Say what you like about Doolan, that he was an out of control Edinburgian comet on its way through London as part of an erratic orbit of a distant and unwarming sun, or that his mind was agile like Uluru and cultured like the country surrounding it, but he had all the experience of working at the sort of level that allowed him the gravitas to demand 4 or 5 slides from someone like Jimmy. A heavyweight, you might call him, and he had become part of Jimmy’s life for the simple reason that the firm’s situation called for someone with exactly his skills and persona.

He had been a vital part of the biggest project the company had ever tackled: three years and God knows how many millions to bring in the sort of system that could have revolutionised the way they did their business, if only it hadn’t been outdated before they had even started. And it had so nearly succeeded. Doolan had worked his guts out to get the cross-business buy-in they needed to really get it off the ground, and had forged some fantastic relationships with the sort of guys that were really at the sharp end of how the business was run. Many was the burning of midnight oil with suppliers, stakeholders, decision makers, innovators, with just a wireless mouse and an empty corporate-branded slide master for company. Oh, the true taste and smell of commerce. Running this sort of initiative and having responsibility for that sort of budget was what he was all about. It had smelted the pig iron of his latent talent into the sort of steely insight that not many could match. He was respected by his superiors and feared by his juniors and had definitely made it.

The new challenge, that of Jimmy and his crew, would test him in other ways, but he fully intended to be equally successful. Take an underperforming team and mould them into an exemplar of the new corporate model. They’re all just experienced enough but still a bit raw in terms of big-picture understanding. He would have to take the unrefined materials and guide them through what he knows about governance, best practice, relationship management and sheer bloody hard graft. Not to mention learning from a better and showing due respect.

Whether or not they were ready or capable of the sort of leaps up the ladder that Doolan had already taken himself, he wasn’t sure. They were a tight-knit group but lacked discipline and structure and were far too interested in detail. Some were quite smart and would need watching, but they were no match for someone of his experience and know-how. It was difficult sometimes in meetings to strike the right note that really grabbed and kept their interest, but some were definitely coming round, slowly.

They loved a drink, though, and maybe that was the way for Doolan to get his point across. He may have moved along, but still knew how to step into a social dohyo from his past and hold his own.

‘We’re all leaving early tonight,’ he trumpeted one glorious Friday, ‘5 o’clock sharp next door, I’m buying the drinks until 6.’ Surely an hour was benevolent enough; God knows it wasn’t the sort of thing that he relished, but he had to go beyond the very lowest limit of crass tokenism. An hour – that’s enough isn’t it? That’s 5 of them to cater for, 3 or maybe 4 pints each – this lot could knock them back and would probably try to make the most of his gesture – so he’s going to be in for around seventy or eighty quid… add in a drink or two of his own, a bit for contingency, worst case scenario 100 quid. A ton, they called it. That’s a small price to pay for what could turn out to be the smartest move he’s made. God, he was good.

At 4.15 that afternoon his tab was open and galloping across open sand like a Derby hopeful on the Galway coast. Glen may have been the youngest and newest team member, but he was a disturbingly quick learner and was just the guy to later explain to a bewildered Doolan that it was important to get things under way early so that he could hit the ground running at 5. Lucky they had taken the initiative too, since Doolan hadn’t made it until 20 past anyway – his steering group had overrun again, then they’d had to find another meeting room as theirs was booked, and the alternative room’s laptop had an older version of Powerpoint which couldn’t read his slides properly. In the end they’d had to reschedule for a breakfast meeting on Monday. But never mind all of that now – he had three drinks waiting and there was a bit of catching-up to do (they’d started to include him in the rounds as soon as it turned 5pm).

Jimmy was desperate to hear how the steering group had gone and how those meetings normally played out. It took two pints just to explain how the agenda was drawn up and the attendees selected. Despite being weekly events, these weren’t trivial occasions and had to be managed appropriately. Jimmy’s bladder intervened, and while Doolan fought manfully against the tide and worked on the stockpile of drinks he was generously providing for himself, Kirstie and Clive took both barrels of his views on mothers in the workplace. This isn’t some kind of a club for helping out the needy: you need focus and dedication and insight, which you don’t nurture by taking phone calls from 3-year-olds who are about to get in the bath or by disappearing home at the first sign of meningitis.

Kirstie didn’t have a mortgage. Or a boyfriend.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ He asked her.

‘Who, me?’

What kind of an answer was that?

Clive muttered something about having just got married. Gladstone didn’t say much and, when he did, Doolan only got every third word or so. There was something about club nights and promoting, but the details were difficult to piece together. Apparently he’s very talented, although Doolan couldn’t really vouch for that on the flimsy evidence he’d gathered. Anyway, how can he have a serious conversation while he’s got the next big thing crashing around in both ears? Can’t he take those cans off while he’s socialising? Why didn’t it bother anyone else?

The whole place was too loud and too predictably trashy. Nowadays when Doolan went out at work the settings were a bit more conducive to considered conversation and, perish the thought, a sight classier. To be honest, he’d never really taken to the down-at-heel shabby realism of these sorts of places even when he was part of that stratum. There was always the disconcerting undercurrent of social homogeny, as if the pub companies had set about all his hard work, sacrifice and, ultimately, achievement with a great big butcher’s mallet to form a status escalope. What was the point of being better than others if there’s no way anybody can tell?

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

There’s maelstrom and it’s dark and it’s sticky and there’s straining at the voice and it’s an unfamiliar bitter taste at the back of the throat, but at the same time it’s oddly cocooning and downstream and nowhere’s better than right here, right now. Swelling in and out of conversations like a marker buoy seems the most natural and simple thing for someone of his people skills. They want to tell him about themselves, they want to hear his ideas, his observations, they relish him as part of their group. There’s a sense of leadership that sits on him silent but not unacknowledged – who else here is involved in every discussion at every angle?

What happened to 6 o’clock? It’s gone 7.30 and Doolan’s card is still taking a beating like Ali in Kinshasa.

‘Shit! I’ve got to close my tab. It’s going to be horrendous!’ Doolan drawled just a touch.

‘I’ll help you,’ Kirstie leaped up, Jimmy’s elbow almost piercing her ribcage. Is this what it seems? It wouldn’t seem it unless it was, you’d think. They leaned on the bar, almost touching shoulders.

‘This is a great night, Kirstie. Not the sort of start to the weekend I’d normally plan. I’d normally be fully-functioning on a Saturday morning, but I’m not so sure about tomorrow!’ His lubricated reflections and static-ish eyes and head almost hinted at sincerity.

‘Hang on….. yeah, same again, before he signs it off, and stick 6 tequilas on there too please.’

‘There’s a nice quiet cosy corner over there, away from all that lot. Seems like it might be a good time to decamp and touch on some of those points in more detail. I want to hear what you really think about the ethics of sex tourism.’

‘Hah! Dream on! Come on, that’s the warm-up done with. That lot won’t wait for ever for these, you know.’

Oh. She’s back in the fold. Her exclamation marks are still hovering in the air, their malevolent attention-grabbing fluorescence gradually fading against the spotlights behind the bar. How can she carry six drinks at the same time? He can’t do that. Why can’t he do that? Don’t try now. It’s not the best time. So, was that rejection or was there less to it than that? Maybe just a slight inadvertent deflation? Whatever it was, it’s enough to have holed the SS Doolan below the waterline and his mastery of the general hum has suddenly ebbed. He’s got a kind of palsy of the cerebellum, a void behind the eyes, and conversations that he was directing now seem to be closing him out just enough so that it’s noticeable but not so blatant that anyone else needs to feel uncomfortable. The soft edge that they all previously had when addressing him has sharpened, or at least turned abrasive like some kind of social bastard rasp. He did well to make it until 8pm, which was the time he decided was appropriate to slip away.

 

Monday morning saw a newly determined Doolan. He knew what was special about himself and what he needed to do to meet his goals. He also knew who he needed to be concerned about on his way there and who was collateral to help him along the way. There was something deeply despicable and disturbing about Jimmy Hatch; despite his initial impression of glowing intelligence and downright common sense and honesty, something akin to rebellion and wilful noncompliance screamed from his discourteous intense glare. The others looked up to him as a leader, and that made it worse. The only possible solution was to cut him out completely. Cut off the head and the rest will wither, whence they may be rebuilt. It would be pretty easy, too. Doolan’s management mistrusted Jimmy’s type just as much as he did, but previously hadn’t had to address it as he was getting things done with no fuss. But a fuss now would raise his profile right up to those who really didn’t have the time or inclination to indulge his particular set of skills. There would be only one winner.

He twisted the knife slowly but unrelentingly. Week after week Jimmy’s life became more and more unpleasant. His influence on the younger members of the team was swiftly eroded by simple reassignment of jobs and reporting lines, leaving both mentor and protégés afloat without anchor. The relevance of his vision within the organisation declined more slowly, but equally surely, thanks to a concerted standardisation and conformity initiative, the sort of corporate antidote to Jimmy’s irresponsibility. It was no contest. Doolan hooked the drifting juniors and welcomed them aboard his ship. Whether or not Jimmy knew what was happening to him was irrelevant, but he must have known how it would turn out. He was intelligent enough to see his own shortcomings. When the end came it was probably a relief all round.