To Cut a Long Story Short (2000)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘There’s one problem I haven’t touched on,’ said Billy Gibson. ‘But first, let me refill your glass.’

  For the past hour the two men had sat quietly in the corner of the King William Arms discussing the problems of running a police station on the border of Northern Ireland and Eire. Billy Gibson was retiring after thirty years in the force, the past six of them as Chief of Police. His successor, Jim Hogan, had been brought in from Belfast, and the talk was that if he made a good fist of it, his next stop would be as Chief Constable.

  Billy took a long draught, and settled back before he began his story.

  ‘No one can be quite sure of the truth about the house that straddles the border, but, as with all good Irish stories, there are always several half-truths circulating at any one time. I need to tell you a little of the house’s history before I come to the problem I’m having with its present owners. To do that I must mention, if only in passing, one Patrick O’Dowd, who worked in the planning department of Belfast City Council.’

  ‘A nest of vipers at the best of times,’ chipped in the new Chief.

  ‘And those were not the best of times,’ said the retiring Chief, before taking another sip of Guinness. His thirst quenched, he continued his story.

  ‘No one has ever understood why O’Dowd granted planning permission for a house to be built on the border in the first place. It was not until it had been completed that someone in the rates department in Dublin got hold of an Ordnance Survey map, and pointed out to the authorities in Belfast that the border ran right through the middle of the sitting room. Old lags in the village say the local builder misread the plans, but others assure me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘At the time, no one cared too much, because the man the house was built for - Bertie O’Flynn, a widower - was a godfearing man who attended Mass at St Mary’s in the South, and sipped his Guinness at the Volunteer in the North. I think it’s also worth mentioning,’ said the Chief, ‘that Bertie had no politics.

  ‘Dublin and Belfast managed to reach a rare compromise, and agreed that as the house’s front door was in the North, Bertie should pay his taxes to the Crown, but as his kitchen and half-acre of garden were in the South, he should pay his rates to the local council on the other side of the border. For years this agreement caused no difficulties, until dear old Bertie departed this life and left the house to his son, Eamonn. To cut a long story short, Eamonn was, is, and always will be a bad lot.

  ‘The boy had been sent to school in the North, although he attended church in the South, and he showed little interest in either. In fact, by the age of eleven, the only thing he didn’t know about smuggling was how to spell it. By the time he turned thirteen, he was buying cartons of cigarettes in the North, and trading them for crates of Guinness in the South. At the age of fifteen, he was earning more money than his headmaster, and when he left school he was already running a flourishing business, importing spirits and wine from the South while exporting cannabis and condoms from the North.

  ‘Whenever his probation officer knocked on the front door in the North, he retreated to his kitchen in the South. If the local Garda was seen walking up the garden path, Eamonn disappeared into the dining room, and stayed there until they got bored and drove away. Bertie, who always ended up having to answer the door, got heartily sick of it, which I suspect in the end was the reason he gave up the ghost.

  ‘Now, when I took up my appointment as Chief of Police six years ago, I decided to make it my personal ambition to put Eamonn O’Flynn behind bars. But what with the problems I’ve had to handle on the border and normal policing duties, the truth is I never got round to it. I’d even started to turn a blind eye, until O’Flynn met Maggie Crann, a well-known prostitute from the South, who was looking to expand her trade in the North. A house with four upstairs bedrooms, two on either side of the border, seemed to be the answer to her prayers - even if from time to time one of her half-naked customers had to be moved from one side of the house to the other rather quickly, to avoid being arrested.

  ‘When the Troubles escalated, my opposite number south of the border and I agreed to treat the house as a “no go” area - that was, until Eamonn opened a casino in the South in a new conservatory which was never to grow a flower - planning permission agreed by Dublin - with the cashier’s office situated in a newly constructed garage that could take a fleet of buses, but has not yet housed a vehicle of any description - planning permission agreed by Belfast.’

  ‘Why didn’t you oppose planning permission?’ asked Hogan.

  ‘We did, but it quickly became clear that Maggie had customers in both departments.’ Billy sighed. ‘But the final blow came when the farmland surrounding the house came up for sale. No one else got a look-in, and O’Flynn ended up with sixty-five acres, in which he could post lookouts. That gives him more than enough time to move any incriminating evidence from one side of the house to the other, long before we can reach the front door.’

  The glasses were empty. ‘My round,’ said the younger man. He went up to the bar and ordered two more pints.

  When he returned, he asked his next question even before he had placed the glasses on the table.

  ‘Why haven’t you applied for a search warrant? With the number of laws he must be breaking, surely you could have closed the place down years ago?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the Chief, ‘but whenever I apply for a warrant, he’s the first person to hear about it. By the time we arrive, all we find is a happily married couple living alone in a peaceful farmhouse.’

  ‘But what about your opposite number in the South? It must be in his interests to work with you and …’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But there have been five of them in the past seven years, and what with not wishing to harm their promotion prospects, their desire for an easy life, or straightforward bribery, not one of them has been willing to cooperate. The current Garda Chief is only months away from retirement, and won’t do anything that might harm his pension. No,’ continued Billy, ‘whichever way you look at it, I’ve failed. And I can tell you, unlike my opposite number, if I could sort out Eamonn O’Flynn once and for all, I would even be willing to forgo my pension.’

  ‘Well, you still have another six weeks, and after all you’ve told me, I’d be relieved if O’Flynn was off the patch before I took over. So let’s see if I can come up with a solution that will solve both our problems.’

  ‘I’d agree to anything, short of murdering the man - and don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind.’

  Jim Hogan laughed, looked at his watch and said, ‘I must be getting back to Belfast.’

  The old Chief nodded, downed his last drop of Guinness and accompanied his colleague to the carpark at the back of the pub. Hogan didn’t speak again until he was seated behind the wheel of his car. He turned on the engine and wound the window down.

  ‘Are you going to have a farewell party?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Chief. ‘On the Saturday before I retire. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I always think a farewell party is an occasion to let bygones be bygones,’ said Jim, without explanation.

  The Chief looked puzzled as Jim drove out of the carpark, turned right, and headed north towards Belfast.

  Eamonn O’Flynn was somewhat surprised to receive the invitation, as he hadn’t expected to feature on the Chief of Police’s guest list.

  Maggie studied the embossed card inviting them to Chief Gibson’s farewell party at the Queen’s Arms in Ballyroney.

  Are you going to accept?’ she asked.

  ‘Why would I want to do that,’ responded Eamonn, ‘when the bastard has spent the past six years trying to put me behind bars?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s his way of burying the hatchet,’ suggested Maggie.

  ‘Yes, right in the middle of my back, would be my bet. In any case, surely you wouldn’t want to be seen dead with that lot.’

  ‘Now, there’s where you’re wrong for onc
e,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because it would amuse me to see the faces of the wives of those councillors, not to mention the police officers, I’ve shared a bed with.’

  ‘But it could turn out to be a trap.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how,’ said Maggie, ‘when we know for certain that them in the South won’t give us any trouble, and anyone who could in the North is sure to be at the party.’

  ‘That wouldn’t stop them raiding our place while we’re off the premises.’

  ‘What a disappointment that will be for them,’ said Maggie, ‘when they discover the staff have been given the night off, and it’s nothing more than the home of two decent, law-abiding citizens.’

  Eamonn remained sceptical, and it wasn’t until Maggie arrived back from Dublin with a new dress she wanted everyone to see her in that he finally surrendered and agreed to accompany her to the party. ‘But we won’t stay for more than an hour, and that’s my final word on the subject,’ he warned her.

  When they left the house on the night of the party, Eamonn checked that every window was locked and every door was bolted before he set the alarm. He then drove slowly around the perimeter of his land, warning all the guards to be especially careful and to call him on his mobile if they spotted anything suspicious - and he meant anything.

  Maggie, who was checking her hair in the car mirror, told him that if he took much longer there wouldn’t be any party left to go to.

  When they walked into the ballroom of the Queen’s Arms half an hour later, Billy Gibson seemed genuinely pleased to see them, which only made Eamonn feel even more suspicious.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve met my successor,’ said the Chief, before introducing Eamonn and Maggie to Jim Hogan. ‘But I’m sure you know of his reputation.’

  Eamonn knew of his reputation only too well, and wanted to return home immediately, but someone pressed a pint of Guinness into his hand, and a young constable asked Maggie for a dance.

  While she was dancing, Eamonn looked around the room to see if there was anyone he knew. Far too many, he concluded, and couldn’t wait for an hour to pass so he could go home. But then his eyes rested on Mick Burke, a local pickpocket who was serving behind the bar. Eamonn was surprised that, with Mick’s record, they had let him past the front door. But at least he had found someone he could have a quiet chat to.

  When the band stopped playing, Maggie joined the queue for food and filled a plate with salmon and new potatoes. She took the offering across to Eamonn, who for a few minutes looked almost as if he was enjoying himself. After a second helping he started swapping stories with one or two members of the Garda, who appeared to be hanging on his every word.

  But the moment Eamonn heard eleven chime on the ballroom clock, he suddenly wanted to escape. ‘Even Cinderella didn’t leave the ball before twelve,’ Maggie told him. ‘And in any case, it would be rude to leave just as the Chief’s about to deliver his farewell speech.’

  The toastmaster banged his gavel and called for order. A warm round of applause greeted Billy Gibson as he stepped forward to take his place in front of the microphone. He rested his speech on the lectern and smiled down at the assembled gathering.

  ‘My friends,’ he began, ‘ - not to mention one or two sparring partners.’ He raised his glass in the direction of Eamonn, delighted to see he was still among them. ‘It is with a heavy heart that I appear before you tonight, aware of how much I am indebted to all of you.’ He paused. ‘And I mean all of you.’ Cheers and catcalls followed these remarks, and Maggie was delighted to see that Eamonn was joining in the laughter.

  ‘Now, I well remember when I first joined the force. That was when things were really tough.’ More cheers followed, and louder catcalls from the young. The noise died down eventually when the Chief resumed his speech, no one wishing to deny him the opportunity of reminiscing at his own farewell party.

  Eamonn was still sober enough to notice the young constable entering the room, an anxious look on his face. He made his way quickly towards the stage, and although he evidently didn’t feel able to interrupt Billy’s speech, he carried out Mr Hogan’s instructions and placed a note in the middle of the lectern.

  Eamonn began to fumble for his mobile, but he couldn’t find it in any of his pockets. He could have sworn he’d had it with him when he arrived.

  ‘When I hand in my badge at midnight …’ Billy said, glancing down at his speech to see the note in front of him. He paused and adjusted his glasses, as if trying to take in the significance of the message, then frowned and looked back up at his guests. ‘I must apologise, my friends, but it seems that there’s been an incident on the border that requires my personal attention. I have no choice but to leave immediately, and ask that all ranking officers join me outside. I hope our guests will continue to enjoy the party, and be assured we’ll return just as soon as we’ve sorted the little problem out.’

  Only one person reached the front door before the Chief, and he was driving out of the carpark before even Maggie realised he’d left the room. However, the Chief, siren blaring, still managed to overtake Eamonn some two miles from the border.

  ‘Shall I have him stopped for speeding?’ asked the Chief ‘s driver.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Billy Gibson. ‘What’s the point of this whole performance if the principal actor is unable to make an entrance?’

  When Eamonn brought his car to a halt at the edge of his property a few minutes later, he found it encircled by thick blue-and-white tape proclaiming ‘DANGER. DO NOT ENTER.’

  He jumped out of his car and ran over to the Chief, who was receiving a briefing from a group of officers.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ demanded Eamonn.

  ‘Ah, Eamonn, I’m so glad you were able to make it. I was just about to call you, in case you were still at the party. It seems that about an hour ago an IRA patrol was spotted on your land.’

  ‘Actually, that hasn’t been confirmed,’ said a young officer, who was listening intently to someone on a hand-phone. ‘There’s conflicting intelligence coming out of Ballyroney suggesting that they may have been loyalist paramilitaries.’

  ‘Well, whoever they are, my first interest must be the protection of lives and property, and to that end I’ve sent in the bomb squad to make sure it will be safe for you and Maggie to return to your home.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, Billy Gibson, and you know it,’ said Eamonn. ‘I’m ordering you off my land before I instruct my men to forcibly remove you.’

  ‘Well, it’s not quite as easy as that,’ said the Chief. ‘You see, I’ve just had a message from the bomb squad that they’ve already broken into your house. You’ll be relieved to know they found no one on the premises, but they were most concerned to come across an unidentifiable package in the conservatory, and a similar one in the garage.’

  ‘But they’re nothing more than …’

  ‘Nothing more than what?’ asked the Chief innocently.

  ‘How did your people manage to get past my guards?’ demanded Eamonn. ‘They had orders to throw you off if you put so much as a toe on my land.’

  ‘Now there’s the thing, Eamonn. They must have wandered off your property for a moment without realising it, and because of the imminent danger to their lives I felt it necessary to take them all into custody. For their own protection, you understand.’

  ‘I’ll bet you don’t even have a search warrant to enter my property.’

  ‘I don’t need one,’ said the Chief, ‘if I’m of the opinion that someone’s life is in danger.’

  ‘Well, now you know that no one’s life is in danger, and never was in the first place, you can get off my property and back to your party.’

  ‘There’s my next problem, Eamonn. You see, we’ve just had another call, this time from an anonymous informant, to warn us that he has placed a bomb in the garage and another in the conservatory, and that they’ll be detonated just before midnight. The mome
nt I was informed of this threat, I realised that it was my duty to check the safety manual to find out what the correct procedure is in circumstances such as these.’ The Chief removed a thick green booklet from an inside pocket, as if it were always with him.

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ said O’Flynn. ‘You don’t have the authority to …’

  ‘Ah, here’s what I was after,’ said the Chief, after he had flicked over a few pages. Eamonn looked down to see a paragraph underlined in red ink.

  ‘Let me read you the exact words, Eamonn, so that you’ll fully comprehend the terrible dilemma I’m facing. “If an officer above the rank of Major or Chief Inspector believes that the lives of civilians may be at risk at the scene of a suspected terrorist attack, and he has a qualified member of the bomb squad present, he must first clear the area of all civilians and, having achieved this, if he deems it appropriate, carry out an isolated explosion.” Couldn’t be clearer,’ said the Chief. ‘Now, are you able to let me know what’s in those boxes, Eamonn? If not, I must assume the worst, and proceed according to the book.’

  ‘If you harm my property in any way, Billy Gibson, let me warn you that I’ll sue you for every penny you’re worth.’

  ‘You’re worrying unnecessarily, Eamonn. Let me reassure you that there’s page after page in the manual concerning compensation for innocent victims. We would naturally feel it our obligation to rebuild your lovely home, brick by brick, recreating a conservatory Maggie would be proud of and a garage large enough to house all your cars. However, if we were to spend that amount of taxpayers’ money, we would have to ensure that the house was built on one side of the border or the other, so that an unhappy incident such as this one could never happen again.’

  ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ said Eamonn, as a heavily-built man appeared by the Chief’s side, carrying a plunger.

  ‘You’ll remember Mr Hogan, of course. I introduced you at my farewell party.’

  ‘You put a finger on that plunger, Hogan, and I’ll have you facing inquiries for the rest of your working life. And you’ll be able to forget any ideas of becoming Chief Constable.’