As Gerry Adams publishes his latest book on the peace process, Hope and History, Newton Emerson imagines the scene in a Dublin bookshop
'To Kelly-Anne, Brits out of Tallaght, yours in struggle, Gerry xxx."
Adams fought back a sigh as the copy was snatched away - if there was one thing he hated more than book signings, it was Dubliners. Thank you. Next.
"Remember the Famine!" snarled the fattest woman he'd ever seen, inspiring him to scribble down "An Gorta Mór" as the tears rolled down her greasy cheeks. He was fairly sure he'd spelt it correctly, not that any of this lot would know the difference. Thank you. Next.
"Bless you for keeping them Orange unionists out of our country!" a little man shouted, suddenly leaning forward. Adams flinched as Janty and Smickers instinctively reached inside their jackets. Quickly he rested a hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him expertly aside.
"You're the best, Gerry!" yelled the man as the boys kicked him firmly up the politics section.
The rest of the slack-jawed throng stepped back in a respectful hush. They liked this sort of thing of course - literature, celebrity, violence against the person. "An explosive mix," his agent had called it, although obviously Adams was careful never to use the term "my agent" himself.
In the brief lull that followed, he found his eye wandering across a few lines in the copy now open before him. "David Trimble likes opera and I like cooking and one day when he realises he is wrong I will cook a meal for him and we will listen to opera."
"Christ," thought Adams once again as he slammed the book shut. "Danny has really lost it." In fact the entire propaganda department was sailing pretty close to the wind with this one. That story about introducing himself to certain people in the Stormont toilets was particularly risky considering the information he'd had from Downing Street about their sexual preferences.
Then there was the part where he pictured himself floating over Belfast imagining what peace would look like - which was exactly what the Natural Law Party had asked everyone to do just before nobody voted for them.
Didn't the Green Book's Code of Conduct warn volunteers not once, but twice, about bringing down ridicule upon the movement? Of course he'd already got away with breaking every other rule in the Green Book, but it would be just like the army council to snare him with the small print. Now there was some real unfinished business. Maybe it was time for Martin to call MI5 again.
Still, it had to be done - publish and be damned - for this was book two of the new holy trinity and the final instalment, My Republic, was already at the committee stage.
It was the committee's hope to rewrite history, for if history is written by the victors then maybe, just maybe, getting your own version in first might disguise a defeat.
Besides, they could use the money. Things were okay on that score for now but there were hard times on the horizon and they were bad on the southern horizon as well. The lads' fag-smuggling business was going to take a major hit after Christmas, the Donegal pad could be liable for a hefty bin-tax and then there were the Bring Them Home campaign's travel expenses. There must be an easier way to raise money for Colombia, thought Adams.
The reviews hadn't been great either. "Rubbish", wrote John Burns in the Sunday Times. "Plodding", wrote Vicky Allan in the Sunday Herald. "Nauseating", wrote Éilís O'Hanlon in the Sunday Independent. Now that hurt. At least Joanne Corcoran from An Phoblacht had described the book as "probably his best work to date" but even then there was something about "probably" that niggled him.
What was she trying to imply? Old Stakeknife could have got to the bottom of that in no time, thought Adams wistfully. Thank you. Next.
"Could you write something in the front for me?" asked the young woman pleasantly. Well of course he could. "Just write 'I'm sorry'," she said, matching his gaze. There was a moment's pause, then a murmur of indignation rippled back along the impatient line. "This is a republican event," barked Janty just in time. "No Protestants or Dissenters." And then she was gone.
Sighing aloud now, Adams opened the next copy put before him to the only page he could really bear to read. There it was, in black and white - his love for trees. No doubt it would earn him another bollocking about "paganism" from Father Reid but at least this part of the book, this one and only part, was true.
He had always liked trees but then the book deals had been done and regrettably some innocent trees had also been cut down. Still, it was all for the good of the cause. The trees were ancient, strong and wise. They would understand.