When Dan came into Phil’s office, Fury O’Shea was leaning against the wall. Dan had been halfway to Carrick when a three-word text had arrived, summoning him to Lissbeg. And, as usual, when he’d tried to call back, Fury hadn’t picked up.
The Divil was lying under the desk, with his paws crossed and his nose in a box of leaflets. Phil was buzzing around like a fly on speed, simultaneously talking on her phone, going through lists with Bríd, and flinging orders at Ferdia. Fury, who was perfectly at ease, had his skinny shoulders propped against a flow chart.
‘You took your time, boy, didn’t you?’
Dan was in the doorway when Fury spoke, and they all stopped talking and stared at him. It was bloody irritating, considering he’d turned the jeep round the moment he’d seen the text. But getting pissed off with Fury was a waste of time, so Dan didn’t bother. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Phil here has a job for you.’
Phil looked a bit startled, something that frequently happened to people when Fury arrived in their offices. Unusually for Phil, though, she said nothing.
‘She’s after giving me a shout about making stalls for this Winter Fest. Apparently, the committee have decided to take their theme from the Carrick Psalter.’
Two committee members, who were standing by the desk, looked indignant, and Phil leapt in at once. ‘The psalter exhibition has been so attractive to tourists that I think we agreed that a medieval theme is truly emblematic of Lissbeg. And nothing says Christmas like Gothic arches and shining stained-glass windows. Warmth! Welcome! Firelight! Carol singers!’ Phil planted her hands on the desk, producing a growl from The Divil. ‘So what I suggested – and the committee endorsed – was a castellated front for each stall.’
One of the ladies muttered that the practice of giving chairpeople casting votes was pure ridiculous.
Fury cocked an eyebrow at Dan. ‘So, that’s the plan. I’ll make a couple of calls and source the materials, and you’ll knock up a few welcoming battlements.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I’m a builder. I don’t do sets for pantomimes.’
‘Well, nor do I.’
‘And because Phil has money from the council to pay you for knocking up battlements.’
Phil intervened and said, actually, it was a medieval castle theme.
Fury quelled her with a look. ‘Ara, for God’s sake, woman, what do you think castellation was for? Giving your archers cover when they were shooting arrows at invaders. The haves up there repelling the poor have-nots.’
‘Well, but—’
‘Come here to me, don’t be annoying me. I know well what you want. And if you think you’re going to get Disneyland out of MDF and a box of screws you’re kidding yourself. But if you want stalls that won’t fall down, then Dan’s your man.’ He removed his shoulders from the flow chart and clicked his tongue at The Divil. ‘I can even get you some grey paint at a decent price, if you give me a day or two. Spray-on glitter, too, if it takes your fancy.’
Dan raised his voice. ‘But why me? How come I got mixed up in this?’
Ignoring him, Fury fixed an eye on Phil as The Divil took his nose from the box of leaflets and pattered out from under the desk. ‘I’ll want cash for the materials, mind, and the same goes for Dan the Man. And don’t go thinking that either of us is going to be generating invoices.’
‘No. Well, no, that’s fine. It’ll come out of my own budget for infrastructural works here at the centre. You can just send me a note of what you’ve bought.’
‘Name of God, woman, are you deaf, or what are you? We’ve agreed a price, haven’t we? Well, that’s the deal signed and sealed as far as I’m concerned.’
The next thing Dan knew, he was being marched down the corridor, with The Divil’s claws clattering on the polished lino up ahead. Fury kept going till he had the three of them out in the garden. Then he stopped and took a roll-up from behind his ear. ‘Have you got a light?’
‘No, I haven’t got a light. Do you want to tell me what the hell that was all about?’
Fishing a fluff-covered match from the pocket of his waxed jacket, Fury struck it on the wall. ‘It’s not rocket science. Phil pays me for the gear and you for the work.’
‘But I don’t need the work.’
‘Maybe not, boy, but you need the money.’
‘Look, I’ve got an investor. Putting money into my own business. I don’t need poxy little jobs like this.’
‘Oh, right. Well, in that case you’ve got money to pay me for the timber I got for your shed.’
‘Yes, I have.’ Dan stopped suddenly, feeling stricken. ‘Well – I will have. For God’s sake, Fury, you’ve got no reason to doubt me.’
There was a pause in which The Divil made a rush at a piece of litter swirling by in the wind.
Fury exhaled a puff of smoke and looked sideways at Dan. ‘It’s nothing personal, boy, and I don’t doubt you. I just like my money to come from a known source.’
After that there wasn’t much more to be said, and Dan got away as soon as he could manage it. Because, though the joint account had been opened all right, the first tranche of Dekko’s money hadn’t yet turned up. And Dekko had disappeared again. He’d sent Dan a text about a week ago, saying he had a family matter to attend to but he’d be back down to Finfarran soon.
Dan had checked the account every day, hoping that the money might have gone into it. But it hadn’t. Today, before hearing from Fury, he’d almost made up his mind that he ought to call Dekko. Not to put any pressure on him, just to get a sense of timescale. But he still wasn’t sure.
Now he’d hardly left Fury in the nuns’ garden when his phone rang and his heart rose when he saw the name on the display. ‘Dekko! How’s it going, mate?’
‘Not a bother on me. Everything’s grand.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Sitting in the snug in Quinn’s. Can I buy you a pint?’
Quinn’s was the pub where they’d had lunch with Conor and The Divil had devoured Dekko’s crisps.
‘Well – yeah. I didn’t know you were back in Finfarran.’
‘Yeah, mate, when I arrived it was kind of late, so I didn’t call.’
The signal got bad, as it always did, as Dan walked across Broad Street.
‘Listen, I’ll jump in the jeep now, and come over, okay?’
‘No problem. I’ll get your man to start your pint.’
On the motorway, Dan put his foot down, the relief still surging through his veins. They’d get some business stuff sorted out now, before everyone got distracted by Christmas parties. And Fury could take that knowing look off his face.
Actually, though, it wasn’t a bad thing to be doing some work for the Winter Fest. A decent job on the stalls would make them look classy, and Bríd would be pleased. She and Aideen reckoned that if Lissbeg won the competition it would give the deli a lift. They were up in the air about the journalists on Phil’s invitation list. People who wrote about artisan food and country style and stuff. Apparently an interview or a colour piece could work wonders, and you didn’t often get Dublin papers coming out into the sticks. It was a huge deal for Bríd, who never stopped worrying about her business. And Dan could understand that.
The pint was on the table in the snug when he got there, with a whiskey chaser beside it. ‘Christ, Dekko, that’s pushing the boat out. It isn’t lunchtime yet.’
Dekko grinned and said they had something to celebrate.
‘Really? What?’
‘Well, I’d say you were getting a sense that I’ve been having a cash-flow issue.’
‘Have you?’ Dan put his pint down, suddenly feeling cold.
Dekko laughed at him. ‘“Been having”, I said, not “am having”. It’s all sorted.’
He’d been working with his uncle on an import deal, he said, that got kind of tricky. The red tape in this country would drive you mad. You’d think if artisan producers were trying to earn a decent living, and businesses were willing to buy and sell their goods, then people would help them. You’d think a few laws would get made up there in the Dáil that would give an ordinary man a break. But not at all: the hoops you had to jump through were wojus. And everyone all down the line had to have his cut. The excise man and the feckin’ politicians, and even the bloody guard out on the beat. And there’s poor guys who have goods to sell, and can’t even get them to a marketplace.
Dan had a vague memory of Bríd saying the same sort of thing about biscuits and cakes. You couldn’t just make them and sell them, these days, you had to put up with all sorts of inspectors coming in, poking round your kitchen.
‘Well, there you are! That’s what I’m saying.’ Dekko knocked back his pint. ‘Anyway, there’s a crowd of lads I know over in Spain. Me and me uncle have dealings with them. Nicest men you’d meet in a day’s walk. They make brandy for export. A little family business – grandad passing on the method to the sons, mammy inside in the kitchen doing the books. They’ve been at it for generations, and every bit of traditional knowledge stored away up here.’ He tapped his forehead with his finger and then shook his head sadly. ‘We had them set up with a few lads that would take the product here in Ireland. And it’s decent stuff, you know, Dan. Not the gut-rot you’d get from some of the big corporations.’
Dan nodded. ‘God, some of the things you’d read on the internet about chemicals put in commercial product would frighten you.’
‘That’s it. But tell that to the politicians with their snouts in the corporate trough. They don’t want to know. Or, more to the point, they know damn well, but they don’t care.’
‘So what’s going to happen to your lads in Spain? Are they banjaxed?’
‘They are not. Because I’m not going to let that happen, mate.’
Dan looked at him in admiration. Here was a guy with cash-flow issues of his own, who was still out there ready to fight for the little fella. ‘How will you manage it?’
‘Done and dusted. Signed, sealed, and delivered. I have the buyers at this end, ready and waiting. The lads in Spain have a cousin who owns a boat. And last night we brought the first consignment of brandy over to Ireland.’
‘What – just stuck it in a boat?’
‘Loaded it up, brought it over, and to hell with the bloody authorities. It’s safe as houses down in your shed on the pier.’