Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Epigraph
PART ONE
[ 1 ]
[ 2 ]
[ 3 ]
[ 4 ]
[ 5 ]
[ 6 ]
[ 7 ]
PART TWO
[ 8 ]
[ 9 ]
[ 10 ]
[ 11 ]
[ 12 ]
[ 13 ]
[ 14 ]
PART THREE
[ 15 ]
[ 16 ]
[ 17 ]
[ 18 ]
[ 19 ]
[ 20 ]
[ 21 ]
PART FOUR
[ 22 ]
[ 23 ]
[ 24 ]
[ 25 ]
[ 26 ]
[ 27 ]
[ 28 ]
Also by Alan Glynn
About the Author
Copyright Page
For Eithne
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank the following people for their help and support, both moral and editorial: Eithne Kelly, Declan Hughes, Douglas Kennedy, Antony Harwood, Andrew Gordon, Liam Glenn, Eimear Kelly, Kate O’Carroll and Tif Eccles.
He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
F. Scott Fitzgerald,
PART ONE
[ 1 ]
IT’S GETTING LATE.
I don’t have too sharp a sense of time any more, but I know it must be after eleven, and maybe even getting on for midnight. I’m reluctant to look at my watch, though – because that will only remind me of how little time I have left.
In any case, it’s getting late.
And it’s
And to this quiet, empty motel room, with its three different but equally busy décor patterns – carpet, wallpaper, blankets – vying,
I am sitting in a wicker armchair in a Vermont motel room, everything unfamiliar to me. I’ve got a laptop computer balanced on my knees and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor beside me. I’m facing the TV set, which is bolted to the wall in the corner, and is switched on, tuned to CNN, but with the sound turned right down. There is a panel of commentators on the screen – national security advisers, Washington correspondents, foreign policy experts – and although I can’t hear them, I know what they’re talking about … they’re talking about the situation, the crisis, they’re talking about Mexico.
Finally – giving in – I look at my watch.
I can’t believe that it’s been nearly twelve hours already. In a while, of course, it will be fifteen hours, and then twenty hours, and then a whole day. What happened in Manhattan this morning is receding, slipping back along all those countless, small-town Main Streets, and along all those miles of highway, hurtling backwards through time, and at what feels like an unnaturally rapid pace. But it is also beginning to break up under the immense pressure, beginning to crack and fragment into separate shards of memory – while simultaneously remaining, of course, in some kind of a suspended, inescapable present tense, set hard,
I look at my watch again.
The thought of what happened sets my heart pounding, and audibly, as if it’s panicking in there and will shortly be forcing its way, thrashing and flailing, out of my chest. But at least my head hasn’t started pounding. That will come, I know, sooner or later – the intense pin-prick behind the eyeballs spreading out into an excruciating, skull-wide agony. But at least it hasn’t started yet.
Clearly, though, time is running out.
So how do I begin this?
