A Ghost Story

As autumn draws in and the nights lengthen, it's a fit season for a ghost story ...

It was a dark evening in early October. The leaves were falling from the trees of North Dublin, and the shops already displayed masks and pumpkins for Hallowe'en. Fagan's pub was nearly empty. Only one lonely figure was propped at the bar. On the counter lay a discarded newspaper, with details of the latest opinion poll.

"Nobody loves me," he murmured to himself as he sipped his drink. "The voters despise me, the backbenchers curse as I go past and mutter about losing their seats. How could it all have gone so wrong?" A big tear ran down his nose and fell with a plop into his pint of Bass.

At last he left to go home. The state car and garda driver outside had somehow disappeared, and he began to walk. He had only gone a few steps when another part of the country's crumbling infrastructure gave way, the power was cut, and every light in the city went out. "That'll be another batch of complaints to the constituency office in the morning," he moaned.

The streets were eerily silent and empty. Not a single footstep was to be heard in the pitch darkness around him. Then, turning a corner, he saw a building ahead with light pouring from every window. The sound of laughter and the clink of glasses drifted towards him. It was a huge structure, which he had never seen before.

"I don't know how they get planning permission for these things," he muttered to himself as he approached the door. Suddenly, a figure emerged and seized him by the arm.

"Ray!" he shouted, more astonished than pleased.

"Come on in," said his acquaintance. "We've been expecting you. All your old friends are here."

"I'd love to, but I'm really in a hurry" said our hero, struggling to break from Ray's grasp. He looked nervously about for any sign of the press, thinking to himself: "If there's a photographer around, I'm fecked." But his friend ignored his protests and dragged him towards the building.

As they entered, someone else staggered out. It was GV Wright. He slurred a greeting as he passed, then fell into his car and revved up. But as our hero gazed after him, the car seemed to turn into a huge carriage pulled by four black horses, which GV was lashing to a frenzy, while a little imp danced and capered on the back wheel.

He had no time to wonder at this, however, for Ray had pulled him inside and the doors slammed shut behind him. He gasped at the scene that met his gaze. A huge room - it looked like the ballroom at Kinsealy, but was many times larger - stretched before him, crowded with old acquaintances, who nodded and waved as he passed. Dan Foley and Michael Collins were huddled in a corner, discussing offshore accounts and strategies for tax evasion. Liam Lawlor, with a noticeable whine in his voice, was complaining to a group of sympathetic councillors about the tribunal prying into his affairs. Frank Dunlop flitted from group to group, shaking people by the hand and occasionally whispering into their ears. Our hero was surprised to see Michael Lowry, sharing a sofa with Ben Dunne.

"Oh" said his guide, "I know he's not in our party, but we felt we had to give him honory membership nonetheless. Indeed, there's quite a few Fine Gael people among the crowd."

Red-necked developers in ill-fitting suits backslapped and cut deals. Councillors whispered in corners. Brown envelopes flitted from hand to hand and disappeared in unlikely places. Zoning maps were unfolded and pored over by grubby fingers. Financiers and captains of industry chatted and laughed.

The living mingled with the dead, the speculators of the '90s with the Golden Circle of the '80s. Household names talked with minor politicians long forgotten.

Guinness flowed, and gin and brandy were drunk like water. And all the while, a ripple of laughter was kept up, as the drinkers thought of the poor gulls of ordinary workers they had fooled so often and so long. Here a developer boasted of grants he had claimed from the state at the same time as he avoided paying a penny in tax, and chuckled at his own cuteness. There a speculator reminisced about how a little judicious bribery had bought him planning permission in the teeth of a whole town's opposition. A business tycoon bragged of a time when he'd had two ministers in his pocket.

But our hero was led rapidly past all these, as his guide pressed on toward the end of the hall. There, on a throne, raised above chests and sacks of loot, was seated a figure who seemed the chief of this infernal assembly. Flames flickered around his chair, and a sable canopy was over his head. As our hero approached, he saw the familiar hooked nose and heavily lidded eyes. It was The Boss himself.

"My old friend!" said the boss. "Come up and sit beside me. It's been such a long time since we talked! Why do you never come to see me any more?"

"Oh Christ, if the meeja catch me here," our hero whimpered. As though reading his thoughts, the boss assured him: "This is the ultimate tax haven. No state has jurisdiction here, and no prying journalists can gain entry - while they live."

There was no choice. The instincts of a long obedience returned at the sound of those gravelly tones, and before he knew it our hero found himself sitting beside the boss on his dais. A goblet of some burning liquid was forced upon him and he had to drink it. The room swam round him; he felt flushed and intoxicated. The boss opened a great black book and pressed a pen into his hand.

"I need you to sign some cheques from the leadership allowance."

"But boss" he muttered nervously, "I AM the leader now."

"Down here, I will ALWAYS be leader" came the reply. For a moment, our hero thought of asking the boss what the cheques were for, but quickly thought better of it. With a shaking hand, he signed what was put before him. The boss clapped him on the back and called loudly for music.

Three of the strangest musicians he had ever seen stepped out from the throng. The first held the bow of a fiddle in one hand, and a volume labelled "Book of Estimates" in the other, and began to fiddle them with an energy that was amazing.

The second had a set of bagpipes, but instead of playing them the normal way he bent over, dropped his trousers, and blew them with his posterior. He was, in fact, the author of several Fianna Fáil manifestos.

The third drummed with a human bone on a bodhrán that seemed to have a cover of skin. The boss explained that these were the skin and bone of an unfortunate taxpayer, flayed alive to keep him and his cronies in the manner to which they were accustomed.

As the musicians struck up a wild tune, everyone in the hall linked hands in a whirling, frenzied dance. Our hero was seized and drawn into the circle. Round and round they went, until his head grew dizzy and he collapsed on the floor.

He awoke to find himself lying in an empty building site in Drumcondra. A placard announced it would be developed as a 50-bedroom hotel. "Thank God" he thought, "It was all only a horrible dream."

Then he looked at his hand. A large black stain, like ink, covered his fingers. He tried to rub it off, but it made no difference. There was a puddle of water nearby, but washing his hand had no effect on the mark.

With growing horror, it dawned on him that the stain would never be rubbed out.