‘You’re too kind.’
‘Ah fuck off ya smart arse. You always were such a smart arse. Sit back and chillax there for a minute. Sure, in the good old days we’d of been down here all night. Drinking until dawn. Best days a me life.’
Engine rise, engine fall, engine rise, engine fall as Hickey turned memories over in his head. He swilled back another snifter and smiled at some recollection.
Ahhhhh
. He had entered the first stage of inebriation, which is perfect, just perfect; it is heaven. That mellow, impeccable stage when nothing can harm you. The log fire is crackling away on the inside and you are safe in your warm little snug. I’d have given my right arm to feel that way again. But I couldn’t give my life.
Engine rise, engine fall, rise, fall. ‘Mad when you think that if they hadn’t built the pier, we’d of been in the sea right now. We’d of been sitting at the bottom a the ocean like a right pair a fucken eejits. Isn’t that mad, Castler?’
I stared ahead. Why had he dragged me out here to listen to this nonsense? Halfway down the pier where no one could see us except the fish heads. The fish heads, the crab claws, the lobster shells and all the other gutted creatures. I suppose I fitted right in. A hollow man, a human shell. Why did my wife call you this morning? Because she’s worried sick, and so am I.
I released the catch of the seat belt. ‘It’s been a long night, Dessie. I’ll make my own way home, thanks.’
He gunned the engine. ‘You’re going nowhere.’
Hickey had already left the perfect stage of inebriation behind and entered the phase of anger and paranoia. I knew that stage well. I was familiar with the spec. I reached for the handle of the door but he activated the central locking. Trapped.
‘Let me out of the truck.’
‘No.’
Engine rise, engine fall, engine rise, engine fall, as he deliberated over the fate of his prey. ‘You’ve changed,’ he finally remarked. ‘D’ya know that?’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘You used to be such a mad fucker.’
I lowered my head in shame.
‘What happened ya, Castler?’
‘I wasn’t well then, Dessie.’
‘What was wrong with ya? Were ya sick?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Ya seemed fine to me.’
‘I was troubled, Dessie. I wasn’t myself.’
‘So who were ya?’
‘I just wasn’t myself.’
‘And who are ya now?’
‘I’m myself now.’
‘You’re an arsehole is who ya are now.’
‘Yes, well,’ I said. ‘I have to accept the things I cannot change.’
He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the engine gave an almighty roar. ‘Stop coming out with that mental shite!’ he shouted over the din. ‘I’m sick of it. Sick to me back teeth!’ He released the pedal. The roar died down. ‘I preferred ya the way ya were an I didn’t even like ya then. But there’s something funny about ya now.’
‘So you keep insisting.’
‘What was all that muck you were shiteing on about earlier on the phone? Something about a Higher Power?’
‘My Higher Power is there to restore me.’
He snorted. ‘D’ya hear yourself?’
‘Yes, Dessie, I do.’
‘And tell us again: who exactly is this fella ya yammer away to about your Higher Power?’
‘Monsieur Deauville. He is my sponsor, Dessie.’ We’d been over this.
‘Are ya sure about that, Castler?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Are ya though, Castler? Are ya really sure?’
‘Yes, Dessie, I’m really sure.’ Though I wasn’t sure I understood the question.
‘Because I’m not sure, Castler. I’m not one bit sure about that fella, an that’s being honest with ya now. Who is this joker he does be mutterin away to half the time, I have to ask meself. The one who says jump an he says how high. Have ya noticed that ya always whisper when you’re on the phone to him, Castler? Whisper whisper whisper, as if youse are up to no good.’
‘Monsieur Deauville keeps me sane, Dessie. He is the voice of sanity.’
‘Sanity? Mother divine. I’d like to hear what the voice a sanity sounds like. Can I have a listen, Castler? Can I earwig in on youse the next time he calls? Here, I know: put him on speakerphone. Yeah. I’d like to listen to the voice a sanity. I haven’t heard it in a while.’
‘You have to be in the programme, Dessie.’
‘I have to be in the programme?’
‘Yes, Dessie.’ That’s what I just said.
He burped. ‘Can I join, so?’
‘Anybody can join. The only requirement for joining Alcoholics Anonymous is a desire to stop drinking.’
‘Sound. Where do I sign?’ He knocked back another mouthful.
Ahhhhh
.
‘You have to be committed to your sobriety, Dessie.’
Hickey looked at the flask. ‘But sure, how will they know I’m still on the batter? They’ve no way of telling, not unless someone rats me out. Now who would rat me out, Castler? Who would do a thing like that?’
Silence. He sloshed the contents of the flask.
‘Ya were a very secretive kid,’ he continued. ‘We never really got to know ya, did we? That’s what the lads said when we heard ya were dead. We couldn’t really miss ya because we never really knew ya even though we’d been in school with ya all them years.’
‘I could say the same about you, Dessie. I never really knew you either.’
‘I don’t think ya could say the same about me, though, Castler, strictly speaking. I think ya had the measure a me fairly early on because ya were one a them kids that was always watching. D’ya remember the way ya used to shop us to the teacher? The way he’d give ya the sheet a paper if he had to pop out, an you’d write down the names a the kids who were messin while he was gone. D’ya remember that, Castler?’
‘No, Dessie.’
‘
No, Dessie
,’ he said in his version of my accent. ‘A course you don’t, but that’s all right because I remember. I can remember for the both of us. The teacher put you in charge because he knew you’d rat us out. An ya did. An my name was always at the top a the list a messers. That’s why I hated ya. That’s why we all hated ya.’
‘Is that why, Dessie? And me thinking it was on foot of my superior intellect and elevated social standing.’
Hickey examined the flask. ‘D’ya know wha, Castler? I feel we’re finally getting somewhere here. Do you feel that too?’
I shrugged.
‘What was that, Castler? I didn’t hear ya.’
‘I’m not sure I care any more, Dessie, to be honest.’
‘
To be honest
?
Suffering Heart a Jaysus, has it come to that? Are we going to be
honest
with each other now?’ My phone started ringing. ‘Answer it,’ he instructed me, as if I were his hostage.
Unknown
read the screen. Thank Christ it isn’t Edel, I thought in my innocence.
‘Oh,’ was all I could say when I heard what M. Deauville had to tell me.
Hickey revved the engine in search of attention. ‘Is that the voice a sanity? Put him on to me there. Tell him I want a word.’
‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Deauville, could you repeat that please?’
‘It’s over, Tristram. The money is gone.’ Which is what I thought he had said.
‘Tell him about the planning bond,’ Hickey badgered me. ‘Tell him we need more money for the planning bond,’ but this was serious. I blocked my free ear the better to hear Deauville, or the worse, because I could barely grasp the gravity of what he was telling me.
Hickey wrested the phone from my hand. ‘Lookit, bud,’ he told Deauville, ‘it’s like this: without that money, we’re wanked,’ and then ‘
Fuck.
He’s after hanging up on me again.’ He threw down the phone. ‘What was he saying?’
I couldn’t speak for a moment. My mind was racing. My thoughts were skipping grooves. ‘He said.’ I swallowed and started again. ‘He said that a bank has gone under in New York.’
Hickey shrugged. ‘Big swinging mickey.’
I covered my eyes with my hands to try to focus on the information. ‘He said it’s not just any bank. It’s one of the largest investment banks in the US.’ How had Deauville phrased it? Terms were ricocheting inside my skull.
International banking crisis. Global financial collapse
.
Drastic losses
. I tried to string them into a sentence. ‘It’s an instrumental bank,’ was all I managed. That wasn’t even the word Deauville had used. Endemic or systemic, something like that. ‘He says the money is gone.’
‘What money?’
‘All of it. All of the money. My money, your money, McGee’s money, Castle Holdings’ money. The country’s money. He says it’s gone.’ I laughed in horror. Not a pleasant sound.
‘Gone where?’
‘I don’t know. Just gone. Deauville rang and said that all of the money is gone. That credit event he was saying the Market was nervous about? It just happened.’
‘Is our money gone?’
‘Christ, it’s worse than gone,’ I realised, thinking out loud. Pennies were dropping like anvils. ‘We still have to pay it back.’
Hickey hadn’t yet gotten his head around
gone
. ‘It’s very simple,’ he said, bulldozing aside the facts as though matters could still be resolved by the brute force of his will. ‘Frenchie or Kraut or whatever the fuck he is will lose his investment if he doesn’t stump up the cash. Get back on to him an spell it out.’ As if we were in a position to issue demands.
‘Deauville will lose nothing. He says he’s a senior bondholder.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He says it means he’s immune. He says it means we take the hit.’ All of the money in the world was gone, and already, within a few minutes of it having evaporated, it seemed implausible that there had been so much of it in the first place.
‘We’ll flip the international portfolio. Make a profit.’
‘Profit? Oh Dessie.’ I actually felt sorry for him then. ‘Deauville says the markets are in collapse. He says the world economy has begun to implode and that our assets have junk status. He says no one is going to want to buy them. And we paid for them with borrowed money. We paid for them with credit. Which in fact means debt. We owe more money than we can possibly count.’ I laughed again. In horror. I couldn’t help myself. Nor could Hickey. He started ranting. I kept laughing. The two of us making all this hysterical noise. I thought the cabin might explode. Either the cabin or my head.
‘It can’t just be gone,’ he shouted over and over, as if saying it would make it true like in the old days, but the old days were gone. Everything was gone. The money in particular. ‘Money doesn’t just disappear into thin air. Someone has to have it. Some fucker has our money. That foreign prick has our money. Where does he live?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do know.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do know.’
‘I don’t know.’
Hickey raised his fist to me. ‘Don’t,’ I warned him. I tried the door again. Still locked.
A strangled gurgle of frustration and he punched the steering wheel instead. Then he shoved the engine into gear. The truck shot forward, throwing us back in our seats. He hit the brakes and we collided with the dashboard. ‘Why are ya protecting him?’ Hickey screamed. ‘He controls everything you do. You do everything he says. Here.’ He grabbed the hip flask and thrust it into my face. ‘Have a drink.’ I pushed the flask away.
He twisted out of his seat and jabbed the flask at me again, gouging it into my gums. His foot was back on the accelerator and the unsteered truck hurtled along. The neck of the flask smashed against my teeth like the barrel of a gun. I did my best to fight him off, but . . . you’ve seen him. He was too strong. And I was too weak. I was too weak.
Hickey broke hard and the whiskey backwashed into my mouth. I could taste it and it could taste me. It latched onto the scent of my blood. Off we shot again. ‘Have a fucken drink, Castler,’ Hickey bayed at me, gripping a hank of my hair. I glimpsed the end of the pier over his shoulder and then the truck was launched.
A fleeting airborne moment between this life and the next. This is it, I thought, to hell with it. I gulped the whiskey down. ‘That’s the man!’ Hickey encouraged me before we were both hurled against his door. The truck landed with a crunch not a splash. We had hit the rocks. The tide must be out, I thought inanely. Yes, the tide must be out.
The whiskey seeped into my bloodstream along with the dire consequences. Hickey had me in a headlock. I didn’t struggle but instead huddled against the wall of his chest, the warm and hairy wall. The worst possible thing had just happened. I cowered there.
‘Are we dead?’ Hickey wondered in a muffled voice. ‘What d’ya reckon, Castler? Are we dead or wha? Ah here, sure you already are.’
‘That was another Tristram St Lawrence.’ My voice was muffled too. The headlock had turned into an embrace. I was nestled in his arms.
‘Get off me, ya puff.’ He pushed me away but I slumped right back. The cheery contagion of the whiskey had turned my limbs to rubber.
‘I’m not a puff. I’ve been riding your wife.’
He laughed at that and gave me a clap on the back, followed by a harder one to let me know that he meant it: get off me now, ya puff. I laughed too, at the shock he had in store when Edel told him the news. Not my problem. I was in the cosy room with the crackling log fire.
Hickey manhandled me back into the passenger seat, my head lolling like a corpse. I saw the lapping waves, the moon, the sleek black shape of the island, the world before electric light. I could have been looking through the eyes of the original Sir Tristram. His blood ran in mine, along with all the bad stuff, which was steadily rising.
The truck was cast up on the boulders like a shipwreck. Hickey tried to start the engine but the ignition refused to catch. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Do you smell diesel?’ He sniffed his armpits. ‘Am I smelling diesel?’ He thumped the horn. ‘They told me this yoke could drive over
anything
.’
The cosy room started to recede. I was reversing towards a cold and draughty corridor. I had to stay in the cosy room, whatever the price. I gave the flask a shake. Empty. I had polished it off. It had polished off me. I let it drop to the floor. We both lay there drained.
‘Don’t worry,’ Hickey reassured me, ‘there’s plenty more where that came from.’ He reached beneath his seat and produced two bottles of Bushmills. ‘One for you and one for me.’