Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  Sitting at the head of the table he looked at both men. Dirk Van Aken he recognised as his own double. His doppelgänger. Same backgrounds, same ambitions, same taste in clothes and women. Just born in different countries.

  The Chief Planner was a different story. Oliver Griffin had come from the right side of town. Best schools, best opportunities, best reputation. A snob. The type of person Sharon could relate to with ease. Same background, same unshakable self-esteem. Fuck him, Jason thought as he watched Oliver glance disparagingly around the cottage. The shit never turned up his nose at his money. The man’s class was only as deep as his designer labels.

  Jason cleared his throat. “Let’s get on with it. We all know why we’re here. I’d like to hear from you first, Oliver. You can talk openly in front of Dirk. He knows everything about the proposed plan. In fact, he’s part of it.”

  Oliver sniffed and straightened his immaculate cuffs. Jason felt his anger rise and had to make an effort to appear calm as the Chief Planning Officer spoke down to them.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Jason,” Oliver said. “I’ve already told you that my contact in the Dáil has assured me about the Bill.”

  “Can you trust him?” Jason asked.

  Annoyed at the implication that anyone would try to fool him, Oliver snapped a reply.

  “He’s a friend of mine. I went to college with him. Of course I can trust him. Besides, the agreement has already been made. My friend’s party will vote with the Government on the controversial new Gambling Bill. It will be pushed through quickly with all the amendments necessary to enact it.”

  “Wait . . . wait!” There was a tinkle of metal as Dirk put up his hand and his bracelets slid down his wrist. “The Dáil, I believe, is your Irish Parliament. Yes? I understood that the politician in your pocket was a member of the party in power. Someone with clout. Are you now telling me that our plan hinges on a mere member of the opposition?”

  Oliver’s stomach did a flip. Who was this Van Aken guy? He seemed to be the most lethal of creatures: a gangster with brains. Jason Laide didn’t appear to know the difference between a member of the government party and a member of opposition. That suited Oliver well. The last thing he needed now was a smart-ass thug informing Jason Laide.

  “Pascal McEvoy is a very influential man!” Oliver snapped. “Whatever he says carries weight. And he’s not ‘in my pocket’ as you put it. He’s a friend. Can you understand that?”

  Jason watched as little beads of sweat appeared on Dirk’s forehead. He had always known Oliver Griffin was an idiot. The last person they needed to alienate was Dirk Van Aken. Dirk was getting perilously close to losing his monumental temper now. Time for some oil on troubled waters.

  “Let’s all show each other a little respect,” Jason said, looking directly at Oliver. “The thing we really need to know is what’s happening with the Gambling Bill now. Did your contact give you any idea?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll shortly, maybe in a month or two, be before the house. They’ll vote for the changes. The bill will pass. There will be a super-casino licence up for grabs.”

  “But how many licences will they sanction and what will the terms of granting be?” Dirk asked.

  Oliver turned and glared at the Dutchman. “I’m not clairvoyant. I can only tell you what’s happening now. The proposal recommended by the advisory committee is for the granting of one licence in a designated area. All sides seem to be in agreement with that. You should be happy that things are looking so positive. What’s your interest in it anyway?”

  “Dirk owns the biggest gaming-machine company in Europe – he’ll be supplying equipment for the casino,” Jason answered quickly. “But actually that’s none of your business. We just need you to use your political contact and to ensure our casino plans are accepted when they reach your office. How can we be sure that they’ll all agree to Ballyhaven as the designated site? What does this politician guy want? What makes him tick? Money? Entertainment?”

  Oliver looked at the two glitzy gangsters sitting in front of him and his stomach heaved. How had he come to this point in his life? The answer of course was gambling. The unstoppable urge to make a bet, to wager money he had not got, to gamble everything on a horse, a dog, a match, a white Christmas, roulette, black jack. It was excitement. Fulfilment. It was debt and cover-up. It was doing Jason Laide’s bidding. Or appearing to. It was ensuring that this sleazy syndicate got a licence to turn Ballyhaven into the Vegas of Ireland. Or else . . . He smiled at the two men.

  “No need for any sweetener. My contact, as I told you, is in favour of this Bill. Everything is going according to plan. Just have patience and it will all work out. In the meantime though, I would advise you, Jason, to buy that little pub in Ballyhaven. It would look better on paper if you already had an interest in the leisure business.”

  And that, thought Jason, was confirmation of the fact that Oliver Griffin was not as smart as he liked to think. All that education was wasted on him. He should have worked out by now that Jason did indeed have a big stake in the leisure business. Jason Laide was the owner of the Eureka Club in town. The place where Oliver had gambled and lost and then gambled some more. Jason smiled. He was pleased for two reasons. One, obviously his own involvement in Eureka was well disguised, and two, Oliver had just made a bloody good suggestion. He would make the Ballyhaven pub owner an offer he could not refuse. He would also go to see Andrew Ford. Those fifty acres the Fords were sitting on in Ballyhaven were essential to the plan.

  He would also have to turn his attention to Oliver Griffin’s political friend, Pascal McEvoy. The passing of the Gambling Bill was too important to leave to chance. It was time to discover the politician’s dirty little secrets. Jason never doubted for a moment that he would find one. Just in case. He always did.

  * * *

  Sitting at her desk Ella rolled up her sleeve and gently prodded the plaster on the inside of her elbow. The blood tests had not been nearly as traumatic as she had anticipated. The no-nonsense nurse taking the test had jabbed the needle in, filled a few vials, withdrawn the needle and slapped a pad of cotton wool on the puncture site before Ella even had time to consider fainting, screaming or otherwise making a complete spectacle of herself.

  She patted the plaster thoughtfully now. For the first time since the accident she felt a modicum of control. She believed she had taken a step towards recovery, found a path through the maze of nightmares and delusion. Soon, very soon, she would be able to part company with Karen Trevor. But would Karen let go? Would Karen find her own path? Realising that she was speculating on the future behaviour of a woman who had died over a year ago, Ella frowned. She may have taken the first step towards recovery but Peter Sheehan had a lot of work to do before Ella Ford was normal again. Work was the answer. Time-consuming, mind-absorbing work.

  Logging on to her computer she began to examine her two new projects: the Laide property and Manor House. Both brochures were coming together nicely. Using a split screen she compared the properties side by side. As she was editing them, the door opened and Andrew came in. Ella noticed that he looked pale. A bit tired, a bit down.

  “Busy?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve been to the old brewery site with the Coxes. They’re really going to push the boat out on this one. We’re talking roof gardens, basement gym and swimming pool here. With matching price-tags.”

  “Will they sell?”

  Andrew went to his desk, picked up a thick folder and waved it in her direction. “Enquiries. Interested buyers. Not a sod turned yet and this is a list of potential clients who don’t need to ask the price. Long live prosperity!”

  “Amen,” Ella said and turned her attention back to her computer screen.

  Her breath froze in her lungs, her eyes widened in horror. Karen Trevor stared back at her from the screen. Karen was standing on the front lawn of Manor House, her head broken and bleeding, her mouth open in a scream of terror, her arms outstretched. E
lla tried to move, to tear her gaze away from the haunting image but Karen’s bloody eyes held her in frozen horror. Somewhere, a tiny space at the back of Ella’s head, told her this was illusion, hallucination, her malfunctioning flight or fight reaction, her altered brain function, her unbalanced hormones. All those things that Peter Sheehan had talked about. But nothing explained the horror in the dead woman’s staring eyes, the persistent plea for help, the reaching out to Ella. What in the fuck did Karen Trevor want? Why could she not just die, bury her restless spirit with her decaying body?

  “You can’t use that picture,” Andrew said. “Look, there’s a flaw. A dark shadow on the lawn.”

  Ella had not noticed him cross the office to stand behind her. He was pointing now, leaning over her shoulder to place his finger on the section of screen where she was staring. His finger touched the spot where Karen Trevor stood. The image of Karen disappeared and Ella’s breath exhaled in a rush.

  Interpreting this as an impatient sigh, Andrew said, “A nuisance, I know, but you took plenty of shots, didn’t you?”

  Ella nodded, glad that Andrew was not aware that she’d had another of her delusional episodes. Her hands were shaking as she opened a drawer to get out the photographs she had taken of Manor House. She flicked through them and soon found another suitable shot to scan. Just as she was tidying them back into the holder, she noticed there was a photo missing.

  “Remember the portrait in Manor House? The photo I took? Lady Harriet Wellsley. Did you see it? It’s not here.”

  Andrew shrugged his shoulders. “You don’t need it anyway, do you?”

  Ella shook her head. She did not need that photo but the familiarity of the face in the portrait still niggled at her. She must remember who it reminded her of. She must remember that Karen Trevor was dead. She must forget the accident. She took a deep breath.

  “I’m wondering if the Laides would be interested in Manor House. It seems a logical progression for them. Do you think I should suggest it to them?”

  “Definitely. And by coincidence Jason Laide rang today while you were out. He seems anxious to close a deal on their new home as soon as possible. He’s calling in here tomorrow.”

  Ella was about to mention that Sharon was away on a ski trip but then remembered that Mrs Laide had not seemed to be particularly worried about where their new home would be. As long as it was luxurious. Manor House would certainly fit that bill. And it was apparent that money for upkeep would not be a problem for the Laides. Yes, she would strongly suggest to Jason Laide that he view Manor House.

  “Have you heard any rumours about Ballyhaven?” Andrew asked.

  “No. Should I have? What kind of rumours?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that the Coxes seem very anxious to get hold of our fifty acres there. They upped their offer again today. There must be a reason other than long-term investment. Yet Oliver Griffin said there were no plans for the area.”

  “Slimeball,” Ella muttered underneath her breath at the mention of Oliver Griffin.

  She turned her attention back to her work. The presentation for Jason Laide tomorrow must be good. What a relief it would be to sell Manor House, to be rid of it and all its trappings of grief and tragedy. Another step on the twisty road to recovery.

  Sitting at his desk, Andrew surreptitiously patted his inside pocket to make sure the photograph of Lady Harriet Wellsley was safely there. It was. Maxine Doran had flown out to Paris on an assignment this morning but she would be back tomorrow. There must be, there had to be, a connection between the Victorian lady in the portrait and Maxine. He intended to ask her when they met again. If they met again.

  * * *

  Jason felt pretty satisfied as he drove back from Ballyhaven. Glancing at his watch, he saw that the timing was perfect. He turned to his passenger.

  “We’ll just swing by your hotel, Dirk, to collect your luggage, then we’ll have a drink at the airport when you’ve checked in.”

  “Suits me,” Dirk answered. “We’ll raise a glass to a good day.”

  It had been. The owner of Ballyhaven’s grotty little pub had only hesitated for a moment before accepting Jason’s generous offer for his rundown premises. Their respective lawyers would start drawing up relevant papers tomorrow. More importantly, Dirk had seemed impressed by the general area. “A good location for the development,” he had announced.

  “What about this planning officer guy?” Dirk asked now. “Is Oliver Griffin kosher? He seemed a bit of a bullshitter to me.”

  Jason laughed. “He is a bullshitter. But no worries about him. He depends on me to keep the bailiffs from his door. He has to deliver and he’s got the contacts.”

  Dirk was quiet then, his eyelids drooping as they drove along. Jason guessed that he would not be sleeping though. The Dutchman never let go of control long enough to really sleep. His mind always ticked over, always aware of threats, always planning and scheming. The power he wielded and his mega-wealth were testament to his shrewdness. That was why Jason was surprised that Dirk had not mentioned the problem of the fifty acres. The heartland of the new development. The area where the casino itself would be located. The hub of the custom-built Casino Village. Maybe he thought Andrew and Ella Ford could be bought off as easily as the pub owner and Oliver Griffin.

  Jason frowned. The only card he had up his sleeve now was Andrew’s few shags with Maxine Doran. He would use it if he had to but it might not be worth much. It was possible that the snotty Ella Ford was glad to have her husband satisfy his needs elsewhere. People said she had become a bit peculiar since the car accident she had over a year ago. He put the problem to the back of his mind now. He would sort it when he met the Fords in their office tomorrow. Everybody had a price. Besides, he still had some very serious, and very secret, arrangements to make with Dirk Van Aken. Jason Laide had moved on from comfortable wealth to join the ranks of the powerfully rich.

  Chapter 7

  Ella was surprised. Jason Laide was smooth. His appearance and the few brief meetings she’d had with him on social occasions had led her to believe otherwise. She had assumed him to be rough, uncouth, as loud and vulgar as the gold chains around his neck. The quietly spoken man sitting in the office this morning was the antithesis of her preconceived idea.

  She smiled at him. “Your wife didn’t give me any specific idea about the type of property you’re looking for, Mr Laide. Do you have any preferences?”

  He laughed. “I would like to buy a property so big and grand that Sharon would never want to move again. I’ve lost track. As soon as a property is decorated, she wants to move on.”

  “I think we could help you there,” Andrew said. “Ella is handling the sale of Manor House. Big enough? Grand enough?”

  “Manor House? On the west side of the city, huge grounds and stables? Wasn’t the owner of that house involved in an accident? A car accident?”

  As soon as the words were out of Jason’s mouth, he realised that he had made a blunder. Ella Ford’s face had gone white and her husband looked as if he was ready to leap up.

  “I’m very sorry,” Jason muttered, silently cursing his own stupidity. “I’ve just remembered that you were involved in that tragic accident, Mrs Ford. I should not have mentioned it.”

  Ella sensed his upset. This had been no trick to upset her, no deliberate barb. Jason Laide had made a genuine mistake.

  “Yes, it was tragic,” she agreed. “A little boy lost his life too. Rob Trevor, the owner, wants to move on. Too many memories in Manor House for him. Would you like to see the brochure?”

  Jason nodded, glad that his faux pas seemed to have passed off without causing serious damage. The last thing he needed to do was upset the Fords. Bringing up the question of their fifty acres in Ballyhaven was not proving as easy as he thought it would be. They were reserved, both of them. Very polite but cold. Snobby. Hypocrites like all their sort. Andrew Ford was not the class act he pretended to be. Nobody could bed Maxine Doran and call himself a
gentleman. The temptation to wipe the superior look off Andrew’s face was overwhelming. There would be a right time but not now.

  He held his hand out to Ella and took the brochure. “I’ll read this and have a chat with Sharon. Then maybe I could make an appointment to view Manor House?”

  “Certainly. Just let me know. And I’m glad to tell you that we already have a lot of interest in the property you’re selling. Two very definite potential clients. Possibly more.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. A bit of competition.”

  Jason stood then, still wondering if he should mention Ballyhaven. This pair were making him feel inadequate. Insecure. Fuck them! They were no better than him. Charging inflated prices for properties, driving the housing market mad just to line their own pockets.

  “I’m looking out for a few investment properties too,” he mumbled. “Long-term investment. Maybe in an area not yet developed. A terrace of houses, a few acres. That kind of thing. Something I could let sit there until progress caught up with it.”

  Andrew looked at him and frowned. It was almost as if this mobster was trying to get rid of money. But then, Jason Laide was too successful and too astute to invest funny money at home, wasn’t he? He appeared to have oceans of liquid assets, however he came by them. Maybe it would be worth testing the waters.

  “Actually, we do have something you might be interested in,” he said. “An old factory twenty-five miles east of town. Forty acres of arable land with it. The area is nowhere now but if you’re interested in the long term . . .”

  Too quickly Jason shook his head. “That’s not really what I was thinking of. More a neat plot of land. Near a village maybe.”

  “I see,” Andrew nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for you now that I know what you want.”

  As soon as Jason had left, Andrew began to pace the office.

  Ella glanced at him. “You’re like a cat on hot bricks. What’s the matter?”