properly since the 1970s,
but from the night Mother was dragged kicking and screaming to her nursing
home, it had been easier to come by. This night I didn't even attempt it. I sat
at
reporters wanting to know the circumstances under which he had died. He was an
obscure writer in a largely ignored genre. Maybe there was stuff on the
internet about it, but I didn't check. I was off Augustine Wogan. He had
promised me big things, and backed out. His whole life, in fact, was about
unfulfilled promise.
Alison
said, 'Will I throw this out?'
She
was holding the blood-spattered Irish Times that Augustine appeared to
have been reading prior to his death and which the cleaners had folded and set
to one side.
I nodded.
It was a grisly memento of the great man, and might conceivably have fetched
something on eBay, but it clearly showed my pissedoffness with Augustine that I
wasn't even prepared to check.
Alison
crossed to a pedal bin by the door and deposited the paper. She turned back and
asked if I wanted to go to her place for something to eat, because it just
didn't feel right cooking here in the house with Augustine so recently dead. I
nodded. I was hungry, plus he'd eaten everything and I hadn't had the wherewithal
to restock. She was just asking me what I fancied, when she stopped
mid-sentence and turned back to the bin. She retrieved the newspaper. She
stared down at it. Her lips moved silently. Then she said, 'Bloody hell.'
Followed swiftly by, 'Bloody bloody hell.'
She
looked up and gave a disbelieving shake of her head before holding the paper
out to me.
I
took it, but reluctantly. Augustine's blood.
I
held it at arm's length.
There
was a headline that said Dublin planners accused of corruption .
She
read my lips and said, 'No, the photo, look at the picture.'
I
studied it, although there wasn't much studying involved. A beaming man with a
glamorous woman on his arm. The caption said: Celebrated surgeon to the
stars Dr Igor Yeschenkov pictured at the opening of the Xianth Art Gallery in
Upper Leeson Street with socialite Arabella Wogan .
My
eyes flitted up to Alison.
The
truth, staring up at us.
Augustine
had read these words, and seen her face, and remembered her saying, 'Love you,
honey bun,' and then he had blown his own head off.
----
Chapter 10
We
ate in a Chinese restaurant on Great Victoria Street. I managed to get through
it without an allergic reaction to anything, which I suppose was progress of
some sort. Alison kept talking about Augustine as if she actually knew him, like
he was her father-in-law, or older cousin, or like someone you grew up calling
an uncle but actually he was just a friend of your parents, a little too much
of a friend, a friend whom you actually suspected of having an affair with your
mother except your poor sad father never knew, and who had gone to his grave
taking all the details of his sordid affair with him, save for your mother
locked up in a high-security nursing home, and she would deny it until she was
in the ground as well because she liked to masquerade as pious when in fact she
ranted and raved in her sleep and it was pretty clear that she had had a
voracious sexual appetite. Alison
hadn't
known Augustine personally any better than I did, but my advantage was that at
least I knew him through his work, and was aware that he was a giant in his
field, even though he was well camouflaged in that field.
At
the end of the night I dropped Alison home, and she invited me in. I said no,
I'd things to think about, and she said that I thought too much, which was just
ridiculous. The case was gone, Augustine was gone, my reputation in the
mysterious world was probably gone, plus I needed to find money to redecorate
Mother's bedroom.
I
stayed up thinking about Augustine. I hadn't slept properly since the 1970s,
but from the night Mother was dragged kicking and screaming to her nursing
home, it had been easier to come by. This night I didn't even attempt it. I sat
at
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