King of Dublin by Heidi Belleau;Lisa Henry

Author:Heidi Belleau;Lisa Henry
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2014-02-13T16:00:00+00:00

Thirteen months ago

“Niall O’Connor is a dangerous man who means to upset our delicate relations with the government here,” Ciaran’s father said. “Former IRA. And don’t think I don’t know the sort of friends you’re keeping, either.”

“He’s an elected member of the Dáil, the same as you,” Ciaran said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his father. “And he has as much right to speak as any other man.”

“He surrounds himself with radicals, and so do you. What’s that fellow’s name? The one from your university?”

“You mean Danny?” Ciaran prodded the yolk of his egg with his fork, then smirked as inspiration came over him. “Or maybe Ryan. I’ve got so many radical friends nowadays that it’s hard to keep track.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy.”

“I’m not a boy, and I’ll take whatever tone I please.” Ciaran stood up and shoved his unfinished breakfast plate away. “I’m going out.”

“Ciaran . . .”

Ciaran ignored him. That pleading note only ever crept into his father’s voice when he was trying to pile on the guilt. Guilt for not getting better marks at school, guilt for not playing nice at some function where they were supposed to be begging like dogs for aid from the nations that still had wealth to spare. But especially guilt for daring to have different ideas, and different friends. Ciaran’s father was a coward and Ciaran wasn’t, and that was all there was to it.

Ciaran didn’t bother to take his jacket. It was warm enough outside. Besides, Danny would be waiting down the end of the street, like always, smoking those foul-smelling cigarettes that came from somewhere in Eastern Europe and staring down the Northern Paramilitary officers who guarded the street.

This row of modest terrace houses in Belfast was all that remained of the Irish Dáil—no proper meeting place, no pomp and circumstance, but most importantly, no real power. The houses had been a “gift” of goodwill from the government of Northern Ireland, who refused to contribute any meaningful form of aid to the Republic. Although Ciaran’s father said it was for the best, anyway, because any real action from Northern Ireland or the United Kingdom—especially the military action needed to reclaim and return order to the abandoned nation—would come at a terrible cost. Anarchy and sovereignty, or order and occupation? An unpalatable choice. That was how Ciaran’s father justified these years of inaction.

But that was ignoring the third option. Niall O’Connor’s third option. Ireland taken back by the Irish. Which would require cowards like Ciaran’s father to give up their powerless but sheltered existence. Just a bunch of politicians in exile, pretending they still had a country to govern, bowing and scraping to the governments that did. A waste of space, all of them, Ciaran’s father included. Ciaran’s father especially.

Not Niall O’Connor, though. Since when was a man considered radical just because he wanted to do the job he’d been elected to do? To govern Ireland, he said, meant to return to Ireland. No easy task, but a necessary one.

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