Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 18 – The Uncontainable)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Meltimi

14 Idols Tuesday, May 10, 2011
15 Nightingale Sunday, May 15, 2011
16 The Perfect Square Sunday, May 22, 2011
17 Haunting Thursday, May 26, 2011
18 The Uncontainable Wednesday, June 1, 2011
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Istanbul_Chora_Church_01.jpg

Chapter 18

The Uncontainable

“Here, at last, is the definition of image, of all images: it is that

from which I am excluded . . . I am not in the scene.”

Roland Barthes

Fragments d’un discours amoureux

Rio was very relieved when she could finally open the taxi door and get out. She paid off the driver and waited for him to turn around and leave the way they had come. It had been a hair-raising journey as the driver had equated speed with potential compensation. After screeching down the cobbled streets away from the Four Seasons hotel he had swung the taxi out onto Kennedy Cadessi, against the lights, and had maintained a reckless speed until just after rounding the Topkapi point where he had to slow to negotiate the hordes of commuters getting on and off the ferries at Eminonu terminus. It was a brief interlude before the taxi, with Rio hanging onto to the door handle as if her life depended on it, accelerated away again and entered, with abandon, the maelstrom at the intersection of Resadiye Cadessi with the Galata bridge crossing. In what seemed like a kaleidoscope of colour and motion Rio watched through half-closed eyes as people, cars and bicycles loaded with goods surrounded them for a moment, before magically clearing in their hurry past to disgorge into the old city. Once through the taxi had followed the highway that skirted the Golden Horn and she had just begun to relax when the driver suddenly veered sharply, across the highway, into the maze of small streets that climbed, narrower and narrower, up the hill towards its apex at Egri Kapi.

This was a different Istanbul, she thought as she looked around, and the poverty of ramshackle homes built up against the south side of the Theodosian walls bothered her. In the small playground near the boarded-up Tefukserai – the Palace of the Porphyrogenitus, which after the Conquest was both a zoo and a brothel – she had ignored the stares of curious children before eventually finding her way to the square where the Kariye museum, the former Church of the Holy Saviour in Chora, was situated and the repository, her guide book had said, of the some of finest Byzantine mosaics in the world.

The museum, although open, appeared deserted. After paying her admission fee Rio turned left to walk along the outer narthex and to stare up at the extraordinary mosaics. In her thoughts she regretted that she had not waited earlier for Jack in the hotel, as there was something she had wanted to say to him and the quietness and splendour that surrounded her now would have helped. She hoped he had found the note telling him where she was going and asking him to meet her later at a restaurant nearby to the museum. After some time she turned into the inner narthex and found herself in front of Tomb H, the tomb of Demetrius Doukas Angelus Palaeologus who had died in 1340.

‘Hello Rio,’ a voice behind said quietly.

She jumped before turning around. ‘Don’t sneak up on me like that, Flanagan.’

‘Thou art the Fount of Life, Mother of God the Word, and I am thy slave in love,’ he said, smiling.

‘Get over it, Jerome,’ she shot back at him, dismissively.

‘I meant the inscription on the tomb,’ he replied, pointing to the wall.

She didn’t look. ‘I have a guidebook. I know what it says,’ she lied, holding the book up. She knew that the hastily bought, glossy English version of the Aksit selection available at the kiosk, omitted any such explanations.

‘I’m sure that all men want to be your slave in love, Rio, given half a chance,’ Flanagan said sincerely.

‘For all the satisfaction it has brought me,’ she replied, truthfully.

‘Whose fault is that? What do you demand of them?’ he asked.

‘That’s it, Jerome. I perhaps do not know how to love but give myself willingly to loving. Men cannot deal with that “demand”, as you put it.’ She waited for him to reply and when he didn’t, continued, ‘What about you? Do you always lie or are you just passionate about lying?’

Flanagan shrugged. ‘I suppose this is as good a place as any to try and explain.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Look up there, at that picture,’ he said as he pointed to a mosaic on the west lunette beside where they stood.

She noticed again how his hand shook and then on seeing her puzzled frown how he quickly dropped the hand again, to indicate with his eyes instead.‘What about it?’ she asked.

‘Those two scenes are from the apocryphal Gospel of St John: firstly Joseph taking leave of the Virgin to go about his business and then Joseph being angry with the Virgin on his return home, six months later, when he finds her heavily pregnant. How does one explain to someone else that a messenger Angel bearing the word of God made you pregnant and that you succumbed willingly to its intent, and its message? A difficult moment in any relationship, wouldn’t you say?’ Flanagan smirked.

‘I’m no virgin, Jerome but I certainly do not like being lied to or deceived.’

‘I did not mean to Rio. Honestly. I truly wanted to protect you from any danger. Was not what happened to Joe Reilly and Phyllis proof of that?’

‘No! You had left before the robbery was discovered. You dumped me and came here to chase the bloody book, to chase your apocryphal grail. . . since you’re so fond of hidden imagery.’

Flanagan looked at her for a moment. ‘You are right, Rio… and you are so wrong! In truth I don’t give a shit anymore about the Book, or any other idea or aspiration, which seeks to provide a message or promise of future fulfilment. I owe the future nothing for it has done nothing for me. I do owe the present something, my being, your being. . . Alanna’s being.’

‘Alanna?’ she queried.

‘She’s in real trouble, I can sense it and I’m not sure what to do.’

‘Are you responsible for her? I thought you and her were no longer attached.’

‘No. But having loved each other once, there are conditions attached. Responsibilities if you like. That’s what I meant earlier about being a slave to love.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Jerome.’

‘Similar to the reasons for my marriage proposal to Alanna, I was worried for you. I felt something awful might happen and wanted to prevent it from happing to you. That is love, Rio, at least my kind of love, the responsible kind.’

‘It’s not my kind, Jerome. Never can be.’

‘Afraid of responsibility?’

She ignored the challenge. ‘How did you know about the danger associated with the Book?’ she probed.

‘I didn’t at first. I had heard about its existence of course, but only in a gossipy way. Then Mac and I suspected that old Prof Symmonds was chasing something extraordinary. He was always secretive about it, but when he was killed –’

‘Killed? Mac said nothing about that to me.’

‘I always suspected that Symmonds accident was no accident but Mac felt I was fantasising. In fact it’s only very recently that it was confirmed for me. Anyway I knew that whatever Symmonds was after held great danger. That danger excited me, drove me on to find out what he was after, and having found that, drove me on to find the Book. My Grail.’

‘What’s changed?’ she asked, looking back up at the mosaics.

‘Me. It’s no longer that important or relevant. I . . . Now I’m hoping that if Phyllis is alive, that if we get hold of the Book, we might be able to use it to negotiate. It must be the only reason for her disappearance. A bargaining tool.’

‘Yeah sure! You . . .’ Rio stopped short and could sense his eyes as they bored into her. She hadn’t thought about this possibility and wondered whether to believe him or not. Also, in a moment of introspective insight, she suddenly realised that she had come to Istanbul for one reason and one reason only: to beat Jerome Augustus Flanagan at his own game. Nothing more or nothing less would do. To her shame, she now admitted, helping Phyllis had not figured highly in that equation. She flushed with the thought and hesitated before turning back from the mosaic to face him. If he looks anyway smug, Rio had decided, I’ll hit him.

She need not have worried. Flanagan had turned his back and had made his way, through a throng of newly arrived Japanese tourists, towards the exit. She hurried to catch up with him. He paused to look up at the Virgin Blachernitissa and the Angels, the mosaic over the inner wall above the entrance, the last mosaic to be seen before leaving the building. He turned to her with sadness in his eyes and weariness in his voice, ‘The inscription translates as The Mother of God, the Dwelling-Place of the Uncontainable.’

‘The Dwelling-Place of the Uncontainable,’ she repeated aloud, struck by his explanation, before she followed him out into the sunshine. After her eyes had adjusted to the bright light she had the sense of someone watching them from the shadows. She looked around. Nothing seemed out of place … and everything did, she thought.

Dying: Conversations From The Edge

My father Joe, who is 86 years-of-age, has terminal cancer and last Thursday developed an acute complication, which will rapidly accelerate his deterioration unless a surgical procedure is performed to palliate, rather than reverse, the effects of the complication. I knew that the risks of surgical intervention, in his particular case, were enormous and that peri-operative mortality was a very distinct possibility. I discussed this with the surgical team looking after him, sensed their reluctance to intervene, and made arrangements to travel down to talk to Joe, and to them, the following morning.

Joe had reached the edge of his world!

As I drove down on Friday morning, the predominant thoughts were about what he would decide. We had discussed days like these when his recurrent cancer was diagnosed and the prognosis was poor. The gist of his thinking was that he did not want medical decisions made which might accelerate his demise and certainly did not want any major surgical intervention. But, as is often the way in these ‘general’ conversations, as his condition stabilised to be more slowly progressive than expected the conversation had remained general.

About two months ago Joe’s condition acutely deteriorated as a result of infection and only for aggressive and expert care by his medical and nursing team he would have died. This episode frightened him and on recovery he appeared to have a change of mind about what he truly wanted to be done when such situations arose again and indeed agreed to a ‘minor’ surgical procedure, which overcame a very specific issue in his condition.

Now he was facing a much bigger decision and I wondered what he would want, and whether I could satisfy myself that he was fully informed.

As a clinician, at least up to about 20 years ago before the full development and availability of hospice and palliative care teams moved many of these exchanges away from the surgical wards, I was often involved in the decision making about choices. As a surgeon in the determination, and desire, to achieve a good outcome these necessary ‘conversations’ were oftentimes left to one side… and then when no more could be done it was too late. Patients had become so sick that individual decision-making about ‘choice’ was impossible and much was left to ‘family’ to decide, based on their understanding of what they thought their relative would want. And this is where as a clinician you were at a disadvantage. Certainly you had a theraputic relationship with the patient involved but this did not often extend to a valid and full personal understanding of their real wishes. It was only on rare occasions that the surgical pathway would be put aside for a patient to say ‘Doc, hold on a second. What really gives? What are my chances and choices?’ and to truly invite the conversation.

Thankfully with, as I mentioned earlier, the professional development of the hospice care teams, the critical importance of those ‘conversations’ has been emphasised and indeed has prompted the legal – and moral – establishment of ‘living will’ imperatives.

On a personal note it was a ‘conversation’ that I had had with my mother during her own terminal illness 10 years ago and which subsequently made the decision to withdraw ventilator care, and to convince my father that this was truly her desire, easier. I always sensed however that he had moral problems with that decision and when I arrived at Joe’s bedside he was almost in a hurry to preempt anything that I might say, and immediately he began to explain what he wanted.

‘Firstly,’ he said. ‘I have had the chance in the past month or so to have long conversations both with the chaplain at the nursing home but also with the chaplain here and from a moral standpoint ‘I do not want an accelerated or assisted death. I am at ease with my decision but equally do not want any major surgical intervention which I is palliative rather than curative.’ He rested at that point, looking out the window for a moment. I stayed silent. ‘Like all people,’ he continued. ‘I do not want a hard death. My own father had a hard death and I do not want that.’

‘May I put a hypothetical case,’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ he replied.

‘There is a very narrow ‘moral’ and ‘theraputic’ line divining the difference between an easy and an accelerated or assisted death. At present you are having very aggressive antibiotics to prevent infection from the complication, which the surgical procedure may or may not help reduce. If hypothetically, I was faced with a decision by a patient not to have any further surgical intervention, should that reasoning also extend to withdrawing aggressive medical intervention designed to achieve the same end?’

He looked at me for a moment. ‘Unfortunately that is a moral decision for you and not for me.’

I knew at that moment that this was my father in his pomp, in full control of his faculties and of his facility to debate moral hair-splitting specifics while ignoring generalities. This was the father of my childhood and adolescence delegating ‘moral’ certainty to the extent that it becomes uncertain. I also knew, and relaxed, completely relaxed, that his decision-making was informed and appropriate.

He drifted off to sleep and I left to discuss the ‘conversation’ with my brothers and sister and also his medical team.

Later that night in my dreams we are walking together towards the edge of the world. The edge of a world we watched together on a summer's day in July 1969, on a grainy black and white television. I am holding his arm to help him walk. Then I let go. He walks on. Alone. Doesn’t look back….

‘One small step for man....’

Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 17 – Haunting)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Meltimi

14 Idols Tuesday, May 10, 2011
15 Nightingale Sunday, May 15, 2011
16 The Perfect Square Sunday, May 22, 2011
17 Haunting Thursday, May 26, 2011
18 The Uncontainable
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

Chapter 17

Haunting

“You reach a zenith of torment that is an extreme misfortune,

poisoned with some remaining hope.”

Stendhal

De l’amour

‘I needed that,’ Rio said, coming through the adjoining door between their rooms.

Jack Dawson looked up. Rio’s head is covered with a white towel, turban-wrapped, and wet patches of her dark skin shone like patent leather through the silk of a sheer kimono. He watched as she flopped into the chair opposite him, one leg dangling over the armrest. The kimono fell away to partially reveal her upper thighs and almost fully reveal her left breast.

‘What’s bothering you, Jack,’ she asked, filing her nails.

Jack Dawson wanted to tell her, he wants it to be like it was before. He remained silent and the silence irritated her; unnerved her. He sensed her become more and more uncomfortable and in response cover over the fleeting breast and unravel the towel from her head to place it across her knees, pretending that she needed it as a base for her manicure.

‘I just don’t trust him, Rosalind,’ he finally said.

‘Or any man,’ she laughed but then regretted the invitation. ‘What should we do?’

‘Be careful not to get out our depth . . . or into his.’ Jack Dawson hesitated for a moment, realising what he had just said. ‘Flanagan knows Istanbul and could be leading us a merry dance. Don’t get too close to him.’

‘I won’t. But I would like to recover the bloody Book, and shove it up FitzHenry’s ass.’

Jack laughed with an understanding acknowledgement. He thought for a moment and then spoke in a serious tone, ‘I understand the nature of men’s obsessions and that Book is Flanagan’s! Little else will fill that need. Even you Rosalind!’

‘Of course you understand, Jack. You are a serial obsessionist.’ Rio laughed back at him, holding up five fingers. ‘Anyway I’ve told you. I’ve no intention of going down that road.’

Only one real obsession, Jack Dawson said inwardly, only one.

Rio got up from the chair, one long leg trailing after the other. ‘Did you notice how Jerome’s hand shook, after you hit him,’ she questioned.

‘Yes.’

‘Fear?’

‘Perhaps. Don’t know.’

‘Strange. Wouldn’t have expected him to react like that . . . anyway, I’m off to bed. I want to see if I can contact Joyce Holden before I go to sleep. See how she is.’ She leant down and kissed him on the forehead.

All he saw were her breasts.

‘Good night, Jack,’ she smiled.

‘Good night, Rosalind.’ He watched her open the door. ‘Rosalind?’

She turned. ‘Yes Jack.’

‘You look so like Nan Greta sometimes,’ he whispered.

Rio at that point felt her chest suddenly tighten and she looked at him with suspicion. Had Jack forgotten so conveniently, she wondered, how he had . . . how they both had betrayed that love? How, after her mother’s death and Grandpa Dawson’s breakdown, Nan Greta had arranged for her to stay with Jack in Eleuthera, at a wrong moment in time for all of them. Jack’s first marriage had just ended and he needed love; she also needed love, reassurance; a seven-year-old girl and a thirty-seven-year-old man holding each other together. And each summer after that first she could not wait to be with him again, when they would have each other to each other for a month; Jack always careful to have his current wife stay away. And each summer the sexuality between them developed further, never to intercourse, but she learned to make him happy, make him come, taste and breathe in the smell of him after he came. So much so she wanted more and more, never wanted it to end. ‘Don’t tell Nan Greta,’ he had always begged when she eventually had to go home. ‘Keep it our secret, Rosalind.’

Rio remembered the summer she was twelve, around the same time that she had her first period. She had showed him the sheet from their bed and he suddenly looked frightened. Later, he’d said they should stop sleeping together. She was a woman now, no longer a child. He’d said he was afraid of her touch, her hunger, and her need to have him. She didn’t understand then why she’d felt so dirty at his rejection. She in turn had rejected him after that until years later when her need surfaced again . . . his had never gone away.

Rio looked down at him. ‘I never told her, Jack.’

His face flickered. ‘I know,’ he whispered. His voice was brittle and tears were welling up in his eyes. ‘I’m always here for you, Rosalind. Forever!’

‘I realise that Jack and I love you for it. Goodnight.’

The door closed. Jack Dawson got up and listened against it for a moment. He heard her voice, muffled in the distance. ‘Joyce. Thank God I got you. How are . . .’ He moved away from the door and checked his watch. It was 8.00 pm in Dublin. He lifted the receiver and dialled...

‘Hello,’ a familiar voice answered.

‘Gerry? It’s Jack Dawson.’ He kept his voice low.

‘Jack. Hi. How’s it going in Istanbul?’

‘Flanagan turned up tonight. Came to see us at the hotel.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah. Cocky bastard. I hit him.’

‘Did you call the police? Do you want me to do it?’

‘No. I . . . I don’t think he had anything to do with the robbery, Gerry. He’s just after that stupid book. I think you should call off the bulletin on him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Blood group B Pos. I checked. Much as I’d like to see him locked up I don’t want to have it on my conscience.’

‘Thanks for that. I’ll do that right away. How’s Rio taking it?’

‘Fine.’

There was silence for a moment, each man stuck in his own thoughts. Gerrit Flatley was the first to break it, ‘Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘About Rio! This is very old-fashioned . . . I was wondering . . .’

‘About what?’ Jack was instantly alert.

‘Do you think she would go out with me . . . on a date.’

‘Jeez. I don’t know Gerry. She’s just come out of a bad relationship and with all that has happened . . . perhaps it’s not a good time.’

‘You’re probably right. Anyway I’ll be able to judge for myself soon-enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll be in Istanbul myself tomorrow.’

‘What?’ Jack shouted but then after looking towards the inter-connecting door quietened to continue, ‘What do you mean you are coming to Istanbul?’

‘Everybody is on edge, Jack. Al-Qaeda is on the march again and the Brits are worried about Ahmed Al-Akrash. Seems he might have a significant past. On a tip-off from the Israelis the Turkish police picked up two passengers, a man and a woman, off the ferry from Izmir. My contact in Istanbul thinks that the man answers to our friend Ahmed’s description. They want me to go and check him out from our end.’

‘What type of past?’

‘I don’t know. Terrorism most likely. What type of past do any of us have?’

‘Yeah,’ Jack answered tiredly.

‘I have your mobile number, Jack. I’ll give you call when I get in. Meet up for dinner perhaps, you, me and Rio.’

‘Right. That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Gerry.’

‘Goodnight Jack.’

He replaced the receiver, walked to the door and thought about knocking. Rio was still talking, so he decided against it. Time enough in the morning, he thought.

Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 16 – The Perfect Square)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Meltimi

14 Idols Tuesday, May 10, 2011
15 Nightingale Sunday, May 15, 2011
16 The Perfect Square Sunday, May 22, 2011
17 Haunting
18 The Uncontainable
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

Chapter 16

The Perfect Square

“. . . for the purposes of the calculation one must measure time using

imaginary numbers, rather than real ones. This has an interesting effect on

space-time: the distinction between time and space disappears completely.”

Stephen Hawking

A Brief History of Time

Approaching from the Ayasofya Meydani direction, Jerome Flanagan turns left opposite the Haseki Hamani, the baths built by Sinan for Suleyman’s Roxelana, into Tevikhane Sok. The place of custody, he translates the name silently while walking alongside the high, grim walls before entering the doorway of the Four Seasons hotel and crossing the narrow lobby of the old, refurbished prison. A large, thick-necked concierge stares at him, then moves out, flashing his golden-keyed badge of expertise, and authority. Times have changed but not the jailers, Flanagan thinks, shaking his head, before stepping around the hulk to approach an auburn-haired receptionist. He has been walking all morning and knows he needs a shower.

‘Affedersiniz. You have a Dr. Rio Dawson staying with you,’ he says, looking around. ‘I apologise but I don’t know the room number.’

‘One moment please.’

The receptionist smiles back at him, dials with her right hand, while the left pushes back a single strand of loose hair behind her ear. This causes her name badge to move up and over a firm breast: Fusun. He notes her name, and also its declaration that she speaks English, Russian and French. Istanbul; always a city of many languages, and many secrets, he thinks. Fusun is a very attractive girl with long fingers, manicured nails and a bloody big ruby on her finger. Way out of his league, he thinks.

‘It is connecting, sir, please pick up the courtesy phone. Line 2.’

‘Tesekkur ederim,’ he says before picking up the phone.

‘Hello.’

‘Rio, it’s Jaffa.’

There is a silence then, ‘You . . . How dare . . . How did you know where I was?’

‘Mac told me.’

‘Mac?’

‘Did he tell you I came to Istanbul to find you. To have you arrested.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you? Hiding out somewhere like the sewer rat you are.’

‘Downstairs. In the lobby.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve a bloody nerve Jerome,’ she shouts. ‘I am calling the pol . . .’

Flanagan holds the phone away from his ear. Fusun, the ruby toting receptionist, notices. Her name badge rides up again. Shouting sounds much the same in English, French or Russian, Flanagan thinks: Dante’s vulgaris locutio; Eco’s 'simultaneous translation by angels'. He tries to calm the situation. ‘Rio. Come down stairs and talk to me. Give me a chance to explain. If you still want to inform the police, I’ll surrender myself.’ To you, he wants to add but doesn’t. Fusun the receptionist’s eyes widen. She looks at him and then at the concierge. He hears Rio’s breathing, and then her whispering with someone else. ‘Rio?’ he interrupts.

‘I’ll be down in five minutes. Jack’s with me.’

‘Right.’ Flanagan puts down the phone. ‘Tesekkur ederim,’ he says again.

The pretty receptionist nods and looks away.

A few minutes later he sees them. Rio and a man he assumes is Jack Dawson. The man looks angry, Flanagan thinks, watching him running point for Rio, whose head he sees bobbing above and behind. He is surprised. The man is as tall as Rio and has her skin colouring. For some reason he had expected him to be white. He doesn’t know why he had thought this. He holds out his hand as the man approaches. ‘Jerome Flanagan. You must be Jack, Rio's uncle. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Jack Dawson ignores it and looks like he wants to hit him. ‘Son of a bitch! What the hell are you playing at, Flanagan.’

The concierge is watching closely, waiting for a signal, an invitation to get involved. Flanagan notices.

‘Nice hotel, Jack. Never could afford it myself but have eaten here once or twice. Great restaurant. Irish chef.’ He tries to lighten the mood.

‘Enough of your bullshit, Jerome! What did you want to say?’ Rio presses herself between them.

Flanagan knows he looks less cocky, less sure of himself. ‘Do you mind if we go somewhere private?’ he asks.

‘Why bother?’ Rio is dismissive; her tone screaming, screw the bastard.

‘Its probably a good idea,’ Jack agrees, noticing the concierge’s interest.

Rio relents and they walk by the restaurant and outside to what was once the inner courtyard of the old prison. What horrors would have taken place here in the past, Jerome wonders as he leads them to the stone staircase that leads to the hotel bedrooms – once the old cells – and sits on its lower rung. He touches a pillar that prisoners had carved their initials in – a matter of strange pride for the promoters of the hotel.

‘You had better start explaining, and fast,’ Rio demands. ‘By the way, what happened to Mac? He was non-contactable before I left.’

‘He was hauled in by the police for further questioning. I thought you knew?’

‘I did,’ Jack says quietly.

‘What?’ Rio is surprised and turns to glare at him.

‘That time… back in the apartment Rosalind. Gerry Flatley rang to fill me in. I didn’t want you becoming upset so I decided not to tell you.’

‘How dare you, Jack,’ she barks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles.

The belligerence melts away from Jack Dawson; like a snake shedding skin, Flanagan thinks, intrigued by the scene playing out before him: Jack wanting Rio’s approval, afraid of her disapproval. For a moment she hesitates, as if wishing to pursue the issue, but then stretches out a hand and touches Jack’s face, tenderly, indulgently. Something weird about this, he thinks, only half-suppressing a smile. Rio sees the smile, senses what he is thinking and turns on him. Her bitter annoyance spills out, ‘Don’t you dare make fun of this!’

Flanagan hesitates for a moment, calculates. ‘Fuck off, Rio. And grow up.’

She feels it like a slap, reels back.

‘Watch your mouth, you shit! You are in no position to . . .’ Jack barks, but then appears to regret exposing himself, his inner self, so easily. A red mist descends. He lashes out.

Flanagan sees it coming, more of a slap than a fist, and the blow glances off the side of his head, but with enough force to push him back against the pillar. The impact is sharp, his nose making first contact. He thinks he hears a crack. For a moment there is no pain, just a sense of inner rebound. Then it comes. Furious. Blood flows, spurts.

‘Fuck you, Dawson. You’ve broken my nose,’ Flanagan cries, but bends to his knees, hands over his face, in case other blows follow. His hand is twitching. He feels groggy, needs to collect himself, if he has to defend himself. They don’t come.

‘I doubt it,’ Jack says, looking at the blood.

‘Shit, Jack,’ Rio says, and, to Flanagan’s ears sounding pleased.

Jack is looking down at him. He exhibits no remorse and looks like he wants to hit him again and finish the job but then decides against it. ‘I’ll go and get a towel. It’s a long time since I hit anyone, and I’m little disturbed at the pleasure it brings. And pain,’ he says, rubbing his knuckles. ‘By the way Flanagan. What blood group are you?’

‘Why? Are you thinking of hitting me again?’

‘Given half a chance! What blood group are you . . . in case you’re unconscious or dead even?’

‘Get lost you moron!’

‘I’m serious Flanagan. Your blood group has a bearing on whether we help you or not. Either tell me, or I’ll beat it out of you!’ Jack Dawson said in an ice-cold tone.

Flanagan cannot be sure whether Jack is serious or not but answers anyway, ‘B Pos.’ He reaches into his pocket for his wallet. Pulls out a laminated card. Shows it. ‘They can have everything except my nose,’ he snorts through a mouthful of blood.

‘Right,’ Jack says, ignoring the sarcasm and sounding somewhat disappointed.

Flanagan watches him climb the stairs and disappear inside the building. He looks at Rio. ‘For some reason I did not expect him to be black . . . like you. He is very like you.’

Rio looks at him for a second, caught off-guard. ‘Grandpa Dawson was from Montserrat. He fought with the British army as an expert radio-operator and was assigned to a unit working with the Norwegian resistance during the war. That’s where he met my Grandmother.’

‘Romantic stuff,’ Flanagan remarks.

‘Hardly. My grandmother’s family had been ostracised, her father was a quisling, a collaborator with the Nazis. My grandfather understood the nature of prejudice, and its effects, given his experiences as a black man in a white army. He protected her from the retribution and, shortly after he was demobbed, they emigrated to Canada. He got a job as a park ranger, first in British Columbia and then later, after moving south, in Colorado. Jack is very like him whereas my mother was almost white, like my grandmother.’

‘I see,’ he says holding his nose nightly to stem the flow.

Rio sits down on the step beside him, tilts his head back, puts pressure on his nose. ‘Tell me about Mac.’

‘Why should I tell you anything?’ he grimmaces through the pain.

‘Listen, Jerome, I don’t give a shit about your nose. You had it coming. You lied to me.’

No sympathy here, he realises, just a broken nose, and pain. ‘Is it displaced?’ He takes his hand away. Tears and blood are mingling to flow down onto his shirt.

‘No.’

‘Do you think I had anything to do with the robbery?’

She hesitates for a second, thinking about her answer. ‘No! What about Mac?’

‘He was hauled in by an Inspector called Flatley. I think you know him.’

‘Yes.’

Two other guests, a man and a woman come down the steps and have to step around them. The man is in his 60s – white shirt, red tie, tailored dark-blue suit, slicked back black-grey hair, and flashing a gold Rolex watch. The woman, 30 or so – bottle-blonde, tanned, pouting lips, black dress, impossibly perfect breasts, a diamond necklace disappearing between those breasts and clutching a gold-coloured, clam-shaped bag. They stop, look back, see the blood, and shake their heads.

‘Earthquake,’ Flanagan says, watching the couple suddenly fret.

‘Come on. You better come up to my room,’ Rio says.

He gets up, unsteady on his feet, holding his nose. They climb the stairs and take the left-hand corridor leading to her room where they meet Jack leaving his. He has a wet towel in his hand. He steps aside and insists they use his room. Flanagan holds the towel to his nose. He feels it swelling, but the bleeding stops. Rio brings him a glass of water and two painkillers from her supply.

‘Whiskey would be better,’ he says tasting the dilute blood in his mouth.

‘Here,’ Jack obliges, having poured it for himself.

‘Go on about Mac,’ Rio insists, accepting a glass as well.

‘He was detained, and questioned. Not so much about Joe Reilly, because as you probably know the post-mortem has shown Joe had a heart attack, but in relation to the robbery and the disappearance of Phyllis Andrew.’

‘And?’

‘Mac had an alibi for the night of the robbery.’

‘What?’ Rio asks. Mac had said nothing about this to her.

‘Angie Townsend, a daughter of one of the Friends of the Library! Works in the bookshop occasionally. Attractive.’

‘What about her?’ Rio demands, already guessing the answer.

Not in quite the way she thinks, Flanagan cautions himself, before deciding to continue. ‘She has put herself through college, Philosophy and Economics. Now doing a Masters. Works as an escort to pay the –’

‘A fucking hooker?’ Rio instantly regrets her brutality.

‘Mac has been availing of her services for a year or so . . . whenever he could afford it.’ He remembers that Mac referred to Angie as his ‘being counter’ but does not say this. ‘Nice kid, it seems. Had a conscience and came forward.’

‘That’s great.’ Rio says lamely. And then her eyes narrow. ‘And I was going to gift him . . . All men are the same. Bastards!’ she says looking at him: looking right through him.

‘Why did you run off, Flanagan? And why did you lie to Rosalind?’ Jack asks, seeing the flicker of pain cross his niece’s face and wanting her to know that men are not all the same. He catches her eye, lifts his hand slightly, spreads the fingers back, and apologizes for them all.

She ignores him, Flanagan notices and for the moment men as a malignant species are all lumped together. ‘I keep warning you Rio, that the kitab al-Ruh, the Book of the Messenger, and what it represents, is very dangerous ground. Word will have got out very quickly. There would only be the narrowest timeframe of opportunity to try and track it down. I had to take that opportunity, to keep you out of it . . .’ He looks at her, sees she does not believe him, ‘ . . . to keep you out of danger.’

‘Bullshit,’ she flares. ‘Why did you tell me the idol was nesr and not hekim and that –’

‘Rio!’ Jack wants to stop her.

‘– you had access to a letter that would point you to a dealer who probably had the Book at one stage,’ she continues.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Melek Hekim, the dealer’s agent who wrote to Beatty in Egypt.’

‘How did –’ Flanagan was stunned again, more so than from the blow.

‘James Somerville showed it to us. It was easy to work out its significance.’ Jack added, enjoying the second hit.

‘Who else knows?’ Flanagan says, alarmed.

‘Just us. Why . . . and please go way beyond your pathetic excuse that you want to protect us.’ Rio is determined.

‘You . . . you are right. Mac and I–’

‘Mac?’

‘Let me explain Rio,' Flanagan implores, wanting Rio and Jack to listen. 'I first heard about the Book of the Messenger along time ago, while sourcing manuscripts for the Library. In my time at the museum, Mac and I always worked as a team, trawled through every bit of information we could lay our hands on, looking for clues. Recently, a dealer friend, here in Istanbul, showed me two letters, one from the 17th century and one from the twentieth. Both gave credence to the existence of the Book and then, out of the blue, along comes your discovery of the parchment letter and a further clue to the Book’s possible resting place . . . at least back in the 17th century. I wondered . . . and then was afraid.’

‘Wondered what?’ Jack Dawson asks, wanting to keep him on the defence.

Flanagan spends the next 30 minutes further explaining the contents of the two letters that Ismâil the bookseller had shown him and how the bookseller had told him that they had probably been recovered from the wreck of Symmonds’ car and also about Ismâil’s warning that the car crash not being an accident. He then concluded, ‘Mac and I always thought that old Prof Symmonds, was after the same thing as us. It is likely he was cataloguing the old Silander box from the Curragh Military museum, the one that Rio worked on, and came across the letters but somehow missed the etching, and the letter that Rio found, in his excitement. He must have dashed off to Turkey in hot pursuit, almost certainly called attention to himself, and the Book, and then paid the ultimate price. Because the car and his belongings, including the letters, were stolen before those responsible for the accident could get to them a ‘sleeper’, Ahmed al-Akrash, was positioned in the Chester Beatty in case they resurfaced there, if for example the robbers tried to enter into a negotiation with the museum.’

‘How do we know you’re not bullshitting us?’ Jack was trying desperately not to believe him.

Flanagan could see Rio relaxing, letting down her guard . . . again. ‘Come with me tomorrow. I have spent all day today on the Ok Meydani searching for clues, reaching a dead end. The Book existed in 1931, and it still exists, that I am certain of. It cannot be lost under concrete. I feel is presence all around me. There is something out there that I am missing which will point us to its present whereabouts. Leon Arslan and the mysterious Melek Hekim are the keys. I am meeting my friend Ismâil tomorrow. He has some further news. Come with me to meet him. Search with me.’

‘Ok,’ Rio said, flatly.

‘What? He’s fooling with you, Rosalind... with us.’ Jack Dawson blustered protectively. ‘I don’t trust him.’

Flanagan watches as she turns to Jack, calming him with her eyes, her smile. ‘I believe him, Jack . . . at least I believe he had nothing to do with the break in. He’s obsessed with the Book and now that were here surely it will do no harm to help. I still want to try and recover the parchment. We might hear something to help point us in the right direction.’

It wasn’t this logic that made Jack Dawson back down, Jerome Flanagan sensed, as Jack gave him one of his own shirts to wear. As he and Rio left the room Jack warned him with his eyes. She walked him as far as the courtyard steps where he paused on the lowest rung, to smile at her. ‘I am always having uncomfortable meetings in this place.’

‘Alanna?’ she asked.

He nodded and turned to walk away. The concierge was standing, waiting on the far side of the courtyard. Flanagan looked at the pillar, and its tortured names, and then around him, at the Square of Justice. He turned back to call to her when he was half way across. ‘Did you know that the Pythagorean’s equated justice, and its virtue of fairness, with the number 4. A perfect square: the product of two equal forces, good and evil, right and wrong, subjugation and being subjugated . . . reciprocity.’

‘Where shall we meet?’ she asked, quietly.

‘The Church of St Saviour in Chora, the Kariye mosque. 11.45. Ok?’

She nodded and was gone.

The hulk of a porter, on the other hand, and his perfect square jaw, followed Flanagan out through the lobby of the hotel. He pulled up short at the door as Flanagan had stopped to light a cigarette before walking up the street. A short distance later, Flanagan felt nervous, sensing that other eyes were on him, tracking him. He turned around quickly, but could see nothing untoward: no shadows moving other than the porter retreating from the doorway of the hotel, a mobile phone to his ear. He shook the unease off, putting it down to tiredness, and headed for the Hotel Nomade and sleep.