up.'
The fingernail returned to his lips. When he spoke his voice was slightly strangled, although it wasn't the question she expected.
'How did she ask for me then?'
'Pen and paper.'
'She called me twice last night. Looking for help.'
'You refused?'
'I was here, for godsake.'
'Ironic.'
'Where is she?'
'I'll show you.'
Corrigan sighed loudly. 'Can't you just tell me? I'm not a fucking child.'
'I know what you are, Corrigan. You're a man. And that's why we're so fucking busy.'
She had panda eyes. So swollen that the tears had to go on an uphill journey before they could flood down her cheeks. He hugged her gently while Annie hovered in the doorway.
When they parted Annie said: 'Do you want me to leave you alone?'
Corrigan nodded, but she stayed where she was. For a moment they didn't understand, then it dawned on Nicola and she nodded. Annie left, but the door remained ajar and her footsteps sounded down the hall, although not very far down the hall.
'Oh God,' Corrigan said, looking at her face. She lifted a notepad from beside the bed and scrawled quickly,
Am I that bad?
'No! No.' Her eyes remained fixed on him. 'Well, yes,' he added. 'What happened?'
Aimie saw you kiss me through the window. She told Bobby. He wasn't impressed.
'So it's my fault.'
No!
'I'm going to throw that fucker in the river.'
No.
'Nick, he's going inside for this.'
No.
'You're just going to let him get away with it?'
She shrugged.
'Has he done anything like this before?'
She shrugged again.
'Why do you stay with him?'
I love him.
'But you call me when you're in trouble.'
I love you too, Corrigan.
10
His face was red and his heart was drumming. He kept saying to himself: leave it, let it be, it's not your business any more. Police business, sure, but not your police business. But the pedal was to the board and before he really knew it he was outside the Sir Adam Beck Generating Station. There were about thirty pickets standing with placards by the entrance, and two cops keeping a lazy eye on them. They straightened up as he approached and he chatted to them for a few moments, like he was just there to check up on them, then drove on through to the administration block.
He arrived at the front desk and asked to see the wife beater.
'Wife. . .' said the receptionist, looking at first down a list of employees as if it might be a position within the company. Something down among the generators, something oily. Then she looked up and said: 'Oh.' She was a matronly woman with a tight black perm and lipstick on her teeth.
'Bobby Doyle.'
'Why, Mr Doyle isn't married.'
'My wife, missus.'
'Oh, well, I don't. . .'
'Just tell him I'm here. Frank Corrigan.'
'And what company are you with, Mr Corrigan . . . ?'
'The Royal Shakespeare.'
She looked at him blankly for several moments, then lifted the phone. 'Mister Bobby? There's a Mr Corrigan from Royal Shakespeare to see you.' She gave a little giggle to whatever the response was then nodded and replaced the receiver. 'Go on up. The elevator's on the left. Second floor.'
Bobby sat behind an expansive desk, in an expansive office, with expansive views. He had an expansive girth and an expansive mouth and the way he sat, with his head tilted down, his chins seemed to cover a wide expanse of his chest. This was the man Nicola regularly climbed on top of to make love. At least that was the way Corrigan figured it. He couldn't imagine Bobby on top at all. The poor woman would die. Bob waved Corrigan into a chair and said, 'To what do I owe the pleasure?' Corrigan crossed the floor and took the seat, all the time trying not to picture Bob naked and rippling and screwing his wife.
'You broke my wife's jaw,' he said.
Bob closed a folder, sat back, put his hands behind his head and smiled. 'I broke your ex-wife's jaw.'
'I don't believe you're smiling. I really don't believe that.'
Bob opened a drawer and took out a cigar. He lit up and blew smoke across the desk towards