Despite the old man being given a stretch in Mountjoy at his so-called trial, Ross O'Carroll-Kelly manages to find consolation in the kindness of Mount Anville old girls. And, after all, he is writing for the Irish Timesnow.
'Have you seen her yet?"
That's what he goes to me, over his shoulder, sitting in the bench in front of me.
I'm like, "Who?" and he's there, "Herself, Ross. Madam! No invite to the garden party this year. Understandable," he goes, flicking his thumb in the direction of the judge, "in the circumstances."
I'm there, "I've already told you - I only go in there to pick up my expenses. And you've a lot more to worry about than gorden porties. You're looking at a five-stretch here. How the fock could you do it - as in, like, plead guilty?"
He's like, "Because I am guilty, Ross - according to the standards by which I'm being judged."
I go, "I thought you'd put up a fight. What about all that stuff you said to me about the gleaming new Ireland, with infrastructure and investment and full employment, and how that was always your vision of the future, and the vision of all those others currently being pilloried before the tribunals?"
He doesn't answer.
I'm there, "You just want to be a mortyr - for all your mates out in Portmornck. I can't believe you settled with the Revenue . . ."
"And the Criminal Assets Bureau," he goes, not ashamed of it or anything.
I'm like, "You gave them everything, including my Z4. Have you any idea what an actual dickhead you are?"
The judge goes, "I'm sure we're all very interested in your Z4, whatever that might be, but if you two are quite finished, we'll proceed with the case . . ."
*******
SHE'S, LIKE, PRETTY surprised to see me, though not as surprised as I am to see her, standing there under a banner that says, Mount Anville Class of 1997.
She looks amazing.
Straight away when she cops me, it's like, "What are you doing here?" as in she's not a happy bunny to see me?
I'm like, "Er, hello? It's, like, Ron Black's, Sorcha - in other words a public place," and then - possibly a bit childish this - I let my eyes sweep the bor, then I go, "A few familiar faces in here, it has to be said."
"Hordly surprising," she goes. "You went through my year like a pathogen," which is bang out of order, I'm pretty sure, even if I haven't got an Eliza Dushku what it means.
Did I mention that she looks amazing?
"I suppose you've heard the rumours," I go. "I'm thinking of going back playing rugby," but she turns her head, roysh, refusing to meet my stare. Then she's there, "Ross - don't do this."
I'm like, "As in Blackrock. Or maybe even Clontorf. Well, their thirds," and she goes quiet for, like, 10, maybe 15 seconds, then she's like, "That one's not going to work anymore, Ross. I've grown up. It's about time you did, too."
So now I'm suddenly having one of my world-famous intellectual moments. "Looking back," I go, "our problem was we both wanted, like, different things out of life?" and, quick as a flash, she's there, "Yeah, I wanted to abide by the vows we made on our wedding day, you wanted to have sex with our daughter's nanny."
It's like, woah, of course it's going to sound bad if you put it like that.
I go to put my orm around her but she swats it away, roysh, with the force of a woman who's been playing tag rugby for most of the summer. "Oh my God," she goes, "you actually need to get over yourself, you know that?" and she storms off, roysh, and of course every set of mince pies is suddenly looking at me, so I just, like, roll my eyes, as if to say, you can't talk to them when they're like that, can you?
I turn back to the bor, order another pint of the Dutch stuff and the next thing I hear is a bird's voice going, "Hi, Ross."
It's Ellie Banaher, as in Ellie who played the lyre in the joint production we did of Annie Get Your Gun. Or was it the bassoon?
I've had my sweaty way with her once or twice down through the years. She has a great boat race, it has to be said - a bit like Tea Leoni - but the bod wouldn't be the Rory Best; we're talking two breasts short of a dinner box.
I'm there, "Ellie, how the hell are you?" which of course isn't a question, roysh, it's a figure of speech, but all of a sudden she's going, "Aportment, job, cor . . ." and she's counting these things off on her fingers. When she reaches her fourth finger - her ring finger - she wiggles it at me, showing off a diamond that's probably visible from space, and she goes, "Engaged - and we've been on three holidays this year . . ."
I'm thinking, that's the thing about these school reunions - you ask a simple question and you end up getting a PowerPoint presentation.
Suddenly, Sorcha's stood on a high stool, with a microphone in her hand, going, "Can everyone hear me?" and immediately there's, like, total silence in the bor.
"Thank you all so much for coming," she goes. "It's hord to believe that it's 16 years since we entered into Mount Anville, all young girls unsure of ourselves and our place in the world. Today, we gather as adults and it's great to see that everyone's looking so well and doing so well for themselves . . ."
Everyone claps.
She goes, "I, for instance, have a beautiful baby girl and I'm running my own fashion boutique in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre, with exclusive Love Kylie, Chloe and Rock and Republic lines . . ."
Not a Charlie Bird about getting married to yours truly, of course. Probably doesn't want to have to go into the whole separation thing.
"Last year I met one of my all-time heroes - apart from obviously Aung San Suu Kyi and Ken Saro Wiwa - and that was Stella McCartney . . ."
Another round of applause - you can see why she was head girl now. They lap this kind of stuff up.
"We were very lucky to have a year in which everyone got on so well and it's no surprise that so many of us have stayed in contact with each other. I really value my friendships from my time in school, as I'm sure all of you do.
"A couple of girls have e-mailed apologies, which I promised I'd read out. Bryana Kavanagh says, 'Sorry, I can't be there tonight. But just to let you know, I'm doing really, really well in event management and I'm going out with a really nice guy for three years.' And Sarah Moore says, 'Hi, everyone. Sorry I can't make it. I'm actually writing this e-mail sitting on a yacht in the Mediterranean, drinking a strawberry daiquiri. I've lost two stone since most of you saw me last . . .'"
That gets another clap.
Then Sorcha's like, "Oh, and just to remind everyone - we've booked Fitzers for nine, so we should all stort making our way there in, like, half an hour. Thank you."
When she's finished, roysh, she makes a beeline for me, presumably to ask me to leave. But she doesn't. What she actually says is sorry.
"I was way horsh," she goes. "Just because we've broken up doesn't mean we can't be civil to each other. And I know this is a majorly stressful time for you - how are you feeling about it?"
I'm like, "Pretty confident actually - providing Drico's fit for the Orgentina game . . ."
She's there, "I meant your dad's trial, Ross. The sentencing is tomorrow, isn't it?"
I'm like, "Oh - yeah," and I'm about to tell her, roysh, that I hope they throw the key away, that he can, like, rot in prison for all I basically care, when out of the blue she goes, "Dad said he saw you at the Berkeley Court auction. He said you bought your dad's favourite stool."
I can feel my face suddenly redden and she kisses me on the cheek and tells me that that was, like, such a sweet thing to do.
*******
THE END COMES unbelievably quickly.
His barrister - his new barrister, who actually doesn't look that much older than me - basically holds his hands up and goes, okay, my client admits basically everything, but please go easy on him and shit?
"Listen to that cloying sycophant," Hennessy goes. He's sitting next to me in the public gallery. "Oh, yes, he's going all the way to the top, that one - tongue up all the right holes in the Law Library . . ."
Hennessy would never have let the old man plead guilty, which is why the old man dropped him like honours physics.
At four o'clock on day two of the so-called trial, the judge tells the old man to stand up, which he does.
"Charles O'Carroll-Kelly," he goes, "whatever private beliefs you hold, the crimes of which you are guilty were not victimless crimes. As a property developer, you paid bribes in order to subvert the proper planning process and you did it in the name of greed. Most of your developments went ahead against the wishes and better advice of local authority planners, whose job it was to ensure a sensible and balanced growth for the city and county of Dublin. In doing so, you helped to create a legacy of social problems in many of the city's poorer areas . . ."
Oh my God, if they're going to blame him for Ranelagh, he's going to end up getting life here.
"Your systematic evasion of tax was part of a general culture of avoidance, which deprived the Irish economy of billions of euros per annum, starving public services such as schools and hospitals of money . . ."
It goes without saying that Ronan's loving this. He's sat beside me, roysh, turned around in his seat, telling total strangers that that's his granddad up there in the dock, and that if he'd named names he'd be sleeping in his own bed tonight, but he didn't.
"He kept that shut," he goes, pointing to his mouth. "First rule of the underwurdled . . ."
"In sentencing you," the judge goes, "I must give due regard to your cooperation in this matter. Once some measure of corruption was discovered, you came clean, saving the Garda thousands of man-hours following the complex paper trail that constituted your personal finances for the best part of your life. I note, too, that you have been an exemplary remand prisoner and the Governor and staff of Mountjoy jail have been lavish in their praise of the leadership role you have assumed amongst your fellow prisoners. You have started, I understand, a prison rugby team, helping at least four long-term heroin addicts to achieve complete withdrawal from soccer.
"I hope that, upon your release, you will continue to work with those who have never enjoyed the same privileges as you and that this work will be part of your reparation to the community . . .
"However, given the scale of your dishonesty - and in particular your abuse of public office - I am going to impose a custodial sentence. And that sentence is two-and-a-half years' imprisonment. You look like you have something to say, Mr O'Carroll-Kelly," and everyone, like, suddenly sits forward in their seats.
And all the old man goes - the only words he speaks in two days sitting there - "With respect, Your Honour, it would be wrong to interpret my - inverted commas - co-operation with the Criminal Assets Bureau and the Revenue Commissioners as an indicator of remorse on my part. I feel none. Thank you . . ."
And then it's back to the can with him.
As he's being led away, Ronan shouts, "Don't worry about it, Charlie - we'll boorst you out of there," and everyone in the courtroom just, like, cracks up laughing, obviously thinking it's a joke.
Outside, I notice the goys - we're talking Oisinn, JP and Fionn. Nice of them to turn up. And they're talking to someone.
A bird.
And I'd know that €2,000 Emilio Pucci kaftan anywhere.
It's Sorcha.
I tip over. It's like, a hug from my estranged wife and high-fives from the goys.
"Result, dude!" JP goes. "With remission, and the time he's already served, the goy'll be out for Chrimbo."
"And that stool," Sorcha goes, "will make - oh my God - such an amazing present."
I'm there, "Right now, I'm torn between giving it to him, to see the happiness on his face, and smashing it up with a hammer."
Sorcha's like, "That's, like, the perfect metaphor for your life, Ross."
And of course I'm going to have to Google the word later on, but I still nod like I know what she means.