Dr. Dermot O’Loughlin was bored. The book he had hoped would lift his spirits had filled him with ennui. Having skip read six hundred of Rochfoucauld’s maxims he left the library in search of distractions. The witty aphorisms of a 17th-century French noble were popular with a certain type of bourgeois dinner party raconteur, but Dermot was determined not to join their ranks.
House on Botanic Avenue is a stylish bar with a smoking area overlooking a bustling street in Belfast’s university quarter. Dermot sipped his Guinness and people-watched.
A text from his colleague, Eoin McDaid, reminded him that he was due at a staff meeting in half an hour. Chasing down the black stuff, he nodded to the barman and headed for the School of History.
Research and citations were the yardsticks of a junior lecturer’s worth, and he was under pressure to publish. His last published work was an article in the magazine Modern History about totalitarianism, but that was over a year ago. His current project on Michel deMontaigne’s Essays looked hopeful, and a funded trip to Bordeaux might reignite his enthusiasm for the Age of Enlightenment. The project’s brief was to examine de Montaigne’s diplomatic skills, and how much his upbringing and personality had prepared him for a stint in local government during a turbulent period in South-West France’s history.
Dermot’s postgraduate students were a mixed bunch. Anna Frink was intensely earnest about Geopolitics and had recently completed a Masters in Conflict Resolution and Restorative Justice. Charles Doherty was a published poet and a big fan of Voltaire. In the best of all possible worlds, Charles would make a pretty good modern-day Candide. His romantic delusions and endless optimism were infectious. Pauline Steadman had a First in Law with French and came across as a bit arrogant until you got to know her.
The staff meeting proceeded along the usual lines but was abruptly halted by a persistent fire alarm. Everyone walked calmly to the assembly point, some clutching cups of coffee, others forming little discussion groups. That’s when Dermot spotted a strange looking student in a brown overcoat acting suspiciously. His hunched shoulders and furtive looks around the vacated building were noticed by Dermot’s group who grimaced at each other quizzically. Smoke started to swirl from the upper windows and the fire wardens urged everyone further back.
Within 5 minutes two fire engines arrived and hoses were unrolled. The dodgy looking student started to smile. That’s when the explosion happened. The loud blast was followed by deadly flying glass shards. The screaming casualties were covered in debris and blood. Eight firefighters administered first aid and sealed off the area around the School building. Two of the firefighters who had entered through the front door had sustained non-life-threatening injuries. Ambulances and police vehicles arrived shortly afterwards. Dermot had minor cuts but was in a state of shock as he looked for his friend, Eoin.
A young paramedic was gently directing Dermot towards one of the ambulances to get treatment for his cuts. Dermot couldn’t hear what the paramedic was saying and started to argue that he was not seriously injured. Then a friendly arm across his shoulders and Eoin appeared to be alright.
“Who the fuck would want to bomb the School of History?” Dermot shouted to no one in particular.
odespinner 