This Old House.

The old oak floor groaned under the weight of Tom Deasy finally lowering himself into his favourite rocking chair. This might be the last time he sat in this chair, in this old house. He blew out a loud sigh that filled the air with frosty breath.  The cold shook him all the way to his toes. He fastened the second loop of the handcuffs to the radiator. There was no going back now. They would have to rip out the rickety brown-stained heater from its fastenings in the wooden floor.

Here sat a seventy-one year old man with blankets over his shoulders and knees. How the mighty had fallen hard. He zip-tied the table to the radiator too, just to make it that bit harder for them to shift him.

Tom allowed himself a brief smile, comfortable in the knowledge that he could have some sort of comfort in his last few hours. He had strategically placed himself here to face the door – just so he could look the feckers in the eye when they crossed the threshold. On the table within arm’s reach, were the flask of tea and a pack of stale jammy dodgers.

His great grandfather had bought the house with inheritance money belonging to an aunt of his. She had married well and passed the proceeds onto him. Four generations had been brought up in this dwelling, and he was to be its final occupant.

The heating and electricity had been turned off months ago. His wood and turf had run out in the past few days, and the old house had suddenly lost its last source of heating fuel. In the hearth lay the embers of burnt remnants, to stay there for however long it took for the next owner to come clean it out.

Tom rubbed his wrinkled hands together to generate some heat in his weary bones. He nodded off at 8pm as the deadline came and went. He would be ensconced in the chair for one more night at least. Relieving himself seated wasn’t a major problem. Only creaky boards minus carpets lay beneath his feet and chair.

The sound of liquid dripping from his shoes echoed the empty cavern of the hallway and front room. He regretted doing it the moment he finished. Those feckers might think he was incontinent, and he didn’t want to give them the added pleasure of literally rubbing his face in it. He threw the smallest blanket over the spill.

Alone with his thoughts, Tom reminisced. How the house seemed so big to him as a child. Playing hide and go seek with his older brother, who had died three years ago from lung cancer. They would play for hours on end as their mother tried to get them to come to the table and eat dinner using proper napkins and tableware. Those were the days of cooks, nannies and servants. That was a long time ago now.

Bringing up his only son Jack, Tom employed a lady by the name of Suzanne as a throwback to when he grew up. She occupied all three roles and did so with aplomb. She was now dead too.

As for his son, he had long abandoned hope that his only flesh and blood would ever return. Last he had heard, Jack was living in Peru with another man called Carlos. That type of thing never happened in Tom’s day. It was spoken about in hushed tones and explained to friends and family that their son was taking a “sabbatical”.

The person he missed most was his wife and soul mate, Anne. She was the quintessential mother and provider. She was the one who organised everything and was his rock. He missed her presence, beauty and smell. Pulling a photo from his wallet, he caressed it gingerly. Under the photo of his wife and young son, a white business card fell to the floor. The logo faced upward. Irony was something that haunted him his entire life.

The Anglo bank fiasco and plummeting world markets threw Tom into disarray. Slowly but surely, every last cent of his fortune slipped through his fingers. He could do nothing about it.

And the most annoying ironic bit?

He had once sat on the board of Anglo.

Not even the old dogs and pals that were once his cohorts in the trenches around St. Stephens Green could help him out. No dig out like the “Golden Circle” got. No whispered word in the ear. Like a freight train running completely out of control with madmen at the wheel.

He lost absolutely everything.

The house in the south of France was first to go. The boat moored in Howth then went. The golf club membership was discontinued. The apartment in Galway for the races went in a heartbeat. Membership of the Rotary Club went too. All his shares in Anglo went up in a puff of smoke. The remainder of his portfolio was cashed in to maintain dwindling losses - they soon became savage losses.

But the bills kept coming. And bankruptcy soon followed. He tried to put the house in Jack’s name, but to no avail. They got ahead of him on that, those NAMA bastards. And then one morning last week, they came while he out and took every single piece of furniture. Apart from his chair and the table, where his elbows now lay upon. Only he pleaded with the creditors, he wouldn’t be sitting in the chair.

Had it really come to this? Would they throw an elderly man out on the street with no family or real friends left?

Tom soon got his answer.

As he began to drift off once again, a key was slipped into the lock. He glanced at his watch, seeing it was just after midnight. He steeled himself for a final fight, knowing they probably had bolt cutters. His resistance might be in vain but it would be firm.

But what came through the door was not what he expected. What came sauntering in the door was his knight at the eleventh hour.  

His son Jack walked in with the deeds of the home in his hands. His hands were shaking, expecting a rebuke from his father and his outdated thinking. He wasn’t alone as Carlos stood supportive behind him.

Tom lifted his handcuffed arms up in relief. Jack rushed to his stricken and seemingly broken father. They embraced more out of long endured separation, rather than awkwardness. Jack explained that Carlos had used his own money to bail them out.

“As long as a Deasy lives here, I don’t care who does. You’re more than welcome here Carlos. And thank you. Jack, I'm sorry for being a stupid old fool. Your mother would berate me for letting my pride drag this idiocy on so long. Thank you both for saving a man’s soul – and this old house.”