Jesus, what have I done? ‘But is he okay?’ I say.
‘Just bruises, as far as I know,’ says Simon. ‘Though I don’t think it helped his knee problem. But he’s not badly hurt. And he’ll be able to shoot your episode.’
I almost don’t tell him that I was responsible for Adam finding out, but I know it’s not right to keep it a secret. Also, Adam could easily reveal what happened. ‘But … I’m the one who told him about the kidnapping. He said Bernard showed him the scene-by-scenes so I thought he already knew.’
Simon sighs. ‘God, Nora’s right. He really can be a bollocks sometimes.’
‘He tricked me.’ I don’t know whether I feel more anger at Adam’s manipulation or guilt that he got hurt.
‘Seriously, don’t worry,’ Simon assures me. ‘There’s no harm done.’
He sounds so sincere I manage to believe him.
‘Thanks, Simon,’ I say. ‘I suppose I’ll know better next time.’
‘Every day’s a school day around here,’ says Simon.
As Art follows Simon out the door he turns and looks at me. ‘Sure you don’t want to join us for lunch?’
‘I’m fine!’ I say brightly.
I’m not, of course. I’m freaked by the Adam news and worried about what might happen if he tells everyone it happened because of me. But it’s actually easier to work in the office without Art, and by the time he comes back I’m hyper-focused on the script. In fact, it’s only then that I realise I’m actually quite hungry and take off my headphones.
‘I’m going to get lunch,’ I say, closing my laptop. ‘How were Simon and Nora?’
‘They didn’t reveal any evil plans to me,’ says Art, ‘if that’s what you were wondering.’
‘I wasn’t.’ I’m starting to feel a bit stupid about my sabotage suspicions. It’s not like anything else has happened. My vivid imagination is helpful when it comes to writing scripts, but it also leads to, well, worrying about all sorts of mad shit that will never happen.
‘Simon and Nora are sound,’ says Art. ‘Actually, they showed me how to set up the software so it does offline backups auto-matically.’
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘That’s good.’
‘Yeah,’ says Art. ‘Come here and look at this.’
I go over to his desk and lean over his shoulder.
‘So,’ he says, ‘if you click this …’ He adjusts the settings. ‘Simple! Feel reassured?’
‘A bit,’ I say.
Then I notice something on the screen. The writing credit for each episode appears at the top of every page of aNorthsidescript. And at the top of this page …
‘Art,’ I say, ‘why is your script credited to Arthur T. Ó Súilleabháin?’
‘My middle name’s Thomas.’ He grins. ‘What, were you thinking the T stood for “theatre” or something?’
‘I’m not talking about the initial,’ I say. ‘Why are you using Ó Súilleabháin?’
‘It’s my name!’ says Art. ‘The original Irish form of my name before our colonial oppressors forced my ancestors to anglicise it. We’re all entitled to use the Irish versions of our names, you know.’
‘I do know,’ I say. ‘But—’
‘I’m surprised at you, McDermott,’ says Art. ‘I wouldn’t look so bothered if you were calling yourself Áine Ní Diarmada or whatever.’
‘I’m notbothered,’ I say. ‘I just … why are you using it? You’ve never written under it before, have you?’ I’m not going to admit I googled him, but I remember that all his credits in IMDb said Art Sullivan.
Ah.