Open-handed

by Chris Binchy

  ‘So, congratulations, I suppose. Is it?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Ah, now. You made the speech. You delivered the brochures.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have made much difference.’ The wind was blowing into his face and his eyes were closed. Dessie thought of a dog they had had when Yvonne was younger.

  ‘It’s a relief,’ Sylvester said. ‘I wasn’t sure it would get through.’

  ‘What does O’Donnell think about it?’ Dessie asked.

  ‘He’s happy, which can only be good for us. He might start putting a bit more work our way. We could certainly use it.’

  When they arrived at the hotel O’Donnell was standing in the car-park, pointing up at the fire escape. He was with his PA and two young guys who were nodding at what he was saying. When he saw Sylvester he walked towards him, hand outstretched. ‘The man of the moment,’ O’Donnell said. He shook his hand and whacked him on the shoulder.

  ‘Isn’t that you?’ Sylvester asked.

  ‘Congratulations, Dessie. You did your bit too.’

  ‘Ah,’ Dessie said. ‘Sylvester helped.’

  ‘So we’re just waiting for television news to come along and do an interview and then we’ll get going.’

  ‘Whose idea was this?’ Sylvester asked.

  ‘Theirs.’

  ‘Slow day for news?’ Dessie said.

  ‘Must be,’ O’Donnell said.

  The crew arrived a few minutes later.

  ‘Thanks for doing this,’ the reporter said, as she walked up to them. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

  ‘Always busy,’ O’Donnell said.

  ‘I’m just going to ask you what your reaction is to the decision and what you would say to the people who were opposed to the plan.’

  ‘Sounds fine. Where do you want to do it?’

  ‘Just there, on the steps.’

  ‘Can these people be in the background?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’ll look better if I’ve a few friends around me. Not the big bad developer.’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  So as O’Donnell was interviewed Sylvester stood in the background, smiling mildly and trying not to think about how he looked.

  They did it in one take. The reporter stared at notes on a clipboard while O’Donnell answered. He knew what he wanted to say and he said it. At the end the cameraman nodded at him. ‘That was fine. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Okay,’ the reporter said, raising her head now. ‘So that’ll go out at half eleven tonight and probably tomorrow morning as well.’

  ‘That’s it? Nothing else?’

  ‘Nope.’ She smiled briskly. ‘Thank you. I’ve got a bit more to do but you can go,’ she said, and wandered away in the direction of their van.

  ‘Right,’ O’Donnell said after her. ‘What did you think?’ he asked Sylvester.

  ‘I think you got your message delivered. Job done.’

  ‘She wasn’t the friendliest,’ O’Donnell said.

  Dessie took two pulls from his cigarette and flicked the butt in an arc in the direction of the reporters’ van. ‘She could have been pissing on your feet and it wouldn’t matter. You were the one on camera.’

  O’Donnell smiled at him. ‘Ah, Dessie. You always know the right thing to say.’

  It was close to ten o’clock as Sylvester wandered up the hill towards his house along the tree-lined street, a light warm breeze rustling above him in the direction of the sea. There was a two-litre plastic container of milk tucked under his arm, bought on the way back. When his phone rang he jumped. It sounded wrong, a note of panic in this settled environment. He didn’t know the number.

  ‘Is that Mr Kelly?’ a man’s voice asked.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Sylvester said. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name is Declan Hennessy. I’m a journalist.’

  ‘Oh, right. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just wondered would you have five minutes to talk to me.’

  ‘Well, it’s kind of late,’ Sylvester said. ‘And I’m not at home at the moment.’

  ‘I know, yeah. I rang your house and got your mobile from your wife, I think it was.’

  ‘Did you? The number is on the website. Could have saved yourself the trouble.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t a problem.’ Disingenuous? Stupid? ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’

  Sylvester was ten minutes from home. There was no one around.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Thanks very much. I wanted to ask you about David O’Donnell’s planning application for the hotel site that was accepted earlier today.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sylvester said.

  ‘You must be happy with that result.’

  ‘I am, yeah. It’s good news for everybody, I think. Good news for the area.’

  ‘You were involved in the campaign to get the project approved. Is that right?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d call it a campaign but I did provide information about the development locally, yes.’

  ‘You went door-to-door.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there were people, members of a certain political party, who were against the idea before they knew what was actually involved. And they started giving out leaflets that were very one-sided, full of inaccuracies. I just thought in the interests of fairness that, before people started objecting, the other side of the argument should be heard.’

  ‘That would be the Labour Party, would it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you asked to do this by David O’Donnell?’

  ‘I was happy to do it because I genuinely believe that this plan is a good one.’

  ‘But did he ask you to do it? And did he ask you to lobby councillors on the issue?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sylvester said. ‘He did. I’ve known David for a long time. I have the utmost of respect for him and I think that this project will be enormously beneficial for the people of this area.’

  ‘And you presumably still know a lot of the councillors personally?’

  ‘I know a few people, but I have to say I don’t think my involvement would have made a huge difference to the vote in the end. I’m a long time out of politics and I’m just one person. They approved the plan because it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Mr O’Donnell obviously thought you had some influence when he asked you to get involved.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s how it was at all. He’s a friend. I live in the area. He asked for my help. That’s all there is to it, really.’

  ‘And you’re retired from the council, what is it, three years now?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And why did you retire?’

  ‘Look, Declan, I did enough interviews about it back then. I don’t feel the need to be talking about it now.’

  ‘It’s just for background.’

  ‘I’d been at it long enough. I was starting a new business and I wanted to concentrate on getting that going.’

  ‘This is the foreign property company?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And how is it going?’

  ‘Very well. It was tough at the start but the past eighteen months or so have been extremely good.’

  ‘And is Mr O’Donnell involved in that business?’

  A tightness spread across Sylvester’s chest. A feeling of uncertainty that made him think back to what he had already said. ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘But he’s bought property through your company? Is that right? Twenty apartments in the Vienna Park complex in Prague?’

  ‘Listen, Declan, I can’t discuss this with you. It’s not fair for me to say things in the public domain about a third party. I know Mr O’Donnell. I admire him and respect him greatly…’

  ‘But he did travel with you to the Czech Republic two years ago?’

  ‘I’m not going to talk to you about it any more. I thought we were going to discuss the hotel.’

&n
bsp; ‘I believe you got him a very good deal.’

  Sylvester went to speak, then found there was nothing he could say. He took the phone away from his ear for a second. Then breathed out. ‘Unless there’s anything more you want to ask me about the planning approval I’m going to go.’

  ‘Can you tell me, where did you meet Dessie Considine?’

  ‘I’m hanging up now,’ he said, after a moment. ‘And I don’t really want to talk to you again.’

  He was around the corner from his house, just a few minutes away, but he stopped. Turned around and started walking in the opposite direction. He had no idea what he should do now. What would be waiting for him at home? Had this man been talking to Helen and, if so, what had she told him? Was there anything he could do to make him go away?

  He dialled O’Donnell’s number. The background roar of the pub could be heard when he answered.

  ‘Hello again,’ O’Donnell said. If he wasn’t drunk he was close to it.

  ‘Go outside,’ Sylvester said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go outside away from everybody.’ The clamour faded and he heard O’Donnell’s footsteps as he crossed the road.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Listen, I just had some journalist on the phone asking questions about you.’

  ‘Yeah? So?’

  ‘He was asking about Vienna Park. He knew you’d bought twenty of them and he knew you’d underpaid.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘No. But he said you’d got a good deal or something like that.’

  ‘Well, I did. That’s not a crime. Who is this guy?’

  ‘Declan Hennessy,’ Sylvester said.

  ‘Who does he work for?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’

  ‘Can you Google him?’

  ‘I’m not at home.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing. Not one word. He started out talking about the hotel and that was all fine, and then he blindsided me with this. I told him politely to piss off and that’s when I rang you.’

  ‘I’ll check it out,’ O’Donnell said. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘Should we be worried?’ Sylvester asked.

  ‘No. I told plenty of people I invested in that project. He’s just sniffing around, chancing his arm. If he knew enough to hammer us, he’d have done it by now. We’ll find out who he is and see if we need to do anything.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sylvester said. ‘That’s grand.’

  ‘Don’t let it ruin your evening. This is a happy day for us all.’

  ‘All right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

  Sylvester thought about ringing Dessie but he’d see him in the morning. Dessie wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear tonight either. That everything would be fine. That there was nothing to worry about. That just because this guy was asking questions didn’t mean he knew anything.

  34

  Beneath the flowers and polish, the heavy perfume of the Sunday women with their red-faced, blazered husbands, the coffee from the espresso machine and the ozone freshness from the water-feature, there was something else. Marcin met Tommy coming towards him across the lobby. ‘What is that?’ Marcin asked.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘That smell.’

  ‘What smell?’

  At three o’clock that morning a woman from some film company came in. Marcin nodded at her as she passed the desk.

  ‘Was there a fire or something?’ she asked him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘When you come in. The air. You know?’

  She was French. A little old, maybe, but still, if she asked him up he’d go. He smiled. ‘Yes. Yes. Maybe,’ he said. Vagueness seemed like the best approach. The woman paused for a second, then went on.

  At six in the morning, the first puffy-faced suited men and women began to check out. Marcin watched them as they walked out of the lift into the lobby, their faces puzzled at first, a half-second before they realized it was bad.

  ‘What is that?’ the first guy asked the night manager.

  ‘It’s the sea, I think. When it’s hot it gets quite strong.’

  ‘I’ll say. It’s awful. I don’t know how you can work in it.’

  The manager shrugged. ‘You get used to it, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think I would.’ After he’d signed, he went outside to wait for a taxi. He came back in a moment later.

  ‘It’s not the sea. It’s this place.’

  ‘Really?’ the manager said. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, if it was the sea, the smell would be worse outside. But it’s not. The air outside is beautiful. It’s just this place that stinks.’

  ‘Oh,’ the manager said. A flicker of sadness crossed his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ the guy said. ‘It’s nothing personal. I just thought you should know.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Thank you.’ The man walked back out and got into his taxi.

  ‘Nothing personal,’ the manager said, watching him go. ‘You wanker.’

  The operations manager came on at half six. His face crumpled as he walked through the doors. He went straight to the night manager. ‘Where is it coming from?’ he said first, no greeting, nothing.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t realize it was a problem.’

  ‘How could you not realize it was a problem? The place reeks.’

  ‘I can’t smell anything.’

  ‘Then there’s something wrong with you.’

  ‘I can’t smell it either,’ said Ray. ‘In fairness.’

  ‘What about you?’ the operations manager said to Marcin.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, go outside for a minute and come back in.’

  The three of them stood under the canopy. The air was warm and still.

  ‘Another beautiful day,’ Ray said. ‘For us to sleep through.’ He lit a cigarette and offered one to Marcin.

  ‘That’s not what you’re out here for,’ the operations manager said, through the door. ‘Come on.’

  It was obvious when they walked back in. A dirty tang that they had spent the night breathing. They followed the operations manager, who was already striding towards the function rooms.

  ‘It’s everywhere, this stink, being pumped through the whole place.’

  ‘It’s just the public areas,’ Ray said.

  ‘That’s no consolation. We’ve got two hundred delegates at a conference in this room in five hours and the place smells of… What is it?’

  ‘It’s death,’ Marcin said.

  ‘For Christ’s sake. The Pole speaks.’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s like something dead.’

  ‘That’s what it is,’ Ray said. ‘In the air-conditioning. The duct.’

  ‘Fucking Alex,’ the operations manager said, walking off.

  ‘Who’s Alex?’ Marcin asked.

  ‘Maintenance man.’

  They walked together in silence after the manager.

  ‘Is he dead in the pipe?’ Marcin asked, hoping it was a joke.

  Down in the basement, in the steam and the damp, the operations manager opened the padlock on the steel cage that held the air-conditioning unit. The three porters stood watching him as he tried to get the cover off the access point above their heads. He had taken off his jacket and was cursing and sweating in the heat. The plate eventually fell to the ground with a clatter.

  ‘Now what?’ Tommy said.

  ‘Have a look and see what the story is,’ the manager said. ‘See if that’s where the smell is coming from.’ None of them moved.

  ‘Who? Us?’ Ray asked. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Not me anyway,’ Tommy said. ‘Sorry, but I have a thing about pipes.’

  ‘A thing about pipes?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m claustrophobic or whatever. Tunnels and everything.’ The manager said nothing. ‘You can stare at me all you like. I can’t go in there.’

  He looked at the oth
ers. Ray seemed older and frailer than he had in the light of the lobby. Then at Marcin. He was thin and agile. Light.

  ‘Will you go up?’

  ‘In there?’ Marcin said, pointing. ‘For what?’

  ‘For what? To have a look. See what the story is.’

  Marcin shrugged. ‘Yeah, I can have a look. A look is fine.’ He dragged over a chair and stood on it. He put his hands on the edges of the hole and pulled himself up.

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ The voices of the others were muffled beneath him. The smell was stronger in here, but not impossible. Beyond the first couple of feet in either direction there was blackness. He reached down and the manager put a torch into his hand. He lifted it up and shone it. Five metres away there was a furry clump. ‘I see it,’ he shouted.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some sort of animal. A cat, maybe. Or a big rat.’

  ‘Fucking Alex,’ the manager said again. Marcin dropped the torch and lowered himself back to the floor.

  ‘Why?’ Marcin said. ‘What’s it to do with him?’

  ‘Because he poisons the cats hanging around the back of the hotel,’ the manager said, ‘and then burns them.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Marcin said.

  ‘And obviously one of them has got in here and died.’

  ‘Why does he poison cats?’ Marcin asked Tommy.

  ‘Because he’s a miserable cunt,’ Tommy said.

  ‘How do we get rid of it?’ the manager said.

  ‘Get Alex to come in and sort it out,’ Ray said. ‘It’s his problem. Or your problem. It’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ the manager said. ‘We need to get this fixed now.’

  ‘So get the company,’ Tommy said.

  ‘What company?’

  ‘The maintenance company. Duct cleaners. I don’t know.’

  ‘In an hour a hundred people are going to start checking out and they’re going to notice that they’ve paid three hundred euro to spend the night in a place that smells like a fucking rendering plant.’

  ‘So what do you want to do?’

  The manager looked at Marcin.

  ‘What?’ Marcin said.

  ‘You can’t make him do that,’ Ray said. ‘He’s a night porter. The union will go ballistic.’

  ‘Union, my hole. He’s not in the union,’ the manager said.

  ‘That’s not the point. This is your problem, not ours. Get yourself a pair of rubber gloves and go to work. It’s nothing to do with us.’ The three porters began to walk off.