piracy.
‘Come on, Mo. There’ll be traffic.’
‘I’m coming .’
She finishes at the mirror and they both head downstairs.
It had seemed like a good plan – a few words in the back of his car with Fitz and that should have been more or less the size of it, at least as far as his own involvement was concerned.
But then look what happened.
They leave the house and get in the car. As he drives slowly across the gravel to the gates, Norton runs it through his mind once again. Monday night, the panic, the sleeplessness, the hours of waiting – how close he came to self-destructing. Then, on Tuesday morning, the phone call. It took him a long time to calm down after that, but as the day progressed, and he spoke to different people, the story did gel into place. He nevertheless found it hard to shake his sense of unease. It had been a very close thing.
Now though, on Thursday afternoon, as he drives to the church for the removal – where he will sit and pray in front of Noel Rafferty’s earthly remains – Norton feels calm again, and secure.
The panic is gone. The threat has been lifted.
It’s almost five o’clock and Larry Bolger is on the plinth outside Leinster House. He is looking over at Buswell’s. He has just left the chamber after a debate on stamp-duty reform and is waiting for his car. He knows that a group of four or five backbenchers is meeting in the hotel to discuss what are euphemistically called ‘developments’ and he wonders how they’re getting on.
The weirdest thing about this stage of a leadership challenge is that all you are required to do is behave as if it isn’t happening. Other people do the important stuff for you – the mobilising, the lobbying, the whispering.
‘Er … Larry, can I have a word?’
Bolger looks around and releases a low groan. ‘A word? There’s no such thing, Ken, not where you’re concerned, so no –’
‘Yeah, but this is –’
‘Look, I’ve no time at the moment.’ Miraculously, the car pulls up. ‘I’m on my way to a removal. Tomorrow maybe, or when I get back from the States.’
Bolger hurries down the steps and opens the back door of the car.
‘Larry, you’re going to want to hear this, believe me, because it’s –’
‘Some other time, OK ? I’m busy.’
He gets in the car and bangs the door shut behind him.
The driver knows enough not to delay. ‘Good evening, Minister,’ he says, pulling away. ‘Where are we off to?’
Bolger takes a deep breath.
‘Er … Donnybrook, Billy. The church there on the corner. Thanks.’
Billy nods. They go out the main gates and turn left onto Kildare Street.
Bolger then leans back in his seat and exhales. Is he alone in finding the chief political correspondent of the Irish Independent an epic pain in the arse? Like one or two of the other hacks in the press gallery, Ken Murphy is never off the radio talk shows and seems to claim ownership of practically every story that makes it into the news.
But at the same time, if this leadership bid is to succeed, Bolger realises – be it a messy heave, or a bloodless coup – he is going to have to be … well, a little more accommodating, and play the game.
He closes his eyes, luxuriating in a kind of steely clearheadedness – something he associates these days with not drinking.
The choreography of the next few months is going to be crucial, of course. The Paloma announcement the other day, his upcoming trade mission to the States, the opening of Richmond Plaza in the new year … each of these, incrementally, will ratchet up his profile – in the party, with the media, with the public at large.
Bolger opens his eyes again. They’re almost at Leeson Street Bridge.
It’s certainly been a long time coming. He entered politics in the mid-eighties – though as far as he remembers, and it’s all a bit vague now, standing for election hadn’t even been his idea. Frank, his brother, had held the seat originally but died, and
‘Come on, Mo. There’ll be traffic.’
‘I’m coming .’
She finishes at the mirror and they both head downstairs.
It had seemed like a good plan – a few words in the back of his car with Fitz and that should have been more or less the size of it, at least as far as his own involvement was concerned.
But then look what happened.
They leave the house and get in the car. As he drives slowly across the gravel to the gates, Norton runs it through his mind once again. Monday night, the panic, the sleeplessness, the hours of waiting – how close he came to self-destructing. Then, on Tuesday morning, the phone call. It took him a long time to calm down after that, but as the day progressed, and he spoke to different people, the story did gel into place. He nevertheless found it hard to shake his sense of unease. It had been a very close thing.
Now though, on Thursday afternoon, as he drives to the church for the removal – where he will sit and pray in front of Noel Rafferty’s earthly remains – Norton feels calm again, and secure.
The panic is gone. The threat has been lifted.
It’s almost five o’clock and Larry Bolger is on the plinth outside Leinster House. He is looking over at Buswell’s. He has just left the chamber after a debate on stamp-duty reform and is waiting for his car. He knows that a group of four or five backbenchers is meeting in the hotel to discuss what are euphemistically called ‘developments’ and he wonders how they’re getting on.
The weirdest thing about this stage of a leadership challenge is that all you are required to do is behave as if it isn’t happening. Other people do the important stuff for you – the mobilising, the lobbying, the whispering.
‘Er … Larry, can I have a word?’
Bolger looks around and releases a low groan. ‘A word? There’s no such thing, Ken, not where you’re concerned, so no –’
‘Yeah, but this is –’
‘Look, I’ve no time at the moment.’ Miraculously, the car pulls up. ‘I’m on my way to a removal. Tomorrow maybe, or when I get back from the States.’
Bolger hurries down the steps and opens the back door of the car.
‘Larry, you’re going to want to hear this, believe me, because it’s –’
‘Some other time, OK ? I’m busy.’
He gets in the car and bangs the door shut behind him.
The driver knows enough not to delay. ‘Good evening, Minister,’ he says, pulling away. ‘Where are we off to?’
Bolger takes a deep breath.
‘Er … Donnybrook, Billy. The church there on the corner. Thanks.’
Billy nods. They go out the main gates and turn left onto Kildare Street.
Bolger then leans back in his seat and exhales. Is he alone in finding the chief political correspondent of the Irish Independent an epic pain in the arse? Like one or two of the other hacks in the press gallery, Ken Murphy is never off the radio talk shows and seems to claim ownership of practically every story that makes it into the news.
But at the same time, if this leadership bid is to succeed, Bolger realises – be it a messy heave, or a bloodless coup – he is going to have to be … well, a little more accommodating, and play the game.
He closes his eyes, luxuriating in a kind of steely clearheadedness – something he associates these days with not drinking.
The choreography of the next few months is going to be crucial, of course. The Paloma announcement the other day, his upcoming trade mission to the States, the opening of Richmond Plaza in the new year … each of these, incrementally, will ratchet up his profile – in the party, with the media, with the public at large.
Bolger opens his eyes again. They’re almost at Leeson Street Bridge.
It’s certainly been a long time coming. He entered politics in the mid-eighties – though as far as he remembers, and it’s all a bit vague now, standing for election hadn’t even been his idea. Frank, his brother, had held the seat originally but died, and
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