asking.'
Brinn leant forward. 'No. I don't think they will. The violence is too engrained in them. They've had their own way for too long. They won't want to give up what they have. I mean, it's long past the political stage, the Nationalist or Loyalist stage, for most of them. Now it's down to money. The rackets. They have their political thinkers, but they know they're on a lost cause, because we've got the people, a lot of the people behind us, and there's a genuine chance that what we're attempting will work. No, you'll see those political figures progressively eliminated from both sides of the paramilitary line and then we'll be down to a straightforward game of cowboys and Indians.'
'Which is which?'
'Depends on your point of view really. Depends whether you're a John Wayne fan or a Dances with Wolves revisionist.'
I poured myself another glass of wine and tried not to think of Margaret. I felt ashamed suddenly that she had only flitted through my mind briefly during dinner. But I would surely go mad if I kept thinking of her. And suddenly I was giggling and I had to clamp my hand on my mouth but it squeezed out between my fingers like vomit.
They were staring at me.
I swallowed hard. Pulled my cheeks in.
'I'm sorry,' I said, a little high-pitched. 'I'm sorry,' I repeated.
'Are you okay?' Agnes asked for the second time that day.
Brinn looked perplexed. Parker looked angry. 'Of course. I'm sorry, what with the wine and the flu, and that . . . it's just got to me. That's all.'
'Maybe we should be going,' Parker suggested. 'Well. ..' Brinn said.
'No, stay,' Agnes interjected. 'I'll make some coffee.'
'It's not the drink,' I repeated. 'It's not just the drink, I mean, I...' and I didn't know what I was going to say, I didn't know whether I was going to mention Margaret or Patricia or the way my world was caving in. Who better to tell than the next prime minister of Northern Ireland, and who worse?
There was a knock on the door. They all turned towards it, thankful for the relief.
It opened without a reply from Brinn and a man I recognized as Alfie Stewart, the Alliance security spokesman, walked quickly into the room. He was a big, impressive man with a ruddy Antrim farmer's face. I'd met him a couple of times at press conferences and been impressed; he reeked of sincerity and could maybe have given Brinn a run for his money if given the chance, but rumour had it that he had a bit of a drink problem, which was more of a handicap in his chosen profession than mine. He nodded to me as he crossed the room; his eyes, slightly hooded, widened momentarily at Parker's blackness. I'd seen him calmly breeze through the toughest of interviews, but his face now had assumed a daunting tautness, like the stretched leather of the devil's saddlebags.
Stewart said, 'Excuse me,' in a voice that was more of a bark than an apology and bent down over Brinn's right shoulder to whisper in his ear: a raspy sound like a wasp half-glued to sandpaper ...
Brinn's face gave nothing away, but his knuckles turned white as he squeezed tightly on his glass of orange. Agnes's hand instinctively dropped beneath the table, finding its way to his leg, although she could have heard as little as me.
As Stewart finished, Brinn turned his eyes up to him and shook his head slightly, then contradictorily nodded it. When he spoke, his voice was cracking with emotion.
'Thanks, Alfie. Uh, I'll be with you in a moment.' Alfie turned and left the room. Brinn turned briefly to Agnes. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news, darling,' and then his eyes flicked over us. 'You gentlemen may as well hear it now. I understand it will be on the news very shortly. It's our finance spokesman, David McGarry. His wife and daughter have been found murdered in the daughter's house in North Belfast.'
Agnes gave out a little squeal and buried her face in her hands.
I said: 'That's awful.'
Brinn was shaking his head slowly; tears appeared in his eyes but didn't fall. 'I
Brinn leant forward. 'No. I don't think they will. The violence is too engrained in them. They've had their own way for too long. They won't want to give up what they have. I mean, it's long past the political stage, the Nationalist or Loyalist stage, for most of them. Now it's down to money. The rackets. They have their political thinkers, but they know they're on a lost cause, because we've got the people, a lot of the people behind us, and there's a genuine chance that what we're attempting will work. No, you'll see those political figures progressively eliminated from both sides of the paramilitary line and then we'll be down to a straightforward game of cowboys and Indians.'
'Which is which?'
'Depends on your point of view really. Depends whether you're a John Wayne fan or a Dances with Wolves revisionist.'
I poured myself another glass of wine and tried not to think of Margaret. I felt ashamed suddenly that she had only flitted through my mind briefly during dinner. But I would surely go mad if I kept thinking of her. And suddenly I was giggling and I had to clamp my hand on my mouth but it squeezed out between my fingers like vomit.
They were staring at me.
I swallowed hard. Pulled my cheeks in.
'I'm sorry,' I said, a little high-pitched. 'I'm sorry,' I repeated.
'Are you okay?' Agnes asked for the second time that day.
Brinn looked perplexed. Parker looked angry. 'Of course. I'm sorry, what with the wine and the flu, and that . . . it's just got to me. That's all.'
'Maybe we should be going,' Parker suggested. 'Well. ..' Brinn said.
'No, stay,' Agnes interjected. 'I'll make some coffee.'
'It's not the drink,' I repeated. 'It's not just the drink, I mean, I...' and I didn't know what I was going to say, I didn't know whether I was going to mention Margaret or Patricia or the way my world was caving in. Who better to tell than the next prime minister of Northern Ireland, and who worse?
There was a knock on the door. They all turned towards it, thankful for the relief.
It opened without a reply from Brinn and a man I recognized as Alfie Stewart, the Alliance security spokesman, walked quickly into the room. He was a big, impressive man with a ruddy Antrim farmer's face. I'd met him a couple of times at press conferences and been impressed; he reeked of sincerity and could maybe have given Brinn a run for his money if given the chance, but rumour had it that he had a bit of a drink problem, which was more of a handicap in his chosen profession than mine. He nodded to me as he crossed the room; his eyes, slightly hooded, widened momentarily at Parker's blackness. I'd seen him calmly breeze through the toughest of interviews, but his face now had assumed a daunting tautness, like the stretched leather of the devil's saddlebags.
Stewart said, 'Excuse me,' in a voice that was more of a bark than an apology and bent down over Brinn's right shoulder to whisper in his ear: a raspy sound like a wasp half-glued to sandpaper ...
Brinn's face gave nothing away, but his knuckles turned white as he squeezed tightly on his glass of orange. Agnes's hand instinctively dropped beneath the table, finding its way to his leg, although she could have heard as little as me.
As Stewart finished, Brinn turned his eyes up to him and shook his head slightly, then contradictorily nodded it. When he spoke, his voice was cracking with emotion.
'Thanks, Alfie. Uh, I'll be with you in a moment.' Alfie turned and left the room. Brinn turned briefly to Agnes. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news, darling,' and then his eyes flicked over us. 'You gentlemen may as well hear it now. I understand it will be on the news very shortly. It's our finance spokesman, David McGarry. His wife and daughter have been found murdered in the daughter's house in North Belfast.'
Agnes gave out a little squeal and buried her face in her hands.
I said: 'That's awful.'
Brinn was shaking his head slowly; tears appeared in his eyes but didn't fall. 'I
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