The New Collected Short Stories (20 page)

Whenever Ruth looked back on the past three years – and she often did – she came to the conclusion that Max must have planned everything right down to the last detail. Yes, even
before they had bumped into each other.

A
NDREW WAS
running late, and would have grabbed a taxi if it hadn’t been the rush hour. He entered the crowded Metro and dodged in and out of the
hordes of commuters as they headed down the escalator on their way home.

Andrew wasn’t on his way home. After only four stops he would re-emerge from the bowels of the earth to keep an appointment with Ely Bloom, the Chief Executive of Chase Manhattan in Paris.
Although Andrew had never met Bloom, like all his colleagues at the bank, he was well aware of his reputation. He didn’t ‘take a meeting’ with anyone unless there was a good
reason.

Andrew had spent the forty-eight hours since Bloom’s secretary had called to make the appointment trying to work out what that good reason could possibly be. A simple switch from
Crédit Suisse to Chase seemed the obvious answer – but it was unlikely to be that simple if Bloom was involved. Was he about to make Andrew an offer he couldn’t refuse? Would he
expect him to return to New York after he had spent less than two years in Paris? So many questions floated through his mind. He knew he should stop speculating, as they would all be answered at
six o’clock. He would have run down the escalator, but it was too crowded.

Andrew knew he had a few chips stacked on his side of the table – he had headed up the foreign exchange desk at Crédit Suisse for almost two years, and it was common knowledge that
he was outperforming all of his rivals. The French bankers had simply shrugged their shoulders when they were told of Andrew’s success, while his American rivals just tried to persuade him to
leave his present position and join them. Whatever Bloom might offer him, Andrew was confident Crédit Suisse would match it. Whenever he had received other approaches during the past twelve
months he had dismissed them with the same polite, boyish grin – but he knew that this time would be different. Bloom wasn’t a man who could be bought off with a polite, boyish
grin.

Andrew didn’t want to move banks, as he was well satisfied with the package Crédit Suisse had given him – and at his age, what young man wouldn’t enjoy working in Paris?
However, it was that time of the year when annual bonuses were being considered, so he was happy to be seen ‘taking a meeting’ with Ely Bloom in the American Bar at the Georges V. It
would be only a matter of hours before someone reported the sighting to his superiors.

When Andrew stepped onto the platform of the Metro, it was so crowded that he wondered if he would be able to get on the first train that pulled into the station. He checked his watch: 5.37. He
should still be well in time for the meeting, but as he had no intention of being late for Mr Bloom, he began to slip through any tiny opening or gap that appeared until he found himself at the
front of the mêlée, well placed to climb on board the next train. Even if he didn’t reach an agreement with Mr Bloom, the man was going to be an important figure in the banking
world for years to come, so there was no point in turning up late and making a bad impression.

Andrew waited impatiently for the next train to emerge from the tunnel. He stared across the track at the opposite platform, and tried to concentrate on what questions Bloom might ask.

What is your present salary?

Can you break your contract?

Are you on a bonus scheme?

Are you willing to return to New York?

The southbound platform was just as crowded as the one he was standing on, and Andrew’s concentration was broken when his eyes settled on a young woman who was glancing at her watch.
Perhaps she also had an appointment she couldn’t afford to be late for.

When she raised her head, he immediately forgot Ely Bloom. He just stared into those deep brown eyes. She remained unaware of her admirer. She must have been about five foot eight, with the most
perfect oval face, olive skin that would never require make-up, and a mop of curly black hair that no hairdresser could possibly have permed. I’m on the wrong side of the track, he told
himself, and it’s too late to do anything about it.

She wore a beige-coloured raincoat, the tied belt leaving no question as to how slim and graceful her figure was, and her legs – or as much as he could see of them – completed a
perfect package. Better than any Mr Bloom could offer.

She checked her watch again and then looked up, suddenly aware that he was staring at her.

He smiled. She blushed and lowered her head just as two trains glided into the station from opposite ends of the platform. Everyone standing behind Andrew pushed forward to claim a place on the
waiting train.

When it pulled out of the station, Andrew was the only person left on the platform. He stared across at the train on the other side, and watched it slowly accelerate out of the station. When it
had disappeared into the tunnel, Andrew smiled again. Only one person remained on the opposite platform, and this time she returned his smile.

You may ask how I know this story to be true. The answer is simple. I was told it at Andrew and Claire’s tenth wedding anniversary earlier this year.

‘T
HERE’S ONE PROBLEM
I haven’t touched on,’ said Billy Gibson. ‘But first, let me refill your glass.’

For the past hour the two men had sat quietly in the corner of the King William Arms discussing the problems of running a police station on the border of Northern Ireland and Eire. Billy Gibson
was retiring after thirty years in the force, the past six of them as Chief of Police. His successor, Jim Hogan, had been brought in from Belfast, and the talk was that if he made a good fist of
it, his next stop would be as Chief Constable.

Billy took a long draught, and settled back before he began his story.

‘No one can be quite sure of the truth about the house that straddles the border, but, as with all good Irish stories, there are always several half-truths circulating at any one time. I
need to tell you a little of the house’s history before I come to the problem I’m having with its present owners. To do that I must mention, if only in passing, one Patrick
O’Dowd, who worked in the planning department of Belfast City Council.’

‘A nest of vipers at the best of times,’ chipped in the new Chief.

‘And those were not the best of times,’ said the retiring Chief, before taking another sip of Guinness. His thirst quenched, he continued his story.

‘No one has ever understood why O’Dowd granted planning permission for a house to be built on the border in the first place. It was not until it had been completed that someone in
the rates department in Dublin got hold of an Ordnance Survey map, and pointed out to the authorities in Belfast that the border ran right through the middle of the sitting room. Old lags in the
village say the local builder misread the plans, but others assure me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

‘At the time, no one cared too much, because the man the house was built for – Bertie O’Flynn, a widower – was a godfearing man who attended Mass at St Mary’s in
the South, and sipped his Guinness at the Volunteer in the North. I think it’s also worth mentioning,’ said the Chief, ‘that Bertie had no politics.

‘Dublin and Belfast managed to reach a rare compromise, and agreed that as the house’s front door was in the North, Bertie should pay his taxes to the Crown, but as his kitchen and
half-acre of garden were in the South, he should pay his rates to the local council on the other side of the border. For years this agreement caused no difficulties, until dear old Bertie departed
this life and left the house to his son, Eamonn. To cut a long story short, Eamonn was, is, and always will be a bad lot.

‘The boy had been sent to school in the North, although he attended church in the South, and he showed little interest in either. In fact, by the age of eleven, the only thing he
didn’t know about smuggling was how to spell it. By the time he turned thirteen, he was buying cartons of cigarettes in the North, and trading them for crates of Guinness in the South. At the
age of fifteen, he was earning more money than his headmaster, and when he left school he was already running a flourishing business, importing spirits and wine from the South while exporting
cannabis and condoms from the North.

‘Whenever his probation officer knocked on the front door in the North, he retreated to his kitchen in the South. If the local Garda was seen walking up the garden path, Eamonn disappeared
into the dining room, and stayed there until they got bored and drove away. Bertie, who always ended up having to answer the door, got heartily sick of it, which I suspect in the end was the reason
he gave up the ghost.

‘Now, when I took up my appointment as Chief of Police six years ago, I decided to make it my personal ambition to put Eamonn O’Flynn behind bars. But what with the problems
I’ve had to handle on the border and normal policing duties, the truth is I never got round to it. I’d even started to turn a blind eye, until O’Flynn met Maggie Crann, a
well-known prostitute from the South, who was looking to expand her trade in the North. A house with four upstairs bedrooms, two on either side of the border, seemed to be the answer to her prayers
– even if from time to time one of her half-naked customers had to be moved from one side of the house to the other rather quickly, to avoid being arrested.

‘When the Troubles escalated, my opposite number south of the border and I agreed to treat the house as a “no go” area – that was, until Eamonn opened a casino in the
South in a new conservatory which was never to grow a flower – planning permission agreed by Dublin – with the cashier’s office situated in a newly constructed garage that could
take a fleet of buses, but has not yet housed a vehicle of any description – planning permission agreed by Belfast.’

‘Why didn’t you oppose planning permission?’ asked Hogan.

‘We did, but it quickly became clear that Maggie had customers in both departments.’ Billy sighed. ‘But the final blow came when the farmland surrounding the house came up for
sale. No one else got a look-in, and O’Flynn ended up with sixty-five acres, in which he could post lookouts. That gives him more than enough time to move any incriminating evidence from one
side of the house to the other, long before we can reach the front door.’

The glasses were empty. ‘My round,’ said the younger man. He went up to the bar and ordered two more pints.

When he returned, he asked his next question even before he had placed the glasses on the table.

‘Why haven’t you applied for a search warrant? With the number of laws he must be breaking, surely you could have closed the place down years ago?’

‘Agreed,’ said the Chief, ‘but whenever I apply for a warrant, he’s the first person to hear about it. By the time we arrive, all we find is a happily married couple
living alone in a peaceful farmhouse.’

‘But what about your opposite number in the South? It must be in his interests to work with you and . . .’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But there have been five of them in the past seven years, and what with not wishing to harm their promotion prospects, their desire for an easy
life, or straightforward bribery, not one of them has been willing to cooperate. The current Garda Chief is only months away from retirement, and won’t do anything that might harm his
pension. No,’ continued Billy, ‘whichever way you look at it, I’ve failed. And I can tell you, unlike my opposite number, if I could sort out Eamonn O’Flynn once and for
all, I would even be willing to forgo my pension.’

‘Well, you still have another six weeks, and after all you’ve told me, I’d be relieved if O’Flynn was off the patch before I took over. So let’s see if I can come
up with a solution that will solve both our problems.’

‘I’d agree to anything, short of murdering the man – and don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind.’

Jim Hogan laughed, looked at his watch and said, ‘I must be getting back to Belfast.’

The old Chief nodded, downed his last drop of Guinness and accompanied his colleague to the carpark at the back of the pub. Hogan didn’t speak again until he was seated behind the wheel of
his car. He turned on the engine and wound the window down.

‘Are you going to have a farewell party?’

‘Yes,’ said the Chief. ‘On the Saturday before I retire. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I always think a farewell party is an occasion to let bygones be bygones,’ said Jim, without explanation.

The Chief looked puzzled as Jim drove out of the carpark, turned right, and headed north towards Belfast.

Eamonn O’Flynn was somewhat surprised to receive the invitation, as he hadn’t expected to feature on the Chief of Police’s guest list.

Maggie studied the embossed card inviting them to Chief Gibson’s farewell party at the Queen’s Arms in Ballyroney.

‘Are you going to accept?’ she asked.

‘Why would I want to do that,’ responded Eamonn, ‘when the bastard has spent the past six years trying to put me behind bars?’

‘Perhaps it’s his way of burying the hatchet,’ suggested Maggie.

‘Yes, right in the middle of my back, would be my bet. In any case, surely you wouldn’t want to be seen dead with that lot.’

‘Now, there’s where you’re wrong for once,’ said Maggie.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because it would amuse me to see the faces of the wives of those councillors, not to mention the police officers, I’ve shared a bed with.’

‘But it could turn out to be a trap.’

‘I can’t imagine how,’ said Maggie, ‘when we know for certain that them in the South won’t give us any trouble, and anyone who could in the North is sure to be at
the party.’

‘That wouldn’t stop them raiding our place while we’re off the premises.’

‘What a disappointment that will be for them,’ said Maggie, ‘when they discover the staff have been given the night off, and it’s nothing more than the home of two
decent, law-abiding citizens.’