The old man hands me a cheque for 80,000 yoyos, then he looks at me, with a big smile on his face, like he's waiting for me to say thank you? He has a neck like a jockey's undercrackers.
This is in the Horse Show House, by the way.
I just stare at the cheque – all that remains of my once great document-shredding business.
I go, “Is this how many noughts there should be? One, two, three, four?”
“Yes, four noughts,” he goes, “that’s right.”
“Should there not be, like, a decimal point or a dot and then two more noughts at the end of it?”
When it comes to business, I’ve got a mind like a computer.
“I can put those in if you like,” he goes, taking the cheque from me.
I’m like, “Typical of you – trying to stiff me on my redundancy cheque. It’s a good job I have the brain that I do.”
He whips out his good Mont Blanc pen, sticks the extra zeros on the end, then goes, “Shall we seal this with a drink?”
I’m there, “No, thanks. I’m actually choosy about who I drink with,” and I realise straight away how ridiculous that sounds, so I go, “Okay, if you’re buying, I’ll have a pint of the usual Heinemite.”
He orders – a large Hennessy for himself – then he tries to make a little speech. He goes, “On behalf of Shred Focking Everything, I would just like to say . . .”
I’m like, “Dude, spare me. The business was only ever a front. I realise that now.”
“Laundering money accounted for only 90 per cent of the company’s annual turnover,” he goes. “The other 10 per cent, I’m proud to say, Ross, was down to you.”
I’ll take that.
“Like I said,” I go, “do you expect me to be grateful or something?”
He swills his brandy around in his glass, sniffs it, then has a little smile to himself. He goes, “Can I tell you a story, Kicker?”
I’m like, “I’d actually rather beat my own head flat with a meat hammer.”
“It’s one of Father Fehily’s stories,” he goes.
I’m there, “Okay, keep it short,” because he knows I’m a sucker for the dude’s wisdom. “And don’t start trying to add to it or trying to make yourself the star of the story.”
“I’ll try not to,” he goes. “There’s this chap and he works in the post office, sorting mail and what-not, and one day he comes across a letter that’s addressed to, ‘God, c/o Heaven’. So what does our friend do? He opens the thing up and he reads it.
“And the letter says, ‘Dear God. I know I haven’t always lived a good Christian life, but I would like to ask for Your help, undeserving though I am of it. I’m 92 years of age and I live in a tiny bedsit in Dublin. I am two months behind with the rent and the landlord has told me that I have to vacate it this Friday. I have nowhere else to go. This, on top of losing my wife a year ago, has nearly killed me. Unworthy as I am, oh Lord, do You think You could see Your way clear to giving me €500, just to tide me over.’
“Well, as you can imagine, our friend in the post office gets all choked up when he reads this. He shows the letter around to some of the other chaps in the office and, well, they’re all in tears as well. So he has an idea. He decides to have a whip-round to try to get this old man his money. It’s Christmas time, you see, so everybody throws in their few pounds and the chap ends up collecting €450, which he puts into an envelope and sends to the old man.
“A few days later, our friend is sorting through mail again when he comes across another letter addressed to, ‘God, c/o Heaven.’ He opens it up and has a read. ‘Dear God,’ it says, ‘I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude to You for Your intervention. The money You sent me saved me from being homeless this Christmas and will allow me to heat my bedsit for what remains of the winter. I resolve from this moment forth to live my life in Your name. Thank you, God. You truly are both just and merciful . . . PS I couldn’t help notice that the money You sent me was 50 quid light. I can only presume those bastards at the post office stole it.’”
I just nod. “That’s a good story,” I end up having to go. “What’s the point slash moral of it?”
He goes, “The moral is, Ross, that sometimes we’re being helped in ways that we don’t realise.”
“Are you saying I should be actually grateful to you?”
“I’m saying that 10 per cent of Shred Focking Everything’s success was down to you. You’ve proved that you can be a success in business. I, and a great many others, are looking forward to seeing what you’re going to do next.”
What I do next is I knock back my pint in one and I stick the cheque for 80Ks into my pocket. Then I get up and I walk out of there without so much as a thank you or a goodbye.
Literally 20 seconds later, I’m passing the offices of Hook, Lyon and Sinker – JP’s old man’s estate agency, where I worked back in the day – and I for some reason stop. It’s like my feet are being controlled by, I don’t know, GPS or something?
There are, like, 10 or 15 people in there, all on the phones, gabbing away. Maybe there’s truth in this whole Celtic Phoenix thing after all.
JP’s old man, who once recognised in me the lack of morality and conscience that makes a truly great estate agent, looks up and sees me staring in the window.
He gives me a look that seems to say, “He’s here! He’s come back to me!” and then the beckoning finger.
He mouths the words, “Come in! That’s it! Just push the door!”