Last night was fun, but now it's time to make my escape. That breadbin looks familiar, though, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
SO I CHECK the time. It’s, like, eight o’clock in the morning? I peel back the duvet – slowly, roysh, so as not to wake her. I swing the legs out, again gently, then stort gathering up my clothes, like Hansel and Gretel, following the trail to the living-room, where it all kicked off last night.
What was her name again? I’m 70 per cent sure she said was it was Mena.
I throw on the old Apple Crumble, step into my chinos and fix the hair in the mirror in the kitchen. Then I tiptoe out to the front door, passing the bedroom, where she’s still spitting zeds, out of the game. As quietly as I can, I try the handle. The door is locked. They usually are in these situations.
I tip back into the livingroom and, using my – you’d have to say – vast experience, stort looking for keys. I check practically everywhere – on top of the bookshelves, under the sofa cushions, even in the Nigella Lawson Living Kitchen Breadbin in beech and blue. I pretty much literally turn the actual place over but I can’t find them anywhere. I do find her bag, though, and I have a quick mooch in there. No keys, just her phone. I whip it out, scroll down through her contacts, find my number, then delete it. I’m obviously slipping.
I tip over to the door that leads out to the balcony and it’s, like, jackpot. It’s one of those, like, sliding doors that you open by flicking the catch? Two seconds later, I’m out on the balcony and I’m looking down – we’re, like, three storeys up. I’m thinking, despite all the times I’ve done this over the years – we’re talking literally hundreds – it’s amazing that I’ve never developed a head for heights.
I take, like, a deep breath, swing one leg over the balustrade, then the other, and I end up nearly having a hort attack, because that's when I cop Mena, standing there in front of me, staring at me like she can't believe what she's actuallyseeing? "
It’s nothing personal,” I go. “I’ve just never been one for long goodbyes.” And her reply, I have to admit, causes me to nearly lose my grip on the rail.
"Ross," she goes, "this is yourapartment." Of course! I'm thinking – the breadbin was, like, a housewarming gift from Sorcha? But at the same time I'm also thinking, my life has been moving so fast since the whole Current Economic Blahdy Blah, it's understandable that I'd forget.
The next words out of her mouth shock me as well. She’s there, “Your dad is here,” and before I get a chance to say anything, he comes through the sliding door, going, “Sorry, Kicker,” with his big foghorn voice. “Let myself in. Didn’t know you had company,” and then he turns to Mena, thinking he’s being slick, and goes, “The name’s Charles, by the way. And you are?”
“Just leaving,” I go, quick as a flash, and Mena – if that’s even her name, bear in mind – gives me a look that could strip paint off a battleship. She shakes her head, roysh, and tells me that I’m an even bigger this, that and other than people say I am – nothing I haven’t heard before – then roars some pretty unfavourable reviews of my performance last night over her shoulder as she storms out.
The old man takes this as his cue to stort, like, confidingin me? "Women!" he goes, his eyes all distant. "Oh, I could tell you some stories, Ross."
“You couldn’t,” I go. “You don’t have any. No one was interested in you – that’s how you and the old dear ended up lumbered with each other.” I climb back over the balustrade onto the balcony. “By the way, what are you even doing here?”
He’s there, “I just wanted to tell you about my new business venture,” looking all pleased with himself. This, bear in mind, is only, like, a month since his plan to turn Mountjoy Prison into a six-storey hotel and casino got the knockback. You’d almost have to admire him – without telling him, obviously.
“What are you wasting your time on now?”
I go. I watch his chin rise and his shoulders go back and he suddenly takes on a bearing I’ve not seen since he gave the keynote speech at the Dublin Chamber of Commerce Christmas Lunch in 1987.
“This recession,” he goes, “is just about the best thing that’s happened to me in 20 years – your heroics on the field of battle excepted, of course. I hadn’t noticed it, but all those years of plenty . . . I’d gotten rather stale. And now . . .” He blows his cheeks out. “Oh, my mind’s like bloody Kowloon, Ross. Teeming. I can’t sleep at night for being assailed with business ideas.”
“Speaking of sleep,” I go, making a point of looking at my watch, but he just carries on. He’s there, “Take a look down there,” and I follow his line of vision, roysh, to what looks very much like a white Transit van.
“That shouldn’t be there,” I go. “I’ll ring the management company, get it shifted.”
He’s there, “You’ll do no such thing. It’s mine,” and I’m like, “Yours? What kind of business is this?” and he goes, “Shredding, Ross! Shredding!” He whips out a Cohiba. He’s about to light it, roysh, but then he stops.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking – has the old dadfinally gone doolally?"
I’m actually thinking, if I grab his legs and tip him over the rail there, would there be much of an inheritance coming my way?
“But think about it, Ross. This Celtic Tiger we were all so proud of – it didn’t happen without certain individuals being up to their necks in all sorts, let me tell you. Now, people are angry. They’re looking for scapegoats. Many of them friends of mine. And I’m rather firm in the belief that it’s time for us, as a society, to get rid of the evidence.”
When I squint my eyes, roysh, I can just about make out the lettering on the side of the Transit. I’m there, “Is that the actual name of the company? Shred Focking Everything?”
He nods and smiles, I suppose you’d have to say fondly? “The exact words that Hennessy said to me when he found out we were being called in front of Mahon. Oh, the man’s an inspiration, Ross – always has been.”
There follows, like, a moment of silence, roysh, then he goes – and this is, like, totally out of the blue? – “What do you say about being partners?”
Obviously I’m there, “Portners?” And he goes, “That’s what I came here to ask you. The old team – back together.
“What do you think?”
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