by Donal Conaty
‘Where's Dermot?’ she asked, with a troubling glint in her cold eyes.
‘He's out,’ I told her.
‘You're lying,’ she said and pushed me out of the way. ‘DERMOT!’ she screamed.
He was locked in his room and we had agreed he wouldn't come out under any circumstances. But almost immediately upon hearing Sinéad screech his name, Dermot appeared at the door.
‘Is everything OK, Sinéad?’ he asked nervously, looking only at the floor.
Sinéad emitted a harsh laugh.
‘Is he always so frisky with the ladies?’ she asked Dermot, all the while staring at me, threatening me to defend myself.
‘How dare you?’ I said. ‘I have been nothing but a gentleman.’
‘You've been nothing but a loser. As if you'd know what to do with a woman!’
Dermot was still staring sheepishly at the floor. ‘Don't be mean to him Sinead. He's my friend. And he's a guest of the nation.’
She laughed for an uncomfortable amount of time. ‘Your friend?’ she said. ‘You are pathetic. You and your boyfriend are both pathetic. Dermot, you have the kids this weekend. I don't want to catch sight nor sound of them until Monday morning.’
With that she turned on her heel and left.
It took us a while to get over that. We sat side-by-side on the couch playing Red Dead Redemption on the Xbox for hours, without talking.
I rarely got to spend any time alone in the apartment without Dermot. I think he knew that Ajai had told me to keep an eye on him so he insisted that every social occasion was work related. Sometimes out of sheer exhaustion I cried off, but I usually felt so guilty afterwards that it wasn't worth it.
He and his colleagues had an endless appetite for the social whirl. They never seemed tired or hungover, and, of course, it didn't interfere with work because they didn't really do any. I on the other hand had to monitor spending across all government departments and ensure that all cuts were being implemented. And I was still dosing myself with Valium and Difene. I was burning the candle at both ends and it was catching up with me.
On a few occasions Dermot had to wake me for work. I have never before needed an alarm clock and have never been anything less than punctual. I would wake from a troubled sleep to find Dermot standing over me.
‘Wake up, dear boy, we have a country to save,’ he would say, shaking my shoulder and usually spilling cereal on my duvet at the same time. I would gradually wake up to find him beautifully turned out in the finest tailoring, smelling of aftershave and fresh coffee. He tried to get me to order a suit from Louis Copeland when, due to the rich food I had been eating, I found that I needed to go up a couple of sizes. I declined and said I'd try the Bargain Shop in Arnotts. He looked genuinely horrified. ‘I'm not sure they'll let you in there without a pram,’ he told me.
Three times that week Ajai had phoned me in work before I got there. He didn't raise the issue. He didn't have to. I knew that he wasn't impressed and he knew that I knew he wasn't impressed. Worse still, Dermot knew that I knew that Ajai wasn't impressed. ‘Don't worry, we'll always look after you here,’ Dermot said, like the spider to the fly.
But I did worry. I worried when I woke and I worried when I slept. I worried about Ajai. I worried about the Irish economy and I worried about Dermot and the Finance Minister. One night I took an extra Valium to help me sleep and woke in the middle of the night to find Dermot and Mary Coughlan in my room, dressed as dentists. The Minister for Education and Skills was holding me in a dentist's chair. Her grip was vice-like. I couldn't move a muscle as Dermot cheerfully came towards me with a Black & Decker drill.
‘We couldn't find the normal one,’ he said with a frown. ‘Never mind. This won't hurt at all. Now, tell me, is it safe?’ he asked.
‘Is what safe?’ I replied, confused and disoriented. He drilled deep into one of my teeth and I screamed in unbearable agony.
‘Is it safe?’ he asked again drilling further into my tooth, but somehow knowing to stop before I fainted.
‘Is what safe?’ I screamed.
‘The money, you muppet,’ Dermot said and they both laughed wildly.
I woke up bathed in sweat. The room was empty. Even in my sleep I couldn't escape Dermot and his friends. And strangely, in addition to my neck pain and my wounded foot where Sinead had ground her heel into it, I was also suffering from a severe toothache. Can dreams do that?
I continued to work quietly at my desk during the day while the rest of the office drifted along waiting for the next bit of excitement. Their days were usually spent scanning media websites and Twitter to see what new scandal was breaking in government circles or in Cheryl Cole's life. A government scandal was rarely a surprise to them because they generally leaked the story in the first place. But when it came to Cheryl there could be hours of speculation over her latest row with Ashley.
In quiet times between news stories the staff could become quite bitter and introspective. At times like these Dermot and his colleagues were actually inclined to do a bit of work. The ‘work’ however was generally focussed on purposeless projects conceived only to amuse the staff themselves. They might cancel a project just as it was ready to report and then announce a new one to replace it, or they might suddenly transfer some staff to new offices and then transfer them back as soon as they got settled in. Of course these foolish things cost money. They ate away at any savings made through the cutbacks.
These apparently random initiatives often started as simple office bullying. The decentralisation project was a good example. It was pure folly, and it cost a fortune, but Liam told me it was only introduced because Dermot hated having to rub shoulders with civil servants from the Department of Social Welfare. When I asked Dermot about it he was unrepentant. ‘They dressed like they were on welfare themselves, in their Jesus sandals and Aran jumpers,’ he told me. ‘I had to do something. I simply couldn't look at them.’
Shortly after Christmas the media and the opposition went into overdrive over undisclosed contact between Mr Cowen and Sean Fitzpatrick before the banking guarantee was announced in September 2008. Apparently they played golf and had dinner together. Mr Cowen insisted in the Dáil that they didn't discuss the bank's business at all that day. Of course at first this sounds absurd to any reasonable person, but it ended up being totally believeable, as I briefed Ajai after the Taoiseach spoke.
‘You're saying there's nothing to worry about?’ Ajai asked.
‘No, I'm not saying that, Mr Chopra. There's always something to worry about here. What I am saying is there is probably nothing sinister to worry about. I have spent some time with the Taoiseach, and ridiculous as it may seem, it is actually entirely believable that he and Mr Fitzpatrick didn't discuss Anglo.’
‘But why else would they meet except to talk about the bank?’ Ajai asked. ‘What the hell did they talk about?’
‘They probably told jokes, did a few impressions and sang songs,’ I said.
‘My God,’ said Ajai. ‘That's worse. Are you sure?’
‘Pretty sure,’ I said. I decided not to tell Ajai that the Taoiseach's impression of him was actually very good.
The media were calling it Golfgate and, naturally, Dermot found it all very entertaining. ‘I've played golf with them loads of times,’ he said. ‘They only ever talk shite. Keith Barry couldn't retrieve a memory of either of them saying anything interesting.’
Meanwhile, Dermot was also excited by a speculative newspaper article suggesting that the EU might consider lowering the interest rate on the bailout money. ‘I told you I was right not to go to the negotiations,’ he said. ‘I have the EU negotiating with themselves now. Sure we mightn't have to pay them back at all. You see there was method to my madness!’
He looked annoyed when I smirked at him. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he asked me then. ‘Shouldn't you be on your way to Portugal for their bailout?’
‘I should be so lucky. Portugal isn't getting a bailout,’ I said.
&n
bsp; Dermot laughed so hard that I feared for his wellbeing. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course it isn't.’
All the talk was that Mr Cowen would have to go because of the game of golf. It obviously doesn't help in a bailout situation to have that level of political instability but we had dealt with worse. The staff were highly energised by the whole affair. I think they were keen that there might be a reshuffle and they could get a new Finance Minister to taunt.
‘Oh that won't happen before the election,’ Dermot said sadly. ‘Mind you, you can't beat the first few weeks of a new minister. They are exquisite.’
There was something about the way he said it, as though the new Finance Minister would be a lamb to the slaughter and the slaughter would be protracted, painful and without purpose. In any event excitement was mounting at the prospect of a heave against Mr Cowen. It wasn't helped by the fact that Dermot ordered Redbull for everyone and handed round my Difene.
‘I hope you enjoy the distraction,’ I said to Dermot. ‘It will help take your mind off the parlous state of your economy.’
Dermot laughed heartily. ‘You do my heart good,’ he said. ‘You really do. Who in their right mind would waste their time thinking about the economy?’
More than anyone else, Dermot was enjoying the death throes of the government. He had the Finance Minister in a state of utter confusion with his mind games. He was entertaining himself by trying to persuade Mr Lenihan to challenge for the Fianna Fáil leadership.
‘Your country needs you, Minister,’ he said to him, almost as though he meant it. Poor Mr Lenihan got quite worked up with boundless patriotism and was on the verge of announcing his candidacy when Dermot questioned his sense of loyalty.
‘Perhaps your Taoiseach needs you,’ said Dermot quietly.
Mr Lenihan stopped in his tracks. ‘My Taoiseach,’ he said fervently. ‘I should support my Taoiseach.’
‘But your country … ’ said Dermot.
‘My country,’ said the Finance Minister, and he again prepared to contact the media to declare his position.
But Dermot continued toying with him.
‘Your Taoiseach,’ he said again with an evil glint in his eye.
‘My Taoiseach and my country,’ Mr Lenihan sobbed. I saw he was about to explode, but at that very moment the Taoiseach wandered into the room.
‘Does anyone here have any complaints about me?’ asked Mr Cowen.
He had announced that he would sound out his party's TDs to get their views on his leadership.
‘We're not TDs, Taoiseach,’ Dermot explained to him gently.
‘Right,’ said the Taoiseach. ‘Does anyone fancy a pint?’
Just then Mr Lenihan dropped to one knee in front of Mr Cowen.
‘I am a TD,’ he said, ‘and my support for your leadership is firm and unwavering, Taoiseach.’
‘That's nice, Brian,’ said the Taoiseach. ‘Pint?’
The Taoiseach saw me at my desk and strolled over with his hand outstretched. ‘Brian Cowen, Taoiseach,’ he introduced himself. ‘Can I rely on your support in the confidence vote? Feel free to say no. In fact please do say no.’
I couldn't believe that the Taoiseach didn't remember me, although I suppose I hadn't really encountered him in a work context, or a sober context for that matter.
‘Sadly Taoiseach, I don't have a vote. I'm with the IMF, you see,’ I said.
‘Of course you are,’ he said. ‘You know I have been here too long. Everyone is starting to look like a backbencher on the make to me. I'm not even sure that I recognise myself any more. Good man yourself. You're the man with our future in the palm of his hand, eh? Are you being taken care of here? Call me if you need anything. Better hurry up though!’ he said and winked at me.
‘That was cruel,’ I said to Dermot after the two politicians had left. ‘Mr Lenihan clearly trusts you. It was wrong to toy with him like that.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Dermot. ‘Toying with ministers is a time-honoured tradition. What else would we do with them?’
I worked late that night. Dermot was meeting Sinéad to see if they could iron out their differences, so I didn't have to be with him for a change. Apparently he had promised his children, John and Edward, that he would try to persuade Sinéad to give the marriage another chance.
‘What's your plan?’ I asked him before he went to meet her.
‘I'm going to be strong,’ he said. ‘I am going to stand my ground and insist that it's my way or the highway. What do you think?’
‘I think the bailout has a better chance of succeeding,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ said Dermot. ‘Should I beg? I should beg, shouldn't I?’
‘That might be wise,’ I said, ‘and it's good practice for the future.’
I left the Department of Finance at around eleven o'clock and heard a voice from the shadows as I passed the Department of the Taoiseach. ‘Come all ... come all ye ...,’ a voice wracked with sobs attempted to sing.
‘Is that you, Taoiseach?’ I asked as I peered into the darkness.
‘Ah, my friend from the IMF,’ he said. ‘My friend from the IMF, would you like to be Taoiseach? You'd make a great job of it. Sure Dev was a Yank. You'd hardly be any worse than him.’ Suddenly he looked around with a panicked expression on his face.
‘I didn't say that. You didn't hear that. The last thing I need is for someone to hear me criticising Dev. So what do you think? Would you like to be Taoiseach? All of this could be yours.’ He swung his arm expansively, indicating his impressive office.
‘No, thank you, Taoiseach,’ I said. ‘Between you and me I'm not a big fan of parliamentary democracies. They're very hard to control.’
Mr Cowen shrugged. I'm not sure that he actually heard me.
‘No one wants to be Taoiseach,’ he said. ‘I never wanted the job either, you know. I was perfectly happy being Minister for Finance, doing what they told me to do. I always did what I was told – and look where it got me! Where did it all go wrong?’
‘Maybe you picked the wrong advisers,’ I suggested.
‘Picked them?! I didn't pick them. They picked themselves. I wouldn't know where to start.
‘Would you believe that I just won a vote of confidence in my leadership and here I am talking to a stranger? No offence,’ he said.
‘None taken, Taoiseach,’ I assured him.
‘I won it,’ he said, as though he couldn't believe it. ‘I never saw that coming. Micheál Martin should be sitting here now, sad and alone talking to a bloody Yank. No offence.’
Again I assured him that I didn't take any offence. I could see how upset he was at winning the confidence vote. His success had crushed him.
‘You wouldn't have voted for me, would you? What were they thinking? Now Martin has resigned. It's easy for him. He's in there with the rest of them joking and laughing and blaming me for everything we all did together. Making out I'm nothing but a pub singer. I wasn't singing on my own, you know. They all joined in on the chorus. I'm going to show them though. I am going to resign. That'll show them.’
‘Are you serious, Taoiseach?’ I asked.
‘Never more so,’ he said. ‘They might have confidence in me but I certainly don't. I have no confidence in them either. It's over. Don't tell anyone, though. I want it to be a surprise for the feckers.’
‘Your secret is safe with me, Taoiseach,’ I said. ‘My lips are sealed.’
I resolved to email Ajai on my Blackberry as soon as I got away from him.
‘Do you know,’ he paused for a moment. ‘The worst part of being Taoiseach has been dealing with bankers. I see more of them now than I did when I was Finance Minister. They're a dry shower of shites, do you know that? They laugh at you not with you, and they don't respect a song. I don't think they have it in them to respect a song. Imagine! Come on, we'll sing a song! Do you know this one?’ The Taoiseach cleared his throat and started singing. ‘I knew Danny Farrell when his football was a can .... ’
I stayed a while but sl
ipped away without him noticing. I liked the Taoiseach but I needed my sleep. Someone had to get up in the morning and run the country.
I hadn't seen Dermot for a few days. His meeting with Sinéad had gone better than expected and he had taken her on a weekend break to a spa hotel. I declined his invitation to join them.
‘We're publishing the Finance Bill this week, remember?’ I said to him.
‘Oh, that thing,’ he said dismissively. ‘You'll be fine with that. You don't need me,’ he said. ‘Why don't you cover for me and I'll try to bring you back a nice bathrobe?’
I told Dermot how I had found the Taoiseach all alone in his office, without mentioning his plans to resign, but he didn't seem surprised.
‘Their careers always end badly. They have no solid foundations – kind of like the economy!’ He thought this was a hilarious comparison. ‘Did you see this?’ he asked as he handed me a newspaper article reporting that the Irish Central Bank was printing its own money. ‘You may as well go back to Washington,’ he said. ‘We're printing our own money now. We don't need you.’
It was typical of Dermot's sense of humour.
‘That's nice,’ I replied. ‘Have you tried spending any of it yet?’
Ajai phoned after Dermot had left. He liked the presentation on the National Recovery Plan that I wrote for Dermot. I was chuffed.
‘How is everything there?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it's fine, Mr Chopra. We're working away on the Finance Bill but there is a chance that the political instability here could delay it.’
‘Don't let that happen,’ Ajai said, as though I could somehow arrest the collapse of a government that was hellbent on its own destruction. ‘But if it does you will be coming home and bringing the bailout money with you.’