odespinner

Belfast drama

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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.
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.
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.
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….

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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.” “Wow, that’s

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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 verbose7 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.”

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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.

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Julian, the renowned KC, 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. He was surprised to see Aoife and Stephen heading his way. Stephen had that smug look on his face created by an upbringing of righteous entitlement. Aoife was pushing her way through some chortling MLAs who hadn’t got no homes to go to, and were knocking it back bravely. “Hi you two. An unexpected pleasure.” “Stephen, mine’s a spritzer, and get Damien a Guinness please.” “Yes, m’lady.” “What gives, Aoife? It must be important if you brought Stevo along.

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with you.” “I wanted to see where we are with our wee project, are any fish biting?” asked Aoife. “Not so far. Lots of nudge, nudge wink, wink jokers who pretend they have the inside track. There was a Board Meeting at H&W, but the minutes are not likely to be published any time soon. What about our German friends?” Stephen appeared with the drinks and pointed out a table that was becoming free. Stephen looked at Aoife and asked “Anything you can talk about in front of a mere political analyst?” “Not really, people are staying unusually quiet about a possible deal.” Damien noticed three reporters from the Newsletter in deep discussion and thought he’d gatecrash their party. “What about ye, Gus?”
Angus Macleod had spent many a night propping up bars in Belfast with Damien. He had a reputation for journalistic integrity working for the Newsletter, and his womanising in equal measure. “What’s the craic Damien?” “Ach, you know yourself, pretty quiet.” “That’s not what I heard, some mischief among our elected representatives in relation to a bid for Harland and Wolff. if I’m not mistaken.” “Well just between you and me, there’s a rumour that the DUP are up to their necks in graft.” “Is that so? Who’s your source?” “Ah now, that would be telling” said Damien cagily. After that the conversation turned to football. Angus was an Everton fan and Damien couldn’t care less.
In the leafy suburb of South Belfast James Campbell, the overworked solicitor,had gathered up the latest briefs and put them in his briefcase. The MLA for West Belfast, Joseph Sweeney, had instructed James to furnish him with details of the possible repercussions of alleged bribery and corruption among his fellow MLAs on the Planning Committee. The confidential nature of Sweeney’s information meant that James was reluctant to leave any documents at the office. Particularly damaging was the list of payments made, to whom, when and by whom. James’ young daughter, Jessie, had been buzzing that morning and unbeknownst to her father had flicked open the locks on his briefcase. James climbed into his Range Rover and put his briefcase flat on the passenger seat. The drive into the city centre at that time in the morning was slow. He tuned the radio to Citybeat and mulled over how to deal with such a sensitive issue. Julian might have some useful insights and advice, but he couldn’t openly approach a KC without Sweeney’s say so. When he got to his offices he parked his car briefly outside and opened the front passenger door. Lifting the briefcase by the handle, he didn’t notice the two halves separating. With a gust of wind timed to perfection his confidential documents were lifted high into the air and then scattered along the busy street….

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Meanwhile Damien had decided to make a night of it. He shared a taxi back into town with Gus and they knocked back a couple of beers in the Duke of York before looking for jazz in a bar nearby. The jazz band were good, their modern style just to Damien and Gus’ liking. Many whiskies later Damien was chatting to two smart women from England over for a conference on gender politics. The women warmed to Damien’s easy charm and readily agreed to continue their conversation in the hotel bar. Aoife had been persistently messaging Damien about the breaking story. He was too far. gone to check his messages or realise that the smart English women were not about to succumb to his attempts at seduction.

Joe Sweeney, the disgraced MLA, was furious. He had already tendered his resignation and realised that the story was worth a few bob, if only he knew a decent spin doctor. Jane de Montfort had done a good job for Sinn Fein when Gerry was getting a lot of crap thrown at him over allegations about his brother. Joe decided to ask if she would take him on as a client.
Aoife was playing catch up with the leading news organisations. The ‘leaked’ documents had created a media frenzy and there was plenty of speculation about just who knew what and when. The Recorder bar was a good place to hear the self-important voices of junior reporters pretending that they had the inside story. One such junior reporter was Grainne McClure who was raising her voice to compete with the young yahoos. Aoife liked Grainne, she hadn’t had her enthusiasm for the job dulled by the mundane business of reporting on human tragedy and heartache. “Hi Grainne, you still knocking about with these reprobates?” “They seem to need my witty observations on life in the fast lane.” “Joe Sweeney went pretty quick eh?” asked Aoife. “He’s not giving interviews, and there’s a rumour he’s holding out for some big pay day for an exclusive.” “I have it on good authority that Sweeney is talking to a spin doctor” said Grainne. “Any idea who?” “Not sure, but my money’s on de Montfort Thanks, Grainne. I owe you one.”

Jordan McRae, the politically ambitious loyalist preacher and convicted thug, had acquired a mobile phone from Billy and was talking to members of the Loyalist alliance about the Harland and Wolff scandal. “This is a fucking joke! Those cranes are part of our identity and no Fenian fucker is selling off our birthrights!” McRae had turned beetroot red, he was so wound up. Billy wandered into Jordan’s cell to see what all the noise was about. “Jordan, keep it down mate.” “Sorry, Billy, but we’re not going to put up with this shite, not if I have anything to do with it.” “Stay cool, Jordan, our Alex has
Jordan McRae, the politically ambitious loyalist preacher and convicted thug, had acquired a mobile phone from Billy and was talking to members of the Loyalist alliance about the Harland and Wolff scandal. “This is a fucking joke! Those cranes are part of our identity and no Fenian fucker is selling off our birthrights!” McRae had turned beetroot red, he was so wound up. Billy wandered into Jordan’s cell to see what all the noise was about. “Jordan, keep it down mate.” “Sorry, Billy, but we’re not going to put up with this shite, not if I have anything to do with it.” “Stay cool, Jordan, our Alex has a plan.”

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Adrian Fitzgerald, the CEO of Harland & Wolff, lived in a six bedroomed detached house in Hollywood with his wife, Samantha and their three young children. The man in their kitchen was wearing a balaclava and holding a shotgun on them. “Everyone stay cool.” All the children were at school and their father was about to leave for work when the intruder appeared at the back of the house and persuaded Samantha with a thrust of his shotgun to open the glazed sliding door to the kitchen. “There’s jewellery and money in the safe” said Adrian with a quiver in his voice.

Aoife and Damien were in their Editor, Sophie’s office discussing what was printable before they ran it past the Legal Department. “So, Joe Sweeney is saying nothing, the German consortium’s gone to ground and nobody knows where the Harland and Wolff CEO, Adrian Fitzgerald, is hiding out?” “That’s about the sum of it” said Aoife. “We do have a photographer camped outside the Fitzgerald mansion” added Damien. At that point Damien’s phone rang. His eyes lit up “stay on it and stay safe and hidden. We’ll contact the Peelers.” He rang off abruptly and took a deep breath. “We have live photos of the Fitzgerald family being held hostage by an armed masked man.” “Jesus! ” exclaimed Aoife. “Right, I’ll liaise with the PSNI, you two draft the front page and see who’s in the frame for a bit of hostage taking. Go!”

Alex was getting hot and sweaty in his balaclava. The chance to grab some loot was too good to pass up. Mr Fitzgerald showed him where the safe was in the oak panelled study, and gave him the combination. As he pocketed the jewellery he could see the flashing blue lights racing up the drive. “Bollocks!” he shouted. He rushed to the rear of the house and opened the kitchen door. A Special Branch officer was pointing a 9 mm semi-automatic at his chest. “On the ground, face down, hands behind your back. Do it now!”

Damien and Aoife had the scoop they had worked so hard for. The live photographs and the video footage of the police rescue would be on all the major Irish news programmes and syndicated on most of the overseas channels. Their newspaper would be snapped up by the people of Northern Ireland. When they had put the paper to bed they felt immensely proud of their efforts. Damien put his arm around Aoife affectionately. She turned to face him and whispered “Fuck up Damien, you’re not my type.”

THE END

Nelson as Creon

As he waited in his cell Nelson went over his lines in his head. Creon was not an easy character for him to play. A merciless ruler in ancient Thebes, a city beset by civil war. Thinking himself into the part meant trying to get under the skin of a man who had no compassion for human suffering and who could not be swayed by powerful argument.

Nelson relished amateur dramatics and not just because he got to spend more time in the prison yard and the open sky. He could escape the confines of the prison and his own situation by becoming a different persona, living in a different age, the ruler of a Greek state with ultimate power.

In the scene they were to rehearse today he must listen to his wife pleading with him for the life of Antigone who he has sentenced to death. He would have to work up great anger at her challenge to his authority and then switch to an icy coldness when he tells her that Antigone must die. Thinking back to his own heated arguments with his wife, Winnie, and the pain it had caused them both, made their separation hard to bear. Drawing on those emotions would be challenging, but essential if he was to give a convincing performance.

The parallels between Antigone and apartheid South Africa ruled by the white minority were striking. Antigone represented doing what was right, no matter the cost. Creon’s inflexibility would not allow for persuasion, even if it brought personal tragedy to his door. Nelson wondered if he was too blinkered in his own fight for freedom. But the debates within the party were endless and the decisions were arrived at democratically. The resistance to tyranny was a moral imperative and worth the sacrifices he had made. Perhaps Creon saw himself as the defender of an ideal, a ruling elite that knew best what was right and good for the state.

These thoughts had distracted him from the lines he was not yet able to recite word perfectly. With a last check of his script he heard the guard usher him out into the bright heat of the yard.

Angst

It wasn’t until I became aware of the extent of my freedom that I experienced the pervasive unease about myself and my own existence. As if that wasn’t enough, then I was asked to turn towards things, but in such a way that I don’t challenge them. I am commanded to allow each being to ‘rest upon itself ‘ in its very own being.

What sort of freedom is this?

Sartre has used the term facticity to describe a pre-existing situation, out of which I must act. It is not enough that I have to act in certain situations, but I also have to let things rest upon themselves.

Surely Camus had something to say about the absurdity of this paradox? His character, Meurseult, in the Outsider, looks up at the sky from his prison cell and opens himself ‘to the tender indifference of the world.’

Well, thanks a bunch Albert! So if we keep going at life, we have to accept that there is no ultimate meaning to what we do.

Ammanford

We were young boys messing about near an obelisk in the river Amman. A wide river of little water and many round stones. Tout had a jam jar of tiddlers caught in the rock pools. Some of us climbed to the top of the obelisk to jump into a pool of water just deep enough.

In Betws park my Uncle John had planted a seed. His tree now stood about 20 feet high near the steps.

Our family stayed at my grandma’s in Colonel Road, Betws many times during my childhood. She had open fires, no television and a narrow garden that she nurtured to produce an abundance of fruit and vegetables. My grandpa had grafted a pear tree branch onto the apple tree that stood in a small patch of grass. The outside toilet had a varnished wooden seat and you could see the slag heap if you looked down the garden path. Ammanford was an open cast mining town. My grandparents had a shop in Betws, Gwalia Stores, next to their home on Colonel Road.

My grandpa died when I was very young. I remember him eating soft food and having a lovely smile. My grandma laughed a lot and doted on my brother and I. “Hard work never killed anyone” was one of her sayings. The Protestant work ethic and a deep belief in the Word ruled her life. Her garden a testament to her hard work. Flowers in the raised borders outside the kitchen door, coal in the shed.

At 17 I came to Betws to revise for my Economics A level. My grandma’s house was too quiet. After a couple of days I ventured out to the park. The textbook was good with test questions at the end of each chapter. The park lost its appeal. I went to the Cross Keys pub in Ammanford the next day. I fell in with some off duty miners and arranged to meet them at opening time.

By closing time we had visited every establishment in Ammanford that served pints. I got fish and chips on the way back to my grandma’s. She had the table laid and insisted I ate dinner. I thought I had got away with all the ungodly drinking and smoking. She asked me to phone home which I duly did. She seemed surprised by the outcome.

When I got home I was told by my mother that I was practically incoherent on the phone that night. I had lost my textbook somewhere between the Conservative Club and the Ammanford Miners Club. I got a D in Economics.