odespinner

Young girls were almost wearing enough clothes to cover their essentials. Their pilgrimage to the Boucher Road  was to worship at the feet of Kneecap and Fontaines D.C. Kneecap had courted controversy by openly opposing the Israeli genocide in Gaza. That had boosted their reputation among some of the locals.

As I rounded the junction of Tates Avenue and the Lisburn Road I was confronted by a hostile youth. It was hard to say who was the worse for wear. His approach was unsteady, but his attitude was full-on aggressive. Trying to appear unruffled, I walked towards him. At the last second he moved aside. There was a bus going to the city centre approaching. I jumped on and found a seat on the upper deck. God, I hate confrontational encounters.

I got off in the city centre and made my way to Kelly’s Cellars for some hair of the dog. Their Guinness hit the mark and my head settled down to a mild hangover. Sean, the barman kept the Guinness coming and told me I looked like shite (as if I didn’t know). My apartment was within staggering distance, but it was still a struggle navigating the pavements and all these people.

Luckily the lift took me smoothly to the third floor where I pointed my key in the rough direction of the lock and surprisingly gained entry to flat 3A, a bachelor pad full of the usual detritus. Sleep was short-lived, the incessant ringing of my phone finally interrupted my slumber.

Aoife got my attention when she said “get your ass to Belfast Magistrates Court, now!” Aoife was my fellow reporter on the Irish Recorder newspaper and kept me sane. “What’s happening?” I managed to reply while I put on my trousers. “Jesus, don’t you ever check your bloody phone?”

Belfast Magistrates Court is an imposing structure in the heart of the city. Having passed through security, I made my way to the visitors’ seats and waited for the lawyers to begin. The man in the dock looked familiar, as he should, it was the leader of the Not in my Name party, Jordan McRea. His party was formed by fundamentalist Christians opposed to Gay marriage. Most people in Belfast thought that ship had already sailed, but Mr McRea and his followers took every opportunity to protest loudly at any Gay public event. At Pride in Belfast Not in my Name started throwing missiles at people in the parade. Despite calls by the parade marshal not to retaliate, one or two people started chanting “we’re gay, we’re proud and we’re going to shout it loud!”

That’s when Jordan and a couple of his followers piled into the parade and fists flew. Jordan was still showing signs of his involvement, the bruise on his cheek was turning purple. His defence barrister was summing up and you would have thought Jordan was just an innocent bystander who was attacked by a vicious mob, if you were totally gullible.

The prosecuting counsel painted an entirely different picture of the incident in question. “Mr McRea does not deny protesting at the Pride parade, he does not deny using the words ‘let’s get them!’, and yet he would have the jury believe that he was the leader of a peaceful protest exercising their democratic rights. Members of the jury, the accused is not only stretching your credulity, but asking you to ignore sworn testimony that he threw the first punch. Not only that, but entered into evidence is the camera footage taken by a BBC reporter covering the parade. This clearly shows the accused attacking two young men who were holding hands and attempting to escape from the disruption.”

It didn’t take long for the jury to find Mr McRea guilty of assault. He was sent down and remanded into custody pending sentencing. There was cheering in the public gallery, the court was cleared and I had a story to file.

Aoife and I met in the Sunflower bar after work to compare stories. Aoife covered the Business and Gardening columns. There was talk of a new buyer for Harland and Wolff, a German consortium looking to move into the shipping industry. “So, is it true what people are saying?” I asked. Aoife took a long swig of her Beamish and kept silent.

There was a session going on in the corner. Some tourists were taking pictures and drinking halves. “How did the trial go?”  I sensed that Aoife was onto something, so there was no point questioning her further. “Guilty as charged and remanded in custody.” “Good.” Aoife was becoming monosyllabic. I went to the bar and ordered two more pints. The fiddler was good, but he was getting drowned out by the tin whistle player. “What are you up to this evening? Are you and lover man out on the town? Or has love’s young bloom faded?” Aoife blew me a raspberry “As a matter of fact he’s taking me to a fancy restaurant for an Italian meal.” “Not all the pasta you can eat at Villa Italia?” “No, La Bottega on the Lisburn Road, Stephen is a regular, their food is amazing!” “You have become a proper BT9er since you’ve shackled yourself to Stephen.” And with that Stephen entered the bar smiled at Aoife and nodded at me. “You guys ok for drinks?” “Shouldn’t we be going if we’re to be there for seven?” “I suppose so, bye Damien”.

Meanwhile in a prison cell at HMP Maghaberry, prisoner 830415 was reading a passage from Luke’s Gospel. He had always found Mary’s Song inspirational. Standing in his doorway Peter, the prison warden, barked “Exercise yard, now!” Jordan inserted a bookmark and closed his Bible. He was getting used to the boredom of prison life and the aggressive manner of most of the guards. Free association was a welcome break from staring at the walls of his cell. Being a high security prison, there were many of his fellow inmates with paramilitary tattoos drifting into their different factions. He wandered about trying not to attract attention until some loner approached him and beckoned him closer. “Do you want to buy some gear?” Jordan shook his head and moved off. A big guy with tats came up to him “You’re McRae aren’t you?” Jordan nodded. The stranger proffered his hand “Put it there, how long did you get?” “I haven’t been sentenced yet.” “If you get bother from anyone refer them to me. My name’s Billy”. “Pleased to meet you, Billy”.

Aoife and Stephen arrived at La Bottega and were ushered to their table by their host  Francesco. “Buon giorno Stephen and this must be Aoife? Tonight, we have for you some lovely saffron risotto with prawns and deep fried courgette flowers, and the  the Bresaola is just…” he made the international gesture for ‘delicious’. ” I’ll let you have a look at the menu. Can I get you some drinks?” Stephen ordered a bottle of Bifarno Rosso and Aoife opted for a Campari and soda. The place was buzzing, as was usual on a Friday night. Lucio Batisti singing Ancora Tu added to the authentic Italian atmosphere.

The following morning at Grand Central station the renowned barrister, Julian Strachan was getting off the train from Bangor. He had worked on many high profile cases, including the rape trial of the Ulster rugby players. Like all barristers in Northern Ireland Julian went to the Law Library where briefs were distributed by solicitors’ clerks and worked on by barristers and their teams. Julian’s brief was tied up with pink silk ribbon, reflecting his status as King’s Counsel. The solicitor was from McAteer, Whiteside and Campbell. James Campbell and Julian were old friends and had collaborated on quite a few cases over the last ten years. “So, we are representing Jordan McRea in his appeal case. He hasn’t got a hope, unless you have something I can work with.”

“Not really, certainly very little that could be described as new evidence.”

Julian flicked through the brief. Provocation was probably worth trying, but the film footage didn’t support that option . “Do we have any other witnesses”. James replied “, One member of the parade took some video of the incident. He doesn’t want to appear in court, but he has sent us the video.” “Ok, let’s see what he recorded.”

The Editor’s office was a mess with paper everywhere. Aoife struggled to find space on Sophie’s desk to put down her mug of coffee. “Right, you have a source inside Stormont who can implicate the Minister of the Department for the Economy in bribery and corruption with regards to the Harland and Wolff development project?” “Yes, but he wishes to remain anonymous.” “Alright, but you are vouching for him/her?” “A hundred percent.” “Right then, this is a front page story so I want Damien to work with you on this one…and before you start, it’s your story and your column. Damien won’t be mentioned in dispatches, but you will be grateful for the extra pair of hands. Got it?” “Yes, boss.”

Damien was not the world’s most reliable investigative reporter, but he had an instinct for a story and all the charm going. Aoife had asked him to prepare a summary piece to show the links between the German consortium, the owners of Harland and Wolff and the corrupt politicians at Stormont. Starting at home in Belfast, he stalked the corridors of power searching for Aoife’s informant. Her description left a lot to be desired; a man of medium height, average build, brownish hair in his forties. If the man was going by Deep Throat, he might have been easier to find. Amazingly, the informant approached him near the grand staircase and said “You must be Damien.”

Billy was in his cell busy texting his comrade at arms. The guards turned a blind eye, for a price. McRea was the subject of his texting. Billy was not joking when he had offered Jordan his hand of friendship. The UVF were essentially a Loyalist paramilitary organisation, but Christian Fundamentalism and the Orange Order played their part in deciding policy matters. “That’s a go” was the text message that Billy had been waiting for. Gusty’s grandson, Alex, was destined for leadership, not just because his granda had headed y an organisation renowned for it’s brutality in the tit-for-tat killings of the 80s, but also because Alex was calm under fire and made smart decisions. So if Alex approved of the strategy that Billy had spelt out for him, he was onto a winner.

Julian had friends in high places, and they didn’t come much higher than the Chief Superintendent, Gareth Williams. Julian had arranged a discreet meeting in The Bowery to discuss some hypotheticals. “If, for instance, I had some audio evidence to change the picture of an alleged assault from unprovoked to justified retaliation…”. The Chief Superintendent frowned “I take it your hypothetical witness would wish to remain anonymous?” “Yes, unfortunately.” “Julian, you know that my advice carries no weight with the judiciary, that said…I could run it past our Crime boys on the downlow.” “That’s very good of you. I hope to be able to return the favour sometime.” They finished their drinks and left separately.

Aoife had met her informant after he had spoken with Damien. “Your man is a bit of a loose cannon, but he’s certainly fired up about this story.” “Maybe too fired up. What were you able to tell him?” “As you suspected, the consortium approached key members of the Planning Committee with specific proposals for the removal of the cranes, Samson and Goliath and the development of the site for apartments, shops and leisure activities.” “Do we have anyone who is prepared to go on record confirming the offering of bribes, and what about the management team at Harland and Wolff?”

Meanwhile at Harland and Wolff the CEO, Adrian Fitzgerald, had called a Board meeting to discuss the German consortium’s proposal. The directors stood to make a fortune if they could get it past the Stormont Planning Committee. The CEO was quietly confident that the negotiations would go smoothly. The Finance Director’s presentation demonstrated the decline in Harland and Wolff’s profitability and the rapid fall in it’s share price over the last three years. She summed up by saying “A realistic valuation of the company as it stands is £55 million. We would be crazy not to accept the consortium’s offer of £165 million. Will we put it to a vote?”

At Stormont Damien was digging in to discover who, if anyone, was on the take in relation to a possible bid to buy out Harland and Wolff. Hanging out in the Members Bar he was sticking to Guinness to try and limit his inebriation. So far it was working. Stephen had joined him briefly, but he was pretty tight-lipped and would

The flags were bigger this year along the Lisburn Road. The trees were still mostly green, and shorts were being worn by fashion conscious men, whatever the weather.