The Devil I Know by Claire Kilroy Page B

the clown answered.
    ‘That’s eight figures, Dessie. A minute ago, you said you needed seven.’ It was the three semi-Ds all over again.
    He displayed his palms. ‘Prices are rocketing. There’s a boom on.’
    I raised the phone to my ear. ‘He says he needs ten million.’
    ‘And what percentage of that is for the site.’
    I lowered the phone again. ‘How much of that is for the site?’
    ‘All of it.’
    I raised the phone. ‘He says the ten million is for the site alone.’
    Tocka tocka . M. Deauville had a subscription to every credit-rating agency and private financial database going, his own personal copy of the big black ledger of sins. ‘Mr Hickey would need to put at least 390 units on it to return a satisfactory profit. And a hotel or multi-storey car park to secure valuable tax subsidies. Get him to submit a detailed proposal to you by Monday. But yes, Castle Holdings is interested.’
    ‘This is the purest form of speculation,’ I objected, relocating to evade Hickey only to find him relocating to tail me like some sort of cosmic detritus entangled in my train. Karma, I suppose you could call it. ‘He’s talking about purchasing land which hasn’t the zoning for the use to which he intends putting it. If he doesn’t get a high-rise rezoning – and frankly he hasn’t a hope in an area of outstanding natural beauty like this – well, the land is worth a fraction of the ten million he proposes to borrow to pay for it. You won’t get your money back.’
    Tocka tocka on the other end of the line, followed by silence as M. Deauville considered the results on the screen. It is a regrettable fact that many of us recovering alcoholics become workaholics, replacing one addiction with another. Tocka tocka, tocka tocka , and then a wry snort of approval. ‘Don’t worry,’ M. Deauville advised me. ‘In light of his recent track record with the various Dublin planning authorities, I think it’s safe to say that Mr Hickey knows the very man.’
    ‘What did he say?’ Hickey wanted to know after M. Deauville and I had finished up with a quick recitation of the Serenity Prayer.
    ‘He says you know the very man. Submit a detailed proposal to me by Monday.’
    Hickey lit up. I thought he was coming over to shake my hand but he walked right past me, gauging his location in relation to the perimeter wall, the road, the railway line. He looked up at the sun and down at his shadow, consulted his site plan and counted out paces, searching for the buried chest of gold with his pirate’s treasure map. X marks the spot.
    Finally he found it. He lowered the plan and looked about himself, filled his lungs with sea air. ‘I’m building me hotel right here,’ he proclaimed, throwing his arms wide, a man unlocking the energies of the earth’s molten core and channelling them into the universe. Pandora’s Box was open for business. ‘An it’s going to be eleven storeys high!’

Knew him?
    Knew him? He had his number on speed dial. He took out his phone and got an appointment there and then, and hung up and winked at me. ‘I know the very man,’ he reasserted with swagger in a country where knowing the very man meant everything, and it turned out not to be an empty boast.
    The meeting was scheduled for the 24th of June at one o’clock in a pub on the busy main street of Blanchardstown, the heartland of the Minister’s constituency. I remember that the man was late. The Minister was a full three pints late by the metronomic stroke of Hickey’s drinking arm, which lifted and lowered his glass to beat out time.
    I can also tell you that it was hot. It was a hot sunny day and for this reason we were the only two customers sitting indoors. That suited me perfectly well. I dislike crowds. At the end of a mahogany-panelled corridor to the rear of the bar the beer garden glowed achingly bright. It was peopled with carefree office staff on their lunch breaks. Hickey and I, pale against the varnished murk of the