I’m working away at my desk – well, let’s be honest, I’m playing Tetris – when I suddenly get the smell of Cohiba smoke that always takes me back to being in my cot as a baby. I look up to see the old man standing in front of me with a ridiculous smile on his face.
"You know it's technically illegal to smoke in the workplace?" I go – which he seems to find for some reason hilarious?
“Technically illegal,” he goes, between sobs of laughter. “You really are a tonic, Kicker. You know who’ll be amused by that? Your godfather. He’s outside in the car.”
I’m like, “Er, what’s he doing outside in the car?”
"Because we're taking you off," he goes, "for nine holes in Killiney, not to mention . . ." and then he takes out his hipflask, "one or two Death in the Afternoons!"
It’s at that exact moment that Belinda, our head of human resources, tips over. “Excuse me,” she goes, “smoking is not permitted in this office.”
He throws his head back and laughs so hord that everyone ends up looking up from their desks. He goes, "I see your trademark humour is proving infectious, Ross. If love be the treasure, then laughter be the key! Someone said that – someone or other."
I’m there, “It’s cool, Belinda. We’re leaving.”
I grab my jacket and I follow him outside. The old man gets into the front of the Merc and I get into the back with Hennessy. The old man tells him what I said, then what Belinda said and Hennessy laughs, except he thinks the punch line is human resources. “What the hell do they do?” he goes. “They’re like the tonsils of the workplace. Everyone has them, but the point of them is a mystery.”
I ask the old man for the hipflask. I think I’m going to need it.
“Actually,” the old man goes as he hands it to me over his shoulder, “your godfather and I have got you out of work this afternoon under false pretences. What I told you back in the office, that was one my famous red herrings, quote-unquote.”
“Where are we going then?”
“All in good time, Kicker. All in good time.”
Kennet, the old man's driver, points the cor in the direction of Ringsend – or Dublin 4e, as my old dear campaigned to have it redesignated. Ten minutes later, we pull up in the middle of the docks, where a helicopter is waiting for us.
God, I haven't been in a chopper in, like, years. Do you remember when getting a helicopter was like getting a taxi? I genuinely believe that when we tell our grandchildren about the Celtic Tiger, they're going to be like, "Wow, that's amazing! You goys really knew how to live!"
We all sit into the back of the thing, then we take off. Five minutes later, we're flying over Dublin's northside, then five minutes after that, we're over, like, the sea?
"Look down there," the old man goes, shouting to be heard over the sound of the, I don't know, rotor blades?
I’m there, “Okay, what am I actually looking at?”
“That little island down there. Do you see it?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Lambay Island. Or – as it will soon be known – Aquatraz!”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s right, Kicker! Your godfather and I got it! We won the contract to build and operate Ireland’s first ever private prison, which will be large enough to accommodate an absolute maximum of 2,000 water charge non-payers – although it’ll take twice that at a push.”
He produces a bottle of champagne from somewhere and he storts twisting the metal cap. I’m, like, speechless.
“I thought water chorges were being possibly scrapped,” I go. “That’s what Sorcha said.”
Hennessy’s there, “The issue has been referred to a commission.”
I notice he says “commission” the same way he says “human resources”.
"That's right," the old man goes. "They'll make recommendations in perhaps a year's time, then once the political heat has gone out of the issue, the Government will say, 'Sorry, our hands are tied – bloody Europe and so forth!' and anyone who insists on not paying will be dealt with by the courts, then shipped off to Aquatraz."
I’m there, “But what if this commission you’re talking about recommends that the chorges be scrapped.”
There’s, like, silence for a good 10 seconds, then the two of them burst out laughing. “Oh, it’s true what they say,” the old man goes. “Laughter really is the best medicine. Except in the case of dysentery, when it’s probably best avoided at all costs! Pilot, can you fly a bit lower?”
The pilot takes us down, so we’re suddenly, like, hovering a few hundred feet above the island.
“The Department of Justice and the Office of Public Works absolutely loved our tender,” the old man goes, popping the cork on the bottle. “Aquatraz is going to be the most sophisticated detention centre in all of Europe, with a revolutionary camera matrix surveillance system that records every corner of the facility at all times of the day and night.”
Hennessy goes, "We studied all sorts of prisons, including Tadmor in Syria. That was my favourite."
“Well,” the old man goes, “I don’t think we’ll be carrying out torture, human rights abuses and summary executions!”
“Hey,” Hennessy goes, “let’s not second-guess the recommendations of the commission.”
They both laugh at this, then Hennessy opens the door of the helicopter and storts looking down, while the old man pours us each a glass of champagne.
“The department wants the guard tower moved to the western side of the island,” Hennessy goes, “so it’s more visible from the coast. It’s more of an incentive for people to pay. I think that’s doable, don’t you?”
A thought suddenly flashes through my mind. A possibly bad thought? I could kill Hennessy right now. I could kill this man who for nearly 50 years has been an evil influence on my old man.
All I have to do is release the clip on his seatbelt there and give him a shove and it will all be over.
But he must read my mind, because before I get a chance to even move, his hand reaches for the catch and he goes, “Don’t even think about it, kid.”
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE