Minstrel Boy

Chapter 3            Fiona O’Brien

The man in the newspaper kiosk was busy. Busy casting a critical eye over a large boned girl reversing out of an idling 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 dressed 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 her, the crowd parted before her natural 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 dark 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 battered 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 you 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 application 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 that Maguire would show any complacency in the matter of his seat in Parliament. Although he reluctantly refused to take up his seat in London 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 gleefully spouted about the need for police reform.

Not all were cut out for this new and challenging role. 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 thugs, 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 18^th century marble staircase adjacent to the main entrance, a vision of feminine loveliness. The Director of Tourism and the Chief Executive of the City Council were each competing 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. Suddenly 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.

Outside, after a brief pause for the photographers, Maguire turned Presidentially to enter the building. His team moved with him in a choreographed display of solidarity and authority. Inside security outriders fanned out towards the gigantic staircase. They shepherded their charge towards an upstairs committee room where a press conference was waiting. The whole entourage cascaded through the foyer like a river.

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 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 arrest 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 gently brushing her left buttock and 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 ridiculous 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, an eternity. Maguire’s braying laugh broke the spell. Delighted, he had been watching, carefully.

“Easy now Brian, you’re 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 Maguire 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.” He said smiling,

“About what?” 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.”



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