a list of the members of this so-called Golden Circle who, according to Hickey, were now running the shop. Tocka tocka as he fed their names into his database of base data. Murmurs of approval at the results. The Bills had finally blossomed into billionaires. Excellent, said M. Deauville. Ausgezeichnet, eccellente.
Hickey drove us to a district of the city that had not existed when I had fled. The towers were built of the same jade glass as Hickey’s crystalline power generator. He had beaten himself into a suit for the occasion, and I don’t wish to be unkind, but when I saw him got up in it I couldn’t help thinking of . . . ah no, I won’t.
The boardroom occupied the penthouse suite of one of the glass towers. A panorama of cranes spanning the horizon was engaged in a courtly dance. One step, two step, swing to your partner, and part. Ten men were seated around the boardroom table and the most senior man stood at the top. ‘Ah,’ he said upon our entrance. ‘Here they are. Do join us.’ He was a small man with a brown face and a fleece of white curls. I thought of a Roman senator.
‘Dessie,’ said Hickey, pumping the senator’s hand with both of his. McGee didn’t need to introduce himself. We both knew who he was. Hickey jerked a thumb at me. ‘This is Tristram St Lawrence,’ he told the table. ‘He’s the brains.’
The men laughed at that and Hickey laughed loudest of all. I lowered my head in admission. Yes, it’s true. The brains are stored in this receptacle, me. I provide them so that Hickey doesn’t have to.
Only it wasn’t true. I wasn’t the brains. I was just stupid enough to think that I was.
A man from the far end of the table was on his way over, his arms open in welcome as if I should recognise him. It took me a moment to register that this was O’Dee. He had lost his hair and turned into his old man, a golf-clubbing captain of industry.
O’Dee put his arms around me and clapped my back. ‘Welcome home, man,’ he said as sincerely as he was able, though no affection or camaraderie had ever existed between us. This display was strictly for the benefit of the others, to demonstrate that we went back, that there was history, that it was kosher. ‘Jesus, Trist, I heard you were dead.’
They all laughed again at that, eager to exhibit their approval.
‘Eh,’ said Hickey. ‘That was another Tristram St Lawrence.’
‘Marvellous!’ said McGee and took his seat to indicate that the topic was now closed. Everyone seemed perfectly satisfied with Hickey’s explanation. Nobody wanted to rock the boat. We were here to do business.
Hickey’s architectural model of the Claremont development was displayed in the centre of the table. It looked bigger. Had he glued on extra crystals? The skyscraper hotel closely resembled the building we had assembled in, which in turn resembled the building next to it, and the building next to it again, and so on throughout the docklands and across to the opposite bank of the Liffey. Those dollar-green towers were a contagion that had ripped through Dublin.
A knock on the door and a girl entered the boardroom. ‘Marvellous!’ McGee declared with unfaltering enthusiasm. The girl set a tray of tea and coffee on the console table.
‘Anything else I can get you, Mr McGee?’
‘This is perfect, Suzie,’ said McGee. ‘Good job!’
The girl turned to leave. The boardroom table took a moment to assess her pinstriped arse and then it was down to brass tacks.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said McGee, ‘what have we got here?’
Hickey got up on his hind legs to make his presentation. He threw a load of numbers out there – how much we’d secured, how much we still needed to secure, how many units we intended building – several more than the planning permission granted, I noted, but although the documentation was there in front of them nobody raised a query. Revising planning permissions upwards was not a problem, not in a room like this. He went
Hickey drove us to a district of the city that had not existed when I had fled. The towers were built of the same jade glass as Hickey’s crystalline power generator. He had beaten himself into a suit for the occasion, and I don’t wish to be unkind, but when I saw him got up in it I couldn’t help thinking of . . . ah no, I won’t.
The boardroom occupied the penthouse suite of one of the glass towers. A panorama of cranes spanning the horizon was engaged in a courtly dance. One step, two step, swing to your partner, and part. Ten men were seated around the boardroom table and the most senior man stood at the top. ‘Ah,’ he said upon our entrance. ‘Here they are. Do join us.’ He was a small man with a brown face and a fleece of white curls. I thought of a Roman senator.
‘Dessie,’ said Hickey, pumping the senator’s hand with both of his. McGee didn’t need to introduce himself. We both knew who he was. Hickey jerked a thumb at me. ‘This is Tristram St Lawrence,’ he told the table. ‘He’s the brains.’
The men laughed at that and Hickey laughed loudest of all. I lowered my head in admission. Yes, it’s true. The brains are stored in this receptacle, me. I provide them so that Hickey doesn’t have to.
Only it wasn’t true. I wasn’t the brains. I was just stupid enough to think that I was.
A man from the far end of the table was on his way over, his arms open in welcome as if I should recognise him. It took me a moment to register that this was O’Dee. He had lost his hair and turned into his old man, a golf-clubbing captain of industry.
O’Dee put his arms around me and clapped my back. ‘Welcome home, man,’ he said as sincerely as he was able, though no affection or camaraderie had ever existed between us. This display was strictly for the benefit of the others, to demonstrate that we went back, that there was history, that it was kosher. ‘Jesus, Trist, I heard you were dead.’
They all laughed again at that, eager to exhibit their approval.
‘Eh,’ said Hickey. ‘That was another Tristram St Lawrence.’
‘Marvellous!’ said McGee and took his seat to indicate that the topic was now closed. Everyone seemed perfectly satisfied with Hickey’s explanation. Nobody wanted to rock the boat. We were here to do business.
Hickey’s architectural model of the Claremont development was displayed in the centre of the table. It looked bigger. Had he glued on extra crystals? The skyscraper hotel closely resembled the building we had assembled in, which in turn resembled the building next to it, and the building next to it again, and so on throughout the docklands and across to the opposite bank of the Liffey. Those dollar-green towers were a contagion that had ripped through Dublin.
A knock on the door and a girl entered the boardroom. ‘Marvellous!’ McGee declared with unfaltering enthusiasm. The girl set a tray of tea and coffee on the console table.
‘Anything else I can get you, Mr McGee?’
‘This is perfect, Suzie,’ said McGee. ‘Good job!’
The girl turned to leave. The boardroom table took a moment to assess her pinstriped arse and then it was down to brass tacks.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said McGee, ‘what have we got here?’
Hickey got up on his hind legs to make his presentation. He threw a load of numbers out there – how much we’d secured, how much we still needed to secure, how many units we intended building – several more than the planning permission granted, I noted, but although the documentation was there in front of them nobody raised a query. Revising planning permissions upwards was not a problem, not in a room like this. He went
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