Conor Farrelly hoisted both hands to hush the crowd, ignoring the wash of black Guinness he was sloshing over the top of his glass. Standing on top of the long bar, the nuggety entrepreneur surveyed the jam-packed pub, which overflowed with guests and an endless supply of beer. It was a perfect brew for the double celebration – his birthday and the twenty-fifth anniversary of the CCNN Group.
At sixty-six years old – one crucial six short of the devil’s number – Conor had made himself into one of the wealthiest men in Northern Ireland. He started CCNN
as a small freight operation, but his hard-scrabble drive had grown it into a massive conglomerate that spanned international shipping, pharmaceutical production in India, and clothing manufacturing in Bangladesh. Despite this, Conor remained a man of the people, which was why the festivities were in a pub and not the ballroom of a five-star hotel.
‘Niall!’ he shouted over the heads of his guests. ‘Git your arse up here, boyo.’
As the bald, muscled Goliath pushed his way through the crowd, Conor took a swig of Guinness to hoots and cheers. Niall got up on the bar and, towering over his father, was greeted with a hug, and another cheer. He had a shaved, oiled head and, like his father, his face had what the charitable would call character. This was mostly due to his large and flattened nose – a trophy from his teenage years, a brawl with the paramilitaries where a loyalist crushed it with a rifle butt…
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