him and rip his fucking head off. You better tell him to get that money back to me. Or he’s dead, and you’re dead, and his family’s dead, and everyone his family’s ever fucking met is dead. You hear me Jan? This is big boy rules. You stupid fucking stupid bitch.’
Budgie was breathing hoarsely. He opened her door. His mother and Malandra were standing in the hall. Malandra was crying and sniffing while his mother just stood there watching, bovine and floral in her nightie, open-mouthed. Budgie considered shutting it for her but instead feinted a lunge at them. They flinched and Malandra screamed. Budgie snorted. Back in his room he rang Ian who answered weirdly.
‘Hawwwo.’
‘Ian, everything all right?’
‘Yeah, brushing my teeth. You speak to Merv?’
‘No, not yet, listen there’s a minor problem.’
‘What sort of problem?’
‘The money isn’t quite ready.’
‘What do you mean not ready? It’s been ready for months. Mervyn’s flying tonight. I swear to God Budgie if you’ve taken any of that money you’ll be dead by dusk.’
The same tone he’d just used, the same threat he’d just made to Janice. He suddenly wished he could step out of the way completely, instead of being smack in the middle, making death threats and receiving them, like a domino stood on its end in a row of them, waiting for someone to touch the first one and topple the lot.
‘I swear I never touched it. I kept it safe but there’s been a fuck-up. Not my fault. My…my little bitch of a sister…I think she’s taken some of the money.’
‘How the fuck did she get at the money? What sort of fucking treasurer are you?
‘No listen Ian. It’s fine. Calm down. I know who has the money. I’ll get it back.’
‘Don’t tell me to calm down. I’m your fucking CO. Now who has the money? Where is the fucking money?’
‘Ian, I’m sorry. It’s a guy we told to get out of town. Geordie Wilson. It seems she gave him some money. But he’s just left, he’s…’
‘Geordie Wilson?’ Ian started to laugh.
‘What? What’s funny?’
Budgie heard a tap run, and then one, two, three spitting sounds. Then the jangle of a plastic toothbrush being set in a glass.
‘Mr Wilson and I became acquainted on the boat over. I have his mobile number. You’re a lucky man Budgie, stupid but lucky. How much money do I need to retrieve from him?’
Budgie grimaced. ‘About fifty thousand.’
‘Fucking hell Budge. This is the last time you look after the cash for the boys. I’ll see to that. You and me’ll be having a chat when I’m back. If I have any fucking problems getting this…Well, I’ll be coming to see you anyway. That’s a promise. I’m going to give Mr Wilson a call and arrange to meet for a drink. Now, meantime, here’s what you can do…
‘Listen mate,’ Ian said, ‘you fancy a pint this afternoon? I’m at a loose end. Waiting for something to arrive.’
Geordie was leaning back on the sofa but frantically jiggling his right leg. It hadn’t stopped jiggling since Jan’s texts.
‘Well, I’m a bit busy at the minute. Something’s come up.’
‘Mate, I won’t take no for answer. Seriously. Nonnegotiable. Meet me in the centre. What about O’Neill’s off Chinatown? Go to Leicester Square and walk through Chinatown. You can’t miss it. Four o’clock say?’
‘Maybe. Look it’s just this thing’s happened and I need to think about…’
‘Yeah great. Tell me about it later,’ Ian interjected, ‘I’ve got to go now.’ He hung up. Geordie set the phone on the wooden coffee table and leaned back again on the sofa. He looked up at the ceiling. White paint flaking off the pale pink plaster meant the near corner looked like a sky ragged with clouds. He breathed out heavily, utterly deflated. He picked the phone up and texted I’LL BRING THE CASH BACK to Janice, and immediately turned it off. He looked at the ceiling’s mackerel sky again, and thought how when he was a kid at scout camp in Gosford, his patrol leader, the ruthlessly cheerful Terry Green, had told him that a sky like that meant good weather was on its way. Yeah, right. Where’s Terry Green now? Six feet deep and filled with worms. No good weather came for him, Geordie thought, and it isn’t sunshine that’s heading for me. All those homespun proverbs, country wisdom, local knowledge, old wives’ tales: what a load of shit.
Danny told Ellen as much as he knew about the Ulster Water case, which was nothing, and neglected to mention that they might be going to Belfast on Saturday. She dutifully took notes, which quickly amounted to at least three times the number of words that he’d used, and sat opposite, listening attentively and asking the appropriate questions. Danny referred to part of the due diligence as ‘real monkey work’ and her efficient face broke into a smile. She had one slightly askew front tooth. It just made her look even sweeter. The bump in the Navaho rug put there to placate the gods. Danny could already feel he might be getting himself into trouble. He listed her faults to counterweight the effect she was having; she appeared to be business-like, brusque and hard-nosed; she might be a little humourless; she had a tiny stain, possibly toothpaste, on the left lapel of her jacket. He told her he’d ring her in a hour or so and she should come down for the conference call. It was noon.
He’d let Freeman, the Corporate partner, bring up the trip to Belfast, if it was still on the cards. If the two of them had to go Danny knew they’d sit in a dark hallway somewhere, being brought boxes of documents by surly admin staff, admin staff who would make it clear they knew Danny and Ellen worked for the company trying to buy them and sack them. They’d spend hours looking through contracts for onerous undertakings or impending litigation that could influence Syder’s decision to buy. However, unless Danny found some clause stating that in the event of a takeover Ulster Water would collapse like a broken deckchair, and leave Syder sprawled on the sand cursing and rubbing its coccyx, the bid would go ahead. Danny knew he would draft a detailed and lengthy due diligence report that would weigh, in unusually elegant language, any abnormal and arduous clauses in all of Ulster Water’s contracts pertaining to employment, intellectual property, information technology, outsourcing, even the sodding vending machines, and that it would not be read by anyone. It was, he supposed, possible that the conclusion might be perused but it would be so heavily qualified (‘In light of the short time available…given the limited resources and lack of information…due to the hostility shown by the target company and the corresponding impossibility of obtaining proper financial documentation etc. etc.’) that any deductions he’d draw would be completely worthless. At least legally. You ain’t getting us. This is every law firm’s secret motto. Every lawyer is a virtuoso of the ‘On the one hand’ line. We can only give you the facts as they appear to us. The decision, of course, is yours. Of course. And the decision was never Danny’s. So he needed to find out whether he would in fact be spending his weekend in his homeland. And whether he was still having this party tomorrow night.
Danny had no idea why he’d agreed to have a party.
