Extract from a novel:
Huff And I’ll Puff And I’ll Blow Your House Down
by Michael Scanlon

Hubert Flanagan’s political pedigree was flawless. His uncle Paudie down in Kerry said that it could be traced back all the way to Daniel O'Connell himself. It was never explained exactly what the link to the great agitator was, but Hubert liked to believe it anyway. More directly, Hubert’s lineage stretched back to the first meeting of Rathcarmichael Town Council in the newly created Free State in 1922. At this, his grandfather, Micheal, proprietor of Flanagan’s Public House on the newly named Pearse Street (previously King Street), was returned as chairman. Ever since, a Flanagan had continuously been returned to the Town Council in every local election. And it always seemed to be a Flanagan who was chairman at the most important moments in Rathcarmichael’s history. His uncle Jimmy had been chairman when the local GAA club, St Jarleth’s, had lifted the All Ireland Club Championship title back in 1949. His other uncle, Eamon, was chairman when the new sewage system for the town was built in 1962. Up to then the shit used to flow down the Banóg River, all colours, all sizes.

Hubert smiled now. And here he was. The first Flanagan to make it to Taoiseach. His father, God rest him, Ollie, had done the ground work. Could have made it to Taoiseach himself if he hadn’t been shafted back in 1982. But that was a whole different story. Hubert didn’t bear grudges. Instead, he preferred, in the words of his hero Clint Eastwood, to get even.

Hubert had looked after Rathcarmichael well. He’d seen to it that it had jumped the queue on the national list of garda stations requiring replacement. He’d had it bumped from fifteen to number one, and he made no apologies for it either. Rathmichael’s gleaming new garda station was there for all to see - which was the whole point, really. He’d also had a new A&E wing built at the district hospital at a time when the district hospital was due for closure. That was three years ago. The hospital would not be closing now. He’d also upgraded local schools, football pitches, and, on a relative basis, secured 25% more public and social housing for Rathcarmichael than anywhere else in the country. He wouldn’t have to worry about his seat come next election.

But he might have to worry about his job as Prime Minister….Prime Minister, there was a certain ring to that. He never tired of saying it to himself in private, Prime Minister. He much preferred it to Taoiseach. When he said the word Taoiseach it sounded like he was bringing up phlegm. Prime Minister was so much more cosmopolitan….but he kept that strictly to himself, of course.

He also kept something else to himself. A secret nickname he had for his colleagues in government. The unreliable he called them. And right now the unreliable were getting restless, getting excited, scenting the air, sniffing blood. His blood. So he had to be quick. Very quick. In politics, as he knew only too well, it wasn’t what you did that mattered, it was what you were perceived to be doing that counted. Right now he needed to be perceived as being decisive. Not a strong point for Hubert.

So the death of Teddy Dunleavy TD, minister for rural affairs, was something he could have done without. It left him with a problem. He needed to fill the vacancy as quickly as possible. Fill it with someone he could rely on. And there weren’t many of those about. No, there certainly were not, specially now. Now that he was two thirds of the way through a four year term of office. Now that the economy had rotted like road kill on a summer’s day. Now that the proletariats were getting restless – the ungrateful bastards. Now that there were mumblings within the party of replacing him, of making a fresh start in time for the next election - ungrateful bastards again. A changing of the guard would be welcome by them all.

Well, that didn’t suit Hubert Flanagan. His finest hour had yet to come. But short of raising the flag on Rockall, he didn’t see how he could get the country behind him. He glanced out the window of his chauffeur driven BMW as it whizzed across the city, taking him to his office. He had someone in mind. One of the unreliables, certainly, but just not as unreliable as the rest of them. This person was a business man. You could cut a deal with him. Not like some of the other, especially the younger TD’s - admittedly few in number – who seemed to be on a crusade to change the world. They were the worst bollocks’ of the lot, completely untrustworthy. To Hubert Flanagan’s mind, politicians were a bit like priests. They might have started out with the best of intentions, but over the years, bit by little bit, they’d lost faith, became more cynical, until ultimately, they didn’t believe any of the crap any longer.

The BMW cut a path through heavy city traffic behind its garda motorcycle escort. The Prime Minister pulled out his Blackberry from an inside pocket. He went into his contacts list and found the number he wanted, Maurice Boyle. He pressed the dial button.