Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  “What can I do for you, Jason?”

  “Close the deal on Manor House. We’re messing around with it for too long now. I want it over and done with.”

  Ella opened her mouth to reply but she was not quick enough. Andrew beat her to it. Leaving his own area of the office he came and sat on the corner of Ella’s desk, his long legs stretched in front of him.

  “Not so quick, pal,” he said and even to Ella’s ears he sounded patronising. She winced, knowing how angry her husband’s tone would make Jason. Knowing how awesome that anger could be.

  Jason’s voice was quiet when he spoke but that very quietness seemed to emphasise his anger, as if it was coming from a great depth. “Listen, pal, I was talking to your wife, in case you didn’t notice. She’s dealing with the Manor House purchase for me. But since you’re so anxious to stick your oar in, what about your site in Ballyhaven? Ella has agreed to sell it to me.”

  “Hang on a second, Jason,” Ella spluttered. “I told you that site is in joint ownership. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t agree to sell without Andrew’s say-so.”

  “Really? You should have thought of that before you shook hands on the deal. In front of witnesses.”

  “Enough!” Andrew said, standing up and towering over Jason. “Don’t try to be divisive. It won’t work. You know damn well that agreement isn’t binding. Don’t try to bully your way into getting what you want.”

  Jason laughed, sat himself back in his chair and stared fearlessly up at Andrew. Hands in his trouser pockets he began to jingle change, the sound sharp and annoying in the tenseness of the office.

  “True,” he said at last. “No need at all for bullying. I’ll get what I want anyway. I always do.”

  Andrew chose to read that as an apology. Or at least as much of an apology as he was ever going to get from this thug. He sat again on the corner of Ella’s desk. And tried to smile at Jason. The man was, after all, a client.

  “Why are you interested in the Ballyhaven site? I didn’t think fifty acres of agricultural land in the county would hold any interest for you.”

  “How in the fuck could you know what interests me?” Jason snapped. “I, on the other hand, have an in-depth knowledge of your interests.”

  Ella felt her muscles tense as if preparing for a blow. She was. She had heard the threat in Jason’s voice even if Andrew had not.

  “What are you talking about now, Jason? I’m just trying to establish why you would want fifty acres in Ballyhaven.”

  “None of your goddamn business. All you need to know is how much I’m willing to pay. And what a bad enemy I could make if I’m pushed too far. ”

  Andrew stood up again but this time he walked across to his own desk and picked up the papers he had been working on. If he did not have something to occupy his hands there was a strong possibility that he would lash out at the smug face of Jason Laide.

  “As far as Manor House is concerned,” Andrew said as calmly as possible, “I’m afraid your engineer’s report is still being examined. Also you should be aware that there’s another offer in on the property. That bid is higher than yours.”

  Jason, small in stature, though very muscular, seemed to swell in his chair. His eyes changed from pale blue to a clear icy hue. Ignoring Andrew, he turned his stare on Ella.

  “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me I’d been outbid? Who’s bidding against Jason Laide? Forget that engineer’s report. I’ll take the bloody place as is. And I’ll top the other offer.”

  Ella felt rather than saw Andrew’s warning gaze. It was telling her not to make any agreement. To stall Jason Laide. He was, of course, protecting Maxine Doran’s interests. Protecting Maxine Doran. Pig!

  “Certainly, Jason. As you wish. But I’ll have to get back to Rob Trevor.”

  “And our other bidder,” Andrew added.

  Jason stood and pushed his chair back under the desk. He turned to face Andrew.

  “I hope you enjoyed your weekend, Andrew. You certainly looked as if you were having a good time.”

  Then he turned and walked out of the office, leaving both Fords staring after him.

  “What in the hell was all that about?” Ella asked.

  Andrew didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. They both knew that they had been threatened by Jason Laide.

  “Well?” she prompted. “The weekend. What was he talking about? What did you get up to?”

  “We must talk, Ella. We have things to sort out.”

  So! Now she knew. Andrew had spent the weekend with Maxine Doran. Jason Laide knew too. There were certainly things to sort out. Like separations and divorces, ending marriages, saying goodbye . . . Ella’s phone rang and she grabbed it as if it was a lifeline.

  “This is Dr Sheehan’s secretary, Mrs Ford. We have a cancellation this morning and I was wondering if it would suit you to come in earlier than you had planned.”

  Ella frowned. She had completely forgotten her follow-up appointment with Peter Sheehan after her most recent visit to the hospital. She looked up at Andrew and saw the concern and sadness in his eyes. The pity. She wanted none of it. She spoke into the phone.

  “Yes. That’s fine. When will I come in?”

  “Now, if it suits you.”

  “See you in ten minutes then.”

  Ella put the phone down, grabbed her bag and walked out of the office she shared with her husband. Outside, the breeze tossed her hair again and jangled her earrings. She tried to recapture the buoyant mood of earlier but a huge lump of overwhelming sadness lodged in her throat. She swallowed hard and hurried off to keep her appointment with Dr Peter Sheehan.

  Chapter 24

  Jason broke every rule of safe driving as he crossed the city from Ford Auctioneers to the complex which housed the Planning Office. It was time to get tough with those snotty Fords and he knew just how to do it. She would be easy. She was almost over the edge anyway. He was a different story. Jason sensed a core of steel underneath the polite veneer of Andrew Ford. The prick needed a good kick in the arse to wake him up to reality. Breaking yet another rule of the road, Jason tapped in Gussie’s mobile number and spoke to him as he drove along. Satisfied that he had a nice surprise organised for Andrew Ford, he turned his attention to Oliver Griffin.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Griffin is at a meeting,” the receptionist told him when he arrived at the Planning Office.

  “Give me a piece of paper,” Jason demanded. Tongue between his teeth he carefully penned a note. “Get that to him. It’s urgent.”

  The girl hesitated at first but then she read the anger in the pale blue eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Jason sat into one of the plush chairs, knowing that he would not have long to wait. The look on Oliver Griffin’s face as he followed the girl into the reception area was gratifying. It was a mixture of outrage and blind panic.

  “Mr Laide,” he said, barely concealing the quiver of fear in his voice, “would you like to come into my office?”

  Jason stood and followed Oliver along endless acres of green-carpeted corridor lined by identical doors leading off left and right with regular monotony. They came to a door with a plaque marked ‘Head of Planning’. Oliver ushered Jason in and then firmly shut the door before letting all his indignation and utter horror pour out.

  “What in the hell are you doing here, Jason? We have an agreement. Our business is private. You’re not supposed to bother me at work. ”

  Jason watched as Oliver Griffin unravelled in front of him. Even his suit seemed to bag and wrinkle as the man shrank into a defensive ball, face pale, fists bunched.

  “Bothering you, am I?” Jason asked with a smile.

  Oliver plopped onto his chair behind the desk. It was more a falling down than a sitting. He clasped his hands together and put them up on the desk but still they shook.

  “I know I’m a bit late with payments but my youngest has First Holy Communion soon.”

  “Aah! Nice white frock, clothes for the family and meal out. Sac
raments are expensive these days, aren’t they?”

  Not knowing how to answer, Oliver bowed his head. He could try begging. It had worked before. He should be humble, show gratitude but he had not yet lost enough self-respect to do that. But time was running out. Laide had upped the ante by coming here. He could never deny now that he knew the creep.

  “You know what I want, Chief Planner,” Jason said sarcastically. “And it’s not your piddling little repayment, even though I’ll have that too.”

  The shaking travelled from Oliver’s hands right through his body. He put his feet up on the footrest under his desk, afraid that his shoes would tap out the rhythm of his shivering on the floor. He now owed Jason Laide almost half a million. Half the value of his home. All built up over the years by a grand here and a grand there. How could he have been so stupid? So sick. So gullible. He thought of his daughter, with her blonde curls and baby soft skin, eyes shining with the excitement of her First Holy Communion. He thought of his wife, making a production out of the day. Only the best would do, which in her view was the most expensive. Tricia bought price-tags, satisfied that whatever was attached to the highest tag was the best. He could sell the house. Clear his mortgage and his debt to Jason Laide in one sweep. Owe nothing. Own nothing. Have nothing. And then what? He cleared his throat to shift the choking fear.

  “I’ve given you what you asked for, Jason. I let you know which area was being targeted for the casino. I can’t do any more.”

  “Don’t fuck around with me, Griffin. You can tell your politician buddy McEvoy that my name is on that licence. Nobody else is to get a look in.”

  “How do you think that could be done? Stipulate that only jumped-up criminals may apply for the casino licence?”

  Both men sat in shocked silence, Oliver shocked that he had had the stupidity and lack of wit to speak the truth and Jason that his once pliable lackey was fighting back. Sweat broke out on both of them. With Oliver it prickled his back and armpits. On Jason it formed tiny beads around his receding hairline. Outside the office phones rang, doors banged, people laughed and had indecipherable conversations. Inside, all was silent. A standoff. Oliver’s last vestige of self-respect kept him from apologising. Jason’s self-image would never allow him to accept an apology. Griffin had marked his card.

  “You’ve fucked up good now,” Jason said at last. “I could call in your markers. I could and I will destroy you. What’s your wife going to say? Your shitty work colleagues? Your snobby friends? The high and mighty Oliver Griffin, Chief Planning Officer. A gambler. A debtor. A cheat and liar. And you’ve the gall to talk down to me! You’ll end up a hobo. Living in a cardboard box.”

  Oliver bowed his head. He could not bear to let Jason see the tears in his eyes. He blinked. The hot, salty liquid trickled out of the corners of his eyes. Raising his hand, he brushed the tears away as quickly as possible but not, he knew, before the thug watching him had witnessed yet another sign of his weakness.

  “Not much point in blubbering now,” Jason sneered. “You’re in too deep. You should have thought of this when you placed your first bet. What was it? When did you start? The poker school in college, was it? Or maybe you were still in short pants when you started.”

  Oliver’s mouth gathered into a tight, bitter line. He had not started gambling until he had met Tricia. Until she had taken to spending what they had not got. It had begun as a desperate attempt to increase his income, a blind faith in luck. Horses, dogs, cards. It had ended up in desperation. If only he had cut his losses early on. Got help, counselling, before the adrenalin rush of the chance to win had became the only hope in his life. He was gone past blaming Tricia now. She too was a victim of this mania. This sickness. Except that she didn’t know it. Yet.

  Oliver lifted his head. He shivered again as he was speared by the full gaze of Jason’s cruel eyes. There was no mercy in this man. No honour.

  “I think it’s time to tell the truth, Jason,” Oliver said, hating the whine in his own voice. “The help I can give you is limited. I’ve told you where the casino is going to be built. That gives you a head-start. I can’t do any more. Andrew Ford’s site is crucial to the whole development. It’s in the centre of the area being earmarked for the casino. If you already own that when the project is put up for tender, then you would have a big advantage. But I can’t guarantee that you will get the casino licence. Maybe they will opt to grant the development to one person and the licence to run the casino to someone else. I don’t know and I can’t do anything about it. Neither can Pascal McEvoy.”

  “You fucking liar! You’ve led me up the garden path!” Jason thumped the desk. Pens rattled in the holder and papers shook in the trays. Beads of sweat glistening, veins standing out on his forehead, eyes bulging, Jason Laide was awesome. “I want it all! I want the site, I want to develop it according to my own plans and I want the licence to run the casino. Do you understand? I want it all! And half a million in IOU’s says you’ll bloody well get it for me.”

  Oliver sat back in his chair, subconsciously trying to put distance between himself and the violent man sitting across from him. For the first time he actually looked into Jason Laide’s eyes and saw shrewdness, cruelty, but no intelligence. The man was a moron. He did not have any grasp of the intricacies of the legislation, the licensing system and the planning involved in the super casino project. Oliver had assumed a man as successful in business as Laide appeared to be would have researched the procedures. Or at least have somebody do it for him. He must have legal advisors and accountants in his employ. The respectable face of Laide Transport. Oliver had always believed that Jason was in charge. That he knew the overall picture and had contacts in all the other departments where decisions were being made. His childish, desk-thumping outburst had shown a different side to Jason. A very ignorant and stupid side. Not the behaviour of a man in control. Nor of a successful entrepreneur.

  Oliver felt a little confidence, a little hope return. Jason Laide was still a backstreet boy. A petty criminal trying to punch above his weight. His transport business was a huge success, yes. There were rumours of art collections and property portfolios. But he was basically a very stupid, if lucky, bully. How in the hell did he think he was going to get this project when he had no history in property development or gaming? It was then that Oliver remembered the Dutchman. Van Aken. Dirk Van Aken. A continental version of Jason Laide. They had met in the little rabbit warren of a house where Jason liked to conduct meetings. What had they said that day? Wasn’t it that Van Aken had a business supplying gaming machines? Yes. Oliver remembered now. The proud, almost childish boast of Jason as he announced that Dirk owned the biggest gaming machine company in Europe. And that he would be supplying equipment for the casino which both thugs were certain they would be running in Ballyhaven. They were in it together, Laide and Van Aken. A partnership of silk suits, gold chains and shady histories.

  “Are you going to apply for this licence in your own name or are you forming a partnership with Van Aken?”

  “None of your fucking business!” Jason shot back.

  And Oliver knew then that Jason did not really know what to do. He knew just one way. Bullying, blackmail, cheating. Nothing mattered as long as he got what he wanted.

  “You do realise that all the information will be in the public arena very soon. There will be a lot of interest in that licence. Many people will apply and each will be scrutinised for income tax compliance and source of funding.”

  Jason threw back his head and laughed. “You! Advising me on money matters! That’s rich! I have people I pay huge retainers to sort those things for me. I have no worries there. The money problems are yours.”

  Oliver stood. They would be wondering at the meeting where he had got to. He leaned his hands on the desk for support and tried to look as if he was in command of the situation.

  “Go and talk to your expensive advisors, Jason. They’ll confirm what I’ve told you. What you should have known. You can bid fo
r the licence but nobody, and I mean nobody, can guarantee it for you. You can bully me all you like but it won’t get the licence for you. Remember too that other bidders will be trying to use whatever influence they have. I’m sorry but I must go now.”

  “You ponce! You’ll make sure I get that licence. You and that political friend of yours. Tell McEvoy that I was asking for him. And his son. Terrible what kids get up to these days. And your payment better be passed on to me before the weekend. Or else . . .”

  Oliver managed to hold himself together while he ushered Jason out of his office and back to reception. As he watched Jason strut toward the lift to the ground floor, Oliver’s knees began to feel weak. When the doors of the lift closed, bile rose in his throat. Jesus! Pascal’s child! Laide had something on Pascal’s child! And he was evil enough to use it. Pascal should be warned. Oliver barely made it to the bathroom before the vomit spewed out of his mouth.

  * * *

  There was no waiting in reception today. No flicking through magazines. Ella was ushered straight through to Peter Sheehan’s office. He came out from behind his desk, hand proffered in greeting. He was wearing jeans and a moss green sweater which enhanced the green of his eyes and his well-defined muscles. Ella blushed when she realised that she was staring at him. But then he was looking closely at her too.

  “You look very well, Ella,” he said. “Sit down and tell me how you feel.”

  Ella sat and glanced around the room, trying to find something on which to focus. Maybe the big window with the view of rooftops and scudding clouds through the slats of the cream Venetian blind. Maybe not. The abstract paintings, all rusts and greens with daubs of yellow. No. Her eyes were drawn back again to Peter Sheehan. The clearness of his green gaze reminded her of spring. The translucence of a leaf with the sun shining through its newly unfurled greenness. A lime-tree leaf perhaps. Tall and straight. Yes. Peter Sheehan was a lime tree. And he wanted to know how she felt.