Recession on the Prom
Many people came through the door of McNamara’s pub seeking something. Some were after enlightenment, while others sought oblivion. The pub was a dark repository of grime located beside a block of flats that had seemed like a good idea in the sixties. On the other side was a German discount retailer. Some found the place depressing but McNamara liked it. He liked it because it made money and he positively adored money. He didn’t do food, no paninis or roast dinners, because there was a perfectly good chipper up the road. There was a busy bookmakers there too so McNamara had splashed out on a chipped digibox so his customers could track their losses and plan the next big win. McNamara lit a cigarette behind the bar and surveyed his dominion. The place was sparsely decorated, the furniture had been used as weapons on too many dole days and there was a pervading stench of drain cleaner and stale beer. He was no economist but he reckoned his business was recession proof. People came to celebrate events in their lives: the christening of a child or the end of a tough day at work. Likewise they came to drown their sorrows when the child ended up in court or the job went pear shaped. Either way McNamara was the winner. Even this morning he had three regulars in, one of whom had been a customer for a lifetime.
Skipper Dunne had been at sea at some point in his long life and liked to tell rambling stories of his adventures in Phnom Penh and Broome. Just as the smoking ban was suspended in the pub, so too was the law outlawing dogs so Banjax the collie sat at his feet. Skipper drank slowly from a glass of Smithwicks, his first of the day. He was planning on making the drink last until 2.15 at which time he had to go to the bookies to make an investment on the favourite at Lingfield.
“Any tips Skipper?” asked a tall figure at the bar. Prometheus Michael O’Reilly had no interest in the horses but it was a good way of getting Skipper talking.
“Ah Prom, the whole thing is falling apart. I lost on the fifth leg of an accumulator yesterday would you believe?”
The Prom nodded in sympathy. There was a time when he had so much tiling work on that he barely had a chance to talk to the regulars here. Now the day stretched to infinity marked with races, the news and closing time. The Prom was disqualified for another four months so he had Naoise the student driving the van. Naoise was reading a book by some lad called Kierkegaard and was showing no interest in his employer’s conversation.
“Will you ever go up to the Centra and get us a breakfast roll like a good Naoise?” asked the Prom as he handed over a tenner, “and brown sauce this time; not ketchup.”
Naoise headed for the door as the Prom looked into his lightening wallet. His wife did the accounts and it was becoming obvious that things weren’t going well in the business. He spent his days chasing lads for money and whenever he got any he went for a pint, most days he went for a pint anyway. Some days he did a bit of work but the thundering torrent of building work had dried up long ago.
McNamara spotted that the Prom’s glass was in the last quarter and started to pull him a replacement. The door opened on its squeaking hinges and two Guards walked in. The force weren’t usually seen here unless it was to search one of the young lads who hung around the jacks or to threaten McNamara for serving after hours. Neither scenario was relevant today so McNamara greeted them with a broad smile.
“Well Garda, what can we do for you?”
“Do you do coffees?” asked the guard. His female colleague said something and he clarified the request. “Make that an Americano and a skinny latté will you?”
“Sorry, we don’t do those.”
“What do you do then?” asked the guard. McNamara was revelling in this.
“Maxwell House or Tay is all we have.”
The female guard shuddered and the Prom looked up from his paper. He recognised the guard as having been involved in one of his drunk driving exploits but he supposed the man was just doing his job. The guard planked his backside on a stool beside the prom, this community policing idea was a pain in the arse but he had to go along with it. He picked up his cup and breathed on it.
“Well Prom, have you much work on?”
“Fuck the much, guard. How are things yourself, have they robbed your pension yet?”
“It’s desperate, I never saw anything as bad. The banks are foreclosing all over the shop.”
The Prom heard this conversation several times every day but he was surprised at how downbeat the guard was. The female guard went to the toilet, he wished her luck. Once she was gone the guard leaned over to confide in him.
“There was a time when a man could rely on his job, when a man could have his own place,” said the guard. The Prom knew for a fact that the guard lived in a huge house on the Dublin road and had a string of houses rented out. He asked himself what the fuck was wrong with the whining bastard.
“I thought you lads were in the clear. After all there’s always crimes to, erm, solve like.”
“Well you know I had a couple of houses?”
The Prom smiled in encouragement, this was starting to get interesting.
“Well I re-mortgaged one of them and bought a place in Portugal, a holiday home like. Well the next thing I rent out the place in Portugal and buy two apartments off the plans in Bulgaria. Some lad buys them after two weeks and I buy a floor of an apartment complex on the Black Sea.”
The Prom nodded in agreement, so far so good.
“I bought sites in Cape Verde off an Irish developer and he starts telling me about using my houses here as leverage to buy a load of property off him.”
“Leverage?”
“Yeah, so I could borrow more. I start getting these statements that I own a share in a fertiliser factory in Murmansk and a housing development in Burkina Faso.”
“Burkina what?”
“It’s in Africa. Anyway the statements stop coming and the red letters from the bank show up. I had to take a job community policing to get the overtime to pay the Fuckers. I’m buggered, totally and utterly screwed.”
The Prom tried desperately to think of something positive to say. Maybe things would pick up, maybe all the greedy grasping bastards in the country would use this as an exercise in humility, and maybe not. In the end he said nothing, maybe little things would build up to worthwhile things over time. The female guard returned from the toilet looking traumatised, her definitions of hygiene and those of McNamara were quite quite different. She stood over the guard, eager to leave. As they stood up Naoise returned with the breakfast roll.
“Did you get brown sauce?” demanded the Prom.
“Yup”
“Little things.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” said the Prom as his pint arrived and he unwrapped the roll, “get Skipper a pint there while you’re at it.” The prom threw the hard end of the breakfast roll to Banjax the dog, who gulped it down.
McNamara busied himself with the Smithwicks. Celtic were playing tonight so he would be busy. Tomorrow was dole day, a red letter day for people around here. Tomorrow he would open the doors and people would come searching as usual. He just hoped the guards would stay out of the place in future, which reminded him that he needed to clean the ladies.
Fugg &Co.
Miss Kelly unlocked the doors of the office at 8.55 on Tuesday morning. If she opened them any later Mr. Fugg would imply that she was slacking. Any earlier he would suspect she was stealing stuff. There wasn’t a whole lot to steal in her workplace: A swivel chair with a squeaking castor, a Formica topped desk supported an electric typewriter and on the floor was a plastic plant in a bowl. Miss Kelly liked the plant, it didn’t rant or scream and it stayed precisely in the place she left it. She had always been known as Miss Kelly and in all of her 45 years not even her family dared call her by her first name. She thought the name so repulsive that it had scuppered her chances of marriage but most people agreed that the characteristic that achieved that was her voice. She had a bland monotone of a voice, a voice destined to make announcements in train stations or supermarkets. She had the look of normalcy in her youth but her delivery of even the happiest news made people downcast and eager to flee her company. She did a secretarial course with the nuns and the position of secretary to Mr. Fugg came vacant. There were dark rumours of why the previous girl had left but Miss Kelly was accepted. She was delighted to get the job but nobody could tell, she sounded like a foghorn that has just found out it has been made redundant.
Mr. Fugg hired her because she was plain, her tone didn’t grate with him as he hardly listened to her. He decided having an attractive secretary was a bad idea for two reasons. Firstly, every layabout that had occasion to enter the office would spend time joking and making sheep’s eyes at the help. He had caught the clients and even the postman dawdling by the reception and he disapproved of dawdling. Secondly, Mr. Fugg liked a nice sociable drink and like any man with a skinful he could succumb to certain urges. That was the reason the last secretary had left in a hurry, Fugg had stoked up on port at the golf club and meandered his way back to the office in his Morris 1100. The girl, what was her name? Anyway, the girl had smiled at him and one thing had led to another and she was gone in a haze of accusations. Back then he didn’t have to worry about facing an unfair dismissal claim but Fugg decided to pre-empt the problem and Miss Kelly got the job.
Miss Kelly checked her watch. It was thirty seconds before nine, her employer was running late. She plugged in the electric kettle beside her desk and mentally counted down to nine o’clock. Her desk had a low glass barrier and it was from behind this that she witnessed Fugg’s entrance.
He stormed in the door in a jowly mass of tweed and briefcase leather. Someone had taken his customary parking space and it made him hopping mad. As he hopped he composed a legal note for the owner of the interloping tractor. Without preamble he addressed Miss Kelly in his stentorian legal bellow.
“Take a note Miss Kelly.”
Miss Kelly grabbed a notepad and perched behind the glass divider, hanging on his every utterance.
“To the owner of this vehicle, no said vehicle. Please be aware that this space is reserved with the full weight of the law for the use of Fugg & Company. Kindly desist from occupying it in future. Fugg”
He nodded in satisfaction and gestured out the front door.
“I want it placed prominently on the cab of that machine.”
Miss Kelly nodded but knew in her heart that it would not work. Michael Harkin had a tyre yard across the road that was universally known in Dogtown as Rubber Mickey’s and he had no love for Fugg. Not many people did but Mickey had been the victim of his oratory skills in a court case and positively encouraged his customers to park in Fugg’s way. That was one of the things Miss Kelly admired about the man, he wasn’t afraid to express disapproval. As if to prove it he barked at her as he opened the frosted glass door to his office.
“Get the pledgings for the Turnip case sent out in today’s post.”
“Yes Mister Fugg.” She loved it when he was masterful, which was pretty much all the time, it was just a matter of degree. She lovingly recounted his movements as the door closed behind him. He hung his trenchcoat on the stand, extracted his sandwiches and dropped his briefcase on the floor by the desk. The board of Dogtown’s golf club looked down in approval from their image hung between the legal diplomas. She started annotating the documents for the case of a Mr. Walsh who was in the turnip harvesting business. He had an accident at work on a farm but Fugg had called the farmer a “Man of Straw”. Miss Kelly knew that this term was specifically assigned to people of limited means who were of no use to a man like Fugg. Her employer adored money and any means of its accumulation, it was his grail and his mission. The telephone rang.
“Good Morning, Fugg & Company,” she droned, “yes, I will ask Mister Fugg.” She pushed the one button on the phone whose symbol was worn from overuse, in Fugg’s office his telephone rang.
“Yes?”
“I have a call from Hickey Travel.”
Fugg started, he had a lot of Mister Hickey’s money invested in the bottom floor of a complex of apartments outside the town. He picked up the call.
“Fugg.”
He held the receiver away from his ear as Hickey became agitated. It was typical of the commercial classes to question professionals such as himself. He put on his best honeyed tone bordering on gruffness.
“Mr. Hickey, I can assure you your funds are perfectly safe.”
“Yes Mr. Hickey one appreciates that but the money is in escrow with our bankers.”
That was true if you extended the definition of safe to include Clint Duffy’s property development firm. He had to get this idiot off the phone.
“I am due in court, I will contact you forthwith.”
He hung up and dialled reception.
“Miss Kelly, I don’t want any further calls from Mr. Hickey.
“No calls?”
“At all Miss Kelly,” he said.
Fugg opened his briefcase and extracted the daily paper, a copy of Stubbs Gazette and the defamation case he had brought home last night. He dissected the documents with a fountain pen. The plaintiff said his client had accosted him after having visions of the Virgin Mary. In dry prose the file described that the defendant, a Mrs Mulligan, claimed the Madonna had imparted seven solemn secrets. The secrets were the humdrum revelations typical to such a case, the end of the world and destruction of communism, the usual stuff. In a break with tradition, however, the Mother of Christ had declared that “John Cleary is the spawn of the devil and overcharges for briquettes in his poxy smelly shop”. Now Mrs Mulligan had a history of envisioning deities but this was the first one that was so specific so she took up arms in a campaign against Mr. Cleary and his business. Fugg knew that unless they got a particularly pious judge Mrs Mulligan’s goose was cooked and he would advise her to settle the case. The main priority would be to make sure his own fee was paid first then the representatives of Cleary’s unfortunate enterprise would get their share.
He picked up the next file and rifled through it. His eye was caught by a bill to be issued and he picked up the phone.
“Miss Kelly, there are no expenses in this bill.”
Miss Kelly tried to argue but failed dismally.
“Yes, I know they are nuns but they have to pay my expenses, expenses must be paid. Miss Kelly, perhaps you would prefer to live in an Anarchy where expenses are not paid but I for one do not. That concludes the matter.”
The very idea of lowering ones tariffs for the religious orders, it was ridiculous. He picked up the phone and dialled.
“Ridiculous is what it is Mr. Duffy. How can one sell the bottom half of an apartment complex when there isn’t even planning permission for the top half? My patience is being tested Mr. Duffy.”
This Duffy character from the music industry was proving to be as slippery as any barrister. He spoke in aphorisms from the lyrics of country and western songs. He invited Fugg to mosey on over tonight to the saloon.
“I will, as you so quaintly put it, mosey over and you had better have a viable plan in place Mr. Duffy or I shall act forthwith.”
He hung up. It was nearly time to leave for district court. He heard the front door open and a familiar voice greeted Miss Kelly like an old friend. It was Thomas McIntyre who was universally known as Tommy the Trooper. He had made ample use of Fugg’s skills in his three previous worker’s compensation claims. There were only four major employers in Dogtown and three of them had hosted lucrative accidents for Tommy and his learned counsel. He drank all the money in a bacchanalian supernova that preceded his next job application. Employer number four, Dogtown co-operative mart, had a new manager who didn’t recognise Tommy and gave him a job. Within days Tommy the Trooper was stood on by a bull and he was keen to see Fugg to plot their campaign. To this end he was carrying a crutch and was limping spectacularly, when he remembered it.
As tempting as the McIntyre case was, Fugg really needed to get to court. He had to brief a barrister and of course collect some money on the steps. As he got up from his chair his phone rang and without thinking he picked it up.
“Miss Kelly, what is it?”
“There is a Mister Smith on the line, he wouldn’t say what it was about.”
Fugg answered thinking it was something to do with a golf scorecard he had handed in on Saturday. He had been manipulating his handicap of late but he was sure he could talk his way out of it.”
“Fugg.”
It became apparent that this was no Mr. Smith but the same Hickey under an assumed name. The devious bastard had caught him on the hop.
“It’s in escrow I can assure you my man.”
“Sue me, how dare you. You sue me, I am shocked. I assure you I am known as a man of the highest integrity, probity is my watch word you know.”
“Well go on then, I’ll see you in court.”
Fugg hung up and then picked up the whole phone apparatus and threw it through the frosted glass door leading to reception. He opened the now empty frame and nodded to a shocked Tommy the Trooper.
“Miss Kelly I will be out for the afternoon. And there will be no more phone calls.”
Miss Kelly didn’t even look up from her desk.
“Yes Mr. Fugg.”
Breakfast at Emil’s place
The sun rose quickly and the stench of rotting vegetation floated in the air. He could feel the warmth but couldn’t quite get his eyes to open, they seemed to be stuck together with some substance. It smelled sickly sweet like, like cocktails.
“Boutros!”
With that bellow one of his ears became inoperative in addition to his eyes which remained stubbornly closed. He had the feeling that this was as good as his morning was going to get. Generally when you wake up and can’t even pinpoint what country you are in with any degree of accuracy, there is a lot of pain on its way down the pipeline.
“Boutros, wake up!
Who could forget that soft brogue from a model Paddy? James Ban Ki Moon Sheridan generally went by the name Banki (it rhymed with Manky) and since birth had preferred to communicate at deafening volume. In Tipperary the pair had been named after UN diplomatic figures in what passed for irony around Clonmel.
“Boutros, theres a dog.”
“Uh”
“A big fuckoff dog and he has my shoe.”
Clement Boutros Curran realised that he could no longer hide in sleep. He reached up and prised his left eye open and promptly blinked in the sun sealing it up again. The second attempt was more successful and he wiped most of the gunk away with his shirtsleeve. He was on a sun lounger surrounded by empty Antartico beer bottles and a bone-dry cocktail jug. At the end of his skinny pale legs was a barbecue covered with burnt food and spliff ends. They were on a wide patio surrounded by thick vines clinging to the trellises and smooth rock wall on one side. Boutros remarked the wall was sheer, dripping with clear water and impossible to climb except if you wore tights and had access to a lot of superhero gadgets.
“The dog, Boutros, the dog.”
Banki was cowering against a wicker chair and a Rotweiller was watching him with some interest. It had a Reebok in its jaws and looked at Banki with a sideways disinterested stare. Banki was over six feet tall and his red hair, freckles and gormless attitude advertised him as a son of Erin. He wasn’t afraid of parachute jumps, forward women or going in hard to a tackle but he hated dogs, or rather they hated him. Small dogs, shaggy dogs even poodles queued up to take a lump out of his ample arse. Some people said you should never show fear but Banki knew that he had better show them a rapidly diminishing rear elevation or it was tetanus shots, stitches or a poodlectomy.
Boutros knew the dog was playing with Banki before striking but he felt some optimism was expected of him.
“It’s alright man, he’s only an oul pet.”
This sounded as half-hearted as it was felt and Banki was frozen to his seat.
“How did we get here anyway?” said Boutros.
“Taxi from the club.”
“Club?”
“The place after the Café.”
Boutros ruminated on this morsel then shot upright.
“The girls!” It was all becoming clear, he and Boutros met two girls in a place called THE GESTATION CLUB. The girls were beautiful in a textbook way. The two boys had been a little worried that they were too beautiful to be female but Banki said fuckit we’ll give it a go anyway. Banki did all the talking and the girls were entranced which should have been suspicious in itself.
“Where is here?”
“This is the place…Emily’s place, remember?”
“Who the fuck is Emily?”
A bass voice boomed out over the patio.
“I think you are referring to Emil. This is his house.”
A man in white chinos and loafers strolled over and rubbed the dog behind his ear. He was of that indeterminate age between forty and dangerous, inhabited by mobsters and boxing promoters. He wore a baby blue cashmere polo neck with a gold chain over the collar. Muscles rippled beneath the fabric and even Banki noticed that this was a very bad man to fall out with.
“Emil was born a kilometre down the road, not such a big jump in Ireland but huge here. He grew up in the Favela.”
Banki tried to form the strange word in his big mouth and Boutros hissed “Shanty town” at him. Banki nodded in appreciation, he had come across this scenario before.
“Jaysus fair play to him to get a place like this. What business is he in?”
The man shifted his weight and smiled.
“In this city the police have a way of dealing with street children.”
“I know what you mean man, Asbos and the like, the odd dig and that.”
“The police shoot them.”
“Fuck off!”
“This is Emil’s business.”
“Shooting children?”
“Giving them the means to shoot back. But that should be old news to two proud Irishmen such as yourselves, am I right?”
Boutros looked back blankly but noticed that Banki looked even more worried than he had when the dog was eating his footwear a few minutes ago. Oh Jesus you gobshite, what did you tell them?
“It is an honour for Emil to have two such heroes in his house. I have to admit I thought Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness were older but what do I know I suppose.”
The man folded his arms as he said this and whistled at the dog, which came bounding back. Banki was staring at him as if he had decided that the master was more of a threat than the dog. The girls had never heard of Ireland, much less Clonmel and he had to admit he got a little more creative than usual. He and Boutros were republican special ops. What did Ops mean? It was just Ops ok!
“What are you freedom fighters doing here so far from home?”
“We’re over here,” drawled Boutros with certainty, “on manoeuvres. That’s it, we’re on manoeuvres.”
Everyone seemed impressed with this and asked them all sorts of questions about the republican cause. Boutros joined in and told them he got his first pair of shoes when he was sixteen. Nobody here seemed particularly surprised. He berated himself as he realised he was in South America, South.
The girls let them buy the drinks in the café and then got them into the VIP section of the club. Banki was not the most perceptive man in Tipperary but he did notice other girls avoided their new-found friends. This was no problem as all Banki and Boutros were worried about was who would go home with whom. The lads at home would be amazed, first day off the plane and they hook up with two stunners! The girls whispered among themselves and invited the boys to a party. The mulatto taxi driver stopped for nothing as they climbed the hills above the city, not even traffic lights. They drove through a district that seemed to be built entirely of rubbish, plastic drums and polythene sheeting. At the end was the entrance to a mansion. The gate pillars had a huge “E” emblazoned on them. A gatehouse held a sleepy armed guard.
“How the fuck can you afford a place like this?” demanded Banki, “are you in business or what?”
This sent the girls into fits of giggles. The guard recognised them but shook his head at the two boys. A conversation took place over the guard’s walkie talkie. Boutros recognised the words “Plata” and “Gerry Adams”. Most people in the world could do without a visit from Gerry Adams and his entourage at four in the morning but they got the nod. They drove up the avenue where a peacock preened itself on the immaculate lawn. They drank some more and told stories for a while. The girls disappeared with no major impact on the narrative. Banki was describing a spectacular injury gained at a Junior C hurling match when Boutros held up his hand to stop him.
“Where are they gone?”
“Who gone?”
“The Women. What did you say?”
“I told them we were on a budget of fifty dollars a day, for the manoeuvres, like. I said we have to improvise, live off the land, that sort of thing.”
“You were reading that Andy McNab book on the plane weren’t you?”
Banki reached into the cooler and toasted his companion.
“They’ll be back any minute, I’m sure of it. They are great dressers too, hah?”
“Hookers usually are.”
“Oh.”
The girls never did come back.
Banki blinked in the sun and tried to reason with the employee in the blue polo neck. The man’s face seemed to harden as he listened.
“About the IRA bit, we like to keep it low key. We are on a mission, yeah.”
“You said you were on an exercise,” said the man reasonably. His mouth smiled but his eyes were vacant, they seemed to suck in light.
“We would like to assist the process. Do you remember the avenue that lead you here?”
Banki nodded in an attempt to ingratiate himself.
“It takes a reasonably fit man ten minutes to walk to the gate from here. The guard is going to close it in six. I would advise you to be there by that time or else.”
“Or else what?” asked Boutros from his lounger. He looked to Banki’s seat to find it empty. Banki was already at the edge of the drive screaming about dogs. Boutros remarked that he had never seen his friend move so fast in his life. Banki was missing a shoe and for some reason grasped a cocktail jug in his right hand. Boutros caught up and could hear the attack dogs being mustered at the patio. He knew he could outrun Banki, the dogs would tear him apart but Boutros would then have to explain what happened to Banki’s sister. Guard dogs were one thing but Bríd Sheridan was a really scary prospect.
“Come on man, we’re nearly there!”
The guard was closing the gate as they arrived. Banki dropped the cocktail jug in his hand as they shot by. They stopped outside the gates gasping for breath.
“Jesus, Jesus!”
A gangly kid in a filthy yellow t-shirt was playing soccer with a tennis ball.
“Jesus, Emil has sent out his rubbish and one of them has red hair!”
Another urchin stuck his buck toothed head over a corrugated iron roof. He took up the cry as the Irish men looked around. In seconds they were surrounded by smiling children. Children in dirty Gap and Hilfiger from the sweatshops. The Irish looked into the gleeful crowd and tried to smile back. Brown hands led them down the hill, everybody wanted to touch the new arrivals.
“They seem nice,” said Banki, “They are only kids after all.”
“Move away,” said Boutros through gritted teeth, “one of the little bastards took my wallet.”
They inched away from the attentions of the street kids and Banki grinned.
“You know how the guide book says to watch your wallet? Well I left a decoy in my pocket, all that was in it was a bus pass and a condom. I kept all my stuff in my money belt.”
“And where is that?” asked Boutros grimly.
“Around my chest, under my shirt.”
“Under your shirt?”
“Yeah.”
“The shirt that has all the buttons opened?”
“Oh Fuck. How the hell we get back to the hostel?”
“Well I don’t know, maybe we should ask Gerry Fuckin’ Adams.”
Nick Leeson Interview 10th March 2008
Nick Leeson is the man who broke Barings Bank in 1995. Operating in the frantic world of futures trading he racked up losses of £827 million, the highest ever loss by a Rogue Trader at that time. Life has moved on for Leeson – he was released from Changi Prison in Singapore in 1999 and now lives in Galway where he is the chief executive of Galway United soccer club.
Leeson has been a hard man to get hold of, he gives the impression of being constantly on the move. I met him in his office, which is installed in a Portacabin behind the Goals of Terryland Park. He is a little stockier with less hair than the photographs from his Barings days. The office contains a laptop and a Blackberry; the tools of any Chief Executive. Only the steel grilles on the windows destroy the illusion. Leeson has reduced debt levels at the club and has brought in additional sponsorship from local business. He is realistic about the financial state of FAI soccer being light-years from that of the Premiership.
“Football Clubs in Ireland don’t make money.” Leeson states with the authority of a man who knows.
“Its not the sort of Investment that anyone would really want.” Leeson deals with local companies that have done particularly well and want to give something back.
He has been living in Galway for five years now and likes the pace of life here.
“Galway has all the attractions of a big city but doesn’t have the social problems that Limerick or Dublin have.”
Leeson still keeps an eye on the markets and his former colleagues. When asked does he get inundated with calls each time a trading scandal breaks, he nods.
“Its more a lesson for the Banks that don’t understand the markets as well as they should do.”
When I ask him about Jerome Kerviel who lost €4.9 Billion for French Bank Societe General in January 2008, he seems unperturbed about the size and timing of the losses.
“Look back at any rogue trading or financial scandal, and the clues that indicate that something is wrong are very obvious. After the event it is difficult to see the lack of common sense, someone looking at the numbers and saying that something is clearly wrong here. I think that the reason for this is that these guys (senior management) become so far removed from what is going on.”
His own bosses in Barings were proved to have a very tenuous grasp of derivative products, and Leeson thinks this is still the case in many banks.
“They are not willing or don’t seem to be able to highlight their lack of knowledge by asking the questions that they should. They don’t want to show themselves up by asking the simple questions. An information deficit then exists and increases all of the time.” he adds.
“As they go through their careers managers tend to become distanced from what is going at the sharp edge of the business ….that creates a knowledge and information deficit that is not acceptable.”
“When it explodes as it did in the Kerviel case, it is as dramatic as it can be. The guy was clearly out on a limb for a long period of time, as I was in Singapore. There were so many things that should have highlighted that something was wrong – the amount of funding that was required, the huge margin calls.”
When asked about high tech trading techniques, Leeson says the Societe General were at the forefront of technology in these markets.
“Societe General is a company I know very well. Societe Generale were at the cutting edge of the derivatives markets. The fact that it can happen at Societe General means it can happen to anybody.”
Is there such a thing as a Rogue Trader?
“I think it is a combination of personality and system failure. You need a certain type of individual. You need someone who is undisciplined who is prepared to break the rules, who is very stubborn and obstinate. Someone who is stubborn about what they are doing and thinks they are going to get out of it.”
Leeson has made a living teaching bankers how to avoid the nightmare scenario of a trading meltdown. He is fond of laying the bulk of the blame at the door of the people in charge of running a bank and rarely admits his own responsibility. The Barings directors didn’t want to query the star trader who was apparently the source of a large chunk of the banks profits. Leeson is quoted as saying he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life saying sorry. No amount of apologising would correct the massive losses which collapsed Barings and 50% of Leeson’s earnings still go to the liquidators of the bank.
Peter Baring famously concluded in 1993 that it was not actually terribly difficult to make money in the securities business. The fact that he had no inkling of what lay in wait for the Queen’s Bank is an indicator to Leeson.
“If you take your finger off the pulse … if you don’t have controls and systems…and they are simple controls…its not rocket science.”
I ask him about the main types of Trading Staff; the Traders and the Mathematicians who design complex models to calculate prices.
“They are different types of people. The quantitative guys are the real bookworm types that get off on numbers. Traders are out there to make money and are probably more into the thrill of how the markets move. I think there is a big difference but they both get it wrong from time to time. Goldman Sachs Alpha fund lost 37% of its value because a set of circumstances arose that wasn’t included in their system.”
I compare Barings Singapore operation to that of AIB’s American subsidiary Allfirst. Both were remote from their owners geographically and I wonder was that a factor in the Trading losses.
“I don’t think there is a profile to be honest. I think you are looking more for a deviation from the normal type of business. Then you get that information or knowledge deficit. That tends to be when something like this occurs. I mean the idea that Kerviel was particularly good with IT systems and was able to hide stuff to me holds no water.”
“There are so many levels, you go through compliance, liability management and treasury departments. They all should have an idea when something is wrong. It is a complete breakdown and the only reason, I believe, is that people aren’t prepared to ask those simple questions. These people think they are masters of the universe - they are not”
I ask Leeson if the markets have changed a lot since his time in the markets.
“I still have friends trading in the markets and I don’t think they would thank me for the amount of controls they have to work with nowadays. The thing with the financial markets is that they are always changing. A group of banks will open a particular market. They will make a lot of money, a lot of other banks then join then the opportunity to make money goes away and they move onto the next big thing.
Derivative products are always changing and there is always a catch up in the compliance and control areas to try and understand what is going on with the business.”
“Alan Greenspan before he left the Fed asked all the big American banks whether they understood credit derivatives. The back offices of all of them said No they didn’t understand the risks.”
I am aware that Leeson was a proponent of online Poker and ask him does he play much nowadays.
“Not as much as I used to. I wouldn’t say it is a common thing in traders, they all have different vices. Trading is a zero sum gain – somebody is winning somebody is losing, same as in Poker. You are up against other like minded individuals. One thing about traders is that they like to win and they like to make money. If you are beating the best people that are around you, then it is far more interesting.”
In his book Rogue Trader Leeson describes the massive transactions he was making as “Trading Ether”. He still admits to this impression.
“It does and it loses its sense of reality. You know what the numbers are and as they start to get bad you are trying to avoid them. Money has a far more real value when you step away from the trading floor.”
Leeson’s reason to set up the operation in Singapore was to take advantage of small price differentials between the Osaka and Singapore Markets on the Nikkei 225 index. I wonder was there a lot of money in this sort of operation.
“It depends on your systems and reaction times. You tend to have a market that leads and if you can take advantage of the anomalies, it depends what size trade you can do.
I have a friend that trades equities in Germany - they have nine or ten stock exchanges there. He had a computer system that was so developed he used to get the stock exchanges phoning him up to ask him to turn off his computer trading system because they couldn’t handle the volume of trades.”
“Again if you are looking at trading between London and Frankfurt you have a currency issue. His system was so complex that if there was a trade out there between the different stock exchanges in Germany it could trade 1000 times a minute.”
“There are enough anomalies out there, its just whether you need one big one or you are willing to take 100 or 200 little ones to realise the money that you want to.”
In the months leading up to Barings Collapse Leeson was getting queries from the Japanese financial press. It seems incredible that Barings still knew nothing of his positions.
“Yamaichi Securities issued a research document. It was the same with John Rusnak. The rumours were very strong, the type of trading that he was doing, the methodology that he was going through weren’t right for a bank of that size. It didn’t suit the profile, what I was doing at Barings didn’t suit the profile. It wasn’t one of the big hitters, it was a niche player had great research and every now and again would pull off a bit of a coup.”
“To accumulate the size of position that I had that was against the trend of where Barings were in the market. Rusnak at Allfirst was exactly the same – there were people in the market who wouldn’t trade with him because they knew something was wrong. The size and type of trading weren’t right for the bank.”
He continues by saying the Asian Markets were aware of his trading.
“There were regular meetings in Tokyo about my positions. I crossed volatility from 50% to 7% so everyone else in the options market was feeling a lot of pain because that represented a loss for them. They would meet and discuss ways that they could manipulate volatility a little bit higher to put the pain back on me. How many of them knew that something was wrong I don’t know but the Yamaichi research document came out in late January 1995 and the bank collapsed in February 1995 and the only ones not reading that research were the people at Barings.”
How do you view the importance of Hedge Funds in the market?
The effect they can have on the market is huge because they have so much money invested. Every market survives through a certain amount of speculation and a certain amount of hedging. They are a very important part of any financial market. I guess their derivative use has probably got more sophisticated over the last ten to fifteen years. Therefore their influence on the derivative markets is a lot greater than it used to be.
Are you still trading?
“I trade a little bit from time to time if the markets get particularly volatile which is what I used to be good at.”
Leeson still sees Spread Betting and CFDs (Contracts for difference.) as valid forms of investment in Ireland.
“They are a great tool if you know how to use them. I wouldn’t recommend them to just anybody. I use financial spread-betting myself. I wouldn’t have a problem with either method.”
“A friend of mine who used to work for Goldman Sachs resigned as a director and uses spread-betting exchanges. I mean you don’t pay capital gains on it and it has distinct advantages. I don’t understand why so many people in Ireland still use traditional stockbrokers with their exorbitant fees. It doesn’t make any sense – you can get the same degree of exposure for smaller investment. You have to be prepared to cover your margins. If you are going to buy fifty grand of equity you could put five into CFD accounts and have the other 45 as margin.
It doesn’t suit everyone – you have to work out what your own risk profile is and decide what you hope to achieve. You get a property developer going out to trade a currency when he never has traded currencies before.”
As he glibly describes investment vehicles that are dangerous in inexperienced hands, it is obvious he sees himself as a player of the percentages. There is a hierarchy of the wicked at work here and Leeson confirms it as we conclude the interview.
“Kerviel kept doubling up his bets, the most basic gambling system. There is a term for the type of double down betting. I don’t think it is really a trading technique. I don’t think my technique was refined, but it was a little different than that. I tried a few different things to get myself out of it. His technique was as basic as you could get.”
Leeson seems to take an almost boyish glee in the level of Jerome Kerviel’s losses. At last someone has knocked him off the top spot. As we conclude the interview we talk about FAI soccer, Leeson seems relaxed in his new fiefdom. If nothing else he is an optimist.
The Scourge
The Scourge opened the double door onto the street and took in the view. The convent across the road was bustling with nuns imposing their will on the young girls as they went to class. The Scourge approved of organised religion, after all it was intrinsic to his business, but he knew the nuns didn’t like him. It was difficult for a man like him to reconcile what other people thought of him and how he saw himself. He saw himself as having gravitas, which is essential in the undertaking profession. He had even looked up the word in the Readers Digest and was satisfied with the definition; dignity or solemnity of manner. He had inherited the business and was keen for it to prosper. His father had been fond of a joke and used to say there were people dying to get into his premises. He always howled with mirth when he said this, while making sure that there were no customers around, of course.
The etched glass door of McWeeney and Sons, Funeral Directors, closed behind him as Tommy the Trooper sped by. He was on his way to O’Gara’s daily opening ceremony and the Scourge idly measured him up. Five foot five and ten stone, probable sclerosis of the liver and poor financial status. Tommy would be a plain pine box, the basic model without even the purple velvet around the handles but it all counted. The Scourge was proud of his diagnostic skills and performed the same calculation on everyone he met. He had a mental dossier on the population of Dogtown and a fair idea of how and when they would die. He didn’t like that word “die”, it was so final, he preferred to use “pass away” to his clients. He often found discarded medical journals in the hospital on his rounds and had built himself a useful library at home. The doctor that the journals had been addressed to had an interest in tropical medicine and so the Scourge was an expert on Giardia and Bilharzia and other ailments of limited use in a place like Dogtown.
He cast his gaze in the other direction and saw Mrs. Lynch striding up the road with her tartan shopping trolley. Five foot ten and no sign of ill health; badness gave her the ability to avoid death and she would probably outlive him by a good few years. The town was covered by a blanket of bituminous coal smoke and this warmed his heart. Not literally but the incidence of Emphysema and Asthma was always up at this time of year. A good dose of Asthma could finish off an old person and then it was time for the old McWeeney shuffle. He would hold the fingers of the bereaved in both hands and whisper advice and commiseration. The face was essential, the fixed line of the jaw and the wounded look in the eyes, eyes that had seen too much. It would all be perfect if it wasn’t for him, he ruined it all and he had no Gravitas, none at all.
Maurice came through with a mug of tea for his employer. The mug was another keepsake from the hospital and advertised a drug for treating post-natal depression. Maurice was small and hunched with massive eyebrows like the protruding antennae of a beetle. He had worked for the Scourge’s father in his day and took pride in the running of the business. The children in the school called him Igor but he didn’t care. Embalming was his life and he spent hours in the back with vats of formaldehyde and arcane lotions. If you love your job then you will probably be good at it, was his motto.
“The widow Hughes is coming in to pick a memorial card.”
“Oh good, get the samples out of the back Maurice.”
As Maurice disappeared into his lair the double doors opened and a woman came in clutching a handbag. The Scourge lifted his head in mock surprise and stepped forward.
“Ah Mrs. Hughes, did you have a chance to look at the memorial cards?”
“Yes I did and I narrowed it down to two.”
Her husband had died of blood poisoning from a cut on a rusty fence. Septicaemia had set in and he had his arm amputated but to no avail. The Scourge would be paid the full fee even though he had not buried the whole cadaver. Some would have mentioned it but not him with his Gravitas. The competition was known to crack jokes, that would be just like him.
“I like the verse on that one.” He said pointing at a card.
“….He knew you had to rest….God only takes the best.”
The Scourge tried to look soulful as the widow agreed.
“I will let the printers know and, ahem, I don’t want to add to your burden…”
The widow looked at him blankly then understanding dawned on her. She reached for a cheque book from her bag and filled out the amount.
“Thank you so much Mr. McWeeney, you have been a great help.”
The widow turned for the door and the Scourge made his assessment to Maurice who had been hovering in the back.
“She won’t last a year and those children of hers would probably give the job to the opposition. True, he is cheaper and has a newer hearse but he doesn’t have the ….”
“Credibility,” said Maurice in what he hoped was a supportive voice.
“You wouldn’t see him picking memorial cards, the dirty miscreant.”
Maurice just nodded, he knew better than to get between his employer and his pet subject.
“He wears skinny ties and hugs all the women, even the old ones. There were rumours that he was getting the widows to sign over property to him. Disgusting.”
Maurice reckoned the Scourge would be over the counter in a second if he thought there was a few quid in it but said nothing. Working here was often an exercise in biting one’s lip. The job involved a certain amount of heavy lifting and a lot of standing around looking sombre. Outside three men dragged Tommy the Trooper out of O’Gara’s pub. He had exhausted most of his disability money by now and his sons had been ordered to get him home.
The phone rang and the Scourge answered it.
“Good Afternoon, McWeeney’s funeral directors. Yes, this is he. Oh I am sorry for your loss…yes…yes of course.” He hung up and addressed Maurice.
“A job on Pollard Street, Josie Murphy.”
“The Bullock Murphy?”
“The very one. Five foot Six and thirteen stone. Alzheimer’s. If anyone asks you, say it was a blessed release for him.”
“Blessed release.”
“Bang on. Now Josie hadn’t an arse in his trousers but his son did well in America. This could be a nice little job for us.”
“The deluxe treatment?”
“I reckon so. We just have to show Gravitas, show that we are still number one in this town.”
“Gravitas.”
“That’s the spirit. We will show Clint Duffy how to do this job. Am I right?”
“Dead right, Mr. McWeeney.”
Hoppy
As People walked their dogs through the park they usually overlooked the four redbrick buildings between the trees. There were many buildings hidden within the park, like the place where the guards’ boss sat in his office and the President’s house. The buildings were home to men who didn’t quite fit in. Every collection of people needs rules so there was a house manager paid by the HSE. Arthur was the house manager, though he didn’t advertise the fact. He was a tall man with grey hairline that had long since retreated under fire. He looked after the men, handed out their money and prepared client reports. The reports were mostly gibberish but someone must have read them because if they were late there was a fuss. The clients were free to go to town when they pleased, they got fed there and most were happy.
Hoppy went to the shop every morning for twenty Carrolls, a bag of Emerald sweets and The Irish Independent that was kept for Arthur’s house. Hoppy liked to collect the paper before the staff got it so he could check the headlines. Where The Irish Times would lead with ‘Revenue Commissioners to investigate politicians funding’, The Irish Independent could be relied on to come up with something catchier: ‘Mystery leak reveals Tánaiste’s finances.’
As Hoppy didn’t read anything but the headlines his world view was slightly askew. He read the banner type in the knowledge that all the stories were centred on himself. He believed in everything. Catholicism, Buddhism, Horoscopes and Chaos theory; all were valid in his world view. He used to read books that suggested a butterfly beating its wings in New Hampshire could initiate a typhoon in China. These theories were all attractive and Hoppy picked from them at will, he was the ultimate á-la-carte practitioner. The fact that a lot of his beliefs contradicted each other did not bother him. The theories co-existed in his mind like parallel lines that never collided. He believed in reincarnation, the fundamental interconnectedness of all things and he believed in pretty much everything he heard on the radio. He was distrustful of television, as he was sure it broadcast messages designed to disturb people like him.
He sometimes walked into the TV room across from the nurses’ station where Arthur worked and sat watching the screen with his Walkman turned up loud, just to prove he could. He never stayed long. The rolling news showed famine and pestilence, war and genocide while he existed in his musical bubble. Sometimes the radio played songs like ‘I’m a believer’ by the Monkees. He hated the jangling guitars and honeyed vocals but the chorus made sense to him. Everyone nowadays was cynically rejecting organised religion and civic engagement while Hoppy embraced every belief he could cram into his disturbed but broad mind.
Hoppy had read a lot as he grew up; he had preferred the world of books to that of reality. As the messages came to him, the lines separating the two worlds started to blur. When his mother died Hoppy threw the television in the back garden and survived on a diet of beans and toast and the Marion Finnucane Show. This continued until a social worker came and told him he would be better off moving into the houses near the park.
Arthur liked his work; he managed the houses for the Health Board and had been doing the job for 10 years. He saw all sorts of clients come in but he didn’t like the look of McHugh. Arthur’s clients usually functioned well and he minded their money for them. They could go out for a pint or go shopping whenever it suited them. In his experience the houses functioned like a reality TV show; all the residents had their own agenda and this could lead to conflicts. McHugh was affable enough when he came in. His dark eyes darted from side to side as he gave his details. On instinct Arthur placed him in a room with three tough men who barely acknowledged his arrival. Arthur was off that night but heard that McHugh had tried to start with one of the men in his room. He had been put down and he stayed down. Arthur nodded the next morning when he heard the reports, these things had a habit of levelling themselves out.
Hoppy lived in one of the small houses and was having difficulty isolating himself from the world. One day he went to Arthur and asked for 100 Euro of his allowance. Hoppy didn’t go to the pub and cigarettes were his main expense so the manager handed him the money without question. Hoppy got the bus into town and went into an electronics shop on the quays. The shop assistant wore a cheap polyester suit and a loud tie. He looked Hoppy up and down taking in the unfashionable jumper and shoes.
“Can I help you there?”
“I want to buy a pair of headphones.”
“Well they start at €8.99 for the in-the-ear ones.”
“No I want ones that block out the noise like the DJs have. To block out the…ye know..”
“Background noise. We have Sennheiser pro headphones but they are a bit dearer.”
Hoppy asked the question with his eyes. How much?
“€99.50”
“Can I try them out?”
The shop assistant was surprised that Hoppy would even consider the price and shrugged as he picked out a demo model. After all, it was more commission for him if the strange little man made a purchase. Hoppy gave him a disc and he placed it in a player. Before he had a chance to plug in the headphones the shop was filled with the sounds of Chumbawumba singing that “I get knocked down and I get up again”. The assistant plugged in the correct lead and Hoppy put on the headphones. He was transfixed as people walked around him in the shop without a sound. He paid for the oversized headphones and walked all the way back to the houses marvelling at them. That was before McHugh found him.
McHugh had spent some time homeless but was too belligerent to be an effective beggar. He soon came up with an alternative strategy. He would call around on the younger lads on the street and take from them. He would get a few fags and some money to buy cans in the Spar shop. He operated by isolating one beggar at a time, looking for addicts. He would lean in over their huddled figures.
“Have you seen the gear man?”
“No, he comes around at eleven.”
“Are you buying off him?”
“No, I told you I’m skint.”
“You are a dirty little junkie, you will be buying. Give it to me or I’ll slit you wide open.”
The beggar would protest but paralysed with fear would hand over the balled up notes and Euro coins. McHugh usually threw the coppers in the river, it meant nothing to him but it broke the beggars; from then on he owned them. He strutted around town collecting from the homeless and drinking the proceeds by the canal or in the park. It wasn’t a bad life but he was barred from his home and as the weather became colder he needed to find a new gaf.
He went to the social and got himself assessed. The psychologist reported that he was a sociopath and as such was entitled to housing. He worked his way through a number of Health Board buildings until he came to Arthur’s. He didn’t like the look that Arthur gave him the first day as if he could see through him. He was put in a room with three violent bastards. The first night he was knocked to the floor by a big docker from the inner city and he decided to bide his time for a while. He drank his allowance in a pub near the train station but it was never enough. He needed to cultivate an additional source of income and he was smart enough to know he couldn’t do it under Arthur’s nose.
The new headphones gave Hoppy total immunity from the noise of the world. He glanced through the headlines in the tabloids outside the newsagents:
“Man slain by wolf boy.” No problem.
“Posh Totty beds Footballer.” Fine.
“Police seek source of racial slur leak.” This one made him a little uncomfortable but he was safe in his musical cocoon. The shopkeeper placed the Carrolls and Emeralds sweets on the counter.
“Howiya Hoppy, how are you today?”
Hoppy nodded in time to the music and gave him a thumbs up as he handed over the money. He picked up The Independent with ‘St. Ita’s’ written over the masthead and headed back towards the houses. A helicopter flew overhead but Hoppy was miles away. He headed for Arthur’s building and dropped off the newspaper at the nurse’s station. He never saw McHugh approach from behind and never heard his footsteps in the gravel. The first thing he felt was the headphones being ripped off his ears as a powerful figure pinned him against the brick wall.
“Fags!” hissed McHugh as he rummaged in Hoppy’s jacket. He took the cigarettes and placed his finger to his lips as Hoppy slid down the wall. Hoppy limped to his room and spent the day curled up under the blankets. The ruined stereo lay on the ground beside the bed and every time a door opened he flinched. McHugh was waiting for him each day and Hoppy tried to buy him off with extra cigarettes but McHugh still took everything he had.
Hoppy became so paralysed that he even endured the nicotine withdrawal pangs to try and avoid going outside. For that he received a beating that put him in hospital for a few days. Arthur visited him and tried to get him to tell the story.
“You can tell me, we can deal with…this.”
Hoppy just stared at his feet in the bed.
“It is noisy here, I can’t stand the racket of all those people chattering,” he said, indicating the near-deserted ward. Arthur went out and bought him a Walkman from his own money as Hoppy had been eating into his allowance. He told himself that he should have spotted it earlier. Hoppy’s injuries were not serious, cracked ribs and a broken nose but he refused to go back to the unit.
Arthur went back to work and quizzed the nurses and the more reliable clients. One patient nervously mentioned McHugh and a junior nurse confirmed his suspicions. Arthur called a meeting, which McHugh refused to attend. Arthur was careful to go through the correct procedures; a lifetime filling forms had taught him that. McHugh was thrown out of the building. He showed up around the gates for a couple of days but security moved him on.
After much coaxing Hoppy came back to his room. The hardened docker accompanied him to the shop each day until his confidence returned and one day he went to town on the bus. The summer passed and life got back to normal in the unit.
One day a woman came to see Arthur. She said she was McHugh’s sister. He had been found dead in the park with an empty whiskey bottle beside him. She said she understood why Arthur had kicked him out and they could only guess how her brother had died. The guards were not pushing for a post-mortem in this case. It looked like he had drank himself to death. The next day Arthur and two nurses were to represent the unit at the funeral. On a whim Arthur told Hoppy the news. Hoppy just nodded then he spoke.
“I want to go to the funeral.”
“Are you sure?”
Hoppy nodded again. He changed into his Sunday best and sat in the back of Arthur’s car. This was the first time he had left the grounds without music soothing him. Arthur turned the radio up for him and he stared out the window all the way to the church. There was only the sister, a social worker and the four men from the unit watching the priest perform the ceremony. They watched the coffin being laid in the ground; there were no tears. There was no meal afterwards, no talk of the past or the dead man, just the marking of an event.
The director of the facility was not convinced that Hoppy should have attended the service, something to do with admitting liability. He often talked about things like that. Arthur reckoned the director spent even more time filling bigger forms than he did himself. Arthur didn’t like forms much, he preferred talking to people. Anyway he was happy that he had made the right decision. Hoppy walked a little taller afterwards, not much, but even a slight improvement was considered a victory. Arthur went back to filling out rosters and attending union meetings. This was his little territory in between the trees and he was happy to stay here. He liked most of his charges, he supposed he just wanted to see them as happy as possible.
The Messenger
Mick got off the bus followed by Gubmund. They turned and walked through wrought iron gates and onto a tree-lined avenue leading to the school buildings.
“Did you see that Spitting Image on last night?”
“No, was it on RTE?”
“Oh I forgot ye haven’t got into the 1980s yet. Would ye not put up an aerial like everyone else?”
“It’s the transmitter up the road.”
“Oh yeah, the transmitter.”
“We can get RTE even when the coat-hanger falls out but nothing else. One of the neighbours put up a thirty foot aerial then it collapsed and killed his dog. The ould fellah says we should learn from his mistakes.”
“But you don’t have a dog.”
“I didn’t bother mentioning that. I reckon he would have us living up a tree using ogham stones to communicate if he had his way.”
Mick glared at the tarmac as they crossed the threshold of the grounds proper.
“What the fuck are you wearing on your feet?”
“They got them at the weekend. The ould lass says they are loafers.”
“But they are brown, and they have heels.”
“They are tan and that’s what loafers look like.”
“One of them is tan and the other one is dark tan. Where did they get them?”
“They just sort of appeared. I thought they might have got them on the markets in the North. Are they that bad?”
“If anyone sees them you are fuckin’ dead. What colour are everyone else’s shoes?”
Gubmund glanced around and looked deflated.
“They are grey and a few black pairs. I’m in trouble amn’t I?”
“They will eat you alive. If the boarders spot them you don’t want to know what they will do. Remember when Clams came in all proud of the sheepskin coat that his Mammy bought him?”
“Yeah Fucus and the boarders brought it into the urinals and … Jesus, me shoes! I can’t go home wearing a pair of piss containers!”
“I am afraid it’s worse than that captain. I don’t reckon those heels belong on a pair of men’s shoes. I think you are swanning into this kip in a pair of brown women’s shoes that don’t match. The only reason they will piss on them is if they set them on fire first.”
“You know the smokies called at our house in a Hiace on Saturday; you don’t think the shoes came from them do you? That would be instant death in this place. They hate poor people but they hate smokies even more.”
“That’s cos the smokes don’t give a fuck about them and would beat seven colours of shite out of them given any excuse.”
“Jesus, women’s shoes; this is gonna get nasty. Yer man Ethics got declared bent just for saying that word in English.”
“What word?”
“Ethics. He only said it once. He doesn’t seem to mind being a bender but I’m fucked if …”
“You will be if the boarders get you. You need protection, someone hard. Someone like Mongo.”
“What have I got that that lunatic needs? He hits priests for fuck sake! He doesn’t give a shite about a couple of farmers with no money.”
“Well I hear his last messenger is suspended. Mongo is doing a nice trade in selling loose Rothmans, chocolate and erm, other stuff for the boarders. If we take a detour by the smoking shed we might just catch him.”
Smoking was prohibited in the whole school with one exception. Students who had permission from their parents could use a shelter beside the soccer pitches. With the literal-mindedness that all adolescent boys possess it became known as ‘the smoking shed’. It was understood that no priest was going to raid the shed seeking parental notes and Mongo was there to ensure there was no glue-sniffing or homosexuality on the premises.
The etiquette was that when a cigarette was lit up boys would clamour for first drag. In a base three system, as complicated as anything the Babylonians came up with, a drag consisted of three pulls. A pull in turn consisted of three blasts, which was the lowest graduation of nicotine available. Mongo was the exception to this convention; he just took whatever he wanted.
He was surprised to see the two farmers stick their heads into the shed. He was deep in conversation with his deputy, a gangly boarder known universally as ‘Fucus’ on a matter of some import. A fourth year had the temerity to strike back at a Leaving Cert. bully and apparently had given the guy a fairly comprehensive beating. The Leaving Certs. wanted to put manners on the junior year who in turn wanted to end years of oppression. If they went down the brawling route there would be a discipline issue for the priests and people would get suspended. More importantly the petty scams that Mongo ran would be disrupted by a war. He and Fucus quickly decided that a prizefight between the two parties would be arranged for the following Wednesday.
Mick and Gubmund walked over to his bench as Mongo lit a cigarette.
“Smoke, gentlemen?” Gubmund had recently got over the bouts of nausea and dizziness that cigarettes caused but had yet to get to the stage where he actually enjoyed them.
“I will take first drag.”
Fucus wandered off to accost some younger boarders, glancing at the ground looking for butts. As he passed Gubmund, he stopped to get another look.
“Nice shoes man.”
Once the sentence hit the cold concrete it shattered and spread. People were in shock that anyone would have the gall to sport such footwear in the shed. Mongo liked to think he was broadminded, he despised everyone equally and if they decided one day to wear two-tone ladies’ shoes, then that was their business. They would, of course, die but that was of no interest to him. Mick nudged Gubmund who cleared his throat to speak.
“I hear you need someone to run messages.”
Mongo mulled this over and looked down at his expensive Adidas basketball boots. The closest he had come to playing basketball this year was hanging a first year on a fence by his underpants. The unfortunate basketball player had been left with the dilemma of whether to bear the discomfort until he was discovered or risk the complete destruction of his waistband in an attempt to release himself. Mongo was the sort of a guy who gauged the success of such an action by how many laughs he got. He didn’t do these things because he enjoyed them; he was not a sadist. He did them because he could, and that to him was reason enough.
“Right, you get to wear the shoes if you get a few things for me in town.”
Mongo produced money and a list torn from a notebook and looked Gubmund in the eye.
“Anyone stops you, and you tell them you are collecting stuff for me, anyone…”
Gubmund headed off to class and opened the list as he walked:
1 Packet of American hard gums.
1 Packet of Sugar Puffs.
Ten Major.
Ten Silk Cut Purple.
Two packets of green Rizla.
1 packet of Mates from chemist.
1 Packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum.
1 Wham Bar.
1 Handball (Dunlop).
He sat through a priest trying to impart the joy of geography. As the teacher pointed out the main cities of Brazil the class became aware of the telltale shoes.
“Recife on de north East Coast is a major centre of commerce for de hinterland with a sugar cane processing industry…”
“ Check out the funky mammy brogues man!” said Minto who had appointed himself the fashion arbiter of the class.
“Belo Horizonte is noted for its…are you lads listening to me at all?” said the priest reaching for his metre stick.
“Are there a lot of shoe shops in Brazil sir?”
“Well de leatherworking industry would be centred in de south. Why do you ask?”
“Well I heard we are importing some mad looking shoes from the third world.”
The class erupted and the priest knew he had lost them again. Minto gave Gubmund the cut-throat gesture but was instantly corrected by a punch to the right kidney from Fucus. This outlined the fact that Gubmund now had the equivalent of diplomatic immunity; he was untouchable.
He walked out the gates at lunchtime going through the list. He picked up the sweets and fags at the newsagents where the convent girls hung out. They wore gabardine skirts accessorised with bubble gum and menthol cigarettes. He was keeping an eye out for the girl with the red hair who usually occupied this spot. She wasn’t around but two girls from home were. They looked at the bag in his hand.
“Where are you off to with all that stuff?”
“Food run for the boarders. It’s my new job.”
“Why are you bothering with that shower?”
Gubmund pointed at the tan loafers.
“Oh right, if they were a bit smaller my mother would wear them.”
He would have waited around if he didn’t have such a heavy schedule from Mongo. He bought the handball in the sports shop then casually wandered into the chemist. He busied himself at the counter and picked up the condoms. The girl behind the counter showed no reaction and took the offered note. She opened the till but was short of change so she opened the cash register at the other end of the counter. The door swung open and a couple of convent girls came in. He knew without turning around that the red haired girl was one of them. He crept his hand over the packet on the counter but was too late.
“Good man Gubmund, it looks like you have a good weekend planned.”
“They aren’t mine, I am picking them up for lads at school.”
“That’s what they all say…what exactly are you going to do with the handball or do I want to know?”
“It’s the shoes, it all started with the shoes.”
“I’d say you will be describing this to a psychiatrist in a few years.” The girl smiled, it was a pitying smile, but a smile nonetheless. Gubmund walked back up the town towards the school. There were none of the usual crowds around the gate. He was late.
He tried to speed up but the tan shoes were cutting into his ankles so he proceeded at a slow grimacing canter up the avenue. In a puff of Major smoke a priest with wispy grey hair appeared from behind the statue of the school’s founder. The statue was of some bishop from the previous century in a soutane and was universally known as ‘Stoneskirt’. The priest in front of the statue was the dean and he was not shy about administering discipline when he saw fit. He usually went for a ringing slap to the ear but often used an uppercut for variety. He looked at the bag in Gubmund’s hand curiously. The student paled, the last thing he wanted was a conversation about bringing prophylactics into the school grounds.
“You are late, have you got a reason?”
“I had to collect stuff for one of the boarders.”
“Really, we will have to see about that now won’t we?”
“It’s for Mongo, Mongo McPartland.”
The priest stepped back as if stung and gestured that Gubmund should be on his way. He went to his locker through the quiet corridors. As he opened the door Mongo materialised beside him. He had a key in his hand.
“Anymore just leave the stuff in there and I will collect it.”
“How did you get a key for my locker?”
Mongo held up a ring of locker keys and touched his nose.
“The only problem is keeping track of which one is which. Did you get the handball?”
Gubmund nodded and handed it to Mongo who hopped it off the floor a few times.
“There is a money game going on tonight and some fuckin’ eejit put all the handballs on the roof.” Mongo scowled to indicate the culprit would be dealt with severely.
“I sent Fucus up to collect some but he is kind of useless. I bought this one as insurance, supply and demand you see.”
There was an elongated scream from the direction of the handball alleys followed swiftly by a thud. It looked like Mongo was going to have staff out on sick leave for a while. Gubmund went into his class and sat down at the back. People moved out of his way. In this place if you didn’t fit in you needed to carry a big stick. Sticks didn’t come much bigger than Mongo.
On the way out towards the bus Minto asked Gubmund where he could get a pair of the shoes. “The point is not moot, I must have the boots.” Mick laughed as Gubmund promised to have a look for a pair in a size eight.
“You will be doing well to find another pair of those yokes.”
“The mother specialises in this stuff, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“We are gonna be rich, rich I tells ya!”
“Once Mongo doesn’t go straight to the source on the wholesale market…”
Gubmund lit one of Mongo’s cigarettes as he got on the bus. He was too cool for school, much too cool.
English Steve
Peter hit English Steve on the side of the head with a chair leg. English Steve was going out with one of our friends, a teacher from Galway. This gained him entry into the club of expats living it up in nineties London. Maslow said there was a hierarchy of needs that people make progress on. It started out with basic needs such as food and shelter and worked its way up in steps to self actualisation. I don’t know if we would have termed that party lifestyle as fulfilling our dreams but it was close enough. Peter drank in the Beresford Arms in Clapham North. It was a dirty hovel with green velour seats that stank of cheap lager and Lambert and Butler cigarettes.
He lived in a council house nearby with a middle-aged man called John. John never spoke, he just smoked joints all day. When he wasn’t smoking he was rolling up his next joint. His fingers worked quickly and efficiently to create cones that were achingly beautiful to the amateur eye. Peter was a successful cocaine dealer who specialised in the debutante market in the wealthy west London suburbs of Kensington and Chelsea. He had an emaciated wiry frame and the most horrific cast in his right eye. It was so staggeringly obvious that we were drawn to stare at it despite all efforts not to. Peter had a sheen on his pale skin like the grease on the cobblestones outside the Chinese restaurants in Soho.
After he introduced himself we were invited to Peter’s house. He was a gracious host with beers in the fridge and a supply of discounted drugs. The house was neat and home to an elaborate Hifi system that pumped out techno music at deafening volumes all day and night. I don’t know how Peter’s neighbours tolerated it but he was not a man you would want to have an argument with. He did his business with a steady stream of visitors, getting John to act as his receptionist.
We started to visit Peter at the weekends before hitting the underground clubs down South. On a Friday night Peter supplied a lump of black hash each and a couple of pills for the night out. He never joined us at the clubs. He was banned from most places and weekends were his busiest times. In classic dealer form Peter offered us other consumer choices; wraps of speed and ketamine but never coke.
“I won’t sell you coke cos I like yer...Irish like me. Me dad was Irish, he fucked off in the seventies. Left us in Shadwell ‘e did.”
Peter was a Millwall fan and spent his Saturdays fighting West Ham and Chelsea fans on the terraces of Upton Park and Stamford Bridge. He went to the games alone and drifted towards the opposing fans looking for trouble. He usually found it.
One night Peter told me a story. A guy in Streatham was supposed to be selling coke for him in a club. The guy took the coke but didn’t return with the money.
“I decides to pay him a visit so I walks up and knocks on the door. The guy opens the door bollock fackin naked, lookin at me like a rabbit in the headlights.” I opened a can and nodded to encourage Peter in his narration.
“So what did you do?”
“I twatted the cant, gave him a few kicks to soften him up. His bird is screaming from the bedroom and then I see it…”
“See what?”
“He is only getting a huge hard on while I am kicking him around! I started getting frustrated so I gave him a right going over.”
“Maybe he was a masochist or something.”
“I dunno but I gave him a week to pay. He paid.”
Peter shifted so much product that he should have been wealthy. The problem was that he consumed a lot of his own stuff. He laid out the fat lines on a glass table and hoovered them up between deals. He had the paranoia of all coke-heads and was convinced (correctly) that he was being watched by the police. He had the exclusive use of a Jamaican minicab to carry on his business in the West End, supplying the endless rounds of coming-out parties and balls. The Vauxhall Omega was often parked in Cadogan Square with techno music pouring from the speakers while smoke emerged from the door seals. He had a collection of mobile phones. They were all the same model but in different colours and Peter was very selective about who he gave the numbers out to.
The Friday night buying session soon progressed until there was a weekly party back at the council house. He didn’t encourage any extra guests, just people he recognised. English Steve came along on a couple of nights with the Galway teacher. Peter’s eyes narrowed as they were introduced, Steve was purely English and didn’t fit into the celtic clique Peter had built there at the house. One night Peter attempted to enhance the music by installing a strobe light and leaving it on for three hours. One of the revellers, ‘Junkie James’, collapsed and had an ecstasy-induced epileptic fit on the sitting room floor. Peter didn’t want an ambulance but he was overruled. A jaded medic came in and asked what James had taken. There was a general shuffling of feet and guilty coughing.
“What did he take, speed?”
“Two wraps.”
“Anything else?”
“A pill… and a half.”
The medics put James on a stretcher and took him away in an ambulance. The crowd settled and the music came back on. Peter was talking to a girl in the kitchen when he glanced up and saw English Steve was standing in the front door facing outwards. He was having a leisurely piss out onto the footpath. Peter dived from the kitchen with a Holsten bottle clutched in his hand. Two lads stopped him using the bottle but Peter was ranting with spit falling from the corners of his mouth.
“He is taking liberties in my ‘ouse.”
“Relax Peter, he didn’t mean it.”
“The cops are watching this place an this cant pisses out my front door. He is a fackin’ dead man.” English Steve looked scared and turned his wide eyes to the group. He knew if the Irish crowd stayed with him he was safe; they did. Eventually Peter calmed down and he and English Steve shook hands. Over the months people started to drop out of the group, either to travel or return to Ireland. The parties became sporadic and Peter’s deals less generous.
One Saturday he and English Steve went to a Millwall Vs Crystal Palace game. Before the game they went to a pub near the ground. English Steve started singing a Crystal Palace chant. He liked to sing when he had a beer but he picked the wrong day.
“Oh South London, Oh South London…”
Peter hadn’t slept in two days and he was in foul humour.
“Shut the fack up you palace fack.”
English Steve was emboldened by his audience and continued the song.
“Oh South London is wonderful,
It’s full of tits, fanny and palace,
Oh South London is wonderful.”
The crowd in the pub cheered and English Steve took a bow. Peter reached into his jacket and started to pull a long object from inside. The crowd gasped and collectively took a step back. There was a sigh as Peter produced a metal chair leg and advanced on English Steve with his good eye focussed on his target. He was muttering as he advanced and the soccer fans got out of his way rapidly. The first blow landed above English Steve’s ear. Fortunately he got the rounded end of the metal bar; the jagged edge where it had been ripped from the chair was facing away from him. The next blow was to the ribs and the sharp edge tore Steve’s shirt. He stood wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open waiting for the next blow to land. Sirens sounded outside and Peter stopped with his arm in mid-air, the last thing he needed was more attention from the police. English Steve got off with a concussion, which was not for want of enthusiasm on Peter’s part.
The remaining members of the Irish group never went back to the house in Clapham North. Over the years Peter’s name came up in conversation, people laughed at what they used to get up to. Their lives became more respectable and the spell in London was revealed for what it was, a dalliance with the underworld. The stories from the old days made people laugh but nobody laughed at Peter – nobody ever laughed at Peter.
Justice on the Prom
Skipper Dunne went into the toilet in McNamaras public house. It was not an attractive area and customers didn’t tend to spend any more time than was strictly necessary there. Obviously someone had spent time in the cubicle though; the door was festooned with such witticisms as “Darren is gay!”. This was followed by “No I’m not!” and “Darren loves pipe. Signed Darren.” Skipper was fascinated by this literature and wondered if he wrote this stuff down in a book could he make money out of it. Skippers pension barely kept himself and his dog Banjax in food never mind the occasional visit to McNamaras. Job done, Skipper washed his hands in a sink that has been dripping for so long there is a brown slimy trail down to the plughole. McNamara spends the absolute minimum on the place. He knows he will get the custom as this place is the closest thing to a community centre on the estate. The old men come in and watch the racing channel; the young lads drink Red Bull and Mickey Finns and disappear into the toilets together occasionally.
The council was trying to put up a CCTV camera at the back of the Pub to stop anti-social behaviour. McNamara opposed the project because his takings and anti-social behaviour were closely related. He had hired a Solicitor to claim his civil liberties were being infringed upon.
Skipper emerged from the Gents, just in time for the 2.40 from Kempton. His quarter glass of Smithwicks (Skipper was a glass half full optimist.) was intact on the bar. McNamara had watched him nursing the drink for forty minutes now but said nothing.
Two men were at the bar. The younger man had a pair of white Ipod earphones in his ears and ordered a coffee.
“Sorry Naoise, we don’t have any of them fancy Lattes you get in the college, its either Maxwell House or Tay.” Said McNamara.
Naoise nodded and a huge hand appeared on the counter beside him. The enormous hand belonged to an enormous man in a rumpled blue suit and beige working boots. The grey curls identified the man as Prometheus Michael O’Reilly, Tiler to the stars. He glanced up to the race on the television over the bar and patted the copy of THE STAR protruding from his suit pocket. Skipper looked over in admiration.
“Well Prom, you are looking very important altogether.”
The Prom grunted at McNamara and pointed at Skippers drink.
“So that’s a pint of stout, a Smithwicks and erm a coffee so.” Said McNamara.
Naoise took out his headphones and nodded towards the Prom.
“He was in court today, that’s why he is dressed up. Four bloody hours in that place.”
“Well I could hardly drive myself home after being disqualified again, now could I?” asked the Prom.
“Jaysus they are a sight in there, a man cant even have a couple of scoops after work.” Complained Skipper who had never actually owned a car.
“Skipper you should have seen the eejit, the judge said if he is up again he would be sentenced so next thing he starts doing his Solicitor act.” Said Naoise.
“I was helping the Solicitor,” said Prom. “I was explaining the facts of the case.”
“What facts were those?” asked Skipper Innocently.
“Well I got hungry out in the house so I decided to go for a Kebab. Naoise was gone home in the van so I took the Missus’ car and took a quick scoot into town. Her car is one of those little Korean yokes so there I am doing sixty looking out at the road from between my knees and trying to work the wipers.”
Naoise snorted.
“Yeah those little cars can be a real hoor, did you mention that you were locked and already disqualified?”
“I told the judge I wasn’t drinking, I just had a couple of cans. I have a very high metabolism you know.”
McNamara delivered the drinks and Naoise looked into the murky coffee.
“So Prom the bottom line is you will need Naoise here driving for another year.” Said McNamara trying not to look too pleased. His best customer was immobile for the foreseeable and so would be hanging around his beloved estate on a daily basis.
Skipper blew into the froth on top of his pint.
“God bless you Prom for a decent man.”
“Yeah God bless you.” Sneered Naoise.
Prom held his pint up to the light like a talisman.
“Ye are dead right lads, God bless me indeed.”
Kids
The car in front stopped suddenly at the lights. Kevin hit the brakes in time but it knocked the packet of chewing gum off the dash.
“Bloody eejit, probably a woman driver.”
Marie wasn’t going to respond – she had fallen for that line too many times before. When they had met Kevin had wound her up constantly. She had wanted to drop his DVDs in a skip or cut up his suits – now she just ignored this part.
“Stop at a shop, I want to get a card for the little fellah.”
“Well he is your nephew. Are we bringing a present?”
“WE didn’t bother buying one but I did. I got him a set of overalls from Osh Kosh bGosh.”
“What in the name of suffering Jesus is Kaibosh whatever”
“Only the trendiest kids wear going, I have to be able to raise my head at this witches coven of a gathering.”
While she was talking Kevin decided that his chewing gum had lost its flavour. If he was on his own he could spit it out the window but Marie would go spare. Better to wait till they stopped. In rare cases, some individuals who have been known to swallow chewing-gum regularly and who are predisposed can aid the growth of bezoars (stones) within their stomachs or intestines. God bless the discovery channel.
“How many people do you get at one of these yokes?”
“Oh theres a few Women from Sarah’s work and some of her friends that have babies.”
“Your sisters fertile friends from the world of advertising. What will we talk about? Babies and Shite I suppose.”
“Just smile a lot and say as little as possible – they can smell fear.”
Marie pointed at a petrol station. Kevin brought the car to rest at a pump and Marie went to get the card. Kevin decided to fill up and got out and walked to the left side of the car near the pump. It was at that stage he remembered he hadn’t had a petrol tank on that side for over two years. The dilemma was whether to get back in and move or try and bring the hose across the car.
He looked inside and Marie was choosing a card so he could get away without moving the car. He dragged the hose over the boot and tried to put the nozzle in the tank – too short. A man was watching him from the other pump. Kevin had a false grin that said I-look-like-a-fool-and-we-both-know-it. He jerked the hose and managed to get it in the tank. The man said nothing and Kevin counted down the numbers on the pump. He wondered would he be incinerated if his mobile phone rang at this particular moment. He had visions of ending up like that Buddhist monk just because some mate sent him a poorly-timed text. The tank filled and he stuck his card in the pump.
Marie came out with a card and a bottle of water. She was doing the peculiar shuffle girls do when they want to speed up but don’t want to chance breaking into a run.
“I saw you making a balls of the pumps – again. How long have you had this car?”
“It’s the Japanese and the Germans, this is their revenge for the war. If they would just put the tanks on the same shagging side.”
“Muppet.”
He took off into the traffic and remembered he was still chewing the same white tasteless lump of latex he had had in his mouth since leaving home. He would have to wait until he got to the party to get rid of it now.
Marie rummaged in her handbag and produced lip-gloss. He grimaced.
“This is going to be another fashion show isn’t it? Is my shirt stripey enough do you think?”
“Aw quit whining, this is the turn here on the left.”
“That’s the right.”
“Whatever.”
Kevin pulled up at the path, the driveway was full of black German cars. Marie went to the door to a volley of air-kissing. If he could only dump this gum before he went inside...
He pretended to develop an interest in the back of one of the cars and had the gum in his hand when he felt a touch on his elbow. The hand was attached to Jeremy – married to Sarah and oozing success.
“She is a beautiful motor, don’t you think?”
He was aware that the gum was now stuck to the palm of his hand, his right hand. Marie was looking back at him expecting him to shake hands with Jeremy. He stood up and gave Jeremy what he hoped was a playful punch on the arm.
“How are things Jeremy – busy?”
“Oh you cannot imagine.” said Jeremy as he turned back towards the house. Kevin was trying to scrape it off and had only succeeded in spreading the burden onto both hands. Sarah was waiting with a glass of champagne. Marie nodded.
“I will drive home if you want – you can drink.”
“No Love, it wouldn’t be fair. This is your Nephew’s birthday after all.”
Sarah kissed him on the side of the head as he got into the housed. Marie brought the present to a collective squeal from the women. Bloody kids….
Entitlement
Sean was scratching his Armani jeans when Mike came into arrivals. He was looking into the middle distance while Lisa talked. Mike waved and Lisa mouthed a silent “O” – they didn’t recognise him. It could be the beard or ten years of sun or the cut of his clothes. He approached leaving down the rucksack on the floor. He shook Sean’s hand.
“Thanks for picking me up boy. How is life?”
“Oh great, living the dream you know.”
Lisa cleared her throat.
“Well Mike how does it feel to be home after all that time in Africa?”
“It was Venezuela and this place looks better than when I left.”
“Yeah they are extending it into the basement, the demand is huge. What with holidays, ski trips, weekend breaks and shopping trips to the States. Not to mention all the foreigners coming and going.”
“And that’s just Lisa’s outings for the year” said Sean. “You will want to get out of here – after all one airport is the same as another.”
“Well the one in Caracas is surrounded by tanks at the moment but apart from that they are similar.”
Sean paid at the machine and they went out to the carpark.
“Was the rest of your luggage delayed Mike, you haven’t got much there?” asked Lisa.
“No that’s it I’m afraid – Jesus is that your Jeep, its huge.”
Lisa looked pleased, no point having a vehicle that blocks out the sun if people didn’t appreciate it.
“Well when you have the baby seat and all the shopping it isn’t really that big. I just feel safer in this you know.”
“The last time I saw one of these the President was being taken off for questioning.”
Lisa opened the doors and Mike slung his pack in the boot.
“You sit up front with Sean, you can see the old country in all its glory.” Said Lisa.
“So Brother Mike, we saw you on the news during the coup a few years ago, did it get hairy?”
“Yeah I was supposed to be monitoring elections but got caught up in the middle of it. It was all engineered by the Yanks. They are on the run now – a lot of the familiar faces have gone home.”
Lisa stuck her head between the seats.
“Jesus Mike you sound like one of those Shannon protestors, slagging off the Americans. Both our salaries come from the states, we have no time for hippies trying to rock the boat.”
“Never mind her Mike, Lisa is just stressed out from work.”
“I am beyond stress Sean. Trying to manage a team from everywhere to meet targets with a weak dollar then get back to the crèche so they don’t fine me to pick up the child … it never ends.”
Mike desperately tried to remember the child’s name. It was Amarillo or Amadan or something.
“So how is the new arrival getting on then?”
“Amaran is two now and the crèche kids are teaching her bad behaviour. When I get her down I am barely able to lift a wineglass.”
Hitching
The drizzle started when he got to the hitching spot. It was a couple of miles outside town at a crossroads so it caught all the traffic heading North from Galway and the South. Right here traffic naturally slowed and there was space for a car to pull in safely. Enda left his bag down and got out the cardboard sign. The sign consisted of two panels hinged together. Galway, Athlone, Dublin and Longford. He flicked the cards until Longford was visible and stuck out his thumb.
The idea behind the sign was to try and get a direct lift and avoid a series of short hops. Farmers were notorious for dropping people in the middle of nowhere. They meant well but it usually involved walking at least a mile to find a safe spot. The other purpose of the sign was that it demonstrated literacy, people tended to stop sooner for people who could read.
New Red BMW – not a notion. The guy was on his mobile phone and didn’t even glance over at him. Posh cars were generally not much use – there was a profile that worked. The ideal was a Rep, they covered a lot of ground and were chatty. They eased the process a lot but it was raining now so anything would do.
People had sympathy when it rained – at first. If a hitcher is soaked to the skin only the best of good Samaritans was going to stop. Out of the mist came a Rusty Mark I Ford Escort – a Farmer. The guy had a shock of white hair and a Collie dog on the front seat. The Escort creaked to a halt and the Farmer greeted him.
“Getcha ta Ballymahon if that’s any good ta ye.”
This was fifteen miles progress and a bit of shelter so he went to hop in. The dog whined and refused to move so the farmer grabbed the blue rope that hung from the collar and pulled the animal into the back seat. Enda sunk into the poorly sprung dog seat and pulled the door shut. They achieved the Escort’s cruising speed of forty in sixty seconds and the Farmer demanded his bit of conversation.
“They found yer man – in the lake.”
The art of good hitching conversation is to tune into the driver’s subject, regardless of how boring, offensive or absurd it is.
“Oh yeah, was he dead then?”
“Of course he was dead, he was in the bottom of the Fuckin Lake. They had to get divers in to find him.”
Enda left a respectable gap so the Farmer would give him something to go on. The Farmer obliged.
“Those Divers are serious, they can get the bends.”
“The Bends?”
“Yeah when you go down deep enough your blood boils and comes out yer eyes.”
“I heard about that all right, I don’t suppose the Lake is deep enough. The blood would only warm up a bit.”
The farmer looked at Enda and at the dog behind him. His forehead wrinkled as he pointed at Enda’s bag on the floor.
“Are you a student in the college?”
“I just finished there in June, I went down to sign on today.”
The Farmer nodded in approval at this course of action – getting money off the government was to be applauded in his opinion.
“I heard some of those student wans are gamey enough.”
The farmer left room for Enda to elaborate but Enda just grunted. These conversations made for long lifts and were not to be encouraged.
“It said in the paper that some of them wear rubber underpants with spikes in them.” said the farmer. This was obviously a subject that he had dwelled on for a while. Enda saw that they would be at the next hitching point in a few minutes. He decided to burst the farmer’s illusion.
“I never met any of them in four years.”
The Farmer didn’t look too worried anyway.
“Who will win the County final this year?” asked the Farmer.
They were on the border of two counties so conceivably he could be talking about either. This is where hitching etiquette cuts in.
“I would say the other crowd will shade it.”
“You are right - the Bastards won it last year too.”
They approached the metropolis of Ballymahon and Enda picked his bag up from the floor. The Escort slowed down and he opened the door.
“Thanks for the lift. Good luck.”
“God bless and I hope it doesn’t piss down on you.”
The dog hopped back in the front seat and the Escort left in a belch of blue smoke.
