The Eighty-Five Billion Euro Man

by Donal Conaty

  After about a minute I realised that Ajai had already hung up. I turned over and tried to get back to sleep.

  THREE

  MY OTHER HOME

  IS THE PENTHOUSE

  Ihad a sleepless night of tossing and turning in my hotel bed. I had been living in the hotel for too long. Eating rich food with Dermot at work and by myself in the hotel at night was sapping my energy levels. I had put off finding an apartment because I was so busy, but there is only so much ‘gracious living’ a person can take. The fact that Dermot had constant access to my room didn't really help matters. I felt under siege.

  I took to hiding in the bathroom at work as lunchtime approached. I came out once Dermot had gone to yet another of Dublin's fine dining establishments and enjoyed a simple sandwich in Merrion Square. This amused Dermot, who uncovered my ploy when he found me eating alone on a bench in the park and dropped several euro coins into my coffee cup.

  I also needed to find an alternative to nights out with drunken politicians and nights in with reality television. Mind you, it was essential that I watched some of these programmes in order to have something to talk about in work with my new colleagues. I can't seem to engage their interest in anything work-related. They forgot all about Mary Byrne as soon as she was voted off the X Factor, but this just intensified their fascination with Dr Gillian McKeith.

  ‘Imagine examining poo for a living,’ I heard one clerical officer say to another. I took this as the ideal opportunity to try to steer the conversation towards dealing with some of the appalling waste in Irish public expenditure.

  ‘Her job isn't that different from mine and yours,’ I said. ‘We need to examine expenditure across all government departments to see what's waste and what's worthwhile spending.’ The clerical officer rolled his eyes to heaven and stifled a pretend yawn. His colleague stared into the middle distance. ‘Blah, blah, blah,’ I heard him say under his breath as they walked back to their desks and their respective games of Solitaire. It was as though talking about work might force them to accept that they don't actually do any.

  Liam kindly advised me to look up daft.ie for rental properties. He is a helpful and earnest young man who seems utterly lost in the Department of Finance. Dermot ignores him and he is constantly subjected to vicious ridicule by his colleagues. Liam is the kind of young man that the IMF look for when we are on recruitment drives. It is hard to imagine that he has a future in the Department of Finance under Dermot.

  I took Liam's advice and had a look on daft.ie while everyone else was on a coffee break. Staff are forbidden to work during that time and couldn't even if they wanted to. All government systems are locked for the duration of the compulsory breaks, with only internet access allowed so that staff can update their Facebook status or watch videos on YouTube.

  There certainly appeared to be no shortage of attractive properties on the market but it looked to me as though rental prices still had some downward adjusting to do.

  I was looking at what seemed to be a perfectly suitable one bedroom apartment quite near the office when Dermot came running in all out of breath and brought the normal leisurely inactivity that passed for work here to a complete standstill. ‘Everyone on the floor! NOW!’ he shouted. The entire staff prostrated themselves on the carpet, face down with their arms outstretched towards the entrance. A grim stockily built woman came through the doorway and somehow the temperature seemed to plummet as she moved through the room.

  ‘Get down,’ Dermot hissed at me.

  ‘What? Why?’

  He sprang up from the floor and dragged me back down to the ground with him before I could protest any further.

  The woman tiptoed through the bodies of civil servants, apparently oblivious to them. She gave the appearance of being in another world, as though heavily sedated. She spoke for the first and only time when she reached Dermot. ‘Rise,’ she said to him.

  And rise he did. I went to get up too but felt the woman's shoe on my head. ‘Stay where you are,’ Dermot whispered.

  Dermot reached into his pocket for a set of keys and led the strange woman out of the room.

  ‘Who on earth was that?’ I asked as I rose to my feet. ‘And what was that about?’

  ‘Don't get up,’ said Liam. ‘They won't be long. They never are.’

  He pulled himself nearer to me on the floor.

  ‘That's Mary Harney,’ he whispered, ‘the Minister for Health and Children. The Angel of Death. Ice Ice Baby. She has many names. She visits Dermot here and he takes her to the Harney Room. She goes in alone. He waits outside. No one knows what happens in there. Legend has it that there's a solid gold throne in the centre of the room. Dermot has been trying for years to persuade her to become Minister for Finance. It will never happen now though. She used to be the most powerful woman in government. We all feared her but now she's just biding her time till retirement. Only Dermot still believes in her. I think she comes in now just to tease him.’

  I made a mental note to monitor Liam more closely. He was the only member of staff I had ever heard make an implied criticism of Dermot. I resolved to speak to Ajai about him. It might be beneficial to have him promoted to a more senior role.

  We lay on the floor for some fifteen minutes before they came back and the Health Minister left without a word.

  Dermot looked spent.

  ‘She liked you,’ I said.

  ‘She did not,’ he blushed and looked pleased yet wary that I might be teasing him.

  ‘She did. I could tell,’ I said.

  ‘How could you tell?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Well, there was a little bit of play at the side of one lip, almost like she was about to smile. It was only there when she was looking at you,’ I said, leading him on.

  ‘Really? Oh I wouldn't dare believe it,’ he said. ‘It's such a pity she was never our minister. She's the only one of that lot worthy of the Department.’

  ‘What are you doing anyway?’ he asked me as he noticed the web browser open on my computer.

  ‘Looking for an apartment,’ I said.

  ‘Didn't I tell you I had an apartment for you?’ he said.

  ‘You did, Dermot, but I don't think that would be appropriate.’

  ‘Appropriate indeed,’ he said. ‘I always thought “appropriate” a very English word. Well, if you change your mind I have just the thing for you,’ he said.

  Dermot went to a meeting with the Finance Minister then and came back in a dark mood about forty minutes later.

  ‘Your bailout isn't working,’ he announced. ‘The markets won't buy it.’

  ‘It's not my bailout, Dermot. It's yours. And it would have helped matters if you had stood up to the Europeans instead of rolling over and accepting their first offer. The markets don't believe that you can afford to pay off the European interest. Anyway, even if you can pay it, these things take time to work. The markets need to see that you can make the necessary adjustments, steady the ship and pay the bills. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ he said. ‘Can't we?’

  I looked at him. ‘I really don't know,’ I said. ‘But if you can't you only have yourselves and your greedy ECB buddies to blame. IMF bailouts work. They just take time. There is no magic wand.’

  ‘Oh God, this is a dreary conversation,’ Dermot said, looking at his watch.

  Liam was standing behind Dermot and I was grateful that he took the opportunity to back me up.

  ‘It is vital to our national interest that we do our best to meet repayments while we renegotiate with Europe,’ he said.

  I was impressed to see that Liam had a clear grasp of the situation.

  ‘Who asked you?’ Dermot said dismissively. ‘And what are you doing eavesdropping on our conversation?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Liam said. ‘I just wanted to inform you that your fitting at Louis Copeland has been cancelled.’

  ‘Well you've done that, haven't you? Now go down to the basement and file something.’

>   ‘Yes, sir,’ said Liam. ‘But sir ... we don't actually have a basement.’

  ‘Then find one,’ said Dermot. ‘And don't come back until you do.’ Dermot turned his back on his junior colleague as he retreated. ‘So,’ he said to me. ‘Have you found an apartment yet?’

  ‘I have a shortlist of two,’ I said.

  ‘Great! Get your coat. We'll go for a spin and have a look at them.’ Dermot jumped up, he was now full of enthusiasm.

  ‘But your police said on the radio not to make any unnecessary journeys, because of the snow,’ I said.

  Dermot laughed at me. ‘They mean things like work or hospital appointments,’ he said. ‘This is government business. It doesn't stop for snow unless I want it to. Come on! Show me the ads and I'll phone ahead. It will be fun.’

  Dermot took the details I had written down. He raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn't think of you as someone who'd want to slum it.’

  ‘What do you mean? Those properties seem perfectly fine,’ I said.

  ‘Do they indeed?’ he said. He made a few phone calls as we walked to his car. ‘All sorted,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’

  ‘Is this yours? I asked, looking at Dermot's car, open mouthed.

  ‘Yes. Do you like it? We could come to an arrangement if you like. It's nearly two years old now, so I'm due a change.’

  I ran my hand along the glistening bonnet of his Bentley Continental GT. ‘This,’ I said, my throat almost too dry to get the words out. ‘This must be €200,000 worth of car.’

  ‘If only,’ he said. ‘It's almost double that when you allow for our ridiculous Vehicle Registration Tax.’

  ‘I expected you to have something fancy,’ I said, ‘I thought maybe an S-Class Mercedes … But this …!’

  ‘An S-Class? Good Lord, no! They're as common as muck. Lenihan has an S-Class. I wouldn't be seen dead in one. Now hop in; it's got a great radio.’

  As I settled into the sumptuous leather seat, Dermot played that ‘Horse Outside’ song that is all the rage at the moment on the handcrafted audio system.

  ‘Aren't The Rubberbandits great?’ Dermot grinned. ‘We could do with a few lads like them around the office instead of dry shites like Liam.’

  ‘You're very hard on Liam,’ I said. ‘He seems very responsible and prudent to me.’

  ‘Doesn't he just,’ said Dermot with venom. ‘Loser!’ He made an ‘L’ sign on his forehead with his fingers.

  At the first apartment Dermot took me to, the door was hanging off its hinges and there was what appeared to be human faeces on what might once have been a welcome mat.

  ‘Are you sure this was on the list?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘This is the one “convenient to all things”. Except toilets, apparently.’

  We got back in the car. I had a feeling Dermot was up to something.

  ‘Where to next?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘The large ground-floor studio apartment within walking distance of St Stephen's Green.’

  We drove for about twenty minutes. Every couple of hundred yards we passed a burnt-out car or a boarded up building. Junkies wandered aimlessly in the middle of the road. Police drove by in squad cars with metal mesh over the windscreens.

  ‘This is taking a long time for somewhere within walking distance of the office,’ I said nervously.

  ‘That's just because of the one-way system,’ Dermot said. ‘You'll walk to work in no time.’

  ‘Or run perhaps,’ I said, considering the likelihood of being mugged.

  I didn't believe him but there was nothing I could do about it. Somehow that seemed to be always the way with Dermot. Eventually we pulled up outside a derelict building.

  ‘What the fuck are you looking at in your fancy car?’ a man on a piebald horse with a plastic bag on his head shouted.

  ‘Do you want to look at this one?’ Dermot asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Let's go back to the office.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘You know, the apartment I had in mind for you is quite near here. We might as well have a look, don't you think?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said grudgingly.

  Dermot took me to a penthouse apartment in the IFSC with panoramic views of the city and Dublin bay. He drove the car into a parking space beneath a plaque with his name on it and we walked the few yards to the elevator. He used a key in the elevator and it brought us right into the apartment. ‘What do you think of your new home?’ Dermot asked, gesturing expansively with his arms.

  I looked around. It was the ultimate bachelor pad. There was a 52” widescreen TV, a pool table and a fully stocked bar. There were two bedrooms; the master bedroom was en-suite and had a circular waterbed in it.

  ‘It's a bit over the top, isn't it?’ I said.

  ‘I don't know what you mean,’ Dermot said. ‘I think it's very understated – in a Versace kind of way.’

  ‘OK, it's understated, but I can't afford it,’ I said, heading for the door.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Dermot insisted. ‘In fact you should buy it. It would send out a signal that the IMF has faith in the Irish property market. The market has bottomed out, they say.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘It would be a sign that the IMF has lost its grip on reality.’

  ‘Rent it then’ said Dermot. ‘I'll look after you. ‘You're our guest, after all.’ he said.

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me see. Let's call it €3,000 per month.’

  ‘I'll give you €1,000.’

  ‘Let's not squabble over a few euro,’ Dermot said. ‘I'll meet you halfway, €2,500.’

  ‘That's not halfway.’

  ‘€1,500 then, because you're a friend.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But I'll need a receipt.’

  ‘Don't be ridiculous – receipts cost extra.’

  I went back into the bedroom and opened the fitted wardrobe. All the gifts of monogrammed clothing that had been in my chauffeur-driven car when I arrived were neatly folded there. I saw the Xbox under the flatscreen TV, and the e-readers lay on the bedside lockers.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ I demanded.

  ‘Oh those things,’ he said. ‘I just happened to store them here. We couldn't bring them back you see; we never got receipts.’

  ‘I suppose I may as well take them then,’ I sighed.

  ‘Oh no, you couldn't possibly,’ Dermot said then to my surprise. ‘You can't compromise your integrity. No, we'll work out a reasonable price for them. It's the honourable thing to do.’

  I was dumbfounded. ‘I need to go to the bathroom before we leave,’ I said. I sat on the toilet seat staring blankly in front of me and slowly realised that I was looking at the Certificate of Irishness I had been given on my first day in the country. It had been returned with all the other gifts but now hung on the bathroom wall of ‘my’ apartment. Despite my best intentions I seemed to be always doing what Dermot wanted me to do.

  I was in pensive mood as we drove back to the office through the snow. Dermot seemed to know not to push his luck and left me to my thoughts.

  The crash, when it happened, came completely out of the blue. Dermot braked suddenly at a green light and we were rearended by the car travelling behind us.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ I said. ‘Why did you brake?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Dermot replied cheerfully. ‘I must be colourblind. Who knew?’

  We both got out of the car and walked around to the rear of it. Incredibly, the car that hit us was also a Bentley Continental GT. There couldn't be many of them in Ireland. I was surprised that there were even two. As it turned out, David Mulcahy, Chief of Staff of the Department of Justice had been driving it.

  ‘Ah, the Eighty-five-Billion-Euro Man,’ he said warmly. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  Mulcahy and Dermot nodded at each other and went to survey the damage to their cars, which was minimal: a broken tail light on Dermot's car and fender damage to both vehi
cles.

  ‘What a shame,’ said Dermot cheerfully. ‘It's a total write-off.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Mulcahy. ‘Terrible pity. How's your back, Dermot? Have you suffered any injury?’

  ‘I fear so,’ said Dermot gravely. ‘I'm in shocking pain now that you mention it. So is my passenger here, of course,’ he added, looking very concerned about my welfare.

  They turned to look at me. ‘Yes,’ said David. ‘I can see that. Where would we be without insurance companies, eh?’

  ‘Where indeed?’ said Dermot in agreement.

  Not for the first time, nor the last, I was totally and utterly speechless.

  Back at the office the phones were ringing off the hook but no one was answering them. ‘What's going on?’ I asked.

  ‘It's just the media,’ said Liam. ‘We're not allowed to talk to them, you know, like, on the record.’

  ‘Well what do they want?’

  ‘Oh they have a story about a hundred people in the Department getting bonuses,’ he said, looking at the floor. I was pleased to see he was shame-faced about it.

  ‘Do a hundred people even work here?’ I asked. I had never seen that many.

  ‘Oh yes, and many more,’ said Liam. ‘A lot of them suffer from back pain though. Some haven't been able to come into work for years and years. It's a poor show to be honest. I wouldn't be surprised if every last one of them was faking it.’

  Dermot came swanning in while I was googling the news story about bonuses for the Department of Finance staff who presided over the collapse of the Irish economy. ‘Did you get one of these bonuses?’ I asked him.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘What is it for?’ I asked.

  ‘For? It's for spending, of course. What else would it be for?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘What did you do to earn it?’

  Dermot looked at me, clearly bemused. ‘Let me think,’ he said. ‘Ah, I remember. It was a while ago. We had just approved the AIB bonuses and we decided to give ourselves one too.’