BACK in Dublin, The Abbot’s Castle was ticking over nicely (Brendan was now driving a purple Jaguar XJ6) and Doreen, a mother-of-two, found time to work the door (the logic – correct, as it happens – being that tough guys would accept rejection from a slight female before they’d back down to a man). And Brendan and Kevin were easily making the payment terms.
In September 1989, Brendan reckoned he was due a holiday. His Toronto-based sister Fiona was getting married and he could take off and relax and enjoy himself in the knowledge that all was well back in his Dublin bar.
Kevin had had his problems in the past, mostly substance-abuse-related, and had spent some time in rehab. But he reassured his partner he could leave the bar in safe hands.
‘Brendan, this is the biggest vote of confidence anyone could give me. I’ll do you proud.’
Brendan and Doreen had a great two weeks in Canada and, returning to Ireland refreshed and invigorated, he felt ready to take the business up to the next level.
But it didn’t happen. When Brendan walked into The Abbot’s Castle on 12 September, he was frozen to the spot. All the fixtures had been removed, the furniture, the lampshades, the stock. Everything.
‘Kevin was gone and he’d even sold the plates and light bulbs.’
There was worse to come. When Brendan had a look at the bank account, he saw it had been wiped out. Clean. Desperately, Brendan made phone calls, spoke to friends to try to figure out what had happened. No one knew where Kevin had disappeared to, but acquaintances revealed they’d bought the furniture, the bits and pieces. Legitimately, they said.
Brendan was furious. A few months later, when he heard Kevin had come home for Christmas, Brendan was so angry he drove his car to Kevin’s mother’s house and sat outside waiting for him.
He sat there for hours, until common sense descended. Brendan realised he had a wife and kids at home, and it was Christmas Eve.
‘Later on I thanked God I couldn’t find him. I went back to my family and we focused on celebrating the day as best we could.’
The pub was closed. The dream was over. Brendan was disconsolate. He owed £96,000 on the business and it might as well have been £96 million for all the chance he had of paying it back. And with two young kids to look after.
Brendan had to face the New Year believing he had lost his one chance.
‘It was gone. I was finished. Or so I thought. I’ve learned since in life that you get lots of chances. You’ve just got to be able to spot them. For example, if you have a massive debt with the bank, you need something to happen to pay it back. And say that thing doesn’t happen, you think you’re in trouble. But then you realise you’re not in trouble. It’s the bank that’s in trouble. So you say to the bank, “How can I help you get out of this trouble?” And you make a suggestion, to trade out, to borrow more money, whatever . . .’
But he hadn’t yet learned that Zen-like approach to dealing with angry creditors. Brendan spent the next year in court, losing case after case after case against suppliers and finance companies.
‘At that stage, if you’d put my name into the computer, you’d have sworn that I’d murdered the bank manager’s wife, the credit rating was so bad.
‘I owed so much money that I had no means of paying it back. What destroyed me was knowing we both could have come out of the pub experience as seriously rich men. But he sold us out for about ninety-odd grand. It was nothing.
‘But then it’s easy for me to say that.’
Three years later, Brendan discovered Kevin had been involved in the drugs scene, was gay and had contracted AIDS. Those days he’d disappeared now made sense.
When Kevin had realised he was dying, he’d taken all the money, everything, and headed off to Brisbane for a last hurrah.
But he came back. And he went to his mother’s house. And the night after he arrived back at his mother’s, he hanged himself.
Brendan was arrested the following day. Which wasn’t surprising, since he’d made it clear to everyone how furious he was with Kevin.
‘But the enquiries didn’t last long. It was soon established Kevin had killed himself. ‘Yet, I often reflect on it. One thing I think about is that I have no idea what it’s like to be dying of AIDS. To be totally afraid. And even to be gay. Being gay can be a very lonely life.
‘And then I have to think, “What does it take to hang yourself? How much desperation must you feel?” But you can’t let it affect your faith in human nature. If you carry grudges, they weigh you down.’
He adds, ruefully, ‘And anyway, it’s one of those ironic twists. If he hadn’t fecked off to Australia with the money, I might still be running a pub.’
Yet, he now had no job and a wife and two kids to support. What would he do?