1

Flannery lurched in to Neary’s, trying to ignore the pain in his bruised legs. He was positive that one of the men lined up at the bar was going to be surprised to see him and he was right. Of the several faces that turned in his direction one of them registered a fleeting look of disbelief. The face belonged to Bresnihan.

Flannery joined him at the bar.

Casually, Flannery said, “Hello, Fiach. I suppose I have you to thank for last night.”

Bresnihan’s attempt to look innocent was as weak as English beer. “I don’t know what . . .” he began.

Flannery cut him off. “Don’t waste your breath, Fiach. You might need it to explain to that poor, mistreated wife of yours why you’ve come home carrying your balls in a paper bag instead of in your pea-­sized scrotum. I know it was you who set me up with the provos. You told them that my questions about Mulvaney had something to do with them, right?”

Bresnihan hesitated, then gave a resigned nod. “How did you get away? I figured for sure you’d be a dead man by now.”

Flannery grinned. “It takes more than the IRA to stop Flannery, Fiach, my lad. You should know that.”

“Oh Christ!” shouted Barry Wilson, slamming his fist onto the typewriter and making the lamp with the loose connection flicker. It was no good. Much too melodramatic. Too far over the top. None of that ‘wry, sharp wit’ that the reviewer in the Irish Times had astutely noticed in the last Flannery novel The Meaning of Liffey. It was more Mickey Spillane than Barry Wilson.

He frowned suddenly and cocked his head. Was that the doorbell? It was hard to tell with these damn earplugs but he’d become addicted to them as a working aid. It certainly couldn’t have been the phone because he’d taken it off the hook weeks ago.

He sincerely hoped it wasn’t the door bell. He didn’t want a single interruption until he’d finished all the work he had to do. Apart from meeting the deadline for this fourth Flannery book—which was less than a month away—he also had to write a treatment for the proposed Flannery TV series that RTE was “semi-­keen” on doing. If the TV series happened his financial problems would be over. Though the Flannery novels had been a moderate success, and their popularity was still growing, money was still in short supply. The two children, Simon and Jessica, ate up most of it and the rest was spent on paying off this damp-­ridden cottage here in County Wicklow.

He heard the sound again. It was the door bell. He swore to himself and looked at his watch. It was after midnight. Who the hell would be paying him a visit all the way up here at this time of night? Couldn’t be one of his neighbors. He’d made a point of alienating them all in order to ensure uninterrupted privacy.

He took out the earplugs and listened intently. The door bell rang again. This time it sounded as if someone were leaning on it. He got up and made his way out of the study and down the passage towards the front room.

Without turning on the light he crept across the floor, struggling to remember which of the boards creaked, and went to one of the front windows. Warily he peered out through a crack in the curtain . . . and got a shock.

He could see the outlines of three men outside. And all of them were carrying what looked like automatic weapons.

Alarmed, he backed away from the window. Men with guns. It could mean only one thing. The IRA. But what were they doing at his house?

At that moment there came a tremendous thump on the front door. Wilson’s heart seemed to miss a beat. Christ, they were breaking down the door!

He retreated from the front room, ran down the passage and back into his study. His mind raced as he frantically tried to think of a place to hide. There was no cellar, no attic. . . .

The front door shuddered again.

A weapon! He had to find a weapon. But what was there? He had no rifle, no shotgun . . . then he noticed the letter opener lying on his desk. He snatched it up. Not sharp, but it was long and pointed.

Then he heard the front door splintering. . . .

He turned off the study light and crawled quickly under his desk. He waited there, heart pounding like a jack hammer, clutching the letter opener.

Voices in the front room. He heard his name being called.

Shit, so it was him they were after. It wasn’t some random attack or a case of mistaken identity. But why him? Why would the IRA be after him? Okay, so he’d poked fun at them in the Flannery books but surely he hadn’t upset them enough for them to take this sort of action.

Maybe they intended kidnapping him. Perhaps they thought he was a rich author and figured he could raise a huge ransom. Christ, they were going to be pissed off when they found out how little he was worth.

Heavy footsteps. In the passage. Getting closer.

Hell, what could he do? What would Flannery do in a spot like this? Take the offensive, of course. Surprise them. Grab one of them, shove the letter opener against his throat and take him hostage. Then use the famous Flannery cool to talk himself out of the situation. Probably end up with them eating out of his hand; volunteering to come round and fix the door and maybe do some work in the garden as compensation.

Fuck Flannery. This was real life. Wilson shared some of Flannery’s characteristics, as most authors do with their creations, but heroism, nerves of steel and a cool head in an emergency were not among them. Also Flannery was over six feet tall and built like a brick shithouse whereas Wilson was five feet ten and weighed only 160 pounds.

The footsteps got closer. The light came on. Wilson got a low angle view of three pairs of heavy black boots coming towards him across the floor.

I’ll spring out, Wilson told himself, stab one of them and then make a run for it in all the confusion.

But he couldn’t get his body to move. All he could do was crouch there helplessly. The next thing he knew there was a face peering at him only a few inches from his own. One of the men had bent down and was looking at him under the desk.

“Mr. Wilson? Mr. Barry Wilson?” inquired the face politely.

For a few seconds Wilson stared back in frozen shock. Then he managed to croak, “Yes . . . that’s me.” It was only then that he realized the man spoke with an English accent. “You’re not Irish,” he told him accusingly.

“No sir. I’m Lieutenant Smythe-­Robertson of the 69th Parachute Regiment. Would you care to come out from under there, sir? We don’t have much time.”

Wilson crawled out from under the desk. The man helped him get to his feet. Feeling dazed, he stared round at the three of them. They were all dressed in army uniforms. “You’re soldiers. British soldiers,” he said, somewhat stupidly.

“Yessir,” said the one called Smythe-­Robertson. “And there’s no need for that, sir.” He looked down at Wilson’s right hand.

Wilson followed his gaze and saw the letter opener. It appeared puny and ridiculous compared to the three submachine guns the soldiers were carrying. Wilson opened his hand and the letter opener fell to the floor with a clatter. “I thought you were the IRA,” he muttered.

The three soldiers glanced at each other. Wilson saw something in the looks that he was not sure he liked. Resentment began to replace his numbing fear. “Look here, what the hell is going on? You come breaking into my house in the dead of night scaring the shit out of me—you’d better have a bloody good explanation. And what are you doing here in the Republic? The Irish government is going to take a pretty dim view of this, I can tell you.”

Smythe-­Robertson held up a hand to cut him off. “We have special dispensation, sir, due to the State of Emergency that exists in both countries. Now will you please accompany us, sir. We have a long way to travel.” He gripped Wilson’s arm. Wilson shook his hand away.

“State of Emergency? What State of Emergency? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You must know what’s happened on the mainland. The TV and radio’s been full of it.”

“I don’t have a TV and I never listen to the radio when I’m up here working alone. Too distracting.”

“You mean you don’t know about the crisis?” Smythe-­Robertson looked very surprised.

“What crisis?” demanded Wilson.

The soldier paused for a moment then said, “There’s no time to explain it all now. We have to get moving right away.”

“Moving to where?”

“Belfast.”

Wilson laughed, “I’m not going to Belfast. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Smythe-­Robertson made a gesture and his two men each grabbed one of Wilson’s arms. The next thing Wilson knew he was being dragged out of his study. He tried to put up a resistance but the two soldiers didn’t even seem to notice his efforts.

“You can’t do this to me!” he yelled. “I’ll sue you for false arrest!”

“We’re not arresting you, sir,” said Smythe-­Robertson from close behind. “But in a State of Emergency you are obliged by law to obey our instructions. And that’s what you’re doing.”

They dragged him out through the front doorway, stepping over the remains of the door. Wilson then received another surprise. Sitting in his front garden was a helicopter—a big one.

As the soldiers hustled him toward it, its engine roared into life and the rotor began to turn.

“Better duck, sir,” yelled one of the soldiers. “We don’t want to lose that valuable head of yours.”

No sooner had they bundled him through a side-­door in the machine than it began to rise into the air. Wilson couldn’t take in what was happening. It was all too crazy to be true. If he’d put something like this in a Flannery story he’d be accused of being too far-­fetched.

“Look, I can’t go away anywhere! I’ve got a book to write! I’ve got a deadline to meet!” he yelled over the noise of the engine.

“Where’s your publisher based, Mr. Wilson?” yelled back Smythe-Robertson.

“London, of course!”

“Mr. Wilson, there is no London anymore!”