Chance/Chancer
“Dennis! Come in, sit down,” said Sir Leonard Morele, all pink and powdered and silver-haired in his Rubinacci chalk-stripe three-piece.
“Thank you.” Dennis Afrani, swarthy, short and stocky, bustled across to the boardroom table, glancing around the faces, dispensing nods and smiles and murmured ‘good mornings’ before settling into the leather-upholstered cherrywood.
“I imagine you may have some inkling as to why we’ve invited you here this morning?” Morele bared gleaming teeth.
“No, not really, Sir Leonard.” Dennis returned an disingenuous smile – the extra laptop scammed in the upgrade? Wildly-inflated expense claims? The Swedish ‘business’ trip with Karen from Corporate Finance?
“. . . the new branch,” Sir Leonard was saying, “So I’ll ask Harry to take it from here. Harry?”
“Thank you, Sir Leonard.” So that’s it: the rumours were true . . . a new overseas branch, and it could be mine!
“Morning, Dennis,” the CEO smiled.
“Good morning, Harry.” He adopted his ‘serious intent’ expression.
As the CEO began to describe the company’s plans, Dennis’s mind skimmed through the possibilities: he’d heard rumours of the West Coast – prefer San Francisco but LA would be fine – Capetown was another possibility and Perth, even – fantastic climate, golf, sailing! Pushing these thoughts aside, he switched his attention back to the CEO in time to hear: “. . . in Belfast. So, Dennis, what are your thoughts?”
Dennis didn’t blink. “Harry – what can I say? Fantastic opportunity, challenging environment, build from scratch, exactly the sort of chance I relish.”
Belfast? . . . Jesus Christ!!
A week later, he was installed in the Hotel Mercury in Belfast city centre. His line manager, the European MD, had told him to fly back to the UK to see his family at weekends – “if you feel the need, Dennis” – but the deadline for opening the new branch was ten weeks away and had to be met. Imparting this news to his wife, Dennis changed the emphasis to give himself a weekend with Karen, whom he rang on the evening of his first Wednesday in Belfast.
“Take a taxi from the airport and get the driver to bring you straight to Flanagan’s Bar in Victoria Square – it’s a couple of minutes from the Hotel. We’ll have an early evening drink, back to the Hotel and change, then out for dinner at Mickey Deane’s, best food in Belfast. Any problems, ring me, otherwise I’ll see you on Friday evening in Flanagan’s.”
***************
“Same again?”
“Thanks.” Dennis glanced round the bar while the barman pulled a fresh pint. Flanagan’s early evening: there were a couple of dozen drinkers, some solitary, some in pairs, a hum of conversation. The lighting was dim, the décor polished mahogany and mirrored glass; a television behind the bar flickered soundlessly, music was coming from somewhere. “Usually this quiet?”
“Depends. About normal for this time on a Friday. I haven’t seen you in here before, have I? New in town?”
Dennis struggled to understand the barman’s Belfast accent. “Er, yeah, just got here on Monday.”
“Staying in town?”
“At the Mercury.”
The barman slid the pint glass across the bar, took the note, put it in the till and handed back the change. “That’s Franklin Street, isn’t it?”
“That’s the one.”
“Nice place. Planning to be here long?”
“Maybe, see how things go. Anything you’d recommend while I’m here? I’m gonna have some time on my hands.”
“What do you mean . . . tourist stuff?
“Well, yeah. History, famous landmarks, stuff like that. The Troubles interest me, but I guess that’s all over now, isn’t it?”
“There’s no bombs going off these days, if that’s what you mean, but there’s still plenty of things to see: you’ll have heard of the Shankhill?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well that’s just a ten minute walk from here. And there’s plenty of other places around if you like that sort of thing. Excuse me a minute.” The barman went to serve another customer and attended to two more before he came back. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Dennis hesitated, then went on, “You said ‘no bombs these days’: have feelings changed or is it still ‘them and us’?”
“To be honest, nothing’s really changed and I don’t think it ever will. Pretty much everybody’s committed, one way or the other, if you see what I mean. There’re no neutrals round here. Some streets you’d walk down you’d be stopped. Have you had that yet?”
“How do you mean ‘stopped’?”
“If your face isn’t known, they’ll stop you and ask you what you’re doing there and they’ll want to know your religion.”
Dennis smiled. “That wouldn’t be a problem, I’d just tell them the truth: I’m an atheist.”
“You wouldn’t get off the hook that easy, mister: the next question would be ‘are you a Catholic atheist or a Protestant atheist?’”
He grinned, “You serious?”
“Deadly – just like them!”
Dennis took a swig of his pint. “I don’t get it. You all live on the same island, speak the same language, believe in the same god – how difficult can it be to live together?”
“You’re right: you don’t get it. North of the border, we’re not Irish, we’re British and that’s the way we’re going to stay. It’s not just a question of different religions – the way we see it, we’re a different country.”
“But there’s only, what, six million of you, couldn’t you get rid of the border and still keep your way of life? Prosper together, as one community, wouldn’t that work?”
The barman stared at him, “You’ll have to excuse me now, I’ve got customers up the other end to see to.”
Dennis stood, bemused, as the barman went to the other end of the bar. Some of this stuff was just unbelievable! Looking round the bar, he noticed that the clock behind the bar showed 6:30; Karen’s flight landed half-an-hour ago so she should be here soon.
“Hi there!”
Dennis turned to see a middle-aged man with an open, friendly face. “Hi.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” He was a big man, casually dressed, with thick, iron-grey hair, and he spoke with the strangulated vowels of Belfast. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the barman; it’s good to hear an outsider’s point of view sometimes.”
Dennis shifted to face the man. “No, that’s OK, but I don’t actually know that much about the history – and I am meeting someone here quite soon.”
“No bother! My name’s Martin, by the way.” He held out his hand.
“Dennis.”
“Nice to meet you, Dennis. I take it you’re working over here?”
“Yeah, the company’s sent me over to set up a new branch; I’m trying to find premises right now.”
“A lot of places have shut since the recession, I guess you won’t have much trouble finding somewhere – and you should be able to swing a good deal.” He took out a packet of cigarettes. ....“Smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I’m just going out the back to smoke this – it’s quite cosy out there if you wanted to join me?”
“I may as well,” looking at his wrist-watch, “My friend’s not due for another ten minutes.” Dennis followed Martin to the back of the bar where a door led to the smoking area. Part of the yard had been covered in and a windbreak constructed. There was a gas heater near a table with four empty stools. Over in the corner was an outbuilding with two doors, both bearing a ‘Gents’ sign; alongside was a green wooden gate set in the boundary wall. They perched on the stools near the heater and Martin lit his cigarette.
“So, Dennis, these premises, what kind of place will you be wanting exactly?”
Dennis was about to answer, when his eye was caught by one of the doors of the outbuilding swinging open. A large man stepped out; he was wearing jeans and a black donkey jacket but Dennis’s attention was rivetted by the black ski mask over his head. He was staring at Dennis.
“So you’re the bastard with the fancy ideas, are you?” As he spoke, his right hand reached inside his donkey jacket.
“Jesus Christ!” Dennis leapt off his stool, dived for the door back into the bar, yanked it open and raced towards the street door. As he reached it, it opened and Karen walked in. She stopped dead when she saw Dennis, blocking his exit, and he had to shove her roughly to one side to get out onto the pavement. The taxi in which Karen had arrived was still at the kerb; Dennis wrenched open the back door of the cab, threw himself inside and yelled “Go! Go!Go!!” The startled cabbie let out the clutch and drove off, tyres squealing.
Out in the yard black ski mask slipped the balaclava off his head and shoved it into a pocket in the donkey jacket; he and Martin stared at each other for a moment then burst into laughter and slapped each other’s arms before returning, grinning, to the bar – but Dennis was long gone.
Karen had followed Dennis back out into the street; when she saw the cab drive off with him inside, she returned to the bar to find herself the centre of attention. One of the customers walked over to her, put his hand on her arm and ushered her towards the bar counter.
“You look a bit stunned, love, let me get you a drink.” He looked over his shoulder for the barman. “I’ll just get Shorty. Shorty!”
Karen hesitated a moment, “The man who just ran out – I was supposed to be meeting him. Do you know why he left in such a hurry? Did he say if he was coming back?”
“What can I get you?” The barman had arrived.
“Get this lady a drink, will you?” He turned back to Karen, “What would you like, love?”
“Could I have a vodka and tonic? Thank you. I feel such a fool. Did he say anything at all?”
“Well, I think he got a hold of the wrong end of the stick, if you know what I mean. He’d had a little chat with Shorty about the Troubles, you know, and a couple of the boys thought they’d have some fun, like. But I think they might have overdone it and he might have got a bit scared.” He smiled brightly. “Anyways, no harm done really now, is there? By the way, my name’s Barry.” He held out his hand and looked directly at Karen, “And I suppose you might be at a bit of a loose end this evening now, eh?”
“Thank you.” Dennis Afrani, swarthy, short and stocky, bustled across to the boardroom table, glancing around the faces, dispensing nods and smiles and murmured ‘good mornings’ before settling into the leather-upholstered cherrywood.
“I imagine you may have some inkling as to why we’ve invited you here this morning?” Morele bared gleaming teeth.
“No, not really, Sir Leonard.” Dennis returned an disingenuous smile – the extra laptop scammed in the upgrade? Wildly-inflated expense claims? The Swedish ‘business’ trip with Karen from Corporate Finance?
“. . . the new branch,” Sir Leonard was saying, “So I’ll ask Harry to take it from here. Harry?”
“Thank you, Sir Leonard.” So that’s it: the rumours were true . . . a new overseas branch, and it could be mine!
“Morning, Dennis,” the CEO smiled.
“Good morning, Harry.” He adopted his ‘serious intent’ expression.
As the CEO began to describe the company’s plans, Dennis’s mind skimmed through the possibilities: he’d heard rumours of the West Coast – prefer San Francisco but LA would be fine – Capetown was another possibility and Perth, even – fantastic climate, golf, sailing! Pushing these thoughts aside, he switched his attention back to the CEO in time to hear: “. . . in Belfast. So, Dennis, what are your thoughts?”
Dennis didn’t blink. “Harry – what can I say? Fantastic opportunity, challenging environment, build from scratch, exactly the sort of chance I relish.”
Belfast? . . . Jesus Christ!!
A week later, he was installed in the Hotel Mercury in Belfast city centre. His line manager, the European MD, had told him to fly back to the UK to see his family at weekends – “if you feel the need, Dennis” – but the deadline for opening the new branch was ten weeks away and had to be met. Imparting this news to his wife, Dennis changed the emphasis to give himself a weekend with Karen, whom he rang on the evening of his first Wednesday in Belfast.
“Take a taxi from the airport and get the driver to bring you straight to Flanagan’s Bar in Victoria Square – it’s a couple of minutes from the Hotel. We’ll have an early evening drink, back to the Hotel and change, then out for dinner at Mickey Deane’s, best food in Belfast. Any problems, ring me, otherwise I’ll see you on Friday evening in Flanagan’s.”
***************
“Same again?”
“Thanks.” Dennis glanced round the bar while the barman pulled a fresh pint. Flanagan’s early evening: there were a couple of dozen drinkers, some solitary, some in pairs, a hum of conversation. The lighting was dim, the décor polished mahogany and mirrored glass; a television behind the bar flickered soundlessly, music was coming from somewhere. “Usually this quiet?”
“Depends. About normal for this time on a Friday. I haven’t seen you in here before, have I? New in town?”
Dennis struggled to understand the barman’s Belfast accent. “Er, yeah, just got here on Monday.”
“Staying in town?”
“At the Mercury.”
The barman slid the pint glass across the bar, took the note, put it in the till and handed back the change. “That’s Franklin Street, isn’t it?”
“That’s the one.”
“Nice place. Planning to be here long?”
“Maybe, see how things go. Anything you’d recommend while I’m here? I’m gonna have some time on my hands.”
“What do you mean . . . tourist stuff?
“Well, yeah. History, famous landmarks, stuff like that. The Troubles interest me, but I guess that’s all over now, isn’t it?”
“There’s no bombs going off these days, if that’s what you mean, but there’s still plenty of things to see: you’ll have heard of the Shankhill?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well that’s just a ten minute walk from here. And there’s plenty of other places around if you like that sort of thing. Excuse me a minute.” The barman went to serve another customer and attended to two more before he came back. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Dennis hesitated, then went on, “You said ‘no bombs these days’: have feelings changed or is it still ‘them and us’?”
“To be honest, nothing’s really changed and I don’t think it ever will. Pretty much everybody’s committed, one way or the other, if you see what I mean. There’re no neutrals round here. Some streets you’d walk down you’d be stopped. Have you had that yet?”
“How do you mean ‘stopped’?”
“If your face isn’t known, they’ll stop you and ask you what you’re doing there and they’ll want to know your religion.”
Dennis smiled. “That wouldn’t be a problem, I’d just tell them the truth: I’m an atheist.”
“You wouldn’t get off the hook that easy, mister: the next question would be ‘are you a Catholic atheist or a Protestant atheist?’”
He grinned, “You serious?”
“Deadly – just like them!”
Dennis took a swig of his pint. “I don’t get it. You all live on the same island, speak the same language, believe in the same god – how difficult can it be to live together?”
“You’re right: you don’t get it. North of the border, we’re not Irish, we’re British and that’s the way we’re going to stay. It’s not just a question of different religions – the way we see it, we’re a different country.”
“But there’s only, what, six million of you, couldn’t you get rid of the border and still keep your way of life? Prosper together, as one community, wouldn’t that work?”
The barman stared at him, “You’ll have to excuse me now, I’ve got customers up the other end to see to.”
Dennis stood, bemused, as the barman went to the other end of the bar. Some of this stuff was just unbelievable! Looking round the bar, he noticed that the clock behind the bar showed 6:30; Karen’s flight landed half-an-hour ago so she should be here soon.
“Hi there!”
Dennis turned to see a middle-aged man with an open, friendly face. “Hi.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” He was a big man, casually dressed, with thick, iron-grey hair, and he spoke with the strangulated vowels of Belfast. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the barman; it’s good to hear an outsider’s point of view sometimes.”
Dennis shifted to face the man. “No, that’s OK, but I don’t actually know that much about the history – and I am meeting someone here quite soon.”
“No bother! My name’s Martin, by the way.” He held out his hand.
“Dennis.”
“Nice to meet you, Dennis. I take it you’re working over here?”
“Yeah, the company’s sent me over to set up a new branch; I’m trying to find premises right now.”
“A lot of places have shut since the recession, I guess you won’t have much trouble finding somewhere – and you should be able to swing a good deal.” He took out a packet of cigarettes. ....“Smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I’m just going out the back to smoke this – it’s quite cosy out there if you wanted to join me?”
“I may as well,” looking at his wrist-watch, “My friend’s not due for another ten minutes.” Dennis followed Martin to the back of the bar where a door led to the smoking area. Part of the yard had been covered in and a windbreak constructed. There was a gas heater near a table with four empty stools. Over in the corner was an outbuilding with two doors, both bearing a ‘Gents’ sign; alongside was a green wooden gate set in the boundary wall. They perched on the stools near the heater and Martin lit his cigarette.
“So, Dennis, these premises, what kind of place will you be wanting exactly?”
Dennis was about to answer, when his eye was caught by one of the doors of the outbuilding swinging open. A large man stepped out; he was wearing jeans and a black donkey jacket but Dennis’s attention was rivetted by the black ski mask over his head. He was staring at Dennis.
“So you’re the bastard with the fancy ideas, are you?” As he spoke, his right hand reached inside his donkey jacket.
“Jesus Christ!” Dennis leapt off his stool, dived for the door back into the bar, yanked it open and raced towards the street door. As he reached it, it opened and Karen walked in. She stopped dead when she saw Dennis, blocking his exit, and he had to shove her roughly to one side to get out onto the pavement. The taxi in which Karen had arrived was still at the kerb; Dennis wrenched open the back door of the cab, threw himself inside and yelled “Go! Go!Go!!” The startled cabbie let out the clutch and drove off, tyres squealing.
Out in the yard black ski mask slipped the balaclava off his head and shoved it into a pocket in the donkey jacket; he and Martin stared at each other for a moment then burst into laughter and slapped each other’s arms before returning, grinning, to the bar – but Dennis was long gone.
Karen had followed Dennis back out into the street; when she saw the cab drive off with him inside, she returned to the bar to find herself the centre of attention. One of the customers walked over to her, put his hand on her arm and ushered her towards the bar counter.
“You look a bit stunned, love, let me get you a drink.” He looked over his shoulder for the barman. “I’ll just get Shorty. Shorty!”
Karen hesitated a moment, “The man who just ran out – I was supposed to be meeting him. Do you know why he left in such a hurry? Did he say if he was coming back?”
“What can I get you?” The barman had arrived.
“Get this lady a drink, will you?” He turned back to Karen, “What would you like, love?”
“Could I have a vodka and tonic? Thank you. I feel such a fool. Did he say anything at all?”
“Well, I think he got a hold of the wrong end of the stick, if you know what I mean. He’d had a little chat with Shorty about the Troubles, you know, and a couple of the boys thought they’d have some fun, like. But I think they might have overdone it and he might have got a bit scared.” He smiled brightly. “Anyways, no harm done really now, is there? By the way, my name’s Barry.” He held out his hand and looked directly at Karen, “And I suppose you might be at a bit of a loose end this evening now, eh?”