Harry Harrington had been battling with the Council for months over his farm — or at least ten acres of it. Harrington ran a haulage business, which mostly seemed to involve buying and breaking old trucks and buses for spare parts. All of which would be fine, if he hadn’t taken it into his head to park almost one-hundred broken and rusty vehicles in a corner of his land. He had never applied for or received planning permission to operate a breakers yard, and recently there had been several complaints about safety issues — particularly since waste engine oil had been found seeping into a nearby stream. The council had already issued several notices ordering him to clear up the site, but they had all been totally ignored — at least until now. Incredibly, today Harrington was formally applying for permission to operate a breakers yard on an expanded site of twenty acres. The barefaced cheek of the man was unbelievable! Not many things in life are guaranteed, but the comprehensive refusal of this planning application most definitely was. Alan’s mood brightened noticeably — perhaps there was something to look forward to this afternoon after all.
With excellent timing, the barmaid carefully placed Alan’s pint on the countertop and gave him a smile.
“Here’s your Guinness love, your sandwich will be along in a couple of minutes.”
“Thanks. I’ve been looking forward to this!”
“Enjoy.”
Alan picked up his pint and held it to his lips, savoring the nutty smell for a moment before preparing to take his first sip. Suddenly, something gave his right elbow a mighty shove. The pint flew out of his hand, bounced on the counter, and fell to the floor. Luckily, the bar had recently started to use plastic glasses so nothing was broken, but the Guinness was lost.
“Jesus Christ!” Alan growled in shock and anger. He was about to turn and let fly at his assailant when a firm hand was placed on his shoulder and a cultured voice spoke into his ear.
“Oh! My dear chap! I am most awfully sorry; I’m such a clumsy buffoon. I trust you are uninjured?”
Alan turned to see a tall sophisticated looking gentleman of about sixty, with a comb-over of grey hair and a short goatee beard. He was dressed in a smart green tweed sports jacket with a beige waistcoat and matching trousers. Hanging between the waistcoat pockets was a heavy gold chain, presumably connected to a gold pocket watch. The man kept his hand firmly on Alan’s shoulder and gave him a dazzling and genuine smile as he waited for a reply.
“Err… No, I’m fine,” Alan responded, “it’s only my drink that’s suffered.”
“Splendid! Splendid,” the man replied loudly, as if Alan had just performed some exotic magic trick. “Now, you must allow me to replace your beverage — BARKEEP! Another two pints here, please!”
“Oh, that’s really not necessary, I am sure it was just a silly accident,” Alan mumbled in a slightly embarrassed tone. The man gave him a mighty slap on the back.
“Indeed it was! Nevertheless, this fortuitous accident has brought us together — let us become friends!” He waved at the barmaid who was trying to mop up the beer. “A Bushmills for my friend as well — make it a double.”
Alan was instantly won over by this man with the friendly smile, as well as the offer of a double of his favourite Irish whiskey.
“Thanks very much,” he said.
“Roger Taylor, at your service.” The man thrust out his hand.
“Alan Merry,” Alan responded, shaking the proffered hand.
Once their drinks and food had arrived, Roger suggested that they move to a booth. They chatted while they ate, mostly about the state of the economy and the latest situation in the Middle East. Alan found Roger to be affable, humorous, and quite pleasant company. Soon the conversation turned towards their families. Roger asked if Alan had grandchildren.
“Yes I do, in fact they’re my favourite subject. Here, let me show you a photograph.”
He pulled a picture from his billfold and pointed. “Now this is—”
“Emma,” Roger interrupted, “and that must be Suzie with the blonde hair.”
“Good gracious!” Alan said in perplexed surprise. “How could you possibly know that?”
Roger smiled. “Why Alan, I know a lot about you, and I know a lot about your family — and your beautiful grandchildren.”
“But… I don’t understand. How could you know? We just met.”
“Oh Alan… my dear, sweet, innocent Alan. I know all there is to know about you. Would you like to see my photographs?" He opened his briefcase.
“Now… Here is a picture of your lovely wife shopping.”
Roger placed a large glossy photograph on the table. Alan could immediately see that the woman in the photograph was indeed his wife. She was pictured from the side and slightly above, selecting some fruit at a local farmer’s market. The image had a grainy quality, perhaps from being digitally blown up, or because the person taking the picture had used a telephoto lens. Roger placed another picture on the table in front of a stunned Alan.
“In this one I think she was just getting out of the shower. Lovely legs!”
He placed another picture on the table, as casually as someone sharing their vacation pictures.
“Oh… and here is a picture of you with that cute young actress you have been seeing every Wednesday morning for the last month.” Another picture was placed on the table. “Here you are in bed together.”
One more picture was added to the pile.
“And here are your grandchildren arriving at school — they really are most lovely. Children are so fragile at this age. We have to make an extra effort to be sure they will come to no harm.” Allowing the threat to hang in the air like stale cigarette smoke, Roger’s finger stroked the image of little Suzie as if he were softly caressing her blonde hair.
Alan sat staring at the photographs, numb with shock. Finally, he looked at the man sitting across the table. The soft smile and affable joviality had disappeared. Roger’s eyes were as hard as black diamonds and when he spoke again his voice was as cold as steel.
“We know a lot about you… Councilor Alan Merry. We know where you live, what you earn, what you do — who you do it with — and we know about your family.”
His finger tapped the last picture harshly and when he spoke, next his words were deliberately chosen.
“We particularly know all about your grandchildren.”
Roger closed his briefcase with a harsh snap that made Alan jump. The cold voice was suddenly more business-like.
“And that is why I am confident that you will vote in favor of the Whitewater farm application at the planning meeting this evening.” Roger leaned forward towards Alan, until his eyes were just inches away. “Do I make myself clear?”
“What! Is that what all of this is about?” Alan reeled back in shock. “You’re threatening me over some poxy planning application?”
Roger ignored Alan’s sudden outburst. He leaned back and made himself taller in the seat.
“I said… Do I make myself clear? Or do you want me to be more specific about the consequences of your failure to comply?”
Alan sighed in defeat and slumped into his seat. His voice was just a dry whisper.