The Blunderside Chief Constable sat back in his chair, a cigar in his mouth. 2000 had been another good year, writes Kevin Myers.
He'd finally managed to get the conservatory built, and that was something of an achievement: tradesmen these days, always promising this and that, but never turning up. But now he'd got just the man for the job. And with the arrest of the head of the Legion of Mary, Concepta O'Shaughnessy, he had unquestionably cracked yet another Irish terror network.
He pressed the button on his desk. "Bring in the suspect," he barked to Assistant Chief Constable Brady. "And keep her in cuffs. You never can tell with these mad Irish terrorists."
Concepta O'Shaughnessy was pushed into the chief constable's office in her wheelchair, her white stick tapping before her. It had been her 89th birthday the day before. "Come on O'Shaughnessy, the game's up. We know you're really that Irish terrorist leader James Joyce. You can't fool me. I'm on top of your Irish Republican Army stuff."
Concepta was mumbling a decade of the Rosary as the chief constable strode backwards and forwards, softly slapping his truncheon in his hand. Assistant Chief Constable Brady, spoke up. "If you'll excuse me sir, Myra and I have some small duties to attend to."
"Yes, yes, Ian, off you go," said the Chief Constable curtly. "Doing a spot of gardening, eh?" he added, shrewdly spotting the spade in his hand.
"More rather than less, sir, yes." Bowing, the assistant constable departed, his wellingtons making a strange gallumping sound as he walked down the hall.
"Now," said the Chief Constable, turning on Concepta, "Out with it! You planned to hijack a Royal Navy Trident submarine and blow up the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace with a brace of its missiles, didn't you?"
Concepta nodded and began to weep. It had been a bad day, and a long one. She'd been woken by the noise of an intruder downstairs some time before dawn. She'd silently rung the police, who'd arrived with creditable swiftness. On discovering that the complainant was Irish, they'd ushered the burglar out with his suitcase containing her precious silverware, plus the Victoria Cross her father had won with the Irish Guards, before arresting her under the Terrorist Prevention Act.
It had been downhill all the way since then. She'd shown she wasn't responsible for the Birmingham bombings - she'd been in London that night, getting the MBE for her charity work with the British Legion - but she'd been utterly unable to prove she wasn't involved in the Soloheadbeg ambush, and she was now very close to admitting to involvement in the Phoenix Park murders and the affair of the Manchester Martyrs. She knew she was already in trouble for admitting she'd led the 1798 Rising. It was all so confusing. Suddenly she felt very dizzy.
The Chief Constable was looking out of the window when he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor. That wretched Irish woman had fainted on him! He pressed the buzzer. "Get the police doctor here, and get him now!"
Half an hour later the doctor emerged from the Chief Constable's office where he had insisted on tending the patient alone. He shook his head. "She's gone. Never stood a chance," said Dr Harold Shipman. "But you did right to call me in."
The head constable cursed softly. "And she took all her terrorist secrets with her. They're damned resourceful, these Irish. Isn't that right, Peter?"
His head of Special Branch, Detective Inspector Sutcliffe nodded, adding: "But we've got her second-in-command. Here he is now."
An Irish setter bounded into the room, licked the chief constable's face, briefly copulated with his leg, ate the chocolate biscuit in his saucer, sprinted five times around his desk, urinated on a hat-stand, and then lay on his back waiting for his tummy to be scratched. "That's the Irish for you, artful as ever," remarked the chief constable, observing the dog with a wise and insightful eye. "Take him to a cell and let him cool his paws overnight. He'll be spilling the beans by breakfast, you mark my words."
"Very good, sir. In the meantime, what are we to do about these sex offenders' intelligence reports?"
"Intelligence reports? Intelligence reports my eye: tittle tattle, more like, the fantasies of silly hysterical girls. Wipe the lot of them. A complete waste of time." The chief constable then shuffled his papers with an air of satisfaction. "Peter, it looks like we're about to break yet another Irish terrorist cell. It's been a good day. And I'm off now to enjoy my new conservatory."
"Ah, you finally got a builder, did you sir?"
"I certainly did. A splendid fellow - couldn't recommend him highly enough. Fellow by the name of West. Fred West. Foundations? You've never ever seen the like! Charming wife too. Rosemary, lovely girl. The salt of old England, the pair of them.
What are you doing for the holidays?"
"The usual. Popping down to Yorkshire."
"Excellent, excellent. Happy Christmas, Peter."
"And a happy Christmas to you, sir."