Prologue

“No offence, Taoiseach,” said the dumpy redheaded man, “but you’re talking out of your hole. If you give speaking rights to Northerners, the entire fucking chamber will walk out. Bad enough we’re stuck living next door to the whinging bastards without having to listen to them day in, day out in our own parliament. Next thing you know, they’ll be looking for votes. Then your arse’ll really be in a sling.”

‘Rubber’ John Blake, leader of Ireland’s newest government, smiled over his blasted oak desk and silently rued the days when he’d surrounded himself with yes men.

“You’re not lish’ning to what I’m telling you, Sonny,” he sighed, his Galway brogue broadening as ever when he was trying to placate his straight-shooting advisor. “I’m saying we should proposhe the idea, that’s all. Ara, I know there’s not a shnowball’s chance in hell of it going through. Not with that bollix O’Duffy about. But sometimes, there’s no harm wrapping an oul’ flag round you and throwing a nod to the North. Keeps the poor saps up there happy – not to mention our own hardliners.”

Sonny Waterhouse, who’d just been returned as TD for North Meath for the fourth time, shook his head defiantly at the curly-haired bear of a man opposite. The possible reunification of Northern Ireland with the Republic had been an academic debate, at strongest, in the South for almost a century. And there was no way – strike that, no fucking way whatsoever - that he was going to let Rubber John steer it into the mainstream.

“O’Duffy’s going to run for President next year,” he insisted, “and you’re handing him his manifesto on a plate. He’s already hammering you on immigration, tax and tribunals. You make the North an issue and he can start picking out the curtains for Phoenix Park right now.”

“Which is precisely,” interrupted the Taoiseach, “why I need your help...”

Sonny stopped abruptly and glared across at his boss. He’d done it again. The cunning hoor had thrown out a rope and let Sonny tie himself up with it. Sonny shook his head again, though this time slowly in disbelief. “You’re a fucking reptile,” he smirked at last. “What do you need?”

“Well, Sonny,” grinned the Taoiseach, “you’re my only real friend on the right of the party. You’re the only person I know - and can trusht - who understands how Joxer O’Duffy operates. And we can’t have him holding the highest office in the country – even if it is an honorary one. Not for our party. Not for Fianna Fail. So I want you to, ah, get closhe to him and report back.”

“You want me to spy for you?” protested Sonny, his voice rising in outrage.

“No, no, no. Think of it more as representing my interests within his little fringe group.”

“Say it. It’s spying.”

“Think of it more as intelligence-gathering...”

“And you seem to be gathering that I don’t have any,” retorted Sonny. “Admit that it’s spying and I’ll do it for you...”

“Of course it’s fucking spying, Sonny,” grinned Rubber John. “But show me a man who’s never been a spy, and I’ll show you a man who’s never been in politics.”

The Taoiseach crossed the massive room to the restocked corner bar and lifted a new bottle of Paddy off the counter. He searched the little press underneath for glasses, and stood up clutching two half-pint beakers, which he filled liberally with whiskey. Water was for Dubliners and other pansies. He handed a glass to Sonny and sat down again in his leather E-Z-Boy.

“It means that you have to fall out with me, Sonny. Publicly.”

“I figured that,” nodded the TD. “You’re not going to give me the junior ministry you promised me, so I’m going to storm out of here in a huff.”

“More or less. I’m really sorry...”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s it. Method acting will help.”

Sonny laughed in spite of himself and sipped his drink.

“Look,” said the Taoiseach. “This is really important. And you’ll be back in the fold by November next year, after the election, at the very latest. Stop him, and you’ll get a full seat at the table. No messhing. Tourism, maybe. I hear you just love those trips abroad…”

“You’ve met my wife, then,” quipped Sonny.

Rubber John chuckled warmly. He had a deal. “Okay so,” he continued, “onto part two of your new job.”

Sonny sat forward and placed his drink onto the desk. “No problem,” he sniffed, “I’ll just run upstairs and get the Vaseline right away…”

The Taoiseach gave him a Don’t-be-like-that look and gestured to him to sit back into his armchair.   

“We need to get some Northerners into the party,” he said. “Decent ones. And I’d like you to keep your ears and eyes open. Particularly for people Joxer mightn’t like…”

Sonny stared at him puzzled.

“Now you’ve totally fucking lost me,” he said. “Whatever about putting up a façade that you’re interested in the Six Counties, you can’t start recruiting up there. Jesus, they’ll be looking for you to fix things for them. Represent them even...”

“Hear me out,” explained the Taoiseach, holding his hand up protectively. “We have to do this. It’s in our own selfish interest. We’re leaking republican votes to Sinn Fein every day. They’re the only party operating both sides of the border, and we have to show there’s an alternative. And more importantly, we have to show there’s an alternative that we control – and bring about in our own time. Please God, on the never-never, just like our fathers and forefathers before us. But what we absolutely cannot do is let some Northern fucking headcases set us a five-year agenda...”

“You’re looking for puppy dogs, so,” smiled Sonny, cottoning on.

“Think of them more as realists,” smiled the Taoiseach. He reached into his desk drawer for an A4 sheet of paper, which he passed to the North Meath TD. “Now here’s a list to get started with. Softly does it.”