Fintan Gall TD opened his front door on that quiet Sunday morning, and almost tripped over the package on the step.
“What the hell-?”
The parcel was large, made of brown paper, with a label that read “Property of Mr F. Gall TD Esq.”. The label had been typed, not handwritten. No return address. Nothing at all, in fact, to indicate where the parcel had come from.
Gingerly, Fintan bent down and picked it up. By Jesus, it weighed a ton! And it made a crinkly sound, as though there was another layer inside, perhaps of plastic. Fintan pressed his ear to the package, and was relieved to note that it least it wasn’t ticking. As a three-time elected public representative and Junior Minister in a coalition government of toxic unpopularity, Fintan was accustomed to receiving his share of ill communications. Threats, insults, all sorts. He rose above it all by assuming a serene gravitas that his position, policies, and person in no way merited. It was the best way to deal with it all.
But he’d never received a mystery package before.
Casting a furtive glance at the bushes on his rambling property, in case would-be blackmailers might be lurking therein, he took the parcel into the house.
“Get to the bottom this now…”
He deposited the package on the dining room table. Fortunately, his lady wife was still asleep upstairs. Fintan had made some slip-ups since entering high office, and made his tours of the guest bedrooms, but he hadn’t done anything so disgraceful that Miriam might have seen fit to relieve him of his portfolio, so to speak. And he hoped fervently that whatever lurked in the mystery package would not bring that scenario about.
He hunted around for a paper knife, slit the package on one side, and carefully withdrew the contents. There was indeed a second package, of thin and crumpled plastic, inside. And when he saw what it contained, he had to be seated.
It was money. A lot of it. With trembling fingers, he removed the plastic, and stared, open-mouthed.
It was all 500 euro notes. Great stacks of them, more than he’d thought at first glance. It might run into hundreds of grand. Maybe more.
“Good Christ…”
His mouth was dry. For a moment he thought he might faint away.
Apart from the cash, the only other item in the parcel was a slip of paper. There was text on it, typed with what appeared to be an old-fashioned typewriter. The note read:
I will be interested to see what you decide to do.
B.T.B
Fintan was stumped. Who in the hell was “B.T.B.?” He didn’t know anyone with those initials. And why had this character sent him a pile of cash, and expressed such interest in what he intended to do with it?
Fintan leaped to his feet and spun around. He was looking for cameras, for scumbag reporters leaning in the windows. This was a set-up, it had to be. A trap laid by one of his numerous enemies.
“The Marxists!” he snarled. “The feckin’ Marxists. They wear sandals and they eat soup. And they’ve had it in for me since Day bleedin’ 1.”
But there was no-one at the windows. He sat down again, willing himself to return to a state of calm. Fintan realized that a politician in the same room as a pile of money will always feel like he’s being watched.
“Besides,” he muttered. “Them Marxists don’t have this kind of money.”
There remained the question of what to do with his sudden windfall. After some pondering, Fintan carefully gathered the cash and shoved it back into the plastic wrap. Then he put it back in the package, taped it all up, then carried the precious pile out to the garage, where he deposited it reverently into the boot of his Mercedes.
He returned to the house and fixed himself a large single malt. It was 10am on a Sunday, true, but Fintan had an awful lot to think about.
The next day he drove into the office, and called a pow-wow with his team.
“Can’t deny it, Chief,” his top PR head mused. “It’s a hard one.”
They stood around the coffee table, eight men in suits, staring down at the pile of cash. Fintan had had one of his accountants (the one he trusted) count the money. The result was sobering. The pile he’d been donated by the mysterious “B.T.B.” came to just shy of 1.2 million euros.
“For starters,” the spin-master continued, “you can’t spend it. The bills could be marked, invisible ink or something. And you can’t keep it. It’ll come out sooner or later.”
Fintan glanced at his lawyer. “What if I had a… contingency? For, y’know, emergencies and that. Something,” he cleared his throat, “… offshore?”
“No good, Chief. Everything’s traceable now.”
Fintant mused. “What if I stuck it in one of them funds, then cashed it out? On the quiet, like?”
“Three words, Chief: Public Finance Committee. All it takes is a tip-off.”
The assembled suits eyed each other darkly. To Fintan, in that moment, everybody looked like a traitor.
“Feck sake. You’re saying I’d be better off if I hadn’t been sent it at all.”
“You would be. It’s a time-bomb.”
“But I didn’t ask for it! I didn’t go looking for it. It just… fell outta the sky!”
“No, Chief, it didn’t. It was sent to you, all wrapped up tidy. This is all very deliberate. Whoever B.T.B is, they’ve put you in one hell of a spot.”
Fintan slumped behind his desk and put his head in his hands. The sycophants made sympathetic noises. Iced coffees were called for. And finally, Fintan realised what he would have to do.
The very thought of it made him ill. It went against every fibre of his being. But it would have to be done.
He pressed the intercom.
“Sharon? Find me a nun.”
And so it came to pass that, the very next day, Fintan stood outside his office beside a dwarfish, apple-cheeked Sister of Divine Mercy, and gave his windfall away. The cash was piled on a table between them. Cameras clicked, questions were shouted. And Fintan welded a smile to his face.
“Some of us,” he began, “have been blessed in life. And it is our solemn duty to give back to the less fortunate. As a three-time elected public representative, I’m especially conscious of my, you know, social duties. That’s why I’ve asked Sister Concepta here today, to make a personal donation to the Sisters of Divine Mercy, in the order of one point two million euros.” He shook the good Sister’s hand, the grin fixed on his features.
“Minister,” a press-pup yelped, “how did you come by this money?”
“Prudent and responsible investment over a number of years.” He had that written on a card.
Sister Concepta, for her part, looked like she’d just won the Divine Lottery. And why the feck shouldn’t she?
His duty done, Fintan let the good Sister pose with the cash. And he retired to his chambers. He wanted to be alone.
He slouched at his desk, loosened his tie and stared off into space. He felt hollow, depleted. The events of the last 36 hours seemed like some awful dream. And still he could not comprehend it. He’d just given some grinning midget of a Nun a million euros point two, and he would never even know where it came from.
His private line rang. Cursing, he scooped it up.
“Sharon! I said no calls!”
“Fintan!” a jovial voice boomed. “I’m glad I got you. That was a marvellous thing you’re after doing. For once in your life, a truly selfless act. Tell me, how does it feel?”
“Who is this?” Fintan snapped.
“Ah now,” the caller chortled. “I think you know perfectly well who this is.”
The voice did have a faintly familiar ring to it. A sense of cold unease was filling Fintan’s gut.
“I’ll put ye out o’ your misery. This is Robert Garrigan speaking. Chairman, CEO and majority stakeholder of Valley View Developments. Do ye remember me, Minister?”
“Jesus Christ! Bobby?”
“That’s right, sir. Bobby the Builder at yer service.”
“B.T.B. You sent the money.”
“Ye know, I’m starting to think the papers are wrong about you, and ye’re not a complete gobshite.”
“But why…”
“D’ye remember Ballymuckridge?”
That name did indeed ring a bell with the Minister. Seven years ago he, Bobby the Builder, and consortium of good lads of their acquaintance bought a greenfield site down in Ballymuckridge. They sat on it until the property market tanked, then sold the whole lot at an eye-watering markup. Their buyer was a Qatari speculator, who then sold it to an American corporation for a microchip factory. Fintan had finessed the deal through the loopholes, and ensured it was all kept on the Q.T. His share of the profits?
“One point two million,” he whispered.
“Right again!” said Bobby the Builder. “You asked me hang onto it fer ya, ‘cos you were having that to-do at the time with the oul’ Public Finance Committee. It must’ve slipped yer mind!”
Fintan was sweating so hard, the phone was slipping from his grasp.
“But… but that means…”
“It was your money, ye gobshite!” Bobby the Builder guffawed. “I knew ye’d be too scared to keep it, and I knew ye’d end up doin’ something stupid! But to just give it away… that feckin Nun must think ye came down in the last shower! Manna from Heaven, wha’?”
Bobby the Builder chuckled, and Fintan made a Trojan effort to regain his grip on the situation.
“Bobby,” he said coldly. “Listen to me now. I am going to ruin you if it’s the last thing I do.”
He killed the call. For a minute, he sat glaring bitterly at the phone. Then he dialled his secretary.
“Get me that nun. The one from this morning.” He stood up, and began to re-do his tie. “Tell her she’s about to make a selfless gesture of her own.”
InkSplinters 