On Adelaide Road

By F G O'Neill

A young lawyer leads an idyllic existence in rural Ireland. But events in the wider world begin to impinge on his life. He starts to write blog posts which he intends to threaten the power of what he sees as an omnipotent monster. But how will this ogre react…?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035802449

F G O'Neill

The writer was born in Dublin (18 April 1951), grew up in Co. Leitrim, Ireland and attended primary and secondary school there. He read Law in UCD and the Law Society before qualifying as a solicitor. F G O’Neill practiced as a lawyer for over 20 years in counties Cavan, Leitrim and Longford. At present he is living with his Cuban wife and daughter in Las Tunas, Cuba. This is his first foray into the world of literature. He has travelled all over Europe, Russia, Georgia etc and has also visited Mexico and Jamaica. F G O’Neill is fluent in Spanish and has a basic knowledge of Russian. He is deeply interested in international affairs and geopolitical developments. His hobbies include fishing, good food and the enjoyment of quality wine of which he is a connoisseur.

Book preview

About the Author

The writer was born in Dublin (18 April 1951), grew up in Co. Leitrim, Ireland and attended primary and secondary school there. He read Law in UCD and the Law Society before qualifying as a solicitor. F G O’Neill practiced as a lawyer for over 20 years in counties Cavan, Leitrim and Longford. At present he is living with his Cuban wife and daughter in Las Tunas, Cuba. This is his first foray into the world of literature.

He has travelled all over Europe, Russia, Georgia etc and has also visited Mexico and Jamaica. F G O’Neill is fluent in Spanish and has a basic knowledge of Russian. He is deeply interested in international affairs and geopolitical developments. His hobbies include fishing, good food and the enjoyment of quality wine of which he is a connoisseur.

Copyright Information ©

F G O’Neill 2024

The right of F G O’Neill to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No, part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035802432 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035802449 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Review

On Adelaide Road by F. G. O’Neill: The book is a rather eclectic work a novel in the form of a fictional life story, set in real time. A love story, a historical novel, a political thriller a tale of espionage, a horror story—yes, there is a real live monster lurking in the wings! An end of empire novel, funny, devastatingly witty, sexy, tragic, predictive, if you want to know who the bad guys really are, you must read this book. It starts in Ireland moves to Russia then to Cuba with a brief stay in Mexico and finishes up in Ireland. The book predicts the decline and fall of Western dominance and foretells a new era of Oriental Ascendancy. Multigeneric, eclectic, iconoclastic, yes, but an intriguing, fascinating work. In this book the autobiographical and geopolitical (the Iranian Revolution the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Gulf War, the Iraq War along with some historical background) themes blend in neatly with the fictional storyline. You will see that this work is much more than just pure fiction!

B T

Chapter 1

Early Days

It was mid-December as the two brothers strolled up Aston Quay towards O’Connell Bridge. Frank was the older of the two, twenty-five years of age while his brother George had just turned twenty-three. The senior brother was of medium height, slim build with longish black hair. George, a final year medical student was taller, about six feet, of an athletic build, better looking than his sibling, with a rash of curly brown hair and penetrating blue eyes. Both men were attired in navy blue pin striped three-piece suits and light waterproof mid length overcoats. The tide was low. Frank shuddered as the overpowering stench of the filthy putrid Liffey assaulted his nostrils and his entire being.

But he was optimistic and happy as he marvelled at the impressive and wonderful vista of Christchurch Cathedral trying at the same time to block out the ugly ‘beehives,’ an indictment of bureaucratic stupidity and architectural bad taste. 1 There was a chilly breeze but the sky, unusually for December in Ireland or Ireland at any time, was azure blue and almost cloudless. He gazed up at the occasional sea bird that flitted over the almost still water of the Liffey as it flowed its meandering way towards the Irish Sea.

He felt that Ireland was his homeland and the world was his oyster. He had just qualified as a solicitor, he beamed with pride as he recalled mounting the podium in Blackhall Place to receive his parchment, his licence to practice law, after six years of not always consistent study. The Vietnam War had been won a couple of years earlier. Angola and Mozambique had been liberated from colonial rule. Socialism and progress seemed to be in the ascendant. Tired old capitalism and the tacky USA seemed to be headed inevitably towards the dustbin of history. He was looking forward to playing his small part in the brave new world that beckoned. He worked for a while on the Quays in a legal office.

At the weekends he consumed copious amounts of beer in the various hostelries of Ranelagh and Rathmines. As he was still very shy and backward in the ways of love, an unfortunately retained rural trait, he had virtually no success with women. He went to many classical concerts and recitals. He recalled with great joy the twinkling eyes of James Galway as he made magical music on his flute. [2] Also he mused at the profound tones and melancholic rapture produced by the cello of Rostropovich which transformed the already spiritually uplifting ambience of Christchurch Cathedral. 3 Another hallowed place, St Patrick’s Cathedral, the temple of Jonathan Swift, was one of his favourite haunts in Dublin. 4 Almost every Sunday for two years he attended evensong there. He loved to drift into reverie as the wonderful choral melodies wafted up into the ancient, vaulted ceilings. But he was usually brought back to reality by the stern didacticism of the visiting preachers.

He had totally abandoned Roman Catholicism in his teens and had proudly declared to his friends that he was now an atheist. However later as he matured, he felt that this position was too extreme. It was a type of fundamentalism opposite to that of faith. He gradually settled into agnosticism, which he found more intellectually satisfying.

The two brothers caught a number 11 bus to Ranelagh. Of course, they headed for the top deck, you could still smoke up there in those days. Their destination was McCauley’s Bar, Frank’s favourite hostelry. Seated on the high stools at the solid oak counter they chatted about their past and their hopes for the future. God you’ve come a long way since your early days in Dublin. A solicitor at last, a ‘legal eagle!’ George said as he congratulated his older brother and toasted his health and happiness. Sure, you’ll be a doctor yourself next year! Frank replied.

As a small boy of 7 years, due to a serious eye disease, Frank had spent almost a year in the Royal Victoria Eye and Ear hospital on Adelaide Road. Because of a lack of beds in the children’s unit he spent most of his time in an adult male ward. 5 There he met and came to hugely respect John, a fiercely independent old rebel who was to have a profound and lasting effect on him, an experience which was to dominate and influence his life thereafter. His incarceration in the hospital had the unusual, apparently contradictory, effect of liberating him from the intellectual and spiritual oblivion induced by Irish Roman Catholic brainwashing. John’s disrespect for all authority particularly the authority of the clergy, his trivialisation of faith and total rejection of the afterlife, Sure it’s all only a fairy-tale! Turned the backward rural boy into a free thinker and even at that tender age an incredibly independent spirit.

He was born in a small rural town in County Cavan. His childhood there passed peacefully and uneventfully. He remembered the late 50s, the black Ford cars, the Morris Minors, the misty grey landscape, the total lack of colour in the clothing of the people, the children running barefoot in the summertime. It was a time of great poverty, backwardness and narrow-minded insular ignorance. He recalled with contempt the black-clad priests strutting about displaying their arrogant unchallenged authority and an infallible certainty about the righteousness of their cause that surpassed even that of the former imperial masters, the British.

At least the British were foreigners, they could be thrown out but it was much more difficult to remove a cancer that was deeply embedded in the body politic. The church he thought was an Alien veneer that for centuries has concealed and smothered the inner beauty of our Celtic soul. Whenever he viewed black and white film footage of the period, he would think that that was really what life was like then, utterly dull and colourless. As a boy he looked forward with eager excitement to the only glimmer of light that for him at least illuminated for an instant the gloomy landscape.

That was the monthly fair day. 6 The streets of the small town would be thronged with animals and people. He watched as the farmers haggled over the price of a heifer. When the deal was done the seller would spit on his hand and the buyer, in turn, would eagerly grasp the sticky paw. What a revolting habit! he thought. But the big attraction of the fair was the pedlars who came from far and wide from places as exotic as Limerick or Belfast or even Dublin. They displayed their wondrous wares in small stalls at the bottom of the town. There were cap guns, catapults, cowboy hats, toy rifles and swords, a veritable multitude of irresistible objects.

As he looked around the bar Frank noticed an elderly priest sipping a glass of Guinness. His black suit was shabby, he looked rather unkempt and worse for wear, his thin wizened lips slobbering over the rim of the glass. This image for some reason evoked for Frank an unhappy episode in his childhood.

His enduring memory of secondary school was that he loathed practically every minute of it. Also, he could not forget the interview he had in the priest’s room when he was about 14 years of age.

The priest in question was Fr O’Reilly, the headmaster of the school. He was like most of his colleagues, of small farmer, peasant stock, a scholarship boy. He sailed through St Patrick’s College, a boarding school in Cavan and after passing his Leaving Certificate with honours, was admitted to Maynooth seminary, to the eternal delight of his mother. 7 He was in his early forties, of medium height and a stocky build. His eyes were of a pale, ice-cold, blue-grey hue. His nose, which was long and sharply pointed, hung down over his thin, almost bloodless lips. Below his thinning, light brown hair, perched on his delicate, almost feminine ears were a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles which lent a faint professorial aura to his otherwise featureless bearing. He would later move on to become a Prince of the Church and a very effective, albeit infamous apologist and protector of his ilk.

At the appointed time, the skinny, gangly boy entered through the open doorway of the priest’s room. He sat down on one of the two leather armchairs which were placed side by side facing the open fireplace. As he perused the austere, wood-panelled study, he felt not a little self-important. After all it was a privilege to be invited into the priest’s room, the ‘inner sanctum.’ He was about to slip into a daydream when suddenly his host arrived. The priest, speaking in soft, apparently soothing and sympathetic tones reminded him that he did not appear to show much interest in girls. Touching the boy’s knee and then his lower thigh the cleric asks him, Would you like to become a priest?

The boy flinches, stands up and in an instant answered, No!

And leaves the room and the perverted bastard to his own devices.

After passing a few very enjoyable hours in each other’s company and consuming a considerable number of pints of delicious frothy Guinness the two young men parted. See you at Christmas, Frank said as his brother left the pub and headed off towards Stephen’s Green. He watched as George disappeared into the distance as the Christmas lights twinkled in the cold night air.

Chapter 2

Early Awakenings

In 1979, Frank returned to his hometown to work in the family legal firm. In a material sense thing had improved greatly as compared to the fifties and early sixties. Practically every family had a car and the countryside was dotted with brand new bungalows. Agriculture, thanks to the EEC, was beginning to prosper and small industrial enterprises were being established with the assistance of the Industrial Development Authority again largely funded by the EEC. 1 However, a large part of this prosperity was driven by extensive bank lending and unfortunately, excessive borrowing by the public. This latter aspect was to have disastrous consequences in the early eighties. Fired by his developed social conscience and his passionate belief that the law was a true vehicle for the righting of wrongs and the banishment of injustice he set about his work with gusto. He had a romantic belief in the Common Law with its ancient history from the Magna Carta, the demise of feudalism, the development of Equity, the erosion of the powers of the Crown, to the primacy of Parliament, an independent and fearless judiciary and ultimately the establishment of constitutional democracy. 2

But more than that he had an overwhelming belief in the inexorable march of history towards the ultimate fulfilment of the dialectic via the creation of a truly just and democratic socialist state. 3 But unfortunately for him County Cavan, in the centre of rural Ireland, on a wee island sat out in the Atlantic at the most westerly extremity of Europe, separated from the Continent not only by the sea but by culture and development, was hardly fertile ground for a budding revolutionary and builder of the new world and attempting to recollect the travails of Lenin at Lake Ladoga were absolutely no help whatsoever. 4 The fact is that he quickly became bogged down in the most tedious and boring forms of legal work, conveyancing (property transfers,), probate, (wills and estates), petty disputes over rights of way, acrimonious family disputes, et cetera.

Hardly one single person in the area had what one could call a world view. Most believed that Cavan town was the capital of the world and Dublin was the centre of the universe. Many had knowledge of a place called America due largely to remittances received from there in the past or relatives living there at present. Female company was scarce or practically non-existent or so he thought but maybe here he was deceiving himself as his own shyness was probably a very large part of this particular problem. He built a new house, as young men do, and moved out of his parents’ home.

This new abode, his haven, was a comfortable three bedroom bungalow surrounded by fir trees, away from the small town, set in barren countryside but having a rugged beauty of its own. An oasis, a retreat for contemplation and reflection, he thought. He kept himself informed of the wider world by taking the Irish Times the only intelligent Irish newspaper, but mainly by listening to the BBC World Service and BBC TV news. Thank God for the BBC! 5

Time was passing and the world was changing. Primeval forces were beginning to emerge out of the slime of reactionary greed and selfish inhumanity. In Northern Ireland the forces of Roman Catholic obscurantism and physical force, fascist nationalism combined to hijack and eventually replace the left-wing civil rights movement. Terrorism and mindless cruel slaughter of the innocents became the order of the day. The British responded with their usual insensitive stupidity. When a female acquaintance of the young lawyer was murdered in the North by so-called Republicans, he could not conceal his grief and anger. He condemned the barbaric slaughter and its perpetrators on national television. He in turn was condemned, shunned and bad-mouthed by many of his neighbours as a traitor, not a real Irishman, a West Brit and worse. 6 His practice suffered severely as a result of his humane, civilised reaction to man’s inhumanity to man and his career as a rural lawyer never really recovered.

When Thatcher and Reagan emerged onto the scene, at first, he could not take them seriously. They were two old fifties-style dinosaurs of the cold war spouting the usual bilge about enterprise, democracy, freedom and all that. She with the ridiculous hair and the dowdy dresses and that utterly irritating put on petit-bourgeois, imitation RP accent and he with the equally ridiculous hair and demented mentality but not the intelligence of a 6 year old, in full reverse, heading further back into childhood. 7 But the real problem was not the Disgusting Duo. The real problem, which would unfold later with all the pathos of a tragic Verdi opera, lay in the vast, stagnant political landscape of an immense and faraway land. 8

Then one day when he was finishing up in his office after all the staff had gone for the weekend his door flew open and there stood a voluptuous vision of shameless yet innocent, gorgeously beautiful sensuality. He wiped his incredulous eyes as this 16 year old beauty, dripping wet and wearing only a skimpy bathing suit and a towel flung over her shoulders, sauntered towards him and kissed him on the cheek. What are you doing here Sinead? He babbled.

I just came in to say hello, she replied. She was the daughter of a respected client, she was bright, curvaceous and articulate with all the confidence and enthusiasm of youth.

Later with the avid support of her mother and the grudging, reluctant assent of her father he took her to one of his favourite haunts. This was a lovely little restaurant renowned for its cuisine which nestled in the lush Lakeland countryside of County Fermanagh. 9 They chattered animatedly as they dined on Prawn Marie Rose followed by a mouth-watering quail in plum sauce to the accompaniment of a delicious Chablis. Her radiant smile lit up his hitherto dull existence and transformed the already perfect ambience into something almost ethereal. She had left behind forever the world of childhood and become a young woman. He at 33 years of age was searching for a new experience and a new beginning. My God, he thought, Christ died when he was 33!

That November he brought her to Dublin to see a performance of Spartacus by the Bolshoi Ballet Company. This for both of them was a truly marvellous and uplifting experience. On the return journey he had a brainwave. Why not fly over to Russia for the New Year celebrations? They could again enjoy the ballet but in the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow and the Kirov Theatre in Leningrad. They could marvel at the exotic vista of St Basil’s Cathedral on Red Square and relish the architectural delights of Leningrad under a star-studded sky. She replied, Why not! His life at last was changing, hers just beginning.

In 1985, Mikhail Gorbachev with the support of Andrei Gromyko assumed power in the USSR. 10 11 For a while it appeared that the great enigma, Russia was emerging from the stagnant bureaucracy of the Brezhnev years and the indecisive and faltering leadership of Andropov and Chernenko into a new and inspiring dawn of creative and dynamic change. Gorbachev promised the people that his programme of reform through Glasnost and Perestroika would deliver in 5 years the most democratic society in the world. 12 Oblomov really did appear to be rousing himself from his age-old slumber as the rest of the civilised world watched on in eager anticipation. 13 Unfortunately for Russia Gorbachev, the last ’Tsar of all the Russia was no Ivan the terrible, Catherine the Great or Peter the Great.

At the start of his rule Gromyko described Gorbachev at the man with the charming smile but the razor-sharp teeth of a shark. However, it would transpire later that Gromyko had made a monumental error of judgement. Gorbachev would be revealed as nothing more than a toothless, gutless dudgeon or as described in the black Russian humour of the day as, The best president the USA ever had! 14

Chapter 3

To Russia with Love?

Frank booked a hotel room for two in Galway for the August bank holiday weekend. He looked forward with some trepidation to this unique and hopefully celestial experience. When he and Sinead arrived in Eyre Square in the centre of that lovely little city the weather was perfect, a soft balmy breeze from the mighty but now tranquil Atlantic caressed their smiling faces as they strolled along the banks of the Corrib. Immaculate white swans glided over the shimmering waters as they gazed in delight at the river and pondered at the unseen majesty of the famous but illusive Corrib salmon.

Galway is a county rich in music, legend and tradition. Although situated in the very mid-west of Ireland where the Corrib kisses the Atlantic in Galway Bay, it is a truly cosmopolitan and youthfully vibrant place. That night they ambled through the narrow streets as the mystical melodies of traditional Irish music wafted through the clear air. They settled into a snug little bar and sipped pungent Guinness into the wee small hours. 1 Later in the hotel they had one last nightcap before climbing the stairs and entering an unknown and forbidden other world.

He showered first and then climbed in to one of the small single beds wearing only his underpants and vest. He trembled nervously as he waited for her to emerge from the shower. After what seemed like an interminable interval the shower door opened and she appeared before him wrapped in a large white towel. She moved towards him and as she did so the towel dropped from her shoulders and gently fell onto the carpet revealing her delectable firm young breasts. He was transfixed by this vision of female beauty, erotic yet somehow girlishly innocent. She turned her back and in a sensuous slow movement removed the skimpy white silk panties. Then in a flash she spun around.

He was overwhelmed by the sight of eyes, breasts, bellybutton, and thighs and wow! That lush, full pussy. Before he could blink, she had pulled back the sheet and slid in beside him. He was terrified, like many a virgin before him. He expected, prayed that his brain would send an automatic signal to his penis, but nothing. He felt her thigh caress his pathetically limp manhood. After some furtive and futile touching the attempt was abandoned, she pretending to fall asleep concealing her disappointed sense of rejection and fury; he, lying awake contemplating his utter failure and disgust at his total inadequacy. Later when she really was fast asleep, he squirmed out of the bed and timidly crept into the virgin couch nearby. Next morning after a hurried breakfast he drove her home in an atmosphere of icy silence. What a disastrous climax to what was, up to then, a lovely experience. What a useless bollocks I am! he thought.

After a few short and rather insincere phone calls, contact between them practically dried up. But there was still Russia. The tickets have been booked and paid for. They both agreed that the trip would go ahead. It would certainly be a different experience. He now had no girlfriend. She had since become engaged to a Turkish accountant whom she had met in a posh nightclub in Dublin. Despite the unusual circumstances he was really looking forward to this exotic journey. They flew out a couple of days after Christmas. It was one of those all-in package tour arrangements. They spoke enthusiastically on the flight about their expectations of Moscow and Leningrad and Russia in general. Their hotel for the first night the Inturist was situated right beside Red Square. 2

After a short nondescript meal, they donned their winter gear and headed out together towards the Kremlin. As soon as they stepped out of the air-conditioned lobby of the hotel into the street they were struck by the huge drop in temperature. It was at 9 pm, at least -25 degrees centigrade. The streetlights revealed an almost fairy-tale picture-postcard vista of glistening frosty white snow-capped buildings, with the red stars atop the towers of the historic Kremlin glowing in the near distance as if beckoning them further into this vast winter wonderland. As they walked over the cobble-stones along the walls of the fortress they encountered a Russian spiv who offered to purchase his Burberry’s scarf. He politely refused and they made their way towards St Basil’s Cathedral. 3