Wishing and Hoping by Mia Dolan Page B

either side of the gates and there were gnomes in the garden. Both he and his wife had a thing about gnomes out of nostalgia for an Ireland they’d never even visited but had seen in films starring Mickey Rooney.
    They didn’t refer to their gnomes as gnomes; as a nod to their Irish roots, they called them leprechauns.
    Paddy had just done his customary twelve lengths of the pool and was towelling himself down. Contrary to popular belief, it was one of the few occasions whenhe did not wear his gloves. One of his employees, a bloke named Charlie Baxter, with a square chin and hands like shovels, handed him his robe and a pair of soft suede gloves.
    It was after midday so he ordered a double whiskey without offering one to his visitor. His visitor was Timothy Hampson-Smythe, his personal brief, who took care of the more paper-orientated legal matters, like contracts and deeds.
    Timothy was over six feet tall, had mousy-coloured hair and practically no chin to speak of; the term ‘chinless wonder’ was made for him.
    Of impeccable breeding and education, he used to work for one of the most prestigious law firms in London. Unfortunately he got caught making erotic overtures with a broom handle. He was ‘let go’ without notice. The broom handle was consigned to a bonfire.
    Knees held tightly together, Timothy Hampson-Smythe was sitting on a plastic chair at the side of the pool, his briefcase clasped like a shield against his chest.
    Paddy could tell by the ex-Cambridge, ex-guardsman’s lack of eye contact that he was not the bearer of good news.
    Paddy took a sip from his glass of Bushmills best Irish. ‘Well, Timmy, will you tell me what our friend Mickey Jones has to say for himself?’
    Timmy pursed his lips. He hated being referred toas Timmy and had told Paddy so on many occasions. However, on the last occasion, he’d received a backhander for his trouble and was told in no uncertain terms that Paddy Rafferty was paying the bill so Paddy Rafferty would call him anything he damn well liked!
    His eyes, as black as crude oil and as shifty as windblown sand, flickered nervously between his client and his own clasped hands. On doing so he noted that his knuckles were turning white. Relaxing wasn’t easy in the presence of Paddy Rafferty.
    Timothy had just returned from a visit to the Blue Genie nightclub. Michael Jones had unknowingly bought a batch of rundown real estate that had been earmarked for Rafferty. Rafferty had friends in local politics so knew where the likely development opportunities happened to be. He held off offering until the very last moment, and that, as Timothy knew only too well, was his downfall. Now he was aiming to become a business partner of the man who had bought it. The problem was that Paddy wanted to pay no more than he’d had in mind to offer the original owner. He would have made a killing if he’d paid the right price at the right time. But Michael Jones had got in there first and getting on board as a partner – a sleeping partner in fact – was proving to be difficult.
    Timothy cleared his throat before saying what he had to say. ‘I’m afraid he again refused your offer, Mr Rafferty.’
    Timothy Hampson-Smythe had not been keen to go along with the offer in the first place, offering as it did basically nothing. The contract was just a partnership, a system whereby Patrick Rafferty would cream off a portion of the profits until such time as the place came up for redevelopment. He had it on good authority that the place would become the subject of a compulsory purchase order of which he would take a portion when the time came. He would also get in on the development package and on top of that would provide cheap Irish labour for the job. In turn the Irish labour, who out of the goodness of his heart he would bring over from Ireland, would pay him that portion of their wages which was rightly due to the Inland