Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘The dude pats me down to make sure I’m not packing heat’

I swing into the old man’s solicitor’s office to find out how Ronan is getting on in his new job. Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara and Associates must the only solicitor’s firm in the country where they frisk you on the way into the building.

"I'm just calling in to see does my son fancy a couple of lunchtime pints," I try to tell one of the two grunts in black leather jackets who stop me on the front steps. The dude tells me to put my hands against the wall, then he pats me down to make sure I'm not – his words – "packing heat".

No one could ever accuse Hennessy of being too corporate.

Once they’ve established that I’m not carrying a gun, I’m basically bundled into this reception area, where a woman who looks like Tanya Mityushina except with a bigger forehead tells me that Ronan is with a client if I’d like to take a seat. I wait until she’s distracted, then I slip through a door and I’m suddenly walking along a long corridor, whose walls are lined with signed photographs of all the guilty people Hennessy has managed to keep out of prison over the years.

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I can hear Ronan's voice coming from an office on the left. I tip-toe over to it and stand at the door, listening to him. He's going, "Were there any witnesses to the, er, accident?"

Then I hear some random dude and he’s like, “Unfortunately, no.”

“Dudn’t mathor,” Ronan goes. “It’s actually bethor that no one saw athin – allows us to conthrol the naddative.”

We need to come up with some injudies for you. Things thee caddent disprove. Emotional distress. Flashbacks to the incident. Do you get me?"

“The what?”

“The naddative.”

“Oh, the narrative.”

“That’s right.”

“But with no CCTV footage, don’t we need witnesses – to testify that the floor was actually wet?”

“We’ll provide you with witnesses, don’t you woody about that.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. From my – literally? – own son.

He’s there, “Now, I’ve read through yisser medical report and Ine concerned that you’re maybe not tedding the complete truth about yisser injudies.”

The dude’s there, “I don’t really have any injuries. It happened a year ago. I just wondered could I get some money out of it?”

“You woatunt if that’s your attitude. We need to come up with some injudies for you. Things thee caddent disprove. Emotional distress. Flashbacks to the incident. Do you get me?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“We’ve a doctor works here – struck off – and he’ll go through it with you to make it sound plausible. In the meantime, you need to put a coddar on.”

“A what?”

“A surgical coddar.”

“Where would I get one of those? The hospital?”

“No need,” Ronan goes, then he opens a drawer. “We’ve got loads here.”

There's fook-all wrong with you. But I still reckon we can get you a high five-figures.

The dude has a little chuckle, then goes, “It says ‘Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara and Associates’ on it.”

Ronan’s like, “Throw it on you there. It might help win the sympathy of a jurdy. Now, are you on soshiddle media?”

“Not really. Just Twitter. And obviously Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp.”

“Have you posted any pictures of yisser self since the, er, accident, where you’re doing strenuous work or exercise?”

“No. Well, actually, I did an Ironman competition in Spiddle in April.”

“See, that’s the kind of thing that dudn’t play well in court.”

“Right.”

“We need to do a complete purge of your soshiddle media past. If you give us yisser passwords, we have people here who can do that for you.”

“Yeah, no, fine. So do you think I have a case?”

“No. There’s fook-all wrong with you. But I still reckon we can get you a high five-figures.”

“A high five-figures?”

“Of which we will take fifty per cent.”

I decide in that moment that I’ve heard enough. I head for Hennessy’s office in an absolute rage. I don’t even bother knocking. I just, like, shove the door and in I go. I’m straight on the offensive.

I remember leaning against Hennessy's office door while a member of the Criminal Assets Bureau tried kick it down

I’m there, “What the fock are you teaching my son?”

Hennessy’s not behind his usual desk, though. Behind a little door to my right, I hear a toilet flush, then he comes out rubbing his hands through his slicked-back hair, then drying them on the trousers of his black, pin-striped suit. The dude doesn’t even acknowledge me. He makes his way over his desk, picks up the phone and tells – I’m presuming – his secretary to get him some laxatives when she’s out on her lunch break.

It’s only when he hangs up that he seems to notice me. He goes, “How the fock did you get into the building?”

I’m there, “What are you doing to my son?”

"What am I doing to him?" he goes. "I'm putting him through Blackhall Place!"

“What I mean is, I’ve just heard him coaching someone in how to defraud some poor, unfortunate insurance company.”

“It’s important that he familiarises himself with all aspects of the business.”

He takes a toothpick out of his pocket and pops it between his front teeth.

I’m there, “You’re unbelievable, do you know that?”

“Hey,” he goes, “did you meet those two sweethearts I got working the front door? I just have to press that button there and they’ll show you off the premises. They’ll even let you choose the window you leave by.”

I'm suddenly having flashbacks myself. To the month I spent here on work experience when I was in, like, transition year? I remember leaning against Hennessy's office door while a member of the Criminal Assets Bureau tried kick it down and Hennessy fed documents into the shredder, going, "Put your whole weight into it! I got one more bag left! And stop focking blubbing!"

Heddessy, where's the book of witnesses? I need two for a wet supermarket floor case

I’m there, “I don’t want my son working for you.”

He’s like, “He’s going to be a great lawyer.”

"No offence, but godfather or no godfather, I can't think of a worse role model for my son than you?"

At that moment, Ronan walks into the room. And I end up having to do, like, a double take? He's wearing the same black, pin-striped suit as Hennessy and his hair is slicked back in exactly the same way. He cops me standing there and he goes, "Rosser, what are you doing here?"

I’m there, “I’m here to save you from this man’s bad influence,” the lunchtime pints suddenly forgotten.

He just ignores me. He goes, “Heddessy, where’s the book of witnesses? I need two for a wet supermarket floor case.”

And it’s then that I notice – oh, Jesus Christ – the toothpick between his teeth.