The ‘small deposit’ that I had to make was in my briefcase – it comprised a wad of bearer bonds, which I had converted from cash: courtesy of a banker friend who owed me big time. I had put a helluva lot of mortgage business his way – amongst some other sweet little deals from time to time over the years. The combination of estate agent and politics was sheer dynamite – pure TNT – especially during the 90s. I became quite good friends with my account manager in the bank. Of course I had also made him wealthy - and he took care of minor irritations like the money laundering controls. Yes he had taken care of all those damned Nanny State irritations which got in the way of real business! So naturally, I had rewarded him for his due diligence in looking after my interests.

So where did the cash come from? Prior to that busybody the late Mr Forde arriving on the scene all my assets were in property or intangibles like goodwill in various commercial enterprises. But goodwill was no use where I was going so it had to be realised. So after I had orchestrated my first release on bail with my good friend the Chief in the interregnum period before they put me back in the clink again I had a few precious weeks in which to liquidate all my assets – both tangible and intangible. I had devised a master plan. An escape plan. But for it to work I had to have money. Lotsa dosh! Having been a county councillor for almost 20 years and then a TD and, finally even a cabinet minister by the time I was 43, I had a few opportunities to make a buck here and there. Of course you didn’t get paid for taking on the onerous duties of a county councillor in those days. There were the expenses of course but peanuts really compared to the real money that came from controlling the county development plans over the years.

You see the pathetic FOI articles in the Sunday papers. It is pretty pathetic indeed what passes for ‘investigative’ journalism these days. Those journalists couldn’t find a fart in a lift.

Headlines: Councillor Maloney or Murphy or O’Malley or whoever claims 70,000 euro in expenses. Ireland’s second highest expenses earner resides in our county – whooo! shock horror! Peanuts. If the ‘investigators’ only knew the real story!

Having said that though it always did worry me that those greedy bastards pigging out on the expenses and junkets would be far better off claiming zero expenses and paying for their own junkets and not drawing heat. We needed to concentrate on the bread and butter issues – county development. Bringing more wealth to Mayo.

The great thing about our approach to planning was that it was all perfectly legal – we had a majority on the council so we could mould the County Development Plan any way we wished to. I’m not talking about party affiliations either – this went way beyond party. Well over half the councillors were auctioneers or land owners who owned acres and acres of green fields which could be broken up into literally hundreds and hundreds of housing sites each selling for a prince’s ransom. Then there were the developer councillors or their spouses. Weren’t we the elected representatives? If we voted to allow houses to be built two miles from the nearest school, shop or church then that was the law. Then you have the non-elected auctioneer and developer party members – in all parties again – who were great supporters of the political system. It was legal – and nonpartisan too. It was strange but the only thing we really agreed upon across all party lines was the Section 4 Motion. We weren’t into George Redmond, Ray Burke or Liam Lawlor territory even – WE actually had a majority on the county council back then regardless of which party had the majority. It was wonderful. And the electorate sleep-walked it. They really were something else the way they came out and supported us time after time. And we did payback with jobs and houses with great views where nobody ever thought it was possible to build a house. And the German’s bought them like hot cakes once they were built – for the beautiful countryside and peaceful way of life.

But those ignorant bastards that insisted on claiming ever last penny of expenses – they filled out a claim every time they opened their front door. They made me puke and they really made things harder for the rest of us! Eventually some journo attracted by the cheap-shot junket story would start looking at the occupations of councillors and would cotton on to what was really going on - the real story in other words. I’m not sure how they would write it without libelling half the council who had done nothing, wrong every decision perfectly legal.

Anyway, it was all a bit academic now that I was officially out of the loop – retired from active service – so someone else will have to look after the shop….

The girl in the seat next to me, whom I had thought was sound asleep by the time the plane was taxiing down the runway, shifted in her seat and addressed me directly:

Where are you heading? Are you… ‘she tailed off looking directly at my fake moustache.

‘I’m going to Dublin,’ I replied.

‘Me too’ she said.

‘Yes like everyone else on this plane’ I said.

‘Gawd I’m stoopid’ she laughed – or should I say neighed in a way that matched her horsey looks nicely.

‘Im heading on to Hungary when I reach Dublin’ I ventured once I could see that she had settled down a bit.

‘Yeah! I could eat a horse,’ she said, ‘But they don’t feed you any more on flights to Dublin – a coffee and a Marietta is about the height of it.’

‘I’m for Budapest once I make my connection in Dublin’ I said repeating what I told her already. Why had I told her that? What if she could see past my moustache? You’ll have to be more discreet O’Ryan now that you’re not in politics any more! She’s not going to be voting for you any time soon. So don’t try to plamas the voters any more!

‘I’m going to Gran Canaria for a week’ she ventured. ‘Need a bit of sun. Mayo summers aren’t up to much.’ She said. ‘June can be quite depressing weather-wise so I like to get out of Ireland before the end of June and head south or else I’d go mad. Are you going for the sun too?’

‘Hungary is hot in Summer?’ I said. They didn’t really have weather in Hungary – just climate – hot in summer and cold in winter. I didn’t go there for the heat of course. Any time I’d been there I’d always had something else on my mind - money. Just as was the case this time indeed.

I still had to get through Dublin and Heathrow with my new false passport.

‘So where do you stay in Gran Canaria?’ I asked

‘Head straight for Puerto Rico’ she replied enthusiastically. I was going to hear about the delights of Spain.

‘Did you know they are still duty free down there? You can buy jewellery and cameras for half nothing. And booze is cheaper than water here. I’m going to party all night long and sleep all day for a week. And then back to Mayo General’

‘Nobody with you?’

‘Naw. Left the ‘boyfriend’ behind.’ She said as she made quotes in the air with her fingers. ‘Plenty of Ferdinandos and Pedros down there!’ she laughed – or perhaps a braying sound was closer to the mark – now I couldn’t decide between a horse and donkey. ‘Great to get away for a week.’ She was an ugly-looking broad but her equine looks were compensated for somewhat by her short skirt revealing a fine pair of legs. Gawd help the Spaniards when she hit Gran Canaria. I was a bit surprised at myself that I even noticed a) that she was ugly and b) that she had good legs – considering the terrible ordeal I had just gone through not more than two hours beforehand.

After landing in Dublin I had to stay overnight – my Budapest connection wasn’t until next day. I stayed in the Holiday Inn on the airport campus. A typical airport hotel. Room service. TV. Brochures on the bedside table with lists of things to do in Dublin – great when you are just leaving. Who stays in an airport hotel when the have just arrived in a city? Doh!

Even when you looked out the window you had absolutely no idea where you were. You could be in any country in the world. The room service served up rubber chicken which was obviously a very close relative of many of the other rubber chickens I had eaten at party meetings over the years in hotels all down the west of Ireland. Fund raisers, election victory celebrations, election defeat dinners, candidate selection, fundraisers, 50 quid a plate dos, 100 euro a plate dos – that’s inflation for ya! as Albert Reynolds might have put it. I had to stay put in my room though. I couldn’t chance heading down to the bar in case someone would recognise me. The only people that would see me here would be the foreign-looking staff that delivered room service or worked on the desk – and they were unlikely to be up to date with Irish political personalities – they wouldn’t recognise me even without the moustache.

So I watched the TV lying on my bed. I was a bit shocked at the Pay TV – a porno channel in a Dublin hotel? What is the world coming to? No harm to be getting out of Ireland all together before it finally goes to the dogs completely! I flicked the channels.

Shock! Towards the end of the 9 O’Clock News, an image caught my attention. A round tower? I turned up the volume as the screen showed the National Museum at Turlough – surely that was Turlough Round Tower? Then a quick pan and zoom to a car crash – a blackened wreck stuck into a stone wall with still a few flames and a lot of smoke rising from the wreckage - from what had obviously been quite a conflagration. The camera crew had got there very quickly by the looks of it. It was like an out of body experience seeing the car there. And the next bit added to that sensation – this was what really interested me.

‘Ex cabinet minister dies in car crash’ read the subtitle. The newsreader continued over the pictures of me walking across the cobbles at Dublin Castle. It’s not everyone that gets to hear his or her obituary on national TV. But then – the bad bastards – they had actually used a shot of me giving evidence at Liam Lawlor’s module in the tribunal – or was it Charlie Haughey’s? Can’t remember but it wasn’t me that was under investigation in the photos:

Remember? Well fuck him anyway. I could tell the world a thing or two about him. I would remember him too! I even contemplated picking up the phone to a journo contact on the Sunday World – a thing that would have been total anathema to me a year ago – but then I thought the better of it. This was in fact great news I told myself. Excellent news in fact and just what I had wanted even if I didn’t like the spin they put on it. Then Jim Fahy came on – the country and western correspondent for RTE as I like to think of him.

That was a bit better. Then they went on to the Middle East.

I was definitely now officially dead. I had seen my obituary on national TV. Just like the Daniel Corkery story about the old guy who wanted to read his obituary in the paper – I had seen my own obit on TV! Gawd – I’ll have to buy a paper in the morning on my way out and read it there too! What will they say about me? Excellent stuff!

I hung the ‘Full Irish’ request on the doorknob checked out a few web pages on the in-house teletext re Budapest, flicked through their TV channels – boring – and finally gave up and slept.

I dreamed of fast cars and airbags exploding into my face. In one dream the airbag ripped my eyes straight out of their sockets and I ended up like the invisible man wrapped in bandages for the rest of my life. As the night wore on and I started to come out of that really deep sleep – the time each night when you don’t dream at all – I became aware of a dark accusing presence. Two dark eyes looked at me from a black face. A charred blackened face with smoke still wafting from his nostrils and hair….. I slept fitfully after that if at all. But I would have plenty of time for sleep – I needed to plan my itinerary carefully to ensure a successful outcome to my big adventure that was about to start in earnest tomorrow. I sat up in bed with a pencil and the Holiday Inn message pad and tried to plot out my next few days.

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