Absolute Zero Cool (27 page)

The Growler half-chokes, but Sallow Guy only squints. He’s heard about the hospital before. ‘Go on,’ he says.

‘Cassie and me, we had a lot of arguments before we broke up.’ He’s heard about this too. ‘My job is crap, but it gives me plenty of time to write.’

‘What’s this about blowing up a hospital?’ the Growler growls.

‘This story I was writing, it’s about a guy who wants to blow up a hospital. Cassie read it and accused me of wanting to blow up the hospital.’

‘What – the hospital here?’

‘Exactly.’ I half-grin, then bite on my inner lip. ‘I mean, she accused me of planning to blow up the place where I work.’

The detectives exchange glances. Sallow Guy says, ‘Go on.’

‘I gave Cassie the story to read, I thought she’d like it. But she went ballistic.’ I shrug. ‘Sometimes Cassie wasn’t so good at picking up on irony.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, the story’s about this porter who gets so freaked out at being on the bottom of the shit-pile, not being appreciated, that he decides to blow up his hospital. Reading between the lines, it’s a parable about how writers are demented by their own egos. The hospital coming down is supposed to be this impossible pursuit, like the whale in Moby-Dick. Because, at the end, the hospital never blows up. He’s just this sociopath fantasist.’ I shrug. ‘But Cassie didn’t get any of that. She just freaked. I don’t know, maybe she didn’t read all the way to the end.’

‘What has that to do with her claiming you raped her?’

‘All I’m saying is, Cassie took things too literally sometimes.’

‘Things don’t get much more literal than rape.’

‘You’re singing to the choir on that one, man. Look – I like Cassie. I trust her, she still has the keys to my flat. We just want different things.’

The detectives exchange glances.

‘This guy she’s hooked up with now,’ I say, ‘Tony, her ex. I met him, he seems a good guy, he’s going to make her happier than I could and good luck to them both. I’m happy she’s happy, I told her that on Saturday night. The last thing I want to do is go raping her.’ This much, at least, is true. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should just have told her I was pissed off. Maybe she got pissed off I wasn’t pissed off it all ended.’

This statement meets with silence. This is not exactly misogyny in action. It is not exactly three men in a room not fathoming the impenetrable workings of the female mind. It is not exactly worth an alibi in itself. But every little helps.

Sallow Guy says, ‘We’ll need to take that swab.’

‘Fine. Take whatever you need, I have nothing to hide.’

‘We’re also going to want to have a look around your flat.’

‘For what?’

‘We’ll know that,’ the Growler growls, ‘when we find it.’

‘It’d also look good,’ Sallow Face says, ‘if you voluntarily surrendered your passport. To show willing.’

‘No problem. I’m not going anywhere.’

Sallow Face sniffs. ‘We appreciate your co-operation, Mr Karlsson.’ He sounds mechanical, as if speaking by rote. ‘This must be a difficult situation for you.’

‘It’s no picnic for Cassie, either.’

The Growler coughs. Sallow Guy announces for the benefit of the tape that he’s terminating the interview, then switches off the recorder. He says, ‘Get this guy signed out.’

The Growler leaves. Sallow says, ‘This book.’

‘Which book?’

‘The one about the hospital. We’ll need to see it.’

‘Sure thing.’

He stands up. ‘By the way,’ he says, ‘where’d you get your hands on that dope you smoked on Saturday night?’

My line for today is, A genius working alone is invariably ignored as a lunatic. (Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard)

The protocols must be observed. Cassie must now be questioned as to the motives behind her allegation of rape. The issue of illicit drug-taking will be raised. Her ability to remember details as basic as the ownership of her own property will be queried.

For my part, and given my position in a public health institution, my employers must be notified of my illicit drug-taking. The police will also make enquiries as to my previous behaviour in the workplace, in particular the possibility that I have been chastised for sexual harassment, improper suggestions, or a malignant attitude towards women in general. This represents the opportunity my supervisor has been praying for. This is manna indeed.

He stands behind his desk rocking on his heels. He makes no attempt to appear caring, understanding or compassionate about my situation. This is progress. This is the instinctive outworking of the selfish gene that propelled the Homo sapiens species to the top of evolution’s queue. This is the human race winning a game defined and understood only by the human race.

‘There’s rules, Karlsson. Even if this was not a multi-gendered workplace environment it would still be necessary to suspend you pending the outcome of this investigation.’ A December dawn glows in his prematurely grey eyes. ‘Don’t consider it as a vote of confidence or otherwise. Try to see it as an opportunity we’re affording you, to take some time out in order to deal with what must be a difficult situation.’

‘Joe, that thing I said about your kid . . .’

He waves me off. ‘Karlsson, you and I both know you said what you said at a time of great personal stress.’ He bares his teeth in a dry canine smile. ‘I’ve told you before, anything said in this office stays in this office. You and I, we have a confidential relationship.’

‘You’re missing the point, Joe.’

A smirk. ‘About what, the Polynesians?’

‘The point is, even if you tell the cops about our conversation, and even if they arrest me, I’ll be back out on bail inside twelve hours. Don’t doubt it. I’m thinking of your kid here, Joe. What you have to do is decide what’s more important, personal revenge or a daughter growing up with a face like torched chip wrappers.’

He leans on the back of the orthopaedic chair. He seems to sag. He tries to work the canine smile again but winds up looking like a sick puppy.

‘Karlsson . . .’

‘You’re out of your depth, Joe. Get back to the shallow end where the kiddies play. The big boys play by different rules and even the rules would make you vomit. Joe,’ I say, ‘when you write that report for the cops, imagine you’re writing it on scorched chip wrappers.’

His eyes glaze over.

‘If you want my advice,’ I say, ‘then you’ll tell the cops that I’m innocent until proven otherwise, and you’d be setting up the hospital for bankruptcy if anyone here so much as looks crooked at me over these outrageous allegations. Trust me, you’ll sleep better.’

I leave, closing his door quietly behind me. The blood roars in my ears. Tomorrow I rouse the Mongol hordes from hibernation and point them south-west, complete with the Black Plague fleas that infest their horses.

•

‘You don’t look convinced,’ I say.

‘I’m not.’ Billy scratches under his chin. ‘To be honest, I don’t like the idea of Cass being even allegedly raped.’

‘It’s better than killing her off.’

‘Sure, yeah. But still . . .’

‘What?’

‘She’s going to look a fool, isn’t she? Humiliated. She’s gone to all the bother of reporting it, and that couldn’t have been easy. Now it’s looking like the cops aren’t going to take her seriously.’

He’s been a moody sod all day. ‘What’s on your mind, Billy? I mean really.’

He shrugs. ‘Would it have been so difficult,’ he says, ‘I mean the first time around, to have written a story about K and Cass just sailing a yacht in the Greek islands? People like happy endings in the Greek islands. Look at Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.’

‘I can’t write fat books, man.’

‘It wouldn’t have had to have been a whole novel,’ he says. ‘A short story would have done the trick.’

‘What’s done is done, Billy.’

‘Except,’ he says, ‘Karlsson was never Karlsson, was he? He was you. You without the choice to be you or not.’

‘Choice?’

‘Sure. The freedom to be whatever he wanted to be.’

I laugh. ‘And what makes you think I have free will?’

‘You’ve a lot more of it than K had.’

‘I’m just a character in everyone else’s story, Billy. They’re just characters in mine.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Read up on your Buddha, man. The whole world, the whole universe, it’s all just an illusion.’

He pats the table. ‘Seems a solid enough illusion to me,’ he says.

‘Let me put it this way,’ I say. ‘If I had free will, I’d be the one sailing a yacht around the Greek islands. Except I’m sitting here talking to you.’

He makes a fist and pounds the table. ‘You made a choice, man. That’s different. That’s my whole point.’

‘Billy,’ I say, ‘the whole idea of free will, it’s pie in the sky. The Hindus, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the Christians – they all believe it’s all pre-ordained. And they can’t all be wrong.’

‘They can, y’know,’ he says. ‘I mean, if it’s all mapped out, what’s the bloody point of being alive in the first place?’

‘Maybe so you can accept that it’s all pre-ordained and acknowledge your place in the grand scheme. Appreciate the beauty of the design. Imagine for a second you’re a single tiny tile in a huge mosaic and you’re––’

‘Gimme a break,’ he groans. ‘What’re you on, PCP?’

‘Hey, Hemingway?’ Deborah steps out onto the patio, shading her eyes with one hand. ‘It’s nearly ten-past and your parents are expecting us for seven. Can you get Rosie changed and put her in the car?’

‘Sure thing, hon.’ Tonight is a rare night for us, dinner for two over flickering candles, and Debs doesn’t want to lose a single second of it. ‘Be right with you.’

She raises a sardonic eyebrow, then taps her wrist with one finger and goes back inside.

‘There you go,’ I say. ‘That’s how much free will I have.’

‘You could have said no,’ he says. ‘Told her you were too busy.’

‘To Debs?’ I laugh as I stand up. ‘Free will’s a marvellous idea, Billy, but I’d rather keep both balls, cheers all the same.’

He grins, then gathers his notes together. ‘If you’re going to be out and about,’ he says, ‘d’you fancy a pint later on, after dinner?’

‘Yeah, maybe. I’ll see how it goes. Debs might be tired.’

‘I’ll text you, we can take it from there.’

‘Do that.’

•

We need to think Greek, people. We need to think Egyptian and Roman. Who now speaks the language of Cheops, Aristotle or Julius Caesar? Who today worships Amun-Re, Athena or Vulcan?

Think instead of the pyramids, the Parthenon, the Coliseum. A civilisation defines itself by its buildings. Eras are marked – literally and figuratively – by their physical constructs.

Forget literature, language, religion. If you want to be remembered, become an architect. A civilisation leaves behind nothing but its buildings and its prejudices. If you start taking down their buildings, they’re going to sit up and take notice.

There’s nothing to pique the imagination quite like a missing hospital.

My line for today is, Politicians, buildings and whores achieve respectability if they survive for long enough. (Robert Towne, Chinatown)

September 14th

Dear Mrs Kerins –

There is a bomb planted on the third or fourth floor of the hospital, depending on whether you count the basement as an actual floor. This bomb is of a sensitive nature. Any attempt to defuse it will result in premature detonation. It is timed to explode at precisely 22.55 on Saturday night, September 17th. I advise you to sign your husband out of the hospital before that time on that date.

Yours sincerely,

A Friend

Naturally, I do not choose Mrs Kerins at random. According to the files, Mrs Kerins is the young wife of a long-term in-patient with a pancreatic tumour. By a stroke of good fortune, however, when cross-referencing the files, I discover that Mrs Kerins is seven months pregnant.

This represents instant pathos. This ensures that Mrs Kerins will not spend very long wondering if my note is a hoax. It ensures that she will immediately panic and then attempt to dilute her misery by telling anyone who will listen to her dreadful news.

Inevitably, news of the bomb warning will reach the ever-twitching antennae of the Fourth Estate. This in turn ensures that the Health Service Executive will not have the luxury of presuming that the warning is a hoax, or of quietly searching the third and fourth floors in order to establish the validity of the warning before evacuating the hospital. Further, it ensures that the HSE will not be responsible for the premature explosion of a bomb, and thus will not have the blood of innocent civilians on its hands, or no more than it currently has.