asking him some new question, or the same one again.
“What?”
“Have you been in touch with your son recently?” Hackett said. “I mean, would the two of you have been—would you have been close, like?”
Corless was barely listening. Hold fast, he told himself, digging his fingers into the bones of his knees, hold fast: others have suffered worse things than this, comrades whose families were destroyed, whose wives were raped, parents murdered, children tortured before their eyes. Hold fast.
“Close?” he said. “There are things we don’t see eye to eye on. Politics, that kind of thing. But he’s my son.” He gritted his teeth. “Was—he was my son.”
Hackett was standing by the window, looking out, as if there were something to see, his hat still in his hands. “So your son wasn’t political, didn’t follow in the—in the family tradition, as you might say.”
Corless gave a brief, harsh laugh. “My son,” he said, “is a firm believer in the eventual and inevitable triumph of capitalism.” His voice seemed to him to be coming not from his own mouth but from some machine close by, as if he weren’t speaking at all, as if the words he was hearing were a recording, badly made, a mechanical trotting out of worn-out slogans, assertions, denunciations. He was surprised at himself. Even now, standing on this precipice with a sea of grief stretching before him, he felt the old bitterness stirring, the old, aggrieved sense of general disappointment and disgust with the failed dream of a world transformed. What did any of it matter, now?
The doctor was by the door, still watching him intently. What did he see? A man lost to himself, a man who had given himself to a cause, had bound himself to an iron ideology. What was politics, compared to the death of loved ones? He clenched his hands on his knees again. No! Hold fast. Hold fast .
“There’s a question,” the doctor said, “about the cause of your son’s death, Mr. Corless.”
Corless tried to concentrate. What was being said here? What trick was being tried? “What do you mean? What sort of question?”
The doctor said nothing, only went on gazing at him. What the hell was he looking at, what was he looking for? He might have been squinting down the barrel of a microscope, Corless thought, studying some bug trapped between the glass plates, squirming in panic and torment.
The detective turned from the window. “As I said, there was a—a crash, in the Phoenix Park. Your son’s car ran into a tree. There was a fire.”
Corless stared, his face wrinkling into a grimace of anguish. “Was he burned?” he asked. “Was Leon burned?”
The detective shook his head. “We’re fairly certain—Dr. Quirke here is fairly certain—that he was dead, or at least unconscious, before the car caught fire. So there’s that, the fact that he didn’t suffer. You should hold on to that.”
How do you know he didn’t suffer? Corless wanted to ask. How do you know what happened or what didn’t? How do you know what my son’s death was like? Death is death; there’s always suffering. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw again his wife, who was hardly recognizable any longer, so wasted and frail was she, leaning over the side of the hospital bed and vomiting bile onto the floor. He had held her forehead in his hand, while the nurse came running. Sam, Sam, I can’t bear it any longer . And now Leon, burnt to nothing in that damned car that he was so proud of. He saw the irony of it: his son, Sam Corless’s only son, dying trapped in the quintessential product of the capitalist market.
He opened his eyes and stared at the doctor. “What do you mean, there’s a question about the cause of death? How did he die?”
“His car crashed into a tree,” Quirke said, “but from the look of it, he wasn’t going very fast at the moment of impact. Also, he suffered a blow of some kind to the side of the skull.”
There was a beat of
“What?”
“Have you been in touch with your son recently?” Hackett said. “I mean, would the two of you have been—would you have been close, like?”
Corless was barely listening. Hold fast, he told himself, digging his fingers into the bones of his knees, hold fast: others have suffered worse things than this, comrades whose families were destroyed, whose wives were raped, parents murdered, children tortured before their eyes. Hold fast.
“Close?” he said. “There are things we don’t see eye to eye on. Politics, that kind of thing. But he’s my son.” He gritted his teeth. “Was—he was my son.”
Hackett was standing by the window, looking out, as if there were something to see, his hat still in his hands. “So your son wasn’t political, didn’t follow in the—in the family tradition, as you might say.”
Corless gave a brief, harsh laugh. “My son,” he said, “is a firm believer in the eventual and inevitable triumph of capitalism.” His voice seemed to him to be coming not from his own mouth but from some machine close by, as if he weren’t speaking at all, as if the words he was hearing were a recording, badly made, a mechanical trotting out of worn-out slogans, assertions, denunciations. He was surprised at himself. Even now, standing on this precipice with a sea of grief stretching before him, he felt the old bitterness stirring, the old, aggrieved sense of general disappointment and disgust with the failed dream of a world transformed. What did any of it matter, now?
The doctor was by the door, still watching him intently. What did he see? A man lost to himself, a man who had given himself to a cause, had bound himself to an iron ideology. What was politics, compared to the death of loved ones? He clenched his hands on his knees again. No! Hold fast. Hold fast .
“There’s a question,” the doctor said, “about the cause of your son’s death, Mr. Corless.”
Corless tried to concentrate. What was being said here? What trick was being tried? “What do you mean? What sort of question?”
The doctor said nothing, only went on gazing at him. What the hell was he looking at, what was he looking for? He might have been squinting down the barrel of a microscope, Corless thought, studying some bug trapped between the glass plates, squirming in panic and torment.
The detective turned from the window. “As I said, there was a—a crash, in the Phoenix Park. Your son’s car ran into a tree. There was a fire.”
Corless stared, his face wrinkling into a grimace of anguish. “Was he burned?” he asked. “Was Leon burned?”
The detective shook his head. “We’re fairly certain—Dr. Quirke here is fairly certain—that he was dead, or at least unconscious, before the car caught fire. So there’s that, the fact that he didn’t suffer. You should hold on to that.”
How do you know he didn’t suffer? Corless wanted to ask. How do you know what happened or what didn’t? How do you know what my son’s death was like? Death is death; there’s always suffering. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw again his wife, who was hardly recognizable any longer, so wasted and frail was she, leaning over the side of the hospital bed and vomiting bile onto the floor. He had held her forehead in his hand, while the nurse came running. Sam, Sam, I can’t bear it any longer . And now Leon, burnt to nothing in that damned car that he was so proud of. He saw the irony of it: his son, Sam Corless’s only son, dying trapped in the quintessential product of the capitalist market.
He opened his eyes and stared at the doctor. “What do you mean, there’s a question about the cause of death? How did he die?”
“His car crashed into a tree,” Quirke said, “but from the look of it, he wasn’t going very fast at the moment of impact. Also, he suffered a blow of some kind to the side of the skull.”
There was a beat of
Similar Books
