7

After the fall of Northern Rock, when word from America is that the giants – Merrill Lynch and Goldman Sachs – are in trouble, academics are ringing alarm bells for all they are worth. Ireland, however, is on a carousel, and doesn’t want the fairground music to stop. That is, until they notice that some of the cranes over Dublin have now come to a standstill, and estate agents’ signs are fading in their windows. Moreover, the line of men waiting for the breakfast roll at the village Mace is shrinking by the day.

In the pubs and cafés along Merrion Road, however, they cling to the stock answer: ‘Our banks are well capitalized.’ Sharkey, however, doesn’t like one bit what his ‘Eyes and Ears’ bring back from rounds of golf, and what he himself knows anyway. So after consulting with St John Dunleavy, he wastes no time in calling a meeting.

In his shirtsleeves, he stands beside a PowerPoint and begins with what he calls his golden rule: consultation, co-operation and collegiality. ‘That was, and is, and always will be my motto, and that’s why Nat Am is such a driving force in international banking. My colleagues, no matter who is or who isn’t, Nat Am will always make the cut.’

He is in speech-making mode. ‘We live in a pool infested by piranhas, guys,’ he says, ‘and our share prices have taken a slight dip.’ He runs his hand along his pink tie: a sign for those who know him that he is about to spin a web of lies. ‘Nothing to be concerned about; no need for a flap. But,’ he cocks his finger at them, ‘it’s action stations. Guys, we’ve got to pull up our socks. We give good interest rates, better than the rest; now they’re getting in on the act, and Nat Am is slipping.’ To add drama to his pep talk, he speaks in a hushed tone, for their ears only: ‘Listen up, folks – Nat Am doesn’t do slipping.’

Turning to Karen, his personal assistant, he asks her to display the progress report; then, with a rod, he points to the tables, the dips, the share prices.

‘Upstairs,’ he jabs the rod towards the ceiling, ‘the Braces don’t do slackening.’ He nods to Karen to close down the screen, and says that he will be looking forward to hearing a full and frank discussion about all this at next month’s conference at Windermere Hall. ‘My main objective is to have my team with me.’ Now he is thumping the floor: ‘We’re only as strong as the weakest link.’ Sitting near the front, Brennan is nodding and looking around for agreement.

‘So, my friends,’ Sharkey pauses for effect, and rakes the gathering, ‘I plan to bring in our trusted friend tom.’ He chuckles. ‘Many of you here are well acquainted with tom. I refer, of course, to the Target Operating Model, which has served us well in the past. Those of you who came on board in the last two years or so won’t have met tom – fine chap is tom.’ The disciples chuckle with him.

From experience, the assembled staff knows that tom is always a pretext for cutbacks and redundancies. And unlike other banks which take pride in breeding and refinement, and which always look after their own, Sharkey has no hesitation in firing personnel. ‘If they bring home the bacon, if their numbers are good, they will be rewarded at Nat Am. If they fuck up, then I shoot them. Simple as that,’ he reminds the disciples over coffee in the plaza. ‘I can get loads of young guns from the Smurfit; only waiting on the touchline to race onto the pitch.’

To the novices whom he brings into the circle of collaborators, he explains the Sharkey Treatment for getting rid of dead wood. First you farm out their portfolios. Tell them that in these dodgy times we need all hands to the pumps to expedite the work. ‘Move their desk into some fucking quiet corner, and if they don’t like that, dangle the carrot. A handshake, and fuck them out. Younger guys like yourselves, loaded with testosterone, will now be called on to keep this ship afloat.’

The seasoned ones, like Philip, can read his mind by now, but they too have to endure his cant. Encouraged by Sharkey and St John Dunleavy, they have taken out loans to invest in the bank, and in student apartment blocks in Waterford, Limerick and Dundalk; in holiday homes in Connemara and in France. The robust health of Nat Am determines their ability to live in places like Auburn, or across in Dalkey.

While Sharkey is talking about tom, Philip remembers the whispered confidence of a former colleague at Ipswich & General. ‘He may be wearing Armani, but he’s still the ruffian who frightened the shite out of other kids around Marino – he and his gang. Wouldn’t believe him if he swore on the Bible.’

The following Monday, the tom men and a woman arrive, like school inspectors, with cold looks and self-important briefcases. Sharkey takes them for coffee to the executive floor restaurant to meet St John Dunleavy and other directors.

Later that day, he calls a meeting of his team. ‘More a brainstorm, guys. Our friends from tom will sit in.’

The afternoon is sunny, so they have to close the blinds for a clearer definition of the material on the PowerPoint screen. Sitting to the side, the men from tom have a commanding view of the assembly, although they spend most of the time poker-faced, staring across the room, or concentrating on their computers. In that respect the whole setting evokes memories of the classroom; the dormant pranksters watch for an opening to make the odd joke, while the responsible children who sit at the front and who have morphed into ambitious bankers take notes whenever the tom people intervene.

At the end of the week, when the auditors have submitted their report, Sharkey calls a meeting of managers, including Philip, to discuss the results. They sit around his desk.

‘You see from tom, guys,’ Sharkey says, looking out over his half-lenses, ‘the hard facts we must square up to.’ While he glances at the report, the managers scrutinize the pages. ‘We have to do some root canal. No other option.’ The rustle of pages fills the silence.

He turns to Brennan. ‘Conrad, you’ve come up with facts and figures.’

‘Yes. Some costings that may help.’ Brennan takes over the presentation. He shows how they can farm out more back office work.

When he is finished, Sharkey turns to the managers. ‘Conrad has already opened up a conversation with the Pakis.’

One manager keeps flicking through the pages before he speaks: ‘So, redundancies, Aengus. The bottom line?’

Sharkey removes the half-lenses, sinks back into the comfort of his plush chair, and works an arm of his glasses around in his mouth before he speaks. ‘No other option. As simple as that.’ Beneath the few remaining strands of hair, the light catches the shininess of his bald head. He leans over the desk towards the managers: ‘“Cometh the hour, cometh the man”, guys. It’s your asses too, when the heat is turned up.’

More creaking of leather, while he gives time for his warning to sink in.

‘Well said, Aengus,’ says Wheeler. ‘Well said.’

‘Last in, first out’ becomes the guiding principle at Nat Am when the directors decide to outsource to Pakistan. One by one those for the chop are called in to Sharkey’s office like fractious children to the headmaster. They return to clear out their desks and leave by the forecourt where, at the entrance, a large framed display board shows two hard-hats taking levels at a building site, a happy-looking college graduate with gown and mortar board, and a smiling man and woman with two children in front of their dream house. And beneath the slogan: ‘We care about your future at Nat Am.’

The women cry and are hugged by those who are glad the axe hasn’t fallen on them; the men put on a shoulder-shrugging act and go to Bellamy’s pub or Crowes with their colleagues, although some – even those with whom they used to play tag rugby – stay well away, as if they might become infected by the spreading virus.

Insisting on paying for a round, the fallen soldiers joke and make a T sign like referees at rugby internationals: time out to smell the roses, guys. They raise pints of Heineken to their lips and then trudge back to apartments around Ballsbridge, some of which are owned by clients of Nat Am who are now failing to honour their loans. And, long before dawn, the fallen soldiers who hadn’t slept a wink are listening to the troubled pulse of the night city.

Over the following weeks, others are let go, including some of Philip’s staff, so that soon Nat Am is in the grip of anxiety. Excited chatter about upcoming city breaks to London or Amsterdam, or the week in Andorra with all the family, fades; instead, those who want to hold their jobs, and repay huge mortgages, show the vicious side of human nature when survival is the goal.

During lunch in the plaza, those in Finance, Treasury and Lending believe that the layoffs in the back office sector should have been greater. After all, they themselves are the money-makers – the sloggers who spend boring afternoons at Croke Park with culchie clients who shout like savages and stuff their faces with burgers at half-time.

If possible, Philip arranges to meet any of his team who has received the bad news, like Gavin, who had to undergo the dreaded visit to Sharkey’s office, and is told that this is ‘a learning curve’ for him and that he has a bright future.

A couple of weeks after Gavin’s being let go, Philip takes him to a restaurant on Ranelagh Road where they can talk without the risk of running into someone from the bank. Unlike the crop of brash young men who are loud in Paddy Cullen’s, and who have bought cars more expensive than they can afford, Gavin has remained at the edge of their conversations. Despite a good academic career at ucd, and a Master’s from the Smurfit Business School, he blushes frequently and avoids eye contact.

They are given a booth which grants them privacy. Gavin picks at his meal, while he recounts his meeting with Sharkey. The chips on his plate grow cold. ‘And then he says, “a chance to use your excellent skills elsewhere: call it a career change, Gavin.”’ He is looking away in the direction of an old John Player sign on the wall. ‘Haven’t slept since God knows when.’

‘How is Claire taking it?’

‘I try to hide it from her. Things look much more frightening at four in the morning when you’re staring at the street light through the curtain.’ Some nights, he goes downstairs and flicks from one channel to the next. Re-runs of soaps and quiz programmes, and reality tv. ‘How anyone can watch that shit beats me: X Factor, Big Brother, The Apprentice. Jesus! They must be getting off seeing some bully on the panel embarrass the crap out of the morons who put themselves through it.’

‘It’s the times we live in, Gav. People are desperate to be noticed.’

Gavin grows silent. ‘I can’t tell Claire. I go out before she gets back from the hospital – don’t want to worry her. She has exams coming up.’

Just before he showed him the door, Sharkey read out a letter, carefully composed by the bank’s lawyer. It is the standard issue for all who are being sacked – ‘economic downturn’; ‘responsibility to the banks and the shareholders’.

‘I tried to bring up projects I’d worked on, and how successful they were. He just kept pointing at the letter.’

A weak smile appears on his pale face. ‘Played my last card then: the mortgage and my engagement.’

‘“With your ability,” Sharkey says, “this is a glorious opportunity to move on, further your career. I know for certain, I’d love the chance to get working on my golf.” ’ And all the time, the fucker is rearranging the pad on his desk and looking at his watch. I know his game, Philip: it’s all about ego, and making big investments. And golf with the Barbados set.’

While Gavin is letting off steam, Philip glances at him. His sensitive face is strained and white, and for some strange reason puts him in mind of his own father.

‘You have to keep trying, Gav. My dad was like that for most of a year. Backed the car out of the driveway, waved to me as I was getting my bike out of the shed. Then he drove out to Bullock Harbour, read the paper, or books from the library, couldn’t tell my mother.’

‘What … was he long out?’

‘He went back and studied to be a teacher – not easy at thirty-four – but he held in there.’

Gavin isn’t listening. ‘What makes it worse, I’m getting married in September, and now I feel I’m letting everyone down, Claire most of all.’ After a while he raises his head. ‘Got part-time work.’

‘Oh. I’m glad.’

‘Mickey Mouse fucking job. Phoning people and knocking on doors when they are about to sit down to dinner. “We are upgrading the service in your road and we would like you – our valued customer – to be one of the first to avail of the special facilities we have on offer.” Crap.’

‘Well, it’s something.’

‘Yesterday evening I knocked on a door. Identity tag around my neck, like a labrador. A poor old dear answered. Thought I was her grandson. Her husband had died that morning, and she was making arrangements for his burial. Jeesus. Then she asks me to go down to the Mace corner shop for milk and bread. I’m up shit creek, Philip.’

Philip is being dragged into the other man’s desolation, but, for his sake, he maintains an upbeat manner: ‘Don’t let it get to you, Gav.’

The two men grow silent; Gavin sinks into the seat, and allows his thoughts to wander. ‘The other evening at the platform in Sydney Parade … thinking, wouldn’t it be …’ He looks at some point above Philip’s head, and after an awkward silence, rushes in with: ‘Ah no. That’s not me.’ He shifts uneasily, and is saved by his mobile ringing.

‘Grand,’ he says into the phone, ‘grand, yeah.’ He listens. ‘Absolutely, and with my qualifications, especially with the Smurfit under my belt.’ He laughs: ‘Yeah, getting there. A chance to look at other options. Onwards and upwards. What’s the crack?’ After a moment’s silence, he works up a hearty laugh. ‘Sure. Count me in, Ro. Have to talk to Claire, not single any more like you guys. The Playwright. Cool. I’ll be running late. Busy-busy. You know yourself. Hold a seat.’ He folds the mobile. ‘Good liar, aren’t I?’

‘You should be on the stage.’

And, as if the phone call has given him new heart, Gavin affects a breezy manner about meeting the guys at the weekend in the pub; about Limerick’s chances in the hurling championship, and the fortunes of his own club.

Philip studies his face while he is wriggling out of his embarrassment. He is right. It’s to do with share prices and the stock exchange, and Sharkey taking out more loans from Nat Am that only a few of them know about – not even the board whose heads are up their arses anyway. Sharkey showing off: photos of himself on the fucking Onassis yacht for that celebrity wedding. And playing golf with M.J. and Dermod in Barbados – ‘real down to earth blokes’.

As they are leaving the restaurant, he tries one last time to offer advice. ‘No need to suffer alone in this, Gav. If ever you want to talk, you have my number.’

‘No worries, Philip. This won’t get me down. Gav is made of stronger stuff than that.’