by Eoghan Egan
‘Did the cops ask for descriptions?’
‘It happened too fast. I was on the ground before—’
‘Snuck up behind you, eh?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t have a chance. One wore a cowboy hat, a Stetson. I don’t remember his involvement. The other guy did the damage. He’d long hair. Darkish.’
‘That’s as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike, but I’ve got the gist. How much did you borrow?’
‘What?’
‘Jesus, Chas, how else can I put it? How much did Dolan loan you? In total?’
‘I don’t know. Probably … twelve thousand.’
‘Why pick Temple Street to collect and deliver cash?’
‘That’s where he said.’
‘Huh. When did this caper start?’
‘Beside Lidl.’
‘Mother of divine … If I want to pull feckin’ teeth, I’ll become a dentist. That’s telling me where. It doesn’t tell me when.’
‘Couple of months ago.’
‘Around Halloween so?’
‘There or thereabouts.’
‘And you met them on your own?’
‘What’s with the questions, Ferdia? What the hell does it matter? Yes. On my own.’
‘Wondered why I wasn’t invited along, that’s all.’
‘Didn’t want to get you involved.’
‘Ciara or Malcolm clued in on this?’
‘No. NO.’ Charlie pulled himself up in the bed. ‘This isn’t their concern. I don’t—’
‘Grand. I expect you’ll get another call. Feckin’ loan sharks always have a new balance. Let me know the final tally.’
‘Ferdia, I … You’ve taken a weight off my mind.’
‘You’d do the same for me.’ Ferdia gave a two-fingered salute. ‘It’ll all pan out, and I’ll get my reward in heaven. Slán.’
In the corridor, Ferdia winked at the Filipino nurse and flipped her a wave. She raised her eyes to the heavens and smiled back. Outside, he joined several smokers grouped outside the main entrance, wrapped in light dressing gowns or heavy bathrobes, prepared to bear the elements for a nicotine fix. A middle-aged man pulling a transportable IV pole stand, sucked in smoke to satisfy cravings. Ferdia borrowed a light from him, wandered towards the car park, searching pockets for coins to feed the ticket payment machine, and wondered why Charlie was still lying.
-----
Hugh weaved his way through the conga line of people congregating outside the Ganestown Department of Social and Family Affairs building. Inside, a hallway led to a corridor where, he guessed, a hundred people queued. Hugh joined the human train. No one spoke. They shuffled forward, heads downcast, resembling mourners at a funeral lining up to sympathise with the bereaved. The stench of stale cigarette smoke dwarfed the overwhelming sense of resignation and hopelessness. Despair filled the hallway like a dark cloak. This was a place where fun came to die.
‘Did ya get a ticket?’
‘Pardon?’
The man ahead of Hugh spoke again. ‘Did ya get a ticket?’
‘No.’
‘Ya gotta get one. They’ll call your number.’
‘Oh. Where do I—?’
The man pointed to a doorway at the top of the queue.
‘Thanks.’
Hugh pushed through and entered a room. Seven Plexiglas-partitioned booths divided the government employees from the welfare recipients, with rows of stackable chairs bolted to the floor. People read, texted, knitted, filled out forms or milled around. Official documents covered every centimetre of wall space: job prospects, courses, threats of imprisonment for anybody caught cheating the system. Spotting a machine welded onto a support girder, he pressed a button marked “jobseeker,” and a slip of paper spat out.
516.
He stood aside, waited his turn. Numbers flashed in cryptic sequences over hatches, and hapless clients got bawled out if they didn’t get to their allotted window quick enough.
‘Dude?’ A black beanie, hood pulled low, hid most of Ronan Lambe’s face. ‘This is a prison. I’m inmate number 4-7-9.’
Hugh said: ‘5-16. I meant to return your call.’
‘No worries. Any joy on the jobs front?’
‘I scraped up temporary work. Van deliveries. Nine, ten hours a week. You?’
‘Zilch. Feels like I’m never gonna catch a break. Unemployment’s horrible.’
‘It won’t be for long.’
‘Hope so, dude. Jesus, this place doesn’t help. It’s as if they—’
A man burst forward and caused commotion at hatch two. ‘I was here before her.’ He jerked a thumb at an inoffensive woman.
‘I called your number five minutes ago, where were you?’
‘I went out for a smoke.’
‘I’ll get to you after I’ve finished with—’
‘Jesus. I’m here scratching my arse for the last two hours.’
‘What’s the rush? It’s not like you’ve a job to go to. Stand over there and scratch it again.’
Ronan nudged Hugh. ‘See? That’s what I’m talking about. We’re second class citizens—’
‘I hear you.’
‘—shit on a shoe. They resent us, dude. Blights on society. We get free money and they’re pissed off pushing paper. You’d think it was us who’s responsible for this… That we’re happy to be—’
A voice rose at hatch five. ‘Forms. Pfff. You always ask for more forms.’ A broad, bearded Eastern European, wearing a beige three-quarter length coat and a wide synthetic smile waved his arms. ‘No good. Pliz, is my birthday tomorrow. You fix for me, and I have happy birthday. Big party. Tak? Yes?’
‘Nie. No.’ The woman behind the glass didn’t lift her eyes from the computer screen.
‘What?’
‘No.’
The man’s smile faded. He beat the counter with a clenched fist. ‘But why?’
‘Because we’ve received information you’re employed. I’ve confiscated your Social Security Card till our investigations are complete.’
‘What? You … How am I supposed to live? You want me to eat grass? Hmph? Like a cow?’ His accent disappeared. ‘You’re—’
‘Four-seventy—’
‘—lucky there’s a pane of glass thick as you are between us, or—’
‘Happy birthday. Four-seventy-nine.’
‘You … Aww, fuck.’
‘FOUR-SEVENTY-NINE.’
Ronan straightened. ‘Get in touch if you—’
‘Sure.’
Hugh hoped the doctor had got delayed on his ward rounds; this could take a while. He rang Eilish. Either she’d switched off her phone, or the battery had died. After two o’clock, 5-1-6 flashed over hatch three.
‘PPS number?’
Hugh gave the number.
‘You available for work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Job searching?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interviews lined up?’
‘Not yet. I’ve applied—’
‘Fill these out.’ A bundle of forms got shoved under the Perspex. ‘And these. And sign these here, here and here.’
Hugh gathered the ream of paper.
‘Have them back Monday. Signed. Next.’
-----
Sharona Waters took the A26 from Lisburn to Glenavy.
Magnificent white oaks lined the way along a curved gradient driveway to Dorothy Ridgeway’s house. To her left, a tennis court and basketball hoops. On the right, several horses, protected by winter turnout blankets and tail covers, lifted their heads. The driveway turned, expanded into a forecourt and revealed a sprawling mansion.
Sharona steered around a frozen central fountain, parked beside a Range Rover, and pressed the bell on an arched, double-sized oak door that looked sturdy enough to resist a battalion. The bell’s clang resonated deep inside the cavernous house.
A middle-aged Filipina woman welcomed Sharona into a double-height hallway, and ushered her into a sitting-room with cornices and herringbone teak floor. A t
urf fire drew Sharona to its heat and peaty smell.
‘I’ll tell Mrs Ridgeway you’ve arrived.’
Sharona didn’t have time to explore. A short, stout lady breezed in, chatting on a mobile. She wore jodhpurs under a heavy woollen coat. ‘… you must visit. Its ages since we’ve …’ The woman’s voice, full and low, sounded mezzo-soprano. ‘Fantastic, Madeline. And I’m thrilled you’ll make it to the fundraiser tomorrow. Can’t wait to meet you again. We’ve so much to catch up on. Okay. See you there. Au revoir.’ The woman disconnected, coughed and pushed glasses up into her white wavy hair. ‘Sharona? How about ya? I’m Dorothy. Charlie speaks well of you. I hope—’
Her phone rang again. ‘Yes? Oh, hi Edwina. Could you believe …? I know. Next time I’ll plead a migraine. These cocktail nights have transformed into a bitch-fest about’—she studied Sharona—‘what’s his name again? I always leave demoralised. I wish she’d give my head peace. Listen, I’ve a visitor. See you tomorrow night.’ Dorothy honked into a tissue, wiped her red nose. ‘I hope I don’t give you this dose, Sharona. Our daughter Debra arrived home with it last weekend. I ought to be in bed. Now, let’s chat over brunch.’
‘Hi, Mrs Ridgeway. Coffee would be lov—’
‘You’ll stay for brunch. I insist. Pia will organise it. You’re famished after the long drive. Debra’s heading off to London, and I’ll be here on my lonesome. And call me Dorothy.’ She viewed Sharona with flu-ridden, bloodshot eyes.
‘All right, so. Thanks. We can discuss your McKelvey.’
Dorothy slapped a palm against her forehead. ‘Duh, you won’t believe it. Hattinger’s manager found it earlier. Behind a settee, of all places. I can’t grasp how it happened; I must’ve moved it for safekeeping while they catalogued the other pieces, because there’s no way on earth I’d ever sell that painting. Why put it behind a settee? For the life of me, I can’t remember, but there’s no other explanation. I feel terrible, dragging you this distance. In any case, you were well on your way when Jana got here. She helped me feed the horses. Which reminds me, I must contact Ambrose Hattinger and apologise. I’ll make sure you get travelling expenses.’
‘I enjoyed the drive, Dorothy. Your home is amazing, and I’m delighted you’ve found the painting.’
In the hallway, they stopped to watch a young woman walk backwards down the helical stairs, hauling an outsized suitcase. A hat perched on straw-coloured, shoulder-length hair, and she wore a fawn jacket over a short skirt.
‘Debra! Please tell me you’re not leaving dressed as an underwear model? I don’t mind titillation darling, but I’m sure nobody at the airport has the slightest interest in a do-it-yourself gynaecology course. No wonder you’ve got flu.’
Debra winked at Sharona and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I’ll phone you tonight, Mum. See you in two weeks.’ Debra lugged the suitcase across the hall and dragged it outside the front door.
Dorothy gestured after her. ‘Debra. My baby, the investment banker. Away to meet her fiancé. Blake, my husband, used to call him her fiasco. I’m dead set against Debs dating this chap. I’ve told her: “Debra, we invite those people to tea; we don’t marry them.” Will she heed me? No.’
Sharona wanted to ask, ‘What people?’ Instead, she said: ‘Is he in banking too?’
Dorothy waved an arm and shrugged. ‘Some alternative medicine business. Has an office in Harley Street. Very attentive, but he’s … well, he doesn’t fit. I suppose she’ll land him here again with us for Easter.’ She caught Sharona’s arm and guided her into a hallway. ‘Let’s eat, and I want to hear all about you. How’d you meet Charlie? He’s a dote, isn’t he? He doesn’t have the arrogance I associate with most business people. What college did you attend …?’
-----
The art dealer’s interrogation persisted.
El Matador.
He queried Jana’s artwork selection, how she’d managed promotions in the run-up to Christmas, and probed progress of an up-to-date client list for the gallery. He questioned her time spent nurturing relationships with local artists, and studied her body language, delving further whenever the woman became defensive. The more Jana hesitated, hedged and fudged her replies with a mix of English and Polish words, the deeper he drilled into granular detail, changing topics randomly. His piercing gaze made Jana wriggle in discomfort as she sought to find explanations.
They worked through lunch.
Jana got quizzed on tiny discounts she’d agreed without receiving authorisation, grilled on expenses and cross-examined on development of the new gallery website. The art dealer ignored Jana’s pointed looks at her watch. He rejected suggestions on how to improve customer traffic flow, dismissed her ideas for business growth, and vetoed proposals for price hikes. Instead, he enforced an updated set of unachievable objectives for the first financial quarter, targeted local collectors for VIP treatment, and ruled on Easter gifts for their top dozen clients. Only when Jana dug herself into a hole by assuring him the Belfast branch would meet its quarterly sales target, did the art dealer permit her to leave and prepare the conference room. When the meeting got underway, he joined the group.
Until today, sluggish New Year sales hadn’t stressed Jana. The weather was a factor, but she’d remained confident the annual January sale would make up any shortfall. Now, after the three-hour onslaught, she questioned and probed the team, combing the group for anybody who’d arrived unprepared. Her aggression flowed like molten lava, as she strove to show the boss man that Jana could take control, and match his management style. She peeked at him, judging his reaction. He was writing notes but appeared to nod in agreement. Jana took this as a good sign. She ploughed on, interrogating the group, interrupting when they made valid suggestions in an attempt to redeem herself in the art dealer’s eyes. Mimicking her bosses’ behaviour, she grimaced, scowled, pounded the table and sneered at explanations. Red blotches stood out on her forehead.
The art dealer watched Jana’s skin flush as she ripped the consultants’ excuses to shreds. He chose a moment when Jana was in full flow. ‘May I ask a question?’
Jana wilted.
‘What, in your opinion, Jana, are the limitations of the traditional art gallery model?’ Every word dropped like a sledgehammer blow. ‘What changes have you implemented to align us with other revolutionary galleries?’ The art dealer raised an eyebrow.
Jana’s eyes darted to the exit. ‘I’m the sales, marketing and customer service manager, artist relationship developer, curator, consultant, adviser, researcher, administration manager—’
A fake frown flitted across the art dealer’s face. ‘Your statement is interesting, but doesn’t address the questions I asked. Furthermore, how have you measured the brand position we’ve executed, and what is your current correlation to collectors and commerce?’
‘Co?’
‘Can you expound on your supplementary strategies, in particular, the details of your handiwork, which will ensure the gallery remains at the forefront of collector’s minds, and indeed, the populace?’
Jana’s gaze searched the room. No one returned eye contact. ‘I do my praca … work—’ her eyes teared.
‘Forgive me if I appear agnostic.’ The art dealer’s shark smile was back. ‘I’m interested to learn your medium-term plans for sustaining growth. I’ve significant queries regarding your creative solutions apropos the maintenance of sustainability of our market, and I want to discuss those in an open forum. In addition, I look forward to hearing and understanding the logic behind the stratagems you’ve considered, guaranteeing we survive, thrive and emerge more robust at year-end. Would you reveal these conclusions to us please?’
‘I don’t understand your words.’ Jana’s bottom lip quivered.
‘You can’t grasp simple English?’ The art dealer let the silence build. Then: ‘I’m reassigning you to other duties. Also—’
‘Co? What duties? I—’
‘Also, I’m issuing you a verbal warning; I’ll document it on your pe
rsonnel file. If I’ve to address this again, you will face dismissal.’ The art dealer chiselled the words into Jana’s brain. ‘Henceforth, you’re in the stockroom.’
‘But why—?’
‘Because your managerial skills have become stultifying.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Stult … useless. Invest in a dictionary, Jana. You may leave.’
Cowed, humiliated and stripped of dignity, Jana cried.
‘Leave,’ the art dealer said.
Jana exited the meeting.
‘You,’ the art dealer snapped his fingers at one of the group. ‘Organise and chair a panel, with specific emphasis on exploring novel ways to generate further revenue streams. Let’s call it, A New Approach to Business. Create a list of measurable improvement proposals. Begin with membership schemes and mail me your top five recommendations by next Wednesday. Start the brainstorming session now.’ The art dealer slid out of the conference room.
-----
‘Check.’
The dealer turned the river: seven of clubs. Fatigue dropped like lead from Malcolm McGuire’s eyes. He stalled a beat, eyeballed the kitty, totalling it up. ‘Bet eight thousand.’ Malcolm pushed in all the chips he’d clawed back over the last four hours.
Two of the last three players threw their cards into the dump pile. The third man, the one who’d checked, chewed an unlit cigar, saw the bet and raised eight thousand more. Each chip trickled onto Malcolm’s pile. Drawn out, deliberate.
‘I don’t have enough to call,’ Malcolm said.
‘Fold ’em so.’ The cigar dipped, and the man kept his eyes on Malcolm. Daring him.
Malcolm peeped at his hole cards again. King of hearts, seven of spades. Studied the five community cards: King of diamonds, King of spades, seven, nine and Jack of clubs. His house of Kings was a winner all the way. Except … Three cards made two combinations that could beat him. Six, eight and ten of clubs. Malcolm calculated the odds of that happening. Forty thousand to one. Nought point nought two per cent. He placed the Audi fob key on the chip pile. ‘See you.’
The man removed the cigar and pointed it at the fob. ‘What’s that?’
‘Key to an Audi A5.’
‘Age?’
‘A year.’
