Turning Point by John Francis Kinsella
Kennedy rubbed his hands together with glee, the television announced the Irish government’s decision to guarantee all deposits and debts of the country's major banks. The news came one day after the Irish stock market plummeted thirteen percent. It was good news for the Irish Netherlands Bank, but for Ireland it was the first step on the long road to economic disaster.
‘We have to create confidence,’ said the finance minister said on RTE Radio. ‘We can’t bail out a particular bank. That wouldn't be right. What we have decided to do is give a general guarantee that the banks can lend in security and safety.’
Fitzwilliams’ lobbying had begun to bear fruit. It was clear the government would inevitably be forced to recapitalize the country’s banks. It was a step in the right direction. Kennedy was overjoyed, it was a lifebuoy that would guarantee the continuity of the Irish Netherlands’ independent Irish operations, in serious difficulties, slowly being asphyxiated by other banks reluctance to lend.
There were rumours they would use the National Pension Reserve Fund for recapitalisation. Whether that was a good thing or not for those looking forward to a decent pension was irrelevant, what counted for Fitzwilliams was getting the Irish Netherlands out of trouble.
The eejit, he thought when the minister told the Irish house: Some financial institutions are so embedded in our economy in terms of their borrowing and in terms of their deposits that they are of systemic importance to our economy. He was right of course, but it didn’t need a Nobel Prize to understand how important banks were to the economy.
Fitzwilliams, immensely relieved at the news decided it was time for a celebration. There had been nothing but bad news and now things were looking a little more positive. He asked his secretary to reserve a table at his favourite restaurant and call his driver, George Pike.
Pike, an improved street-wise cockney, was brought up in a large family that had struggled after his father, an ex-docker turned bricklayer, had lost his job following an accident. George had been decorated for his services in the Gulf War where he had served as driver and guard to the Senior British Commander. On his return to the UK he had been hired by a security firm as a professional chauffeur and bodyguard before becoming Fitzwilliams’ chauffeur, and responsible for his security — since the onset of the crisis a real charge.
However, Pike was not only Fitzwilliams driver; he also looked after a multitude of other small task for his boss. His military service had taught him to efficiently execute orders without question, to respect his commanding officers wishes. He admired Fitzwilliams as a commander and though the banker had never worn the least kind of uniform his background and education had given him the kind of qualities that men like Pike respected, a member of the upper classes, speaking with the kind of accent and authority that manifestly identified him as a member of the governing elite.
Pike’s philosophy was elementary, it was summed up in the way he explained the credit crunch to Kennedy, ‘When you’ve maxed out your credit card, the rentman’s knocking at the door, the gas bills are unpaid, and your car is running on old cooking oil, what do you do? Well you don’t splash out on new gear and go on holiday to Benidorm, do yuh!’
As for Kennedy he was another kettle of fish, it was his intrinsic disrespect for laws of any kind, written or unwritten, that explained Pike’s grudging respect for him. Kennedy was thick skinned, with little sensitivity and a certain naivety, something that had gotten him into deep trouble in his earlier business experiments. He had learnt from the knocks he had taken, mostly through his own fault, and was now much wiser and cleverer.
There was complicity between Fitzwilliams, Kennedy and Pike that went beyond a normal work relationship. The two bankers and their helper made a strange team. Not given to simple pleasures such as men’s creature comforts — drinking or womanising — nor to socializing for mere pleasure, their ambition was power, money meant little to them, they had whatever they wanted, each at his own level of expectation. Only power and manipulation drove them on in their unending quest to extend their influence.
As Kennedy gloated over the Irish prime minister’s promises Liam Clancy boarded the Ryan Air flight in Dublin; destination Marbella. The low cost jet was not full — a sure sign of the times. Unemployment had shot up and property prices were spiralling downwards as the Irish economy entered into recession for the first time in twenty five years.
Recalling the spartan service the Irish carrier offered, Liam had remembered to buy a few newspapers and magazines to read on the flight. He could not complain given the price of the one-way ticket. He paid for a cup of coffee and opened The Irish Independent. It was a litany of bad news: the minister of finance announced austerity measures and increased taxation; house sales were at the lowest level for thirty years with estate agents selling less than one property per week. It was not as though he needed reminding things were bad.
The news only reinforced Clancy’s idea that the moment to invest in property would soon be at hand, but first, considering the enlightening experience of the last weeks he would carefully explore the market. The key to success would be to seek out distressed sellers, very distressed sellers.
He checked into the Marbella Hilton where he was given a special ten day rate. Not only was it the end of the season, but a Lehman Brothers’ autumn seminar had been cancelled, logical in view of the bank’s sudden demise. Well heeled holiday makers were few and the hotel’s top end of the market clients from the Middle East had suddenly jetted out after oil had fallen to under eighty eight dollars a barrel.
Clancy headed for the pool, his first objective was a little rest and sunshine in preparation for a Saturday night tour of the resort’s best discos, after all there was little he could do over the weekend and he needed to let off steam after the depressing events of the previous weeks.
It was near to midnight when Clancy took a taxi to Olivia Valere’s, where he found himself amongst a horde of golden euro-youth, refugees who had fled Reykjavik, the Artic Ibiza, after its ubiquitous bars, discos and cafés suddenly emptied.
A Fateful Weekend
‘We have to create confidence,’ said the finance minister said on RTE Radio. ‘We can’t bail out a particular bank. That wouldn't be right. What we have decided to do is give a general guarantee that the banks can lend in security and safety.’
Fitzwilliams’ lobbying had begun to bear fruit. It was clear the government would inevitably be forced to recapitalize the country’s banks. It was a step in the right direction. Kennedy was overjoyed, it was a lifebuoy that would guarantee the continuity of the Irish Netherlands’ independent Irish operations, in serious difficulties, slowly being asphyxiated by other banks reluctance to lend.
There were rumours they would use the National Pension Reserve Fund for recapitalisation. Whether that was a good thing or not for those looking forward to a decent pension was irrelevant, what counted for Fitzwilliams was getting the Irish Netherlands out of trouble.
The eejit, he thought when the minister told the Irish house: Some financial institutions are so embedded in our economy in terms of their borrowing and in terms of their deposits that they are of systemic importance to our economy. He was right of course, but it didn’t need a Nobel Prize to understand how important banks were to the economy.
Fitzwilliams, immensely relieved at the news decided it was time for a celebration. There had been nothing but bad news and now things were looking a little more positive. He asked his secretary to reserve a table at his favourite restaurant and call his driver, George Pike.
Pike, an improved street-wise cockney, was brought up in a large family that had struggled after his father, an ex-docker turned bricklayer, had lost his job following an accident. George had been decorated for his services in the Gulf War where he had served as driver and guard to the Senior British Commander. On his return to the UK he had been hired by a security firm as a professional chauffeur and bodyguard before becoming Fitzwilliams’ chauffeur, and responsible for his security — since the onset of the crisis a real charge.
However, Pike was not only Fitzwilliams driver; he also looked after a multitude of other small task for his boss. His military service had taught him to efficiently execute orders without question, to respect his commanding officers wishes. He admired Fitzwilliams as a commander and though the banker had never worn the least kind of uniform his background and education had given him the kind of qualities that men like Pike respected, a member of the upper classes, speaking with the kind of accent and authority that manifestly identified him as a member of the governing elite.
Pike’s philosophy was elementary, it was summed up in the way he explained the credit crunch to Kennedy, ‘When you’ve maxed out your credit card, the rentman’s knocking at the door, the gas bills are unpaid, and your car is running on old cooking oil, what do you do? Well you don’t splash out on new gear and go on holiday to Benidorm, do yuh!’
As for Kennedy he was another kettle of fish, it was his intrinsic disrespect for laws of any kind, written or unwritten, that explained Pike’s grudging respect for him. Kennedy was thick skinned, with little sensitivity and a certain naivety, something that had gotten him into deep trouble in his earlier business experiments. He had learnt from the knocks he had taken, mostly through his own fault, and was now much wiser and cleverer.
There was complicity between Fitzwilliams, Kennedy and Pike that went beyond a normal work relationship. The two bankers and their helper made a strange team. Not given to simple pleasures such as men’s creature comforts — drinking or womanising — nor to socializing for mere pleasure, their ambition was power, money meant little to them, they had whatever they wanted, each at his own level of expectation. Only power and manipulation drove them on in their unending quest to extend their influence.
As Kennedy gloated over the Irish prime minister’s promises Liam Clancy boarded the Ryan Air flight in Dublin; destination Marbella. The low cost jet was not full — a sure sign of the times. Unemployment had shot up and property prices were spiralling downwards as the Irish economy entered into recession for the first time in twenty five years.
Recalling the spartan service the Irish carrier offered, Liam had remembered to buy a few newspapers and magazines to read on the flight. He could not complain given the price of the one-way ticket. He paid for a cup of coffee and opened The Irish Independent. It was a litany of bad news: the minister of finance announced austerity measures and increased taxation; house sales were at the lowest level for thirty years with estate agents selling less than one property per week. It was not as though he needed reminding things were bad.
The news only reinforced Clancy’s idea that the moment to invest in property would soon be at hand, but first, considering the enlightening experience of the last weeks he would carefully explore the market. The key to success would be to seek out distressed sellers, very distressed sellers.
He checked into the Marbella Hilton where he was given a special ten day rate. Not only was it the end of the season, but a Lehman Brothers’ autumn seminar had been cancelled, logical in view of the bank’s sudden demise. Well heeled holiday makers were few and the hotel’s top end of the market clients from the Middle East had suddenly jetted out after oil had fallen to under eighty eight dollars a barrel.
Clancy headed for the pool, his first objective was a little rest and sunshine in preparation for a Saturday night tour of the resort’s best discos, after all there was little he could do over the weekend and he needed to let off steam after the depressing events of the previous weeks.
It was near to midnight when Clancy took a taxi to Olivia Valere’s, where he found himself amongst a horde of golden euro-youth, refugees who had fled Reykjavik, the Artic Ibiza, after its ubiquitous bars, discos and cafés suddenly emptied.
A Fateful Weekend