Gina was smart enough to know you can’t trust these people, so she kept documentary evidence as a form of insurance. The nosy newspaper man kept on digging; two days ago he called at the Haven and offered Gina a very large sum of money for her story. She gave him no information and doesn’t intend to; she asked him to come back next week. It was time for them to move on.
They can now afford to give up the game and start new lives, somewhere outside Europe. Before she left, Gina gave me enough information to force the DG to call off his troops. Would you believe it? These bastards were prepared to screw the poor farmers of Connemara whilst lining their own pockets!’
Toby called for two more pints.
‘I’ll miss Ali, I love that little beauty. She promised to keep in touch with me. They left me the car and Woofy; that will please Setanta.’
They sipped their pints in silence for a few moments. Then Toby asked.
‘Were they really nuns?’
Ulick put down his glass. ‘What do you think?’
They were joined by a happy looking Martin Sandys, who called out to Paulo.
‘Large brandies over here, Paulo.’
He turned to Ulick.
‘I don’t know what you did, but it worked; I got the Dublin job.’
‘I’m delighted, Martin.’
Ella entered the bar and made her way to Ulick. She put an arm around him. ‘Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?’
He smiled. ‘I am that, love,’ raised his voice, ‘Garson.’
*
In an unexpected development, it was announced the following day that DG Derek Walden-Smyth would not be seeking reappointment for a further term, but he would get his knighthood. Georgio Caplio would be the next DG; Jose De Laka would be the new Deputy DG. Some things never change.
*
Two days later, Ulick received a letter from the Contessa; it contained instructions to dispose of the Haven and where to send the proceeds. It finished with the following paragraph:
“I dreamed for a while,
I knew it was a dream,
I knew it would end,
Farewell, my friend.”
Ella was much happier; life returned to normal. She didn’t tell Ulick that, on that fateful Saturday, she also received a phone call from Gina.
THE END.
THE MARRIAGE
OF ULICK
The lone early morning watcher waited patiently, as he did most mornings, a top a little clover covered hillock and looked out towards the lakes and mountains of Connemara. It came as he knew it would; the bright sun appeared in the clear blue eastern sky and, as it revealed itself, illuminated the rugged landscape. A unique event, taken for granted now, but welcomed with joy by the people who lived here thousands of years ago. Robins, linnets and swallows began to sing and skip through the morning air, while sleepy rabbits shook themselves and moved around slowly. A new day.
Still wrapped in the ecstasy of the moment, the watcher became aware of a distant sound coming out of the west. He looked up; high in the sky, a huge machine—at least, that’s what he thought it was—was coming towards him. Reducing height, becoming noisier, it charged through the morning air. The noise was deafening; it began to lose height rapidly; it was going to crash.
Transfixed, he watched while the machine, whatever it was, plunged towards earth. It was long, not really like a plane. He put his hands over his ears; threw himself to the ground. It plunged into the deep waters of the lake about half a mile away. This wasn’t a normal morning.
*
In pensive mood, Ulick Joyc—accompanied by his famous wolfhound Setanta—walked down the Main Street in Conna to his office. He nodded and smiled to those he met along the way but his thoughts were elsewhere. The leading solicitor in Conna and one time President of the state of Hi-Brazil, he was still addressed as “Mr President” and much revered by his people.
Dressed in an open necked blue shirt over grey cords, he would not be going to court today. In his early forties, in his prime he would say, with rugged features and sharp blue eyes, his fine head of black hair showing tinges of grey. Setanta ambled along quietly beside his master, aware that Ulick was having problems: woman problems.
Arriving at his office, a small two storied non descript once private house, he greeted his staff and, with Setanta at his heels, entered his private office where the opened post was awaiting him. Setanta stretched himself out in his usual spot by the window. Ulick glanced through the post, divided it, handed one batch to his secretary to pass on to his commercial partner, Annie Clarke and the second one to Marty Walsh, his general manager. His own role in the firm, as he saw it, was advisory; he only handled cases that interested him. And right now there was one case that was getting all his attention.
Annie Clarke, two years with the firm, was a beautiful petite blonde in her early thirties. A first class solicitor, with green eyes, clear skin and a perfect figure, she usually wore a dark business suit, white silk blouse and very high heels. Being the youngest daughter of two university lecturers, she was not lacking in ambition or confidence. On completion of her apprenticeship, in Cavanagh’s office in Galway, she practiced there for six years. When she moved out to Conna, she rented a luxury apartment in a modern block overlooking the lake.
Setanta jumped up when she entered the room, carrying a file. The aroma of that perfume was overpowering! She fancied Ulick and she wasn’t the only one. Setanta knew a lot of things he wasn’t meant to know, but he wasn’t talking. She stood in front of Ulick’s desk showing off her perfect figure.
Ulick smiled. ‘Morning, Annie.’
She grinned cheerfully. ‘Morning, Mr President. What do you think about the Harny case?’
He could do without the Mr President, but he let it pass.
‘I think we should settle but, if she wants to go ahead, I don’t suppose we have much option.’
She smiled. ‘That’s what I was thinking. If she insists, it will be the High Court.’ She paused and smiled. ‘Would you lead the defence; Miss Justice Walsh doesn’t like lady advocates.’
‘Certainly, keep me posted.’
She smiled and departed.
Setanta shook his head knowingly; she’s ignoring me as usual. That bitch means business. Here we go again. The last time Ulick appeared with Annie in the High Court in Galway, they stayed overnight in the Ardilaun hotel. Ulick met many of his old friends, including some appointed by him during his term as President. The wine flowed freely; he dined with Annie and spent the night with her. Should she replace Ella as Ulick’s mistress, that would adversely affect his comfortable life style. That wouldn’t do.
Ulick’s relationship with Ella was at a crucial stage; there was a lot of tension between them. Ella had purchased a big restaurant in Galway city, which was taking up all her time; her Conna shop was currently up for sale. Ulick didn’t mind, in fact he helped out in his spare time. But she wanted him to move into the city and buy a house in Salthill. That wasn’t on. Setanta was pleased that his master wouldn’t move out of Conna. Imagine trying to make his way through the crowded, noisy streets!
Added to all this, Ulick’s great love of the past, his one time partner, Nodie Morris, was returning to Galway, having been appointed a judge of the Supreme Court. She and Ulick parted when she became a Circuit Court judge—later elevated to High Court—in the south eastern region. Now, she was coming back with her young son, although there didn’t appear to be a man in her life at the present time. That was interesting.
She would be living—a little way out the Maam Cross road—in the modern bungalow she inherited from her mother. It was only a few hundred yards from Ulick’s home. Setanta liked Nodie; he liked Ella too. He didn’t like Annie.
Now why don’t humans behave like the dog family; why doesn’t Ulick live with as many women as he wishes? Setanta thought about it for a while; sounds all right, but it wouldn’t work. Every woman wants to be queen of the castle! And all the chat would do his head in!
*
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In a secret underground complex, far below the Nevada desert, the new controller, Jake Huston, an elderly balding rotund boffin type little man, was in despair. To be thrown into this unwished for position was disconcerting; he had always been number two and expected to stay that way.
His fearful mind was still trying to cope with the enormity of the crisis. He had been through the late Professor John Yang’s papers and computer records: nothing. Every detail, every note, every plan, every sketch of the new X11, was gone. What the hell was going on?
He worked with John Yang on this project for nearly ten years; in all that time he never really got to know his boss, who, at times, seemed to live in a world of his own. The X11 was John’s brainchild; no one else could understand the complexity of this awesome weapon. John wouldn’t sell out to the enemy, would he?
A mild mannered man in his sixties, devoted to his three grandchildren, he lived quietly by himself in an apartment within the complex, or at his home in Orange County, after the death of his beloved wife, Joan. A forensic search of his house and apartment had so far revealed nothing.
His body was found at his home. The 911 call was made from there. By whom? There was no one there to meet the police. Nothing added up. The area was sealed off; two of John’s colleagues continued to search in the hope of turning up some documentation, some information that would enable them to rebuild the missile. His bank accounts and safe deposit box were checked: nothing out of the ordinary.
John’s body was taken secretly to a morgue in LA, where an autopsy was carried out; although it appeared he shot himself. Whatever the outcome, this could not be permitted to enter the public domain.
In a matter of hours the complex was crawling with secret service agents; everyone was under suspicion; houses and apartments searched; staff members were even body searched. It was a nightmare.
Professor Yang, unknown to anyone, must have set up the launch of the only prototype of the X11, before he left the complex. But why? Could it be that he was murdered and his papers stolen? Impossible? Only authorised operatives had access to the complex. If security was compromised it had to be by a staff member. That was a chilling thought.
As of now, all that remained of the X11 was in that damned missile, but where the hell was it? In some way, John Yang had combined matter and anti-matter to produce enormous energy; less costly than nuclear, it would replace the fast diminishing supply of fossil fuels with clean energy. He had seen the formula once, but it made no sense to him. John Yang was way ahead of his time.
He picked up the phone and rang through to his assistant in launch control.
‘Ed,’ he asked wearily. ‘Where is it?’
‘It was near the Irish coast when it disappeared off radar.’
‘Could it have been shot down?’
‘No, it’s programmed to deflect defence missiles.’
‘Why do you think it was launched?’
‘No idea. Professor Wang was the only one with all the coordinates for a launch.’
‘Could he have set up the launch all by himself?’
‘He was the only one who could.’
That didn’t necessarily mean he acted alone.
‘Can you track it?’
‘I have an estimated site but it could be out by up to 25 miles.’
‘We have to get that damned missile back; it’s all we’ve got.’
‘We’d better get to it before the opposition.’
*
Taoiseach, Frankie Carney, sat at his big old mahogany desk, high above Eyre Square in Galway city. He let the American ambassador, Rupert Smith—sitting opposite—finish. The tall, handsome, immaculately dressed, retired business man from Kentucky was posted to Hi-Brazil for one reason; he was a personal friend of the President. This was one of the easier postings. He spent most of his time entertaining and playing golf.
Today was different. He tried to finish on a persuasive note.
‘I would take it as a great favour, Taoiseach, if you could see your way to comply with the President’s request.’
Frankie leaned forward, trying to conceal his amazement.
‘You want to send in a thousand marines to look for a stray missile that may have crashed somewhere in west Galway?’
‘That’s about it, sir. I can’t over emphasise how vital this weapon is to our security.’
Does our security include Hi-Brazil, Frankie wondered?
He looked directly at the ambassador.
‘But surely you can make other missiles?’
‘Of course, we can,’ he lied calmly, lowering his voice, ‘Our concern is that this missile doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.’
‘It must have been destroyed when it crashed.’
‘If we can establish that, Taoiseach, we’ll be satisfied.’
Frankie appeared to make up his mind.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ambassador, I can’t have your soldiers tramping all over Connemara.’ He paused. ‘If you want to send a few civilians that would be acceptable.’
The ambassador rose. ‘Taoiseach, perhaps I haven’t made myself clear; my people will do anything that’s necessary—and I mean anything—to recover that missile or whatever is left of it.’
Frankie didn’t like the veiled threat.
‘Ambassador, we’ll search for your missile and if we find it, will hand it over to you. That’s the best I can do.’
‘Thank you, Taoiseach; I’ll convey your decision to my government.’
He didn’t look best pleased as he departed.
*
Frankie Carney, the senior Mayo TG lived in Louisburg with his partner, Lisa Hyland, who practiced as a solicitor there. They had a holiday home on Clare Island where they spent much of their spare time. With Ulick Joyc, he was one of the founder members of the new state. From farming stock, of which he was proud, he only took prisoners when it suited; a man of the people, now in his seventies, he was mellowing a little.
He met Ulick and Ozzy later that evening in Paulo’s pub in Conna. A rotund, affable little man, in his fifties, Paulo Kelly, left Maam valley as a young man to seek his fortune abroad. Having spent years on the cruise liners, he bought a saloon in Philadelphia, before returning to Conna to fulfil his life’s ambition—to own the finest pub in the town. It was situated across the road from Ulick’s office. He lived overhead with his partner, Nan Casey, who, many thought, might be his wife, but didn’t dare ask.
Paulo served up three pints and left them. Frankie told Ulick and Ozzy about the visit from the American ambassador.
Ulick shrugged. ’There’s always some hoors who want to rule the world.’
Frankie nodded. ‘Should we try to find it?’
‘I think we should; but whether we should hand it over is another matter.’
He turned to Ozzy. ‘What do you think?’
The old Connemara man, dressed in black with a collarless shirt that was once white, put down his glass and ran his fingers through his shock of white hair.
‘I don’t know.’
Ulick was disappointed; nothing happened in Connemara that Ozzy and his people didn’t know about.
*
When they adjourned, Ozzy headed out the road towards the lake. It was a fine summer’s evening with the crows gathering in great numbers in the nearby trees. This was the time of day when they cawed at one another and did they know how! It must be their way of exchanging the gossip of the day. He passed Ned’s line and pressed on. When he approached the high grassy ditch surrounding the Rath, he blinked twice; and there stood, not Ozzy, but Dandaboy, a little man, thirty inches tall, with tightly cropped blonde hair, big humorous brown eyes dominating his innocent expression. Dressed in a red tee shirt over green trousers, he wore a multicoloured pixie.
He skipped through the outer ditch of the Rath as if it didn’t exist; he was home, back to the wonderful land of his people, with its massive waterfall, where the sun always seemed to shine and a resonating melody emanated from a sing
le note. His friends and neighbours, busy with their tasks, smiled at him as he passed and made his way to the palace. Normally he reported to his king only once a week.
Kingpa, the high king of the little people, was old in years but young in mind. Of all the Raths in Ireland and there were many, Rath Pallas was the oldest and Kingpa, the great High King of the Raths of Eireann, was the Supreme Judge in all matters. Were it not for the little crown, sitting askew on his grey head, no one would believe that this calm and retiring little man with his long white beard, could be the High King
He greeted Dandaboy with a smile and listened in silence to his report. Afterwards, he sat quietly for a few moments. Dandaboy waited. Then the king spoke.
‘So, that’s what it is; a dangerous weapon. Perhaps, it would be best if it’s not found.’
*
Nodie returned to Galway accompanied by her son, John, a lovely intelligent little boy with his mother’s brown eyes; her nanny, Ester, a pleasant eighteen year old who hailed from Barna, accompanied them. It was nice to be home, but it wasn’t without a feeling of trepidation. She would be seeing Ulick again. She had heard about Ella who was young and quite beautiful. Her great joy was her little son, a cheerful and happy child, not unlike his father. She alone knew the father; she didn’t reveal his identity to anyone, not even to the doctor who looked after her during her pregnancy.
One evening, while Ester was out shopping, Nodie was sitting quietly on her garden seat while John played nearby with his tricycle. She was beginning to realise how much she missed the Atlantic air, sometimes warm and bracing, sometimes wild and stormy; and the wide open spaces of Connemara with its blue grey mountains, brownish lakes and cascading rivers.
She visited her parent’s grave and the old stone church where she prayed as a child. Everyone was so kind; she booked little John into the local national school. Welcomed to Galway by the other Supreme Court judge, Cyril Watson, she was introduced to her law clerk, Luke Roe, and given a list of cases allocated to her.
One particular item caught her eye; the Oko Oil Company verses the people of Achill. This highly contentious case had been going on for years; there had been many public demonstrations; the local people absolutely refused to allow the oil company develop an oilfield in the Atlantic shelf and build a refinery on their beautiful island. They wanted the oil company’s concession withdrawn. Granted many years before the new state was set up, it had not received the approval of Teac Galway.
Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick Page 13
