“Yes. But what are we going to do?”
“What do you expect us to do?”
Monroe didn’t say anything in reply. He wasn’t sure quite what he expected. He wasn’t about to get into a religious discussion with Davenport and it was clear that Davenport’s thoughts had taken a detour. Neither of them were devout followers of any particular faith. The Irish Catholics from whom Patrick Davenport was descended on his mother’s side were far enough in his past for him to feel no particular connection with them. Whatever the facts of the leak it was clear that there existed a weakness. Monroe felt somehow satisfied. The man had always looked at him with some kind of suspicion, suspicion that he would turn out to be the fly in the ointment. He had not imagined that it would be his own self-serving attitude that might eventually lead to his undoing.
“No doubt his penis is at fault.”
“Perhaps. Though it did seem that monogamy was a new found hobby of his.”
“Hobby, yes. Not a full time pursuit after so many years of allowing his pants to lead the way.”
“I don’t think this is a case of a woman scorned if that’s what you’re trying to say. She didn’t seem the type, she really didn’t. Very ambitious by all accounts but I think it’s purely a case of selective righteousness. In any case she obviously doesn’t know the full story otherwise we probably wouldn’t be sitting here now. A few careless e-mails, an indiscreet conversation here or there, I’m sure that’s all it amounts to. He’ll deal with it in the fashion to which he’s accustomed.”
They left it at that, agreeing to sit tight until they had good reason to become fidgety.
The news wire continued to feed off Murella. Some aspects sometimes offered some light relief from all that was wrong with the world. Modern media was somewhat of a mystery where every day the rise of Joe Bloggs was documented. Every man on the street given the opportunity to voice their opinion by e-mail, in person, by text, over the phone. What was this proof of? That the world cared what ordinary folk thought about stuff? That the Joes and Janes of the world were in any way important, that their views mattered? Samuel, 26, student, with his flat cap and his scarf doubled up around his neck speaking in a Mockney accent, was of interest to her. She knew that below the waist he’d be wearing denim jeans with their hem fraying further as it dragged along the ground over seriously pointy shoes. Perhaps Annie, 77, retired and satisfyingly lovely in her blue rinse hair would rest her trolley and chat a while and maybe Derek, 33, city dude would not. In a world of leaked opinions, war and crime these people were a distraction of sorts.