“It says here,” Sorcha goes, looking up from her phone, “that the ban on eviction notices and rent increases expired on the second of August.”
The old man’s like, “Hah! You see? You’re not dealing with fools! We are from a class of people who understand the law and know how to make it work to their advantage!”
Sorcha's there, "Er, I just Googled it?"
“Don’t say anything else!” the old man goes, raising his hand. “Legally, I think this is what you might call an – inverted commas – checkmate moment!”
Yeah, no, to cut a long story short, Sorcha's old dear and my old man are supposed to be moving into the Lalors' holiday home in Brittas Bay, except three dudes – studenty types – have been refusing to leave since the lease expired in, like, May?
“We can’t live here anyway,” Sorcha’s old dear goes, a definite wobble in her voice. “Look what they’ve done to the place!”
Sorcha’s there, “Don’t worry, Mom, we can clean it up in no time.”
"We?" I go, hoping she's not including me in that?
She's like, "Obviously, I don't mean that literally. I'm saying we can pay someone to clean it up in no time."
The old man rounds on the three dudes then. He’s like, “How dare you treat other people’s property like this! You hide behind the law to get an extra few months living in someone else’s house – rent-free, I might add! – and you turn it into a bloody well pigsty!”
I’m there, “Hey, chill out, Dad.”
I can see one of the three dudes looking at me a bit – I don't know – weirdly then?
He’s there, “I’m trying to work out who’s who here.”
I’m like, “What do you mean?”
“You and her,” he goes, flicking his thumb in Sorcha’s general postcode. “You’re not, like, brother and sister, are you?”
I'm there, "Er, no? She's my literally wife."
"Your literally wife. So that's your dad – am I right?"
“Yeah, no, he’s old man – what’s your basic point?”
"And that's her mother, yeah?" at the same time pointing at Sorcha's old dear.
“Could be her stepmother,” one of the other dudes goes.
"She called her Mom, though. I would never call my stepmother Mom. And this dude called her Mrs Lalor a second ago, so she's obviously not married to his dad."
Sorcha's like, "Yes, she's my actual Mom. I'm sorry, where exactly is this conversation going?"
"Is that not, like, weird for you two?" the dude goes. "Your old man and your old dear – you know, doing it?"
I’m there, “It is a bit weird alright.”
Sorcha’s like, “Ross!”
“I’m sorry, Sorcha. I have a reputation for calling it – it’s been earned over many, many years – and I’m not going to stop now. I’m calling this for what it is. Weird. Even sick.”
“What,” the same dude goes, “so this is only, like, a recent thing?”
Sorcha’s old dear is there, “That’s none of your business!”
But I'm there, "Yeah, no, since the stort of the lockdown. They were, like, cocooning in our gaff – both separated, very recently. He storted giving her golfing tips and, well, you can probably guess what way that went. Can I have one of those beers, by the way?"
The dude hands me a can of something with, like, German writing on it. I open it and knock back a mouthful. It tastes like the house smells. Of urine.
“So, what,” the dude goes, “I’m presuming you and your wife aren’t happy about the situation, so you’ve told them they have to go?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, our teenage daughter drank a naggin of vodka and spewed into a neighbour’s swimming pool. Sorcha thinks that she’s lost her moral compass – direct quote – because her grandmother from one side and her grandfather from the other side are, let’s use plain language here, knocking boots.”
I have to say, I find this dude very easy to talk to. I think I’ve forgotten since the lockdown what a social animal I am, especially if someone is giving me free beer.
Sorcha's there, "Er, Ross, can you please stop telling other people our private business?"
The dude’s like, “So you’ve thrown them out and they want us to vacate this place so they can use it as a love shack?”
I could actually imagine me and this dude becoming mates. I’m just about to ask him if he has any interest in rugby when the old man suddenly lets a roar out of him.
He’s like, “How DARE you judge us? You are not FIT for the job! Pack up your things and get the HELL out of this house! This! INSTANT!”
I’m eyeing a second can.
“We’ve been told not to go anywhere,” the dude goes. “By my dad’s solicitor. He said it’ll take you ages to get us out.”
The old man laughs.
"Well," he goes, "you are about to meet my solicitor! Mr Hennessy Coghlan-O'Hara, BL – that's Bachelor of Laws, to us mere mortals!"
“Yeah, that’s my dad’s solicitor as well,” the dude goes. “He’s the one who told us not to leave.”
The old man turns to Sorcha.
The old man's like, 'Five grand?' like it's a massive amount of money to him
He’s like, “Does that mean he can’t act for me in this case? Would it represent a conflict, given that he’s already been engaged by one porty in the dispute?”
Sorcha’s like, “I don’t know, Chorles.”
He goes, "See can your famous Google come up with the answer," then he looks at the three dudes and smiles. "You see, Hennessy and I have been friends – more than that, golfing portners – for a long, long time. And while I'm not in the business of making threats, all I will say is that he knows some very bad people."
“Give us five grand,” the dude suddenly goes, “and we’ll leave.”
The old man's like, "Five grand?" like it's a massive amount of money to him. I've taken more out of the pocket of his Cole Haan camel hair coat and he hasn't even noticed when he's sobered up.
“What’s it going to cost you?” the dude goes, “to get us beaten up and thrown out? Ten grand?”
The old man’s there, “I’d have to check with Hennessy, but I think it’s something in that region.”
“Just pay them,” Sorcha’s old dear goes, smiling at him – and my guts do a backflip. “Then me and my Charlie-Warlie can get on with the rest of our lives!”