The New Collected Short Stories (81 page)

Liam informed the bank that he intended to appeal against the council’s decision, but
he
knew, and so did they, that even if he won, they still would have lost everything by the
time the Supreme Court reached its verdict.

An appeal date was set for the Supreme Court of Madrid to sit in judgement on the Valldemossa project, but before then Liam and Pepe had been forced to sell their homes, as well as what was left
of the company’s assets, to pay lawyers’ bills on both sides of the Irish Sea.

Liam returned to the Flanagan Arms for the first time in twenty-three years.

When Liam and Pepe appeared before the Supreme Court two years later, the senior panel judge expressed considerable sympathy for Mr Casey and Mr Miro, as they had invested ten
years of hard work, as well as their personal fortunes, in a project that both the Valldemossa council and the Supreme Court had considered to be bold, imaginative and of civic importance. However,
the court did not have the authority to overturn the decision of an elected council, even when it was retrospective. Liam bowed his head.

‘Nevertheless,’ the judge continued, ‘this court does have the authority to award compensation in full to the appellants, who carried out their business in good faith, and
fulfilled every obligation required of them by the Valldemossa council. With that in mind, this court will appoint an independent arbitrator to assess the costs Mr Casey and Mr Miro have incurred,
which will include any projected losses.’

As Spaniards were involved, it was another year before the arbitrator presented his findings to the Supreme Court, which necessitated a further six months of making some minor adjustments to the
costs so that no one would be in any doubt about how seriously the court had taken their responsibilities.

The day after the senior judge announced the court’s findings,
El Pais
suggested in its leader that the size of the award was a warning to all politicians not to consider making
retrospective legislation in the future.

The Valldemossa Council was ordered to pay 121 million euros in compensation to Mr Liam Casey, Mr Pepe Miro and their associates.

At the local council election held six months later, the Green Party lost all three of its seats by overwhelming majorities.

Pepe took over the business in Majorca, while Liam retired to Cork, where he purchased a castle with a hundred acres of land. He tells me he has no intention of seeking planning permission, even
for an outhouse.

Observant readers who have followed the timescale during which this story took place might feel that even if the Green Party had failed to overturn Liam and Pepe’s
planning permission, they would have gone bankrupt anyway following the sudden downturn in the world’s economy, and without being paid any compensation. But, as I said at the outset, no one
would believe this tale unless they were told that an Irishman was involved.

‘N
EVER JUDGE A BOOK
by its cover,’ Arnold’s mother always used to tell him.

Despite this piece of sage advice, Arnold took against the man the moment he set eyes on him. The bank had taught him to be cautious when it came to dealing with potential customers. You can
have nine successes out of ten and then one failure can ruin your balance sheet, as Arnold had found to his cost soon after he had joined the bank; he was still convinced that was why his promotion
had been held up for so long.

Arnold Pennyworthy – he was fed up with being told by all and sundry,
That’s an appropriate name for a banker
– had been deputy manager of the Vauxhall branch of the
bank for the past ten years, but had recently been offered the chance to move to Bury St Edmunds as branch manager. Bury St Edmunds might have been one of the bank’s smaller branches, but
Arnold felt that if he could make a fist of it, he still had one more promotion left in him. In any case, he couldn’t wait to get out of London, which seemed to him to have been over-run by
foreigners who had changed the whole character of the city.

When Arnold’s wife had left him without giving a reason – at least, that’s what he told his mother – he had moved into Arcadia Mansions, a large block of flats which he
liked to refer to as apartments. The rent was extortionate, but at least there was a hall porter. ‘It gives the right impression whenever anyone visits me,’ Arnold told his mother. Not
that he had many visitors since his wife had walked out on him. Arcadia Mansions also had the advantage of being within walking distance of the bank, so the extra money he paid out on rent he
clawed back on bus and train fares. The only real disadvantage was that the Victoria line ran directly below the building, so the only time you could be guaranteed any peace was between
twelve-thirty and five-thirty in the morning.

The first time Arnold caught sight of his new neighbour was when they found themselves sharing a lift down to the ground floor. Arnold waited for him to speak, but he didn’t even say good
morning. Arnold wondered if the man even spoke English. He stood back to take a closer look at the most recent arrival. The man was a little shorter than Arnold, around five feet seven inches,
solidly built but not overweight, with a square jaw and what Arnold later described to his mother as soulless eyes. His skin was dark, but not black, so Arnold couldn’t be sure where he was
from. The unkempt beard reminded him of another of his mother’s homilies: ‘Never trust a man with a beard. He’s probably hiding something.’

Arnold decided to have a word with the porter. Dennis was the fount of all knowledge when it came to what took place in Arcadia Mansions and was certain to know all about the man. When the lift
doors opened, Arnold stood back to allow the new resident to get out first. He waited until the man had left the building before strolling across to join Dennis at the reception desk.

‘What do we know about him?’ asked Arnold, nodding at the man as he disappeared into a black cab.

‘Not a lot,’ admitted Dennis. ‘He’s taken a short-term lease and says he won’t be with us for long. But he did warn me that he’d be having visitors from time
to time.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Arnold. ‘Any idea where he comes from, or what he does for a living?’

‘Not a clue,’ said Dennis. ‘But he certainly didn’t get that tan holidaying in the South of France.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Arnold, laughing. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Dennis, I’m not prejudiced. I’ve always liked Mr Zebari from the other end of my
corridor. Keeps himself to himself, always respectful.’

‘That’s true,’ said Dennis. ‘But then you must remember that Mr Zebari is a radiologist.’ Not that he was altogether sure what a radiologist was.

‘Well, I must get a move on,’ said Arnold. ‘Can’t afford to be late for work. Now that I’m going to be manager, I have to set an example to the junior staff. Keep
your ear to the ground, Dennis,’ he added, touching the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Although our masters have decided it’s not politically correct, I have to tell you I
don’t like the look of him.’

The porter gave a slight nod as Arnold pushed through the swing doors and headed off in the direction of the bank.

The next time Arnold came across the new resident was a few days later; he was returning from work when he saw him chatting to a young man dressed from head to toe in leather and sitting astride
a motorbike. The moment the two of them spotted Arnold, the young man pulled down his visor, revved up and shot away. Arnold hurried into the building, relieved to find Dennis sitting behind the
reception desk.

‘Those two look a bit dodgy to me,’ said Arnold.

‘Not half as dodgy as some of the other young men who’ve been visiting him at all hours of the night and day. There are times when I can’t be sure if this is Albert Embankment
or the Khyber Pass.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Arnold as the lift door opened and Mr Zebari stepped out.

‘Good evening, Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis with a smile. ‘On night duty again?’

‘Afraid so, Dennis. No rest for the wicked when you work for the NHS,’ he added as he left the building.

‘A real gentleman, that Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis. ‘Sent my wife a bunch of flowers on her birthday.’

It was a couple of weeks later, after arriving home late from work, that Arnold spotted the motorbike again. It was parked up against the railing but there was no sign of its
owner. Arnold walked into the building, to find a couple of young men chatting loudly in a tongue he didn’t recognize. They headed towards the lift, so he held back, as he had no desire to
join them.

Dennis waited until the lift door had closed before saying, ‘No prizes for guessing who they’re visiting. God knows what they get up to behind closed doors.’

‘I have my suspicions,’ said Arnold, ‘but I’m not going to say anything until I’ve got proof.’

When he got out of the lift at the fourth floor, Arnold could hear raised voices coming from the apartment opposite his. Noticing that the door was slightly ajar, he slowed down and casually
glanced inside.

A man was lying flat on his back on the floor, his arms and legs pinned down by the two men he’d seen getting into the lift, while the youth he’d spotted on the motorbike was holding
a kitchen knife above the man’s head. All around the room were large blown-up photographs of the devastation caused by the 7/7 bus and tube bombings that had recently appeared on the front
pages of every national newspaper. The moment the youth spotted Arnold staring at him, he walked quickly across the room and closed the door.

For a moment, Arnold just stood there shaking, unsure what to do next. Should he run downstairs and tell Dennis what he’d witnessed, or make a dash for the relative safety of his apartment
and call the police?

Hearing what sounded like a roar of laughter coming from inside the apartment, Arnold ran across to his front door, fumbled for his keys and attempted to push his office Yale into the lock,
while continually looking over his shoulder. When he eventually found the right key, he was so nervous he tried to force it in upside down and ended up dropping it on the floor. He picked it up and
managed to open the door with his third attempt.

Once Arnold was inside he quickly double-bolted the door and put the safety chain in place, although he still didn’t feel safe. When he’d caught his breath, he dragged the largest
chair in the room across the floor and rammed it up against the door, then collapsed into it, trembling, as he tried to think what he should do next.

He thought again about phoning the police, but then became fearful that the man would discover who had reported him and the kitchen knife would end up hovering above his head. And when the
police raided the building, a fight might break out in the corridor. How many innocent people would become involved? Mr Zebari would surely open his door to find out what was going on and come face
to face with the terrorists. It was a risk Arnold wasn’t willing to take.

Several minutes passed, and as he could hear nothing happening outside, Arnold nipped across to the sideboard and shakily poured himself a large whisky. He drank it down in two gulps, then
poured himself another before slumping back into the chair, clinging on to the bottle. He took another gulp of whisky, more than he usually drank in a week, but his heart was still pounding. He sat
there, his shirt saturated with sweat, terrified to move, until the sun had disappeared behind the highest building. He took another swig, and then another, until he finally passed out.

Arnold couldn’t be sure how many hours he’d slept, but he woke with a start when the clickety-clack of the first tube could be heard rumbling below him. He saw the empty bottle of
whisky lying on the floor by his feet and tried to sober up. In the cold, clear light of morning, he knew exactly what his mother would expect him to do.

When the time came for him to leave for work, he tentatively pulled the heavy chair back a few inches, then placed an ear against the door. Were the men standing outside in the corridor waiting
for him to come out? He unlocked the door without making the slightest sound and slowly removed the safety chain. He waited for some time before gingerly opening the door an inch, and then another
inch, before peeping into the corridor. He was greeted by silence and no sign of anyone.

Arnold took off his shoes, stepped out into the corridor, closed the door quietly behind him and tiptoed slowly towards the lift, never once taking his eyes off the door on the other side of the
corridor. There was no sound coming from inside, and he wondered if they’d panicked and made a run for it. He jabbed at the lift button several times, and it seemed to take forever before the
doors finally slid open. He jumped inside and pressed G, but even when the doors had closed, he didn’t feel safe. By the time the lift reached the ground floor he’d put his shoes back
on and tied the laces. When the doors slid open he ran out of the building, not even looking in Dennis’s direction when he said, ‘Good morning.’ He didn’t stop running until
he had reached the bank. Arnold opened the front door with the correct key and quickly stepped inside, setting off the alarm. It was the first time he’d had to turn it off.

Arnold went straight to the lavatory, and when he looked at himself in the mirror two bleary red eyes in an unshaven face stared back at him. He tidied himself up as best he could before
creeping into his office. He hoped that when the staff arrived, not too many of them would notice that he hadn’t shaved and was wearing the same clothes as he had worn the day before.

He sat at his desk and began to write down everything he’d witnessed during the past month, going into particular detail when it came to what had taken place the night before. Once
he’d finished, he sat staring into space for some time before he picked up the phone on his desk and dialled 999.

‘Emergency services, which service do you require?’ said a cool voice.

‘Police please,’ said Arnold, trying not to sound nervous. He heard a click, then another voice came on the line and said, ‘Police service. What is the nature of your
emergency?’