Stuart Clancy cupped his hands to his mouth and blew some warmth into them. Although packed in like sardines on the viewing stand, mere metres from the six fluted Ionic columns of the General Post Office, it hadn’t taken long for the chill wind to winkle its way through the crowd’s defences and lay siege to his extremities.
Thinking of sieges, he mused, the commemorative service for the Easter Rising of 1916 was going especially well. Tens of thousands of Irish men, women and children flooded the streets to watch the parade from the old Dublin Castle to the General Post Office. And just like Padraig Pearse 100 years previous, at this exact spot, an army officer proudly re-read the very same proclamation declaring Irish independence.
As the final words of the proclamation rang out across O’Connell Street and floated away with the breeze, the diminutive President of the Irish Republic, Michael Higgins, marched solemnly towards the steps of the post office to lay a ceremonial wreath. Stuart stood and pulled his collar up just a little higher around his ears as the minute’s silence for the fallen began, then remained standing with those around him for the playing of the national anthem.
As the last note faded, Stuart offered a few hasty good-byes and quickly made his escape. Having sat freezing in the cold for several hours, he was in no mood for the celebratory handshaking and pats on the back with his fellow Dáil Éireann members.
In fact, he was in no mood to discuss politics. Period.
The prospects for his Sinn Fein party being invited to join a coalition with the caretaker government of Prime Minister, Enda Kenny, remained exceedingly dim. The February election hadn’t produced a clear winner, and now, a month later, Kenny’s Fine Gael party still clamoured for a dance partner to form a majority in the Dáil. Stuart held high hopes his party would’ve won a sufficient number of seats to be their partner, but they’d fallen agonisingly short.
Today, food and whiskey were what he needed, and in short order. Free from the crush of bodies in the stands, Stuart surveyed the nearby options to best meet his needs.
The sharp trill and vibration coming from his breast pocket diverted his attention. Clancy withdrew his mobile phone, hit the talk button and placed it to his ear.
Aye?
I saw you on the television. You looked cold sitting up there.
Who is this?
Don’t you recognise my voice? Or did you not expect me to be alive?
Clancy paused and looked skyward at a scuttling cloud hoping to place the voice of the caller.
Eamonn?
Aye, it is. And we need to talk.
We’re talking now.
Not good enough. It needs to be in person.
The anger in Eamonn’s voice momentarily knocked Clancy off balance.
Okay then. I’ll be tied up with official events the rest of this week…
Make it Wednesday. At the old farmhouse, up by Donegal. I trust you still know where it is.
Clancy paused and stared at the mobile in his hand, his anger building and threatening to boil over.
Listen here, you little gobshite, since when do you give me orders?
Wednesday, if you want to know why. And don’t forget what I know, Mr Clancy.
***
Eamonn cut the connection; his last comment pure overkill, but he couldn’t resist. The image of steam blowing out the ears of Stuart Clancy right at this very moment brought a smile to his face.
The call to Clancy put into action the second step of his two-step plan. He’d taken care of step one earlier in the day. It took the better part of two days for Eamonn to unclutter his mind, analyse his situation and weigh his options. The plan he’d now set in motion unfolded quickly soon after.
He parted the blinds of his second-floor room at the Bloomfield House Hotel and stared out over the parklands towards Lough Ennell. A hardy couple, willing to brave the biting wind, strode along the path leading to the lake. The old Georgian mansion just south of Mullingar would be his home for the next few days. The perfect place, he hoped, to stay under the radar and alive until Wednesday.