a twisted novel?                               

Sinopsis and first three sample chapters- 90,000 words, Irish terrorist conspiracy.

     
      Brian Gallagher, hero of the republican movement, has been  a top IRA enforcer and planner for 17 years. Now he must turn his back on the cruel killing game that has been his destiny from birth. Somehow he must turn his back on his own community, his culture, even his family. He must leave the infamous organisation that has fought off the entire British Army in Ulster for thirty years. He has found a better way and a woman worth risking everything for.

      To make it happen he must pull down the whole corrupt edifice and hope to survive. In the desperate conflict that follows he realises that the glorious Republican Movement is not at all what it seems. The IRA has become a department of the British Secret Service, a department with an enormous but dwindling budget. Peace is expensive to some. Now they want him to bomb London, not just London but the Houses of Parliament. The dark secret of the IRA’s success is so fantastic that it boggles the imagination. It is worth everything to some people, certainly more than one man and his true love.        
                                                                                                            
                                                                   Gabriel Deeds.

                                                                
                                      THE MINSTREL BOY              
                          The Minstrel Boy to the war has gone,
                          In the ranks of death you'll find him,
                          His father's sword he has girded on,
                          And his wild harp slung behind him,

Chapter One                      Power games

Shining rain glistened on the patient, cobbled streets. The chill winter darkness settled, like an unwanted relative, on the reluctant city. Even now, well into the evening, a few hardy souls still scuttled miserably, shoulders hunched, hurrying, homeward bound. They were the last tired, stragglers of the evening commute.

Maguire took a corner of the grimy lace curtain and wiped condensation from inside the filthy window. Through the wavy glass a line of derelict street lamps stood stooping sadly as if weary. From somewhere beneath his feet the muffled strains of a tortured rebel song drifted in with the pub smell of stale beer and cigarettes. It could have been Coronation Street, anywhere in Britain, but it wasn’t. It was Belfast.

The ridiculous lack of romance, or even dignity, always struck Maguire on these occasions. Here they were, the cream of the glorious Irish Republican movement, the great Army Council, huddled together in the fetid upstairs room of a spit and sawdust shebeen, somewhere in the middle of Republican Belfast.

He refocused his eyes to the reflection in the grimy glass, to the small group of men in the shabby little room. They were waiting for him. He could actually smell them. There was a faint, acrid, animal aroma. His nose wrinkled, he thought of a decent bottle of chilled Chablis and his own roaring fire. He sighed,

“OK lads, let’s get on with it.” He remembered with dismay that the main item today was the accounts.

Maguire returned to the table resuming his seat. It was necessary to rub shoulders with his earthier colleagues. He knew that he depended on them. He was also fully aware of the kind of bloody mayhem that they could get up to if he was in any way distant.

Maguire kept this group small and well supervised. He made the decisions, debate was not encouraged, period. A bit like Tony Blair’s new Labour party, he smiled to himself.

Here they were protected by a hundred watchers covering every access street and alley. They were at the centre of an impenetrable web. It wasn’t glamorous but it was safe. Every police station and all barracks were under surveillance. At the first hint of trouble these men in the room could quickly disappear. They could dematerialise into a maze of alleys, yards and attics. Others would simply go down to the bar and have a drink. It had been many years since they had tossed bombs or squinted down the sights of an armalite. These days they were more brazen.

All of them were well known and documented but not wanted, officially. They lived in a peculiar limbo land of immunity. So long as they didn’t get caught breaking the law, it protected them. These days they were more often seen on the campaign trail. They tested the patience of TV presenters on lunch time chat shows.  They were respectable, reasonable politicians. Maguire had a staff, a PA and a secretary. An official car was at his disposal. All the subtle inducements and trappings of power. It was a heady brew. He liked it, he liked it a lot.

This small group of men in front of him were the distilled remnants of a far greater band. Whittled and culled over the years, these were cautious, dangerous men. They were here by right of passage. They had survived the natural selection process. They were the winners of the reality game show from hell. Maguire scanned the room scrutinizing each man discreetly.

Liam O’Hara, on his right, was responsible for security. He was a small, wizened red head, almost bald, and very pale. He had the deathly white pallor of a man who didn’t see much daylight. Maguire had seen healthier corpses at a wake. O’Hara spoke little, preferring action. O’Hara the witch hunter pointed and death was swift.

Over the years he had fought his way through the ranks like thousands of other kids. Throwing stones and then petrol bombs, running errands and being generally useful. Eventually, on the most important day of his life, he had become a volunteer in the IRA.

His older brother had been smashed down by a rubber bullet in the seventies. Bedridden now, he spent his days sucking pap through a tube in the back bedroom of their Mother’s house. O’Hara hated the British, or more specifically the English, with a truly pure form of the emotion. It was this qualification that led him to security and the hunt for those who would betray the Cause.

There were many. Twenty seven touts or informers had been extirpated by O’Hara and his hellish minions. They used everything from breeze blocks and baseball bats to the pistol bullet in the back of the neck. Everyone was afraid of this white faced, bald little man but nobody doubted his loyalty. He was twenty nine.  

Next to him sat Terry Sloan for mainland operations. A loud mouth who boasted of hidden assets in England. He had master minded the economic bombing of London’s financial heartland and had been resting on his laurels ever since. He made up the numbers and he was biddable.

The only other Council member present apart from Maguire himself was Connor Keegan. Keegan had a pedigree going back as far as the last war. Ironically in 1943 he had fought with the British as an underage volunteer. He had lost a foot carrying his officer through a minefield somewhere in Italy. With his Military Medal he added a vague respectability to the proceedings but at over seventy he retained his position only because he was Maguire’s Uncle.

Kennedy was in hospital with his prostate. Sullivan was in the states harvesting gullible Yanks. He was desperately trying to restore the huge dent in the flow of cash brought about by the attack on the Twin Towers. The romantic allure of the Republican struggle had been dimmed by the harsh reality of domestic terrorism.

Dermot Maguire, Derry to his friends, chairman and commander in chief, realised with a start that he hadn’t been listening. He was bored.  He resisted the temptation to doodle on his copy of the agenda and forced himself to listen to the speaker, one Jack Cullen, then treasurer.

“ It’s very simple gentlemen. Income is down fifty two percent on the same quarter last year. People in the States are so paranoid were lucky it’s not far worse.” He paused for effect,

“We need something to put some fire in their bellies and get them banging the tables with their fists in Boston.”  Cullen paused checking Maguire’s expression, subconsciously looking for approval. Maguire was inscrutable, he disliked the bean counter but had long ago accepted the need for financial control. At the same time he bitterly resented what the man represented, the slow but inexorable decline into organised crime.

With a conscious effort he sat forward, Cullen was valuable. He would also be a complete liability if he should ever fall into the wrong hands.

“Thanks for the information Jack.” Maguire held up a staying hand,

“Could you update us on the domestic front?” For a moment Cullen looked perplexed, he obviously had some kind of pet proposal. Maguire fervently hoped that he had nipped it in the bud. The little shit had delusions of grandeur. With the pained expression of the unappreciated genius Cullen continued.

“Things are pretty much routine, income is steady, apart from States of course.” He paused, enjoying his moment,

“There are one or two late payers as usual. One or two gone down the pan,” Maguire shifted irritably, pointedly, in his chair. Cullen moved swiftly on,

“The Department of Social Security have a team in investigating benefit fraud.” He raised his eyebrows importantly, trying to raise a reaction,

“Nothing serious, going through the motions. They know what to do. Sixty percent of our payroll costs come from the British taxpayer, they know what’s at stake.” He smiled conspiratorially, smug, he was one of them. They could rely on him. He continued,

“I had a word with the Director and everything is under control.” Still no reaction from the bored room,

He pulled his ear thoughtfully, desperately trying to impress these men.

“There is one thing that could become a problem.” He tailed off, almost teasing and was gratified to see Maguire raise his eyebrow hopefully.

“It’s the new shopping centre in Antrim. The European money has come through.” One or two heads looked up at the mention of money. Encouraged by the tiny tremor in the room Cullen continued,

“As you know the project director, Karl Gless, refuses to involve us at any price.” Maguire looked vague and Liam O’Hara prompted,

“Ye mind the one where the new Marks and Spencers will be. The one yer wife keeps going on about.” He grinned mischievously,

“Maybe you’d better let this one go Derry, to keep her quiet.” Chuckles all around, but Maguire could feel the challenge. O’Hara well knew that such matters were Maguire’s responsibility. He was wondering how such a direct challenge would be handled.

Cullen continued irritated at the interruption of his briefing,

“This Gless is a tough customer and he’s popular for bringing jobs in. It’s a twenty million pound project, that should be netting us around ten percent over two years.” Cullen paused for effect as the mental arithmetic worked it’s magic.

“Of course that doesn’t include what we make on building materials, labour and security subscriptions from the new leaseholders. Call it another half million, it’s a tidy sum.” Impatiently O’Hara leaned forward, an arctic glitter in his eyes. He interrupted unceremoniously,

“Kill the bastard! It’s always the same, things go quiet and people think they can do what they like. Just because there’s a cease fire he thinks we won’t touch him.” He raised both hands in supplication,

“If we don’t do him, the rest will start bitching, takings will go down and the next thing the fucking Protestants will be sniffing around looking for a cut.” Bristling he scanned the table searching for support.

Maguire laughed inside, waiting for the move. O’Hara, casual now,

“The boys are getting restless anyway. I’ll have a couple of good men take care of it. We’ll just go and blow the fucker’s head off!” He sat back with an expansive gesture. Maguire sighed, loudly. He had seen the movie too, Don Corleone lives he thought to himself. The teacher and the unruly pupil. He and O’Hara had played this game many times.

Maguire stood, unconsciously using his physical size and presence to intimidate the group. At six feet three and two hundred and ten pounds his mere size often had an effect. That combined with his executioner’s steely stare and his enormous self confidence gave him the ability to quieten a room just by entering it. His obviously well educated intelligence and unflappable nature made him formidable indeed. He was not a man to overlook any advantage, he paused dramatically,

“Kill him, hmm, aye, I can see it all now.” He sighed sarcastically,

“The Europeans will pull out, the press will tear us to pieces for breaking the cease fire and our support dwindles because the jobs go somewhere else.” He stroked his chin seeming to reflect on the possible merits of the plan.

“Oh aye, I forgot the best bit. We lose the money and we all live happily ever after on income support.” He thumped the table lightly,

“A master plan Liam, let’s just hope the British never think of it!”

O’Hara flushed visibly, his parchment like skin suffused with bile. Someday he would drop dead, apoplectic with rage. Maguire reflected dreamily on that prospect but O’Hara was quite capable of killing them all. It was dangerous to provoke an obvious psychopath. Perhaps he had overdone it,

“Joking apart Liam, you’re right as ever. We do need a strong hand on this one. We need to take out somebody lower down the food chain. Less fuss, but the message will be clear.”

O’Hara was obviously confused at the sudden change from insult to praise. Maguire was amused to see that he was also pleased with the compliment. He was still on the leash. Speed was important now,

“I think I know the very man for the job, but thanks for the offer Liam.”

The meeting ended shortly afterwards and they all drifted off to their security teams waiting nearby. As was his habit, Keegan hung back. He seldom said much but Maguire valued his insight. He had an uncanny ability to guess what other men were thinking and how they would act. On a much more personal level, he realised suddenly, Keegan was the only one that he trusted. That alone was a rare luxury in their arcane world. Here they lived in an atmosphere comprised of oxygen, nitrogen, paranoia and treachery.

He wondered if Keegan trusted him. He probably did. The thought was painful to Maguire. Grimacing like a man with indigestion he put it away in a dark corner of his mind. The older man was brisk,

“You can’t provoke that fucker Derry. We should finish him off, it would be a kindness.” Keegan shook his head sadly,

“Since his Moira died he’s been like a mad dog. We can’t afford to be worrying about what he’s going to do next.” He smiled,

“He’d love to stride up Downing Street with a Thompson on his hip.” Keegan chuckled ruefully at the image,

“For fuck sake, forget I said that, you’re just as likely to suggest it to him you bastard!” They laughed together as they went down the stairs. Maguire stopped on the landing taking Keegan by the elbow and drawing him to one side,

“Connor, I need you to talk to Brian Gallagher. Sort this shopping centre thing between you. I don’t care about the details, you know what’s needed. Just make it quick and decisive before O’Hara can make something out of it.” Keegan frowned thoughtfully,

“What about the cease fire? Or is this the inevitable display of frustration at British delays in the talks? The understandable response of a few hotheads.”

Again Maguire reflected on how lucky he was to have someone so efficient and so loyal. The job would be well done and he could concentrate on other things.

“That sounds great Connor. Lets make it the Real IRA again, it’s been a while since we heard from them.” He paused,

“ On that other thing Connor, you may be right about O’Hara, he is a risk.”  Keegan sighed, nodding,

“I’ve seen it before Derry, too much suffering, too many traitors. He’s burned out, used up and half crazy with paranoia.” Maguire reflected,

“For now we’ll just keep an eye on him, I’ll give it some thought.” He shook off the mood, cheerful now,

“Come on you old bugger. don’t be last to the bar again.”

As he and Keegan entered the packed bar the noise died away to an expectant hush. Maguire stood, casting a masterful eye over the suddenly subdued drinkers. He savoured the taste of power, for a moment it was palpable. Nobody could meet his gaze. Satisfied that there was no challenge he moved on,

“Come on boys, this isn’t a wake.” He shouted good naturedly at the barman,

“Owen, two pints and two whiskies, I’m choking for a drink.” The spell was broken as Maguire slapped backs and shook hands all the way to the bar, shouting over the nervous and studied bonhomie.

His eyes scanned the room looking for something specific. At a small table three young girls sat drinking lager and lime apparently deep in raucous conversation. They or girls just like them were always there. Groupies, drawn to the power and the danger. Maguire quietly examined them, one in particular. She was dark, in her early twenties. Very slim, likely with a temper on her too, by the look of those eyes and pouting lips.

Maguire smiled to himself. Turning to the landlord who was now hovering behind the bar. He spoke discreetly,

“Owen, get those wee girls a round of drinks and have one yourself.” As he got the drinks Owen ruefully considered the fact that he had never seen Maguire part with any cash in spite of his public generosity. However the bar was full and he was an intelligent man. The little pub was now legally owned by the IRA, bought and paid for. Owen was now a mere employee and he wasn’t about to fall out with management.

The IRA was getting into respectable business these days. They owned quite a few pubs, hotels, taxi firms and security companies. Not directly of course but Owen knew who his real boss was. He took the drinks over to the girls. They giggled in unison as Maguire raised his glass to them. Catching the dark girl’s eye and gave an imperceptible nod. She smiled and rose to go to the bathroom. Maguire was not alone in appreciating the close fitting jeans and raven hair. The other two girls wore brittle smiles and concentrated on their drinks. They would not be alone for long. Maguire turned to Owen again,

“The usual room is it Owen? I think I’m going to turn in.” He turned to Keegan,

“Duty calls Connor, it’s an early night for me.” Keegan was dead pan.

“Aye, and ye’ll need some rest. I hear tell that one could suck the knob off a towing hitch.” Maguire winced in spite of himself. Laughing he drained his glass, 

“I’ll be down at seven, good night boys.” He slipped out quietly and went to his room alone. Appearances, after all, were important. There were too many wives in the bar for overt indiscretion.

 

Liam O’Hara was not a particularly clever man. He was however completely ruthless and single minded. When something troubled him it was his custom to brood on it. He was brooding now, with the aid of a bottle of Bushmills whisky. That meant it was serious.

O’Hara had never been a supporter of Maguire believing him to be an intellectual and a talker. He saw himself as the man of action who ultimately, would take charge and sort things out. This was his destiny. Sooner or later he would purge the organisation. Someday Maguire and his breed would finally be discredited.

For years he had fought implacably for the Cause, as he saw it anyway. The reality was different, his rage needed feeding. The Cause was a convenient way of legitimising his own inadequacy and an awesome inferiority complex. Fear, he had discovered, gave rise to a status and power way beyond anything he had a right to deserve in the normal course of events. He was of course, clinically psychotic, but then who wasn’t? For all of his failings, as head of security for the Provisional IRA he was uniquely well qualified and very good at his work.

As usual he was brooding about being taken for granted. Worse, he suspected that Maguire in particular was disrespectful and tended to take the piss. Maguire looked down his nose at the brethren. The earlier Council meeting was a classic example. This of course was intolerable, but in spite of cautious routine surveillance so far he had nothing with which he could act against so powerful a foe.

As Head of the dreaded Special Investigations Unit he had almost complete autonomy. Even so this was a tricky one. As the Bushmills went down he was gradually coming to the conclusion that direct action was required. This bird would need some serious flushing. He needed a good gorilla, and he had many to choose from. This had been coming for a long time. 

He picked up the phone by his armchair and dialled a local number. The fact that it was three in the morning never occurred to him.

“Nolan, aye, it’s me. Get round here now, I want a word with ye.” He listened with growing irritation to the confused mumbling on the other end of the phone,

“Sleeping! For fuck sake you’re always bloody sleeping.” O’Hara looked at his watch grudgingly,

“Oh all right, first thing in the morning.” He slammed the phone down angrily. He would plan the details while lesser men slept. Volunteers weren’t what they used to be.

 

Maguire woke as usual, in a strange bed with an even stranger young women. The night had been frantic. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed grimacing. A sharp stinging pain ran across his back. He went over to the dresser and turned his back to the mirror, looking over his shoulder,

“Ye wee bitch!” he muttered,” I’m cut to fuckin ribbons.” Deep, angry weals ran across his shoulders, he turned back to the bed accusingly. If the wife saw this there would be hell to pay. The girl lay on her right side curled up still asleep. He pulled back the covers, the room was warm and she did not stir. Stepping forward he saw the hard elastic round buttocks, her slim waist. A wild profusion of dark hair coursed down her creamy back. She was smiling. He slipped his hand under her right buttock and eased her onto her knees. His erection was painful as he moved onto the end of the bed behind her. He looked down at himself shaking his head in open admiration,

“You’re an animal Maguire.” She was still moist and he guided himself into the sticky heat of her. He watched his full length disappear into her soft yielding folds.  She moaned softly, wriggling to displace him as he thrust into her warmth. She tensed on him and he threw his head back groaning aloud. He thrust again, quick and hard. He put both hands between her shoulders using his weight to pin her down. She was slick with sweat and passion. She cried out, he did not intend to be gentle.

 

An hour later, after dismissing his security detail on the outskirts of town and changing cars, Maguire pulled onto a forestry commission track. His security officer was not happy and Maguire had to shout a little to get his privacy. Turning off the engine, he dropped the window. He sighed, listening to the wind creeping through the dark sterile firs. He was hardly ever alone and he was a man who needed occasional solitude. For a moment, a brief moment, he could relax. He leaned back onto the headrest enjoying the rare moment.

The light was still poor and he stiffened as the headlights of another vehicle passed the track on the main road. A dark Ford saloon. As it passed the oncoming headlights of a vehicle going in the other direction briefly illuminated the driver. Even at this distance Maguire recognised the distinctive car with one wing a different colour from the rest. It was Nolan, one of O’Hara’s homicidal security officers. The Ford disappeared over the hill and Maguire realised that he had stopped breathing. He had a terrible urge to run. Like disturbed bats, panic fluttered all around him in the dark.

Obviously O’Hara was suspicious of something, his hound was unleashed. It could be routine surveillance, even so, there was no question of a chance being taken. The engine pinked and creaked as it cooled in the chill morning air. He gulped it greedily trying to slow his heart rate. Sliding out a little toy like cell phone he dialled the number carefully, struggling with the small rubber buttons. The number was listed in the South of Ireland to a distant cousin.

The signal reached out into the ether, he heard the phone ringing. Abruptly it was connected, he waited as it was re-routed. Then out of the silence,

“Jackpot, confirm.” Maguire counted slowly to five. Without the pause there would be no contact,

“Bingo, jackpot confirms. We may have a problem, a loose cannon. Here’s what I want you to do.”

 

An incongruously beautiful song rang out, like the pipes of Pan in a sylvan idyll. It was a Blackbird, gracefully opening the day with a tentative, fruity warble. Its mellifluous salutation to the dawn drifted up a completely indifferent Ballygarvey Road. The electric whine of a milk float stopped and started its way along. Its busy hum mingled with the chink, jingle and rumble of milk bottles and crates as it trundled over rough spots in the tarmac. The road was scarred and blackened periodically. Here a bus had burned, there a blast bomb had gone off. Battle scars. The driver was whistling tunelessly to himself as he negotiated the worst of the road.

Stuart Flannigan had done this round for years. He knew everybody and everybody knew him. A simple soul, he went about his business bothering no one. The troubles touched him rarely, unless the kids wanted milk bottles for throwing. Even then, they were wary, for his hand was heavy. He was quick for a big man, unhampered by the stifling political correctness that afflicted the mainland. Few of the kids had avoided a skelp round the ear or a kick up the arse at some time or other. Worse, he knew all their Mothers. What could be more fearful than to be dragged off by the ear in front of all your mates? At any rate Stuart Flannigan came and went as he pleased.

He was not completely unnoticed however. He was just what Special Branch was looking for. Several months previously his back yard door had been forced and his tools stolen from the shed. He was asked to go to the police station to fill out the usual forms, so that he could claim on his insurance.

Whilst there he had been blatantly propositioned. In the end he had found their offer irresistible. It wasn’t the money, one hundred pounds a week, tax free. He wanted to be a secret agent. He was flattered and excited. He had a secret, just like in the movies. It was fortunate for Stuart that his handler had not been forced to use the next inducement on his list. A simple phone call or even a rumour spread in the wrong quarters would result in swift and sudden death for the milk man. The Special Branch needed his help, it wasn’t a request.

All he had to do was keep an eye out for certain lads he knew anyway. He would report on their movements or any unusual happenings he came across. This morning for example, young Joseph Nolan was seen going into Liam O’Hara’s little council house just after six. Everybody knew that Joe liked his bed and never rose much before eleven. Except on Thursday when he had to go and sign on for his Government benefit. A small detail but Stuart’s handler would be very interested.

This morning there had also been a note for an extra pint of milk and he had seen a stranger standing in O’Hara’s kitchen. Something was afoot.

 

             O’Hara was not a morning person. The rest of the day was only a marginal improvement but mornings were bad. He really needed a drink. It was only the stranger’s presence that prevented it. This of course was unfortunate for the stranger.

“Nothing fancy now Michael, this is a bit of a rush job.” O’Hara slumped into an armchair with a cup of tea. A vein pulsed rhythmically like a black worm at his temple.

“Your face isn’t known around here but you don’t know the area too well. Just follow Nolan to the pick up and collect the bomb. Don’t fuck around with it, don’t even open the bag.”

O’Hara took a noisy slurp of the tea and smiled to himself. He had almost said don’t go through any potholes on that motorbike of yours or they’ll be scraping you off the tarmac, but the boy was already nervous. He was just another eager kid, no more than seventeen but he would do. If things went badly well, he would get the black beret and gloves on his coffin.

A car pulled up at the kerb. Nolan had finally arrived. He came straight to the front door looking sheepish. O’Hara’s blood pressure went up a notch just at the look of him.

“Michael, away you and have a piss, you’ll maybe not get another chance.” The boy did as he was told. O’Hara turned on Nolan,

“Well what the fuck’s happened?”  If Nolan had possessed a hat he would have been wringing it in his hands now,

“I lost him Liam. It was dark and I didn’t want to get too close. He must have pulled off the main road when I wasn’t looking.” He raised his hands in supplication, O’Hara cut him off with a look,

“Ye great eejit, a simple wee job and ye fucked it up. God knows what’ll happen if I ever ask ye to follow someone dangerous.” He stood to continue his harangue,

“Maguire’s on our side for fuck sake. How could ye lose one of our own boys?” He stopped suddenly his mood changing,

“Whereabouts did ye lose him?” A glimmer of hope shone in Nolan’s eyes. Something had distracted the old bastard.

“Just after he split up with his security lads on the Tardree road, the scenic route through the forest.” O’Hara turned to the window stroking his stubble,

“He left his security team?” Nolan was warming to his task know, he wasn’t sure what it was but something had saved his bacon.

“Aye, they all pulled into the picnic area and got out of the cars. There was a lot of arm waving, like they were having a row or something. Maguire drove off on his own.” He was watching O’Hara closely trying to anticipate what it was he wanted to know.

“I followed on a bit further around a couple of bends. I had to keep back or he would have seen my headlights. I came round the bend and there was no sign of him. I put my foot down thinking he had speeded up but there was no sign. I cut back but it was no use.” He tailed off deciding to keep quiet. O’Hara turned back to face him,

“What turn offs are there on that bit of road? I can’t think of any at all.”  Nolan considered,

“Na, I looked, there was nothing but forestry tracks,” he sighed,

“I’m awful sorry Liam.” O’Hara was generous,

“Ah forget it, it’s not serious, it was just routine.” He clapped his hands together coming out of his reverie.

“Away with the young pup and get the bomb at Fitzgerald’s mill. Ye can make up for it by blowing up that fucking shopping centre.”

O’Hara watched as the boy followed Nolan’s old Ford on his motorbike. He wasn’t thinking about them however. He fished out a fresh bottle of Bushmills and poured himself the drink he had been denying himself

“What is that fly fucker up to? Leaving his security before he crossed the border and shaking off a tail. Anyone would think Mr Maguire had something to hide. He raised his glass, smiling,

“Sliante.”

 

Nolan and the boy, Michael, drove out of town heading North towards Larne on the coast road. He had to drive at around fifty miles an hour. The motorbike was not very powerful. It’s annoying high pitched squawking slowed to a lower, weary note as it struggled on the hills. Nolan wished now that they had left it behind. He had no great desire however to travel with the bomb in his own car so he persevered.

Turning off the main road, he began to twist and turn around the little country lanes. He took them in a circle around their intended destination. He was looking for signs of the Police or the Army. Sinn Fein councillors were plastered on all the telegraph poles. They were among friends, but Nolan was not comforted. He began to drive more slowly as if looking for something. Young Michael, obviously getting anxious, got larger and larger in Nolan’s rear view mirror. He angrily waved him back.

Finally they stopped at a broken down ruin at the side of the road. It had obviously been a mill at one time. The little stream still ran busily about its own business. What must have been one of the grinding stones lay at an angle, encased in moss, among a wild tangle of ivy. A bright eyed Robin hopped among the tumbled chaotic stones angry at the intrusion. A weasel hunting mice darted over the mossy boulders vanishing down a rabbit hole.

Nolan stood at the side of the ancient wall and casually made as if to pee over it. Looking nonchalantly around all the while. The only problem was that he couldn’t pee. He imagined himself in the cross hairs of some SAS trooper’s rifle. His sphincter was as taught as a piano wire. Annoyed, he pretended to finish and shake himself. Young Michael was good enough to busy himself with the pannier on his motorbike. Nolan hoped he hadn’t noticed.

Hopping over the wall Nolan clambered over to the millstone. He pulled back some of the fibrous, dusty ivy. A blue Fisons fertiliser bag was uncovered. Lifting it carefully Nolan made his way back to the wall. He passed the parcel up to Michael. Nolan noticed the boy’s hands were shaking,

“Don’t worry Michael, it’s harmless until it’s primed.” Michael nodded and took it in both hands. He turned slowly and put the bag on the bonnet of Nolan’s car. Nolan hopped back over the wall wondering if it really was safe unprimed,

“Right Michael, now for the hard bit.”  Slipping on a pair of surgical gloves he reached into the bag. He pulled out a small green haversack, as seen on ten thousand building sites. Inside was a plastic lunch box. Lifting the snap on lid, Nolan could see a rectangular lump covered in tape.  It filled two thirds of the box. Wedged into one end was a battery with two capped, threaded terminals. A cheap digital travel alarm was taped to side of the battery. He set the timer, carefully. A pair of wires led out from the explosive, both were taped at the ends. Nolan now had to decide whether or not to prime the bomb and risk travelling with it or to try and find somewhere nearer the target to prime it.

Deciding suddenly, he unscrewed the cap from one of the terminals on the battery. He passed it to Michael’s open hand. Next he pulled the tape off the end of one of the wires and wrapped the bare wire three times around the terminal. Michael passed him the cap. He screwed it down tight, making sure it had a good grip on the wire. He did exactly the same with the other wire. He hesitated only slightly as he touched the wire to the terminal. If it was going to go off prematurely, it would have probably done so then.

As usual Nolan had no idea who had constructed the bomb or how good they were. It looked like a kilo. Probably semtex since he couldn’t smell anything. Enough to completely destroy an average house. Once Semtex had been a rare commodity, used only as a booster to set off a much cruder home made explosives. These days it was available in ample quantities, thanks to the Balkans conflict. Nolan stood up with an audible sigh,

“Now ye can worry Michael.” They exchanged looks, both were sweating.

 

Maguire eased himself gently into a scalding cauldron of bubble bath. Hands and feet on both sides of the bath, he lowered his backside, slowly until it touched the surface of the water. He flinched,

“Aaah, ya bastard!” He waited a moment and resumed lowering. His back was still tender and he groaned and whimpered as the pain subsided gradually. Cautiously he relaxed deeper into the steaming ecstasy. Checking his shower cap was in place he lay back gingerly resting his neck on a folded towel with a sigh of deep satisfaction. He reached to the corner of the bath for the glass of wine that he had promised himself.

The phone rang.

“Fuckin, bastardin, great balls of fuckin fire.” The phone, indifferent, continued it’s strident shrieking. Maguire exploded from his wallow like the wrath of Neptune, roaring in angry agony at the sudden movement. Torrents of water ran off him. He grabbed a towel and stalked over to the bedside table a well done, lobster pink. He barked into the handset,

“Maguire!” Silence hung for a second as the caller assessed his mood. 

“It’s Keegan, the Tower centre has been bombed. No one has claimed it yet, no casualties.” He was silent waiting for a response. Maguire’s rage was forgotten. He was all business and very aware he was on the phone.

“OK Connor, find out who ASAP and get over here.” He put the phone down, it would be a long night.

 

Chapter Two                 Stirring the Pot

 

The Lark rose from the tangled, craggy, hillside. Silently, steadily, soaring, up and up, it vanished into the brilliant haze. Invisible, it began to sing, sweet and shrill. It was a clean, pure, unadulterated sound. Surely, God’s Angels sounded no better, to a country boy. The sound of it brought memories flooding into Brian’s mind.

As a boy he was always the first to see the singing Lark. A tiny obsidian splinter high in the bright summer sky. It was his speciality. He was always anxious in case one of the other children should see it first. Brian Gallagher always saw it first. Even as a boy it was said that he had the eyes of a hunter. He searched for it now. Shielding his eyes with one hand, and finding the tiny, joyful bird, his mind went back.

He dreamed of the hills. Of the days when the men would go cutting the dark peat for the fires. The fuel that would warm them through another winter. As a child he would take them sandwiches and hot sweet tea. When he was older, he was allowed to go and help with the stacking and drying. They would all ride up to the peat bog together on the ancient grey Massey Ferguson tractor. The creaking trailer full of weathered men smoking and laughing. On those glorious days Brian was allowed to stand by his Father on the cold grey mudguard. His cheeks red as roses in the clear mountain air.

His memories of his Father were precious. The last being the strongest. The confusion and loss of it were burned into his young mind.

The landrovers had come. Four of them, with their distinctive whine on tarmac roads. They were clearly audible from a mile down the valley. On the hill above them camouflaged figures stood suddenly, arrogant, on the skyline. A helicopter clattered at altitude, a prying insect.

An RUC sergeant made the actual arrest. Brian remembered him, huge in the bottle green uniform, peaked hat and flak jacket, a large revolver, bulky on his hip. The old man, for he seemed suddenly old, was loaded into the back of the armoured landrover. He stared grimly at his son. There were no angry words, no defiant salute. He said,

“Mind your Mother.” That was all. The steel doors shut and the terrorist was driven off.

Brian never saw his Father again. His Mother would never allow him to accompany her on those days when she went with the other wives to the camps. The old man had died in the first six months, stomach cancer. He was a country man, a man of the hills, used to the cry of the Curlew and the smell of the heather. It would have been kinder to shoot him.

A car moved at the foot of the hill. Brian’s gaze snapped onto it breaking the train of his thoughts. Cautiously, it began the tortuous ascent along the bumpy track to the farm. It was a blue Nissan. As he recognised it, Brian’s brow furrowed and his lips tightened. He turned and went back up the cobbled yard to the house.

Connor Keegan the decorated war hero, was a small chirpy, little man. He had a cheerful round face and an equally round body. He emanated an aura of harmless joviality. Some foolish people regarded him as something of a has been. Brian knew that he was not. As he waited in the yard his heart rate was up. Even in the chill breeze he was beginning to sweat.

Keegan pushed open the door of the car and levered himself out.

“It’s about time you had that bloody lane fixed up Brian. Every time I come up here I have to have the car washed.”  Brian smiled nervously,

“You could always use the phone Connor and save yourself the trouble.” Keegan laughed,

“What I have to say is best said in private and besides there’s Eileen’s scones to consider.”  Brian took off his Wellingtons on the step and they went into the warmth of the kitchen.

 

High on the hillside opposite, from a position carefully concealed in the dead bracken Trooper Alan Kyle, regiment unknown, adjusted his binoculars. He turned on his knees to reach his notebook and knocked over a two litre plastic milk bottle full of warm pee. His mate, Brian Wilson hissed at him,

“Shite, you clumsy bastard Kyle, that’s going to stink.” He screwed up his nose,

“What the fuck have you been drinking!” Kyle ignored him, he was busy making a note of the Nissan’s registration for his 4 o’clock transmission. 

 

Twenty minutes later Keegan sighed contentedly. He proffered his cup, accepting a top up from Eileen.

“Your a lucky man Brian.” He swept a hand around the kitchen,

“You’ve a nice wee farm here and a beautiful wife who, ah, understands, your situation. Life could be worse.” He slurped his tea,

“A man could almost forget the troubles of the outside world away up here.”  Eileen rattled and banged among her tins ominously. She understood only too well what this visit would mean.

Her family were from Black Rock, a well to do suburb of Dublin. In those days she had been naïve, innocent. She was not unaware of the Republican struggle, it just hadn’t made any real impression on her life. Prior to her marriage at least, her contact with Republicanism had been minimal. It had seemed to her, in those far off days of idealistic youth, a romantic struggle against oppression.

In the civilised, cloistered, boring society that she had been brought up in, Brian Gallagher was as good as a knight on a white horse. There was a delicious sense of danger about him and his politics. He was exciting. She had fallen in love with the idea of falling in love.

The cultural adjustment of moving from the South of Ireland to the North had been a horrible shock. The siege mentality of a closed community engaged in a desperate struggle, was not what she had envisaged. She was regarded as a suspicious foreigner. Not that they socialised much. They lived on an isolated farm, a fact for which she was grateful. Brian’s ”friends” were a pretty hard bitten bunch. Their wives were invisible, behind the scenes. There were no invitations to coffee, no chats in the school playground. She had no children.

Eileen was old school, an old fashioned Catholic. Divorce was inconceivable. However, she refused to raise a child in this bigoted, Godless, backwater. In some ways it was the only way that she could exercise control over her life. She took the pill and went to confession to be admonished by her Priest. He lectured her for not fulfilling her wifely duty. In the end she had even stopped going to mass. Even that comfort was denied her.

 In a farming community sons were important to a man. They were needed to work the land, to inherit their Father’s mantle and to demonstrate his vigour. Daughters were one thing, to be childless another. Brian was more concerned with why she refused to have a child than with what people thought of him. He understood and they did not speak of it. It was like an inoperable tumour. What was the point?

 After the initial rush of attention and excitement the glamour of marriage had soon worn off. For Eileen it was superseded by two things. Homesickness and fear. She was lonely beyond measuring. There was no sign of relief since she preferred to be lonely than mix with what was on offer. The comfort of her family seemed light years away, another world. She told herself that this would pass, but what of the fear. Constant, cloying, choking layers of fear.

They were both afraid but of different things. He was afraid of death, afraid of being tortured, afraid of losing what little he had. Most of all there was the fear of being ostracised by their community. Fear of not conforming to what was expected and to what he had been bred for. Eileen on the other hand feared that it would go on as it was, a living nightmare.

They found themselves unable to change their situation. Not unwilling, just helpless. In such a closed, tight knit community there was terrible pressure on those who did not conform. The ultimate sanctions, death and torture, were so commonly used it appeared normal. How could individuals stand up to it? For those that tried there was only ignominy, pain and even death.

Eileen was burned up, hollow a façade, but she was also a woman of spirit. She fought back in her own little ways. She had sworn to Brian that she would never bear him children so long as he was involved. She threw herself into the farm, working, always working. The distance between them was a chasm. She on one side determined to have a peaceful home and family. Brian on the other with a misplaced loyalty to an ideal that had become a nasty habit.

As he sat in his own kitchen Brian knew the damage that he was doing to his own wife. Theirs was a bizarre relationship artificially held up by their circumstances. Both were afraid to do what they wanted to do because of the rules of their community. Both were at a loss, unable to see a way out. Somewhere along the way, they had stopped talking and then stopped caring. Little by little their marriage was being poisoned.

Confusion and self doubt had yet to destroy his conditioned belief in the Cause. Among his many fears he had a secret fear. He was afraid that the dead had died for nothing, so many widows and orphans. For nothing? He was afraid because subconsciously, he knew that it was true. The suffering was in vain. The only thing that he could do was recognise it, learn from it and stop. He knew it. That, however, was the one thing that he could not do. He was a coward and he knew it. In his confusion he clutched at the familiarity of the Cause. He sought the plaudits of his peers in desperation, but he knew the truth. He just didn’t have the guts to change.

Keegan sipped his tea, but his eyes glittered, watching Brian, waiting. The pleasantries had been observed. Brian sighed,

“Eileen, go and feed the calves.” He said it quietly and Keegan smiled into his tea. For a moment there was a fleeting flash of pain as her soul flinched. She glanced despairingly at Brian. He looked away, ashamed. Silently, she put on her boots and coat while the two men sat in silence. The door closed behind her and they were alone.

Slowly the smile on Keegan’s face faded like the sun going behind a cloud. His features relaxed into the cold, grim, mask that was the reality of the man. What one would expect from the Provisional IRA’s Commander for South Armagh. The lines in his face told it all. The marks of a long hard campaign. A man who had long since burned off all trace of weakness. There was only the fighter left now. Implacable, ruthless.

There were few things he would not do, and none that he had not seen done. This was a hard man. A man who left eloquent clerics and politicians ineffectually searching for new cliché’s with which to condemn his actions. This was the man who frightened Brian Gallagher.

Keegan came straight to the point,

“We want a man killed.”  His words hung in the air appalled at themselves,

“The details will be in the usual place. We’re having some trouble with one of the new contractors from the mainland. Keegan was sarcastic,

“They seem to be having difficulty grasping the situation over here. The police have even been involved would you believe!”  His eyebrows shot into his hairline. He seemed to wait for Brian to comment on this piece of temerity. Brian merely nodded slowly. Keegan went on,

“Things have been pretty quiet just recently. The feeling is that we need a wee demonstration to remind everyone that we are still running things, the same as always. People get lazy and complacent when things go too well. It’s a good idea to stir the pot now and then.” 

Brian raised a cautionary hand,

“Hold on a minute Connor. It might be just a bit of pot stirring to you fellas, it means a lot more to a poor sod like me.” He stopped himself, trying to control his emotions. This was too much, too spontaneous.

“It’s not just the jobs, it’s the waiting around afterwards. Waiting for some squaddie to put his size twelve’s through my door.”

Agitated, he stood and went to the window. Eileen was crossing the yard with a couple of pails of milk. A little slopped onto the concrete and the old dog stopped to lap it up, stiff with age.

“You know me Connor, you know my record. The odds are getting short and the strain is telling. We both know there’s no getting out. That’s not what I’m after anyway.”

Keegan lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and contemplated the glowing tip. Brian felt the unspoken threat, like a muscular arm around his shoulders.

“I’m not trying to get out Connor, I’ve made my bed. I’ve killed too many, know too much, we both know that. I want out of active service, it’s time I got out of the firing line.”

He paused trying to gauge Keegan’s reaction. This was not what he had planned. His thoughts had been troubled for some time and he had considered raising the subject but how? He saw faces, the faces of the men his operations killed. He saw their sedated wives, he saw their weeping children. He saw their homes, he saw their broken bodies, he was intimate with them in death. They always had the same question on their lips,

“Why?”

Once he seemed to know why, these days he had no answer. Now here he was blurting like a schoolgirl. Events had taken control of his mouth. He was literally thinking on his feet and a voice in his head was screaming at him to be careful. He continued, turning to face Keegan, quieter now.

“Sooner or later I’ll get what’s coming to me. Nobody lasts forever in this game at my level. The Army, the RUC, the Protestants, hell man there’s a queue. When that happens you’ll have to deal with my absence.” He watched Keegan hopefully,

“Why not plan for it now? Take me out of the line in a controlled way.” 

Keegan sat chewing it over and cigarette ash fell unheeded onto the linoleum. His face gave nothing away.

“ Quite a speech Brian, especially for you. We’d all like to retire Brian, leave all this behind.” He leant over the kitchen table,

“Remember this boy, I was sniping squaddies from the Divis flats while you were at yer fucking long division!” He pushed back from the table and sat upright and indignant,

“I know what you are going through, been there, done that!” He slowed down a bit trying to relax, this was unexpected. He shook his head,

“Perhaps you need a change of scene, they say a change is as good as a rest.”

Brian was alarmed, this was not what he had expected. What was he expecting? Fear washed through his entrails. This was worse than a direct threat, the calm before the storm. He had used the same tactic himself many times.   

“I don’t want to retire Connor. There’s too much to do and I’m valuable. There aren’t too many with my experience still around.”

Keegan couldn’t deny that. There was always an abundance of cannon fodder. Kids for the most part, willing, but of little real use. They could plant bombs and hide equipment, take numbers and act as observers. The real work was in the planning and in this area the organisation was desperately under manned. Few outside the Council realised how close to defeat they had been just prior to the cease fire. 

The security forces on both sides of the border had been exceptionally successful recently. It wasn’t so much the arms and explosives seizures. They could operate successfully with a few pistols and hand grenades, it was the arrests of key people. Many key players were on parole or on remand, facing long sentences, pending the outcome of the peace talks.

The talks were expedient operationally, they needed to regroup. Many of those who would normally have destroyed any peace process out of hand were neutered. Faced with a trade off between their ideals and long prison terms, they held off. Keegan and Maguire had been instrumental in leading the organisation into the talks process until they could reorganise and rearm. Neither man had any illusions. The minute they signed any binding agreement short of a United Ireland they were dead men.

Keegan smiled reaching a reassuring hand to Brian’s forearm.

“We all know how much you’ve put in Brian. Perhaps retirement was the wrong word. We may have a job for you, a promotion, but now is not the time. Leave it with me.” Brian wanted to believe it but doubt hovered in his face. Keegan stood up and came around the table.

“Brian, you’ve known me since you were a boy. We both know the rules. I wouldn’t play Judas with you, we have plans for you, you’re safe.”

“Safe!”  Brian spat the word out. He caught the table in his hands to steady himself. Hysterical laughter caught at the back of his throat. His eyes were wide with something that Keegan did not like the look of.

“What the hell does safe mean Connor, that you won’t kill me?” He laughed at the irony,

“You’re on my side Connor and I have to worry about even you? What about the rest of them out there Connor? There’s a bloody queue lined up to top me!” Keegan stood silently, sadly. For once the old campaigner was at a loss for words.

Inwardly he was shocked. Brian Gallagher’s expertise and experience were invaluable. He was vital to the operational effectiveness of the IRA in the North. Here he was teetering on the brink. He hadn’t realised just how near the edge Brian had been. Perhaps it had been too long since he had been in the front line himself.

Keegan had other things to worry about. He was almost beyond the reach of the security forces. Not for him the roar of the Saracens and the shouts of English soldiers. No cosy camp lecturing on interrogation or anti surveillance. For him it was the crack of an automatic rifle or the searing flash of heat as the ignition key was turned. That or a short car journey seated between a couple of silent hatchet men. To be followed by an interrogation and a bullet in the back of the neck. Brian had all that to look forward to. If he could stay sane long enough.

He sighed unable to ease the younger man’s burden. When in doubt focus on the job.

“The details will be in the usual place Brian. Make it a good one, high profile, you know the drill.”  Brian smiled brightly, but bitterness edged his voice,

“Sure, Connor, big and bloody, just the way you like it.” He peeled of a little mocking salute,

“Consider it done.”

Brian got up and both men headed for the door, Brian paused,

“Just remember, Connor, I’m running on empty here, it can’t last.”

Chapter Three          Fiona O’Brien

The man in the newspaper kiosk was busy. Busy casting a critical eye over a large boned girl reversing out of a parked cab. She was struggling with her shopping and innocently showing more leg than was decent. He was just wondering what the rest of her would look like, when something more alluring came around the corner.

This one was elegantly turned out in an immaculate André Laug business suit.  Had she been in a hessian sack he would have spotted her immediately. She was athletic, a swimmer perhaps. She moved like a ballerina, graceful and free. Regally, she swept all before, the crowd parted before her gorgeous presence.

Unconscious of the admiring glances that were only her due, she strode through the evening crowd. As she walked, she spoke into a mobile phone punctuating her conversation with her free hand like a great conductor. She had deep red, lustrous, hair, well cut in a halo of burnished copper that framed her intelligent face. She had the palest, milkiest skin, set off by full sensuous lips. Her bright green eyes were full of mischief, shining with fun.

She would have been merely beautiful but for her nose. Slightly turned up, a tad wider than Vogue would consider ideal, it added a dash of character. It made her more than beautiful, it made her, interesting, appealing. The old man grinned wryly, nodding to himself. Enough trouble for ten men, she would be a bother, that one.

Selling newspapers was boring but the vendor fancied himself something of a good judge of people. This was a class act, a cut above. There was not a man in the city worthy of the title would not have hacked off one of his own limbs to step out with her. She had stopped now, arguing with the phone. He took full advantage of her inattention for a full and frank appraisal. Good legs, well toned, slim waist, excellent India rubber backside. A bit small breasted for him, but nothing a child or two wouldn’t correct.

His day improved dramatically as she put the phone away and strode over to his kiosk. Suddenly he was taller, straighter, more alert,

“An evening paper please.” She smiled showing off a perfect set of teeth. He caught a scent that made his nostrils flair. The hairs on the back of his neck whiffled like prairie wheat stirred by the winds of an approaching storm. He heard his own voice, a little too highly pitched,

“It’s a lovely evening miss.” He passed her the paper, she handed him some money smiling.”

“It is. Thank you.” She turned away opening the paper and the moment was gone. He stood mouth open, stricken,

“The weather, you talked about the bloody weather. You silly old bastard.” He slumped down suddenly onto his chair, inconsolable.

Oblivious of the damage that she had done, Fiona O’Brien walked slowly. As political correspondent for the Belfast Tribune part of her job was keeping an eye on the opposition. She scanned the front page of the opposing paper, searching for something specific.

She stopped outside a lovely old Victorian three storey terrace and went slowly up the steps reading. At the top, outside the front door, she sat on the curved, lichened coping of the balustrade and again fished out her phone.

“Hi Shauna, listen I’ve just read it. There is no way they can definitely connect the bomb to the Provos.” She paused listening impatiently.

“Yeah, yeah, but they can’t prove it. This is racketeering, bread and butter. The Provos will never own up, and you can bet that rag will get nothing from them now. This smacks of desperation. Their Republican sources will vanish, you wait. The Provos don’t want that kind of publicity, period.”

It seemed that Shauna was not convinced. Fiona stood up,

“It’s got nothing to do with the Peace Process, just business, routine. Just relax, we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Yes, yes I promise, now go home and put your feet up, bye.” Putting her phone away she exchanged it for the keys of the front door. She paused in the lobby to open her mailbox. Her flat was on the second floor. She sorted her mail as she climbed the stairs.

“Bill, bill, rubbish, no thank you.” As she reached the landing her cat, Alfred, appeared as if by magic, miaowing pitifully.

“Hello handsome. Are pleased to see me?” She knelt to tickle him behind the ears,

“Or are you just hungry? Typical male!” 

Her voice had the intonation of Ulster, but not the harsh, nasal twang of Belfast. It was perhaps more rural. Softer or better travelled and well educated.  Alfred zigzagged in and out of her legs perilously as she opened the door. He dashed off to his dish in the kitchen. Fiona stepped in turning to close the door. As she put the mail on the hall table Alfred came hurtling down the hall. He shot under the table his fur all of a bristle. At the same moment she heard the distinctive click of her kettle switching itself off. A man’s voice called out,

“Hi gorgeous, the tea is on, come and get it.” Her heart vaulted and her keys fell to the floor. She dashed to the kitchen and there he was.

“Brian Gallagher you cheeky sod!” He turned from the kettle smiling like an idiot,

“God but you’re beautiful. I don’t know what you see in me Fiona. You could do a lot better.” She flung herself across the kitchen. He caught her easily, laughing and lifted her up to his face in a gentle bear hug. He held her close, breathing in the scent and heat of her. She melted against him. For a moment, a brief moment, everything else fell away into a chasm of infinity. They were together, here and now, there was nothing else.

They both willed the moment to last forever, knowing that it wouldn’t. Finally, reluctantly, sadly, he put her down.

“We need to talk.”

 

They were to say the least an unlikely pair. It had been Maguire, the great man himself, who had been the cause of their meeting. As a duly elected Member of Parliament Maguire was able to operate in a totally different sphere of influence. He was able to portray a statesmanlike image. The title MP added a veneer of respectability unattainable through the use of semtex.

In the current climate of paranoia, the romantic terrorist was, to say the least, somewhat passé. Even the most incorrigible hawks within the movement realised the importance of keeping their heads down. Maguire’s political arena was the only show in town.

            So it was that when the elections came around it was all hands on deck. There was absolutely no way, none, that Maguire would show any complacency in the matter of his seat in Parliament. Although he reluctantly refused to take up his seat in the House it was important to the movement’s new image. It was even more important to his personal pride and to his ego.

Even those figures within the movement unused to the glare of publicity were encouraged to work on their political image. The movement was becoming more sophisticated. Some very unlikely characters indeed suddenly materialised in the glare of the media’s beady eye. Leather attaché cases under arm, they briskly cantered up the steps of Stormont Castle. They stood silently, nodding sage like, solid, behind Maguire as he gave forth on the need for police reform.

Not all were cut out for this new and challenging roll. Brian Gallagher, to his considerable chagrin, was. His clean cut, rugged good looks, his above average intelligence and education were scarce commodities. They combined to make him a favourite within the ranks of the movement. He also owned a suit.

Maguire had been through some embarrassing moments with one or two of his more border line candidates. Put them in a suit, fine, providing you didn’t let them buy it themselves. However in front of the cameras, it was a different matter. The press had the knack of bringing out the worst in some of his fighting men. These days Maguire preferred to let the Protestant paramilitaries fall into that trap. Some of their efforts had been real toe curlers. He had them all on tape, they were guaranteed to cheer him up. They came across as what they were, uncultured savages, much to Maguire’s delight, for he was a terrible snob.

Brian had the misfortune to be chosen, by Maguire, not the electorate, as Sinn Fein councillor for his Parish. Occasionally and reluctantly he was forced to attend official functions. It was at one of these that he had first met Fiona O’Brien. As a professional journalist Fiona had more connections than British Telecom. She was well respected by the various factions that haunted the Province. Occasionally, they used her discreet services to convey messages. Sometimes to draw attention to issues that they felt were in need of illumination. Sometimes they tried, usually unsuccessfully, to keep her quiet.

She naturally attended a great many political functions, rallies, fundraisers and the like. She kept her finger on the pulse of the Province’s complicated political infrastructure. She was always on the lookout for a new face. There were relatively few of these in the normal course of events. Fresh meat was always rare and she was, at the end of the day, a carnivore.

A City Hall function to celebrate the opening of a new urban regeneration initiative seemed like slim pickings. However, as an old campaigner, Fiona new that she had to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince. Her trap that evening was particularly well baited. She wore an especially alluring, figure hugging, little black Gucci number. Her editor was surprisingly tolerant of her expense claims in this regard.

She stood near the foot of the 18th century marble staircase adjacent to the main entrance. She was a vision of feminine loveliness. Her hair glowed, iridescent, piled high in shining ringlets. She wore simple diamond solitaire earrings that flashed like the sun. A matching choker of diamonds interspaced with emeralds set off her green eyes and pale flawless skin. A beautifully embroidered Kashmir shawl was draped elegantly around her shoulders. It added a touch of the exotic East to her Celtic pulchritude.

The Director of Tourism and the Chief Executive of the City Council were each vying for her undivided attention. She on the other hand was keeping a careful eye on the arriving guests. The Chief was trying to edge across the Director and place a protective arm around her shoulders, so giving his back to his rival. There was a commotion at the entrance. Flashing strobes lit up the portico like summer lightning. The volume of voices outside increased as the volume inside dwindled and died away. All eyes turned to the doorway.

After a few brief words to the gathered press Maguire turned Presidentially to enter the building. His team moved with him in a choreographed display of solidarity and authority. It was only slightly marred by the noisy collapse of a photographer. Somehow his nose had been mysteriously broken in the mêlée by an anonymous forehead. Security outriders fanned out anxiously towards the gigantic staircase. They shepherded their charge towards an upstairs committee room. A photo op was all ready for a prepared statement to the cameras. Like a well oiled machine the whole entourage cascaded through the foyer. Like a river suddenly undammed they surged forward.

Maguire was at their head, chin down, with a bemused Brian Gallagher at his elbow. Suddenly Maguire was arrested in his purpose. His gaze fell upon the Celtic Goddess. The entire circus slowed, then was checked completely. Its epicentre stopped dead. Charm mode kicked in. Maguire was poised, quivering like a well trained bird dog,

“Fiona, Fio-na, you simply cannot go around looking like that.” Maguire turned aside and took a step towards the vision. She turned, smiling, seemingly unaware of the commotion behind her. Maguire moved towards her arms outstretched.

“If you were any more lovely we would have to book you for blocking the traffic.” He moved in for a blatantly opportunistic kiss. At the last moment Fiona turned her head aside and went for the European double.

“Nice to see you Mr Maguire. You have a busy schedule this evening I see.” Maguire turned, placing a long arm around her shoulder with his back to the staircase. Effortlessly eclipsing the Chief Executive who was reduced to peering over Maguire’s shoulder. He beamed effusively,

“Never too busy for you Fiona. We’re having a drink upstairs in about half an hour, I hope you can join us?” She was looking straight at Brian as she replied,

“That would be lovely Mr Maguire, I will look forward to it.” Maguire hung, torn between his desire to stay and the need to go. He noticed her gaze,

“Oh, excuse me Fiona, this is Brian Gallagher.” He dropped his hand from her shoulder. He allowed it to gently caress her left buttock propelling her forward ever so slightly.

“Brian, or should I say, Councillor Gallagher, is one of our newest rising stars.” Fiona, ignoring Maguire’s wandering palm, stepped forward her hand outstretched.

Brian was almost overwhelmed by a desire to kiss her hand. He took her tiny fingers in his calloused paw as he would a hot coal. To compensate for his confusion he was stiffly formal, while he composed himself.

“Miss O’Brien, I am familiar with your work.” It sounded horribly pompous, but it was all he could think of. One moment he had been an anonymous suit in the throng and then, suddenly, he was faced with the social niceties and this, stunning, woman.

There was something else, something that annoyed him. For some unfathomable reason, he cared about what this woman thought about him. She regarded him candidly through those remarkable green eyes, with a frankness that he found disturbing.

“Councillor. Not your usual stomping ground?” Brian paused, was she laughing at him? His jaw took on an ugly, hard edge and his expression flattened. He said, stiffly,

“I am accustomed to working for a living Miss O’Brien.” She bridled ever so slightly, a thing unknown for her. She was also, unaccountably irritated,

“Ah yes Councillor, I too, am familiar with your, work.”

For the briefest moment there was an appalled silence. It seemed to stretch out into some kind of temporal distortion, eternity. Maguire’s braying laugh broke the spell. He had been watching, carefully.

“Easy now Brian, your out of your league. This one will sharpen her claws on you if you’re not careful.” He licked his lips in a feral, predatory gesture, his mind wandering.

Making a conscious effort he shook himself. Once more he was galvanised into action. He turned and put one foot on the first step and a hand on the mahogany banister,

“Brian, you stay here and escort Miss O’Brien up. We wouldn’t want her to get away now would we?” He attacked the stairs two at a time calling out over his shoulder,

“We’ll call it part of your training.” Grinning like a schoolboy he was swallowed up in the throng.

Suddenly the little space at the foot of the stairs was silent. Only a moment before it had been gravid with tension. Now it was a little backwater of awkwardness. The crowd had moved on and for a brief moment they were alone. It was a moment he would long remember. The adrenaline had vapourised, like the crowd, leaving them both a little abashed.

“You were right of course.” He said smiling,

“How’s that?” She was cautious,

“This isn’t my usual game.” He hesitated before continuing,

“I may have been a little, ahh…,“ He struggled and she interrupted smoothly,

“Pompous?” She smiled back impishly. He raised his hands protectively, laughing.

“OK, OK, I give in. I was nervous, that was my poker face. I was trying to impress you.” Those green eyes bored into him again, curious this time.

“And why on earth would you want to impress me Councillor?” He thought about that for a moment,

“The usual reasons, Miss O’Brien, the usual reasons.”