Jane Lawrence could tell from his animated behaviour and muffled expletives; her boss was not a happy man. She’d ushered in the four men in smart suits; two each from the company’s lawyers and accountants, served them tea and coffee before he’d closed the door and closed the vertical blinds.
She inched her chair forward and positioned herself so she could catch a glimpse, through a gap in the slats, of his pacing up and down the office, phone pressed to his ear, waving his arms in the air and bellowing, while all four advisors sat nervously poring over open files and laptops. She caught him screaming a name she recognised, “Declan!” followed by, “fuckin’ gobshite!” the office walls, although notionally soundproof, unable to suppress the vitriolic language that forced its way through the cracks. She couldn’t hear the conversation as such, just the excess of bad language delivered at maximum volume, most of which she’d heard him shout many times before and a few she hadn’t.
Outbursts like this were not uncommon. Rowan Maguire had forged a reputation over many years for his uncompromising and authoritarian manner that could make grown men tremble; a reputation that reached way beyond the confines of his company and into every sector of industry it serviced. Jane assumed his earlier career in the RUC and his irascible nature had to be connected. Who knows what he’d had to deal with back then, face to face on the front line with the hard men of Ulster? Who but a hard man himself would survive?
But survive he did and once the dust had settled on the troubles and the RUC disbanded and replaced by the PSNI, he’d left the force and in less than twenty years built RBM Industries into a major trading business with headquarters in Londonderry and offices in five continents. And this hadn’t been achieved through bombast alone. Like many successful businessmen, Maguire’s volatility and fearsome temper was matched with a charm and generosity that inspired loyalty amongst all those who worked for him. She wouldn’t have him any other way.
She assumed the man he was shouting at down the phone was Declan Doyle, the stocky gorilla of similar age to Mr Maguire who always wore black. He’d been in a few times in the twelve months since she’d started and came and went without saying a word, had never been introduced to her and always met Mr Maguire behind closed doors. He wasn’t on the payroll, she’d checked, and someone had said he was a relative but had declined to go further, so she guessed he was a supplier or someone who provided a special service.
She looked away in case he caught her watching and concentrated on her screen. Operation chief Kyle Brady sauntered in, heard the muffled cacophony, did an about-turn and scuttled away, red of face, lever-arch file pressed tightly to his chest like it were armour plating. Suddenly it all went silent, but just for a second.
“Fuckin’ dryshite!” The bellowed double expletive was as clear as day, a thundering roar followed immediately by the sound of something breaking into pieces. Jane Lawrence had an urgent need to visit the ladies but dared not move in case he wanted her. She didn’t have long to wait. The door opened abruptly, and four ashen-faced advisors marched out, looking thankful they’d escaped with their lives.
“Janie!” came the shout from within. She cringed and swung her long slender legs from under her desk and trotted into Maguire’s office, smoothing her short business skirt as she walked and nervously flicking her hair. He’d never shouted at her before but then she was just a wee lassie and Mr Maguire never shouted at wee lassies.
“I need a brew,” he said, examining pieces of broken phone.
“Yes Mr Maguire.”
“And go out and get me a new phone. This one’s feckin’ banjaxed.” She noticed he had suddenly moderated his language, no doubt in deference to the sensibilities of the young lady standing nervously before him.
“Yes Mr Maguire.” She effected a curtsey of sorts. She knew he loved it and was good at calming him down. She tottered off.
“Janie?”
“Yes Mr Maguire?” She turned and saw he was looking her up and down. Her boss was as old as her grandfather, just as thin on top and just as big around the gut. His tie was undone, his sleeves rolled up and his brow glossy with sweat. She found him physically repulsive, yet he could turn on the charm when he wanted to and the power and influence he wielded made him attractive in equal measure. Whatever Mr Maguire wanted, Mr Maguire got, and her job was to see to his every need.
“Nice skirt.” He winked at her and waved her away.
***
Rowan Maguire watched his young PA’s buttocks bob up and down as she left his office and smiled. She brightened up the darkest day and he’d eat her box tomorrow if it wasn’t for Mrs Maguire, the only person he truly feared. One day he’d get what he wanted, but the instant she’d gone, the smile vanished, and grim reality returned. There was something else Maguire desperately wanted and wanted now but had so far proven beyond his reach. He wanted his money back.
His feckin’ eejit of a brother-in-law had assured him the hoor had swallowed the bait but when they’d reeled in the line, there was a feckin’ shark on the end. And then there was the journalist. He’d deal with her later, her usefulness had expired, and she’d be even more of a nuisance now she knew her security had been compromised. But time was running out and the focus had to be on finding the money. The loss was bad enough and potentially unsustainable, but worse, his family had been deceived, his daughter defiled and the cause for which he’d fought all his life seriously undermined. If it ever got out, his reputation would be in ruins and that was just as dangerous, but to cap it all, the attack on his very existence was coming from the most loathsome of all; agents of the papacy. That Fenian bastard had already paid the price for his betrayal and no force on earth could make him pay it again. The situation had to be rectified; no less than the lifelong struggle against the Fenian hordes was at stake.