The Minstrel Boy

By David McCaughey

For thirty years Brian Gallagher fought to free Ireland from the British. Now he's had enough. Tired and disillusioned, the man of iron has found something truly unexpected, something worth fighting for - love.

To begin anew he must turn his back on his old life. He must destroy the organisation to which he has dedicated his life, because now, it must destroy him. The IRA has a dark secret, a secret so devastating, so unthinkable, that they will hide it at any cost. Who is really in control of the IRA? Who is the mysterious Zeus? Why do the British want Gallagher to bomb London? Gallagher knows and knowledge is power, too much power for one man.

Suddenly everyone wants him dead but Brian Gallagher is a hard man to kill, and now, he has a reason to live ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Corisant
• Release date: Aug 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386233381

Book preview

www.dmccaughey.com

Also by David McCaughey

The Emissary

A deadly Emissary has arrived in the Land of the Free. He brings more than the familiar message of hatred, he brings a deadly contagion hidden in the cells of his blood. He must shed that blood if he is to succeed and turn America into an uninhabitable wasteland.

Sergeant Danny McCoy, wounded and fresh from Afghanistan is the only man who can stop him because he knows how his mind works. McCoy can stop him but in so doing he uncovers a terrible secret. Deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains these two warriors fight a duel to the death. If McCoy dies, millions of Americans will die with him.

www.dmccaughey.com

––––––––

David McCaughey

C:\Users\David\Pictures\Me\Author.jpg

David McCaughey was born on

the Williamson Diamond Mine,

Shinyanga, Tanzania, 1960. Both his

parents were Irish, mother from Wexford in the south,

father from Antrim in the north. Raised

and educated in Northern Ireland David

has lived and worked all over the world.

He began writing full time Christmas

1999 for the new millennium and now

lives in beautiful Vancouver, Canada.

Other works by David McCaughey include The Emissary and The Tao of Emotion. He is currently working on the second book in the Tao Of Emotion trilogy and the new Secret City series.

To find out more please visit the website and meet the author in person. You will find lots of interesting free material, videos, competitions, EBooks and audio books.

www.dmccaughey.com

Other works by David McCaughey

The Emissary

The Tao Of Emotion

Edens Legacy

Piccolo the Panther

The Secret City Series

www.dmccaughey.com

Chapter 1          Power Games

It seems so long ago, he shook his head slowly. There was sadness in his voice,

I was so bloody young! He glanced at me suddenly, catching himself. The barriers went up, just when I thought I was making some progress! He sat forward and drank from his pint like a man getting ready to leave. I was losing him,

We were all young once, but most of us don’t go around killing people! He looked at me without expression. Well, I was young too and this man had killed a lot of people. It was hard to feel sympathy and... I needed the story.

He laughed, the infamous Brian Gallagher laughed,

You think you’re so clever kid, a hardened professional. He didn’t say it unkindly but wistfully,

I could curl your fucking hair boy! He smiled,

But you’d like that wouldn’t you? He shook his head,

Aye, and then you’d hang me out to dry, or you think you would. He looked at me suddenly, as if he had just had an idea.

Fuck it! It’s pissing down out there anyway. He looked outside at the torrential rain, the trees thrashing in a rising gale,

Ach, away and get the drinks in and I’ll tell you a story.

I could see, strangely, that he meant it, he needed to tell someone. I jumped up to go. He called out,

I’ll tell you this now boy, so you know, he gave me that wolfish grin as I turned,

I’ll bet you a thousand pounds you don’t print a word of it!

Rain glistened on the patient, cobbled streets, the chill winter darkness settled, like an unwanted relative, on the reluctant city. Even now, well into the evening, a few poor souls still scuttled miserably, shoulders hunched, hurrying homeward. They were the last tired stragglers of the evening commute.

Maguire took a corner of the grimy lace curtain and wiped condensation from inside the filthy window. Through the wavy glass a line of derelict street lamps stood stooping sadly as if weary. From somewhere beneath his feet the muffled strains of a tortured rebel song drifted in with the pub smell of stale beer and cigarettes. It could have been Coronation Street, anywhere in Britain, but it wasn’t. This was Belfast.

The ridiculous lack of romance, or even dignity, always struck Maguire on these occasions. Here they were, the cream of the glorious Irish Republican movement, the great Army Council, huddled together in the fetid upstairs room of a spit and sawdust shebeen, somewhere in the middle of Republican Belfast.

He refocused his eyes to the reflection in the grimy glass, to the small group of men in the shabby little room. They were waiting for him. He could actually smell them. There was a faint, acrid, animal aroma. His nose wrinkled as he thought of a decent bottle of chilled Chablis and his own roaring fire. He sighed,

OK lads, let’s get on with it. He remembered with dismay that the main item today was the accounts.

Maguire returned to the table resuming his seat. It was necessary to rub shoulders with his earthier colleagues; he depended on them to keep order. He was also fully aware of the kind of bloody mayhem that they could get up to if he was in any way distant.

Maguire kept this group small and well supervised. He made the decisions; debate was not encouraged, period. A bit like Tony Blair’s new Labour party, he smiled to himself.

Here they were protected by a hundred watchers covering every access street and alley. They were at the centre of an impenetrable web. It wasn’t glamorous but it was safe. Every police station and military barracks was under surveillance. At the first hint of trouble these men in the room could quickly disappear. They could dematerialise into a maze of alleys, yards and attics. Others would simply go down to the bar and have a drink. It had been many years since they had tossed bombs or squinted down the sights of an Armalite rifle. These days they were more brazen.

All of them were well known and documented but not wanted, officially. They lived in a peculiar limbo land of immunity. So long as they didn’t get caught breaking the law, it protected them. These days they were more often seen on the campaign trail. They tested the patience of TV presenters on lunch time chat shows.  They were respectable, reasonable politicians. Maguire had a staff, a PA and a secretary. An official car was at his disposal. All the subtle inducements and trappings of power. It was a heady brew. He liked it, he liked it a lot.

This small group of men in front of him were the distilled remnants of a far greater band. Whittled and culled over the years, these were cautious, dangerous men. They were here by rite of passage. They had survived the natural selection process. They were the winners of the reality game show from hell. Maguire scanned the room scrutinizing each man discreetly.

Liam O’Hara, on his right, was responsible for security. He was a small, wizened red head, almost bald and very pale. He had the deathly white pallor of a man who didn’t see much daylight. Maguire had seen healthier corpses at a wake. O’Hara didn’t say much preferring action, violent action. If he decided you were an informer, death was swift and cruel.

Over the years he had fought his way through the ranks like thousands of other kids. Throwing stones and then petrol bombs, running errands and being useful. Eventually, on the most important day of his life, he had become a volunteer in the IRA.

His older brother had been smashed down by a rubber bullet in the eighties. Bedridden now, he spent his days sucking pap through a tube in the back bedroom of their mother’s house. O’Hara hated the British, or more specifically the English, with a truly pure form of the emotion. It was this qualification that led him to security and the hunt for those who would betray the Cause.

There were many. Twenty seven informers had been extirpated by O’Hara and his hellish minions. They used everything from concrete blocks and baseball bats to the pistol bullet in the back of the neck. Everyone was afraid of this white faced; bald little man but nobody doubted his loyalty. He was thirty nine, going on sixty. 

Next to him sat Terry Sloan for mainland operations. A loud mouth who boasted of hidden assets in England. He had master minded the economic bombing of London’s financial heartland and had been resting on his laurels ever since. He made up the numbers and did as he was told.

The only other Council member present apart from Maguire himself was Connor Keegan. Keegan had a pedigree going back as far as the last war. Ironically in 1944 he had fought with the British as an underage volunteer. He had been wounded carrying his officer through a minefield somewhere in Italy. As a kind of father figure he added a vague respectability to the proceedings.

Kennedy was in hospital with his prostate. Sullivan was in the states harvesting gullible Yanks. He was desperately trying to restore the huge dent in the flow of cash brought about by the attack on the Twin Towers. The romantic allure of the Republican struggle had been dimmed by the harsh reality of domestic terrorism.

Dermot Maguire, Derry to his friends, chairman and commander in chief, realised with a start that he hadn’t been listening. He was bored.  He resisted the temptation to doodle on his copy of the agenda and forced himself to listen to the speaker, Jack Cullen, the treasurer.

It’s very simple gentlemen. Income is down fifty two percent on the same quarter last year. People in the States are so paranoid were lucky it’s not far worse. He paused for effect,

We need something to put some fire in their bellies and get them banging the tables with their fists in Boston.  Cullen paused checking Maguire’s expression, subconsciously looking for approval. Maguire was inscrutable; he disliked the bean counter but had long ago accepted the need for financial control. At the same time he bitterly resented what this man represented, the slow but inexorable decline into organised crime.

With a conscious effort he sat forward, Cullen was valuable. He would also be a complete liability if he should ever fall into the wrong hands.

Thanks for the information Jack. Maguire held up a staying hand,

Could you update us on the domestic front? For a moment Cullen looked perplexed, he obviously had some kind of pet proposal. Maguire fervently hoped that he had nipped it in the bud. The little shit had delusions of grandeur. With the pained expression of the unappreciated genius Cullen continued.

Things are pretty much routine, income is steady, apart from the States of course. He paused, enjoying his moment,

There are one or two late payers as usual. One or two gone down the toilet, bankrupt. Maguire shifted irritably, pointedly, in his chair. Cullen moved swiftly on,

The Department of Social Security have a team in investigating benefit fraud. He raised his eyebrows importantly, trying to raise a reaction,

Nothing serious, going through the motions. They know what to do. Sixty percent of our payroll costs come from the British taxpayer; they know what’s at stake. He smiled conspiratorially, smug, he was one of them. They could rely on him. He continued,

I had a word with the Director and everything is under control. Still no reaction from the bored room,

He pulled his ear thoughtfully, desperately trying to impress these men.

There is one thing that could become a problem. He tailed off, almost teasing and was gratified to see Maguire raise his eyebrow hopefully.

It’s the new shopping centre in Antrim. The European money has come through. One or two heads looked up at the mention of money. Encouraged by the tiny tremor in the room Cullen continued,

As you know the project director, Karl Gless, refuses to involve us at any price. Maguire looked vague and Liam O’Hara prompted,

Ye mind the one where the new Marks and Spencers will be. The one yer wife keeps going on about. He grinned mischievously,

Maybe you’d better let this one go Derry, to keep her quiet. Chuckles all around, but Maguire could feel the challenge. O’Hara well knew that such matters were Maguire’s responsibility. He was wondering how such a direct challenge would be handled.

Cullen continued irritated at the interruption of his briefing,

This Gless is a tough customer and he’s popular for bringing jobs in. It’s a twenty million pound project, that should be netting us around ten percent. Cullen paused for effect as the mental arithmetic worked its magic.

Of course that doesn’t include what we make on building materials, labour and security subscriptions from the new leaseholders. Call it another half million, it’s a tidy sum. Impatiently O’Hara leaned forward, an arctic glitter in his eyes. He interrupted unceremoniously,

Kill the bastard! It’s always the same, things go quiet and people think they can do what they like. Just because there’s a cease fire he thinks we won’t touch him. He raised both hands in supplication,

If we don’t do him, the rest will start bitching, takings will go down and the next thing the fucking Protestants will be sniffing around looking for a cut. Bristling he scanned the table searching for support.

Maguire laughed inside, waiting for the move. O’Hara, casual now,

The boys are getting restless anyway. I’ll have a couple of good men take care of it. We’ll just go and blow the fucker’s head off! He sat back with an expansive gesture. Maguire sighed, loudly. He had seen the movie too, Don Corleone lives he thought to himself. The teacher and the unruly pupil, he and O’Hara had played this game many times.

Maguire stood, unconsciously using his physical size and presence to intimidate the group. At six feet three and two hundred and ten pounds his mere size often had an effect. That combined with his executioners stare and his enormous self confidence gave him the ability to quieten a room just by entering it. His obvious intelligence and unflappable nature made him formidable indeed. He was not a man to overlook any advantage, he paused dramatically,

Kill him, hmm, aye; I can see it all now. He sighed sarcastically,

The Europeans will pull out, the press will tear us to pieces for breaking the cease fire and our support dwindles because the jobs go somewhere else. He stroked his chin seeming to reflect on the possible merits of the plan.

Oh aye, I forgot the best bit. We lose the money and we all live happily ever after on income support. He thumped the table lightly,

A master plan Liam, let’s just hope the British never think of it!

O’Hara flushed visibly, his parchment like skin suffused with bile. Someday he would drop dead, apoplectic with rage. Maguire reflected dreamily on that prospect but O’Hara was quite capable of killing them all. It was dangerous to provoke an obvious psychopath. Perhaps he had overdone it,

Joking apart Liam, you’re right as ever. We do need a strong hand on this one. We need to take out somebody lower down the food chain. Less fuss, but the message will be clear.

O’Hara was obviously confused at the sudden change from insult to praise. Maguire was amused to see that he was also pleased with the compliment. He was still on the leash. Speed was important now,

I think I know the very man for the job, but thanks for the offer Liam.

The meeting ended shortly afterwards and they all drifted off to the bar. As was his habit, Keegan hung back. He seldom said much but Maguire valued his insight. He had an uncanny ability to guess what other men were thinking and how they would act. On a much more personal level, he realised suddenly, Keegan was the only one that he trusted. That alone was a rare luxury in their arcane world. Here they lived in an atmosphere comprised of oxygen, nitrogen, paranoia and treachery.

He wondered if Keegan trusted him. He probably did. The thought was painful to Maguire. Grimacing like a man with indigestion he put it away in a dark corner of his mind. The older man was brisk,

You can’t provoke that fucker Derry. We should finish him off, it would be a kindness. Keegan shook his head sadly,

Since Moira died he’s been like a mad dog! We can’t afford to be worrying about what he’s going to do next. He smiled,

He’d love to stride up Downing Street with a Thompson on his hip. Keegan chuckled ruefully at the image,

For fuck sake, forget I said that, you’re just as likely to suggest it to him you bastard! They laughed together as they went down the stairs. Maguire stopped on the landing taking Keegan by the elbow and drawing him to one side,

Connor, I need you to talk to Brian Gallagher. Sort this shopping centre thing between you. I don’t care about the details, you know what’s needed. Just make it quick and decisive before O’Hara can make something out of it. Keegan frowned thoughtfully,

What about the cease fire? Or is this the inevitable display of frustration at British delays in the talks? The understandable response of a few hotheads.

Again Maguire reflected on how lucky he was to have someone so efficient and so loyal. The job would be well done and he could concentrate on other things.

That sounds great Connor. Let’s make it the Real IRA again; it’s been a while since we heard from them. He paused,

On that other thing Connor, you may be right about O’Hara, he is a risk.  Keegan sighed, nodding,

I’ve seen it before Derry, too much suffering, too many traitors. He’s burned out, used up and half crazy with paranoia. Maguire reflected,

For now we’ll just keep an eye on him, I’ll give it some thought. He shook off the mood, cheerful now,

Come on you old bugger, don’t be last to the bar again.

As he and Keegan entered the packed bar the noise died away to an expectant hush. Maguire stood, casting a masterful eye over the suddenly subdued drinkers. He savoured the taste of power, for a moment it was palpable. Nobody could meet his gaze. Satisfied that there was no challenge he moved on,

Come on boys, this isn’t a wake! He shouted good naturedly at the barman,

Owen, two pints and two whiskies, I’m choking for a drink. The spell was broken as Maguire slapped backs and shook hands all the way to the bar, shouting over the nervous and studied bonhomie.

His eyes scanned the room looking for something specific. At a small table three young girls sat drinking lager and lime apparently deep in raucous conversation. They or girls just like them were always there. Groupies, drawn to the power and the danger. Maguire quietly examined them, one in particular. She was dark, in her early twenties. Very slim, likely with a temper on her too by the flash of those eyes and pouting lips.

Maguire smiled to himself. Turning to the landlord who was now hovering behind the bar. He spoke discreetly,

Owen, get those wee girls a round of drinks and have one yourself. As he got the drinks Owen ruefully considered the fact that he had never seen Maguire part with any cash in spite of his public generosity. However the bar was full and he was an intelligent man. The little pub was now legally owned by the IRA, bought and paid for. Owen was now a mere employee and he wasn’t about to fall out with management.

The IRA was getting into respectable business these days. They owned quite a few pubs, hotels, taxi firms and security companies. Not directly of course but Owen knew who his real boss was. He took the drinks over to the girls. They giggled in unison as Maguire raised his glass to them. Catching the dark girl’s eye he gave an imperceptible nod. She smiled and rose to go to the bathroom. Maguire was not alone in appreciating the close fitting jeans and raven hair. The other two girls wore brittle smiles and concentrated on their drinks. They would not be alone for long. Maguire turned to Owen again,

The usual room is it Owen? I think I’m going to turn in. He turned to Keegan,

Duty calls Connor; it’s an early night for me. Keegan was dead pan.

Aye and ye’ll need some rest. I hear tell that one could suck the knob off a towing hitch! Maguire winced in spite of himself. Laughing he drained his glass, 

I’ll be down at seven, good night boys. He slipped out quietly and went to his room alone. Appearances, after all, were important. There were too many wives in the bar for overt indiscretion.

Liam O’Hara was not a particularly clever man. He was however completely ruthless and single minded. When something troubled him it was his custom to brood on it. He was brooding now, with the aid of a bottle of Jameson’s whisky.

O’Hara had never been a supporter of Maguire believing him to be an intellectual and a talker. He saw himself as the man of action who ultimately, would take charge and sort things out. This was his destiny. Sooner or later he would purge the organisation. Someday Maguire and his breed would finally be discredited.

For years he had fought implacably for the Cause, as he saw it anyway. The reality was different, fear; he had discovered early, gave rise to status and power way beyond anything he had a right to deserve in the normal course of events. The violence was just natural to him, he didn’t enjoy it as such, it was just necessary. He was of course, a sociopath, but then who wasn’t? For all of his failings, as head of security for the Provisional IRA he was uniquely well qualified and very good at his work.

As usual he was brooding about being taken for granted. Worse, he suspected that Maguire in particular was disrespectful and tended to take the piss. Maguire looked down his nose at the brethren. The earlier Council meeting was a classic example. This of course was intolerable, but in spite of cautious routine surveillance so far he had nothing with which he could act against so powerful a foe. Nothing but his instincts, his nose told him that something was wrong.

As Head of the dreaded Special Investigations Unit he had almost complete autonomy. Even so this was a tricky one. As the Jameson’s went down he was gradually coming to the conclusion that direct action was required. This bird would need some serious flushing. He needed a good gorilla, and he had many to choose from. This had been coming for a long time. 

He picked up the phone by his armchair and dialled a local number. The fact that it was three in the morning never occurred to him.

Nolan, aye, it’s me. Get round here now; I want a word with ye. He listened with growing irritation to the confused mumbling on the other end of the phone,

Sleeping! For fuck sake you’re always bloody sleeping! O’Hara looked at his watch impatiently,

Get off your arse and get round here now! He slammed the phone down angrily. Volunteers weren’t what they used to be.

Maguire woke as usual, in a strange bed with an even stranger young woman. The night had been frantic. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed grimacing. A sharp stinging pain ran across his back. He went over to the dresser and turned his back to the mirror, looking over his shoulder,

Ye wee bitch! he muttered, I’m cut to fuckin ribbons! Deep, angry weals ran across his shoulders, he turned back to the bed accusingly. If the wife saw this there would be hell to pay. The girl lay on her right side curled up still asleep. He pulled back the covers, the room was warm and she did not stir. Stepping forward he saw the hard elastic round buttocks, her slim waist. A wild profusion of dark hair coursed down her creamy back. She was smiling. He slipped his hand under her right buttock and eased her onto her knees. His erection was painful as he moved onto the end of the bed behind her. He looked down at himself shaking his head in open admiration,

You’re an animal Maguire! She was still moist and he guided himself into the sticky heat of her. He watched his full length disappear into her soft yielding folds.  She moaned softly, wriggling to displace him as he thrust into her warmth. She tensed on him and he threw his head back groaning aloud. He thrust again, quick and hard. He put both hands between her shoulders using his weight to pin her down. She was slick with sweat and passion. She cried out, he did not intend to be gentle.

An hour later, after dismissing his security detail on the outskirts of town and changing cars, Maguire pulled onto a forestry commission track. His security officer was not happy and Maguire had to shout a little to get his privacy. Turning off the engine, he dropped the window. He sighed, listening to the wind creeping through the dark sterile firs. He was hardly ever alone and he was a man who needed occasional solitude. For a moment, a brief moment, he could relax. He leaned back onto the headrest enjoying the rare sensation of solitude.

The light was still poor and he stiffened as the headlights of another vehicle passed the track on the main road. A dark Ford saloon. As it passed the headlights of a vehicle going in the other direction briefly illuminated the driver. Even at this distance Maguire recognised the distinctive car with one wing a different colour from the rest. It was Nolan, one of O’Hara’s homicidal security officers. The Ford disappeared over the hill and Maguire realised that