Chapter 11: Whistleblowers and Hot Whiskey

I honestly didn’t mind Daniel flirting with students half his age. I’d looked long and hard into myself about this because pretty much the entire of Western culture told me that I ought to be possessive and jealous. I really wasn’t. Daniel was a great lover and monogamy would be a complete waste of his talent. What’s more, I knew from my own experience that one could love – let alone feel lust for – more than one person at a time. Hence my Cork boyfriend, Emmet, understood about Daniel and Daniel understood about Emmet.

With glass of red in hand, Daniel was expounding on Heaney’s lack (in Daniel’s opinion) of political content to the secretary of the student literary society at Trinity College. We were in the middle of the Arts Block, a grey stone building with ceilings bare and low, which always made me feel claustrophobic. The carpet beneath my heels was cheap and bristly. The kind that creates static as you walk, so that when you touch the metal handrail on the narrow stairwells you can get a shock.

As venues for literary events went, it was awful. Still, it was full of young people who professed to like Daniel’s poetry; the tables had plenty of wine on them; and Daniel was flirting with a pretty, brown-haired intellectual. The night had promise.

‘Hello, what did you think of the reading?’ A young man – boy really – with a floppy haircut and a southern English accent came loomed over me. I had been leaning against a table and I stood up to close the gap to that cheerful grin.

‘I was disappointed. I wish he’d read from his first collection more. Those early poems can bring tears.’

‘Oh gosh, really? I thought he was rather good. I’m Edward, by the way, I’m the treasurer.’

‘I’m Cyn. Pleased to meet you. You bought the wine, so?’

‘Hah. I did.’

‘Well done. Often at student events the society goes for the cheapest wine available. You got a reasonable one.’

‘I’m so glad you noticed. The committee always argue about this. I say it’s worth the extra expense.’

‘Come for the poems. Stay for the wine.’

‘Hah! Exactly. Exactly. Do I know you? Are you a poet? Or a lecturer?’

‘Neither.’

‘How did you hear about the reading?’

‘What’s this now?’ I laughed. ‘Are you making sure your wine is drunk by official society members?’

‘Gosh, not at all. Not at all! This is a public event. And, if I may say, your presence here adds a great deal of glamour to it. You have charisma. There’s a radiance about you that’s extraordinary. I feel in danger of being electrocuted being this close. I couldn’t resist coming over. Even if it does risk immolation.’

Well, that was interesting. The poor boy was blushing, although he’d done well. Given that more than half the audience were students in hoodies and jeans, the fact that I wore a dress probably accounted for most of his reaction to me. The recent restoration of my inner self might have been a factor too. ‘You’re a poet as well, I see.’

‘Hah, hah. Not really.’

‘Who is your favourite poet?’ The risk with such a question is that the respondent will deny that it possible to pick just one. Occasionally, it scores. Daniel had replied instantly: e.e. cummings. I am always more interested in the passion of the answer than the particular poet chosen, about whom I’m often ignorant; e.e. cummings meant very little to me but Daniel’s vivacious defence of his choice, complete with declaimed lines, was utterly appealing.

‘Gosh. That’s not easy.’

And there was the reason I was with Daniel.

Edward must have noticed a diminishment of my interest and tried to rally, ‘I like the Irish poets of course; that’s why I came to Trinity rather than Bristol. I had the grades for Bristol but I wanted to be near Yeats and Heaney.’

And now here was Daniel, ‘Cyn. Mind drinking up? I’d like you to meet someone in Buswells.’

‘Oh, you’re with Daniel. Of course. That makes complete sense.’ Edward wilted. That lovely smile was gone. The cheeky fringe was limp. I felt sorry for him. It was quite wrong that he should feel in any way inferior to us and yet he clearly did, shrinking away like that witch in Oz when cold water was thrown on her.

‘Just a moment Daniel please, this is good wine, courtesy of Edward here, the society treasurer. Edward is a poet too and delivered the best pick up line I’ve ever heard.’

‘Ah, it wasn’t a…’

‘Hi Edward,’ said Daniel cheerfully. ‘What was the line?’

Since poor Edward wasn’t going to deliver it, I said, ‘there’s a radiance about you that is so powerful I feel in danger of being electrocuted if I talk to you. But it will be worth it.’

Daniel stepped back for a better look at Edward, seemed to think about giving him a pat, but settled for a salute. ‘That’s terrific. I shall use that myself. It’s true too. Cyn is in great form tonight. I’m sorry I have to take her away.’

‘Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you both. Thanks for a splendid reading.’

It was quite out of character for Daniel to leave a room of fans, so I was curious rather resentful as we hurried along Nassau Street. Despite the bulk of my winter coat, I felt blasts of cold, wet air catch at my bare ankles. From a warm room with plenty of wine and lively conversation, I’d gone out to a dark, wet October night.

‘This had better be worth it.’

Leaning into the wind, hand on his hat, Daniel looked over at me. ‘Martin from People Before Profit has set up a meeting for you with the DreamAds whistleblower. I couldn’t say until now.’

As we hurried along the damp street, I got the story. The whistleblower had contacted People Before Profit wanting to meet someone on the DreamAds pilot programme. Daniel had once been a member of that left-wing party and they often called on him to read at rallies and events. Of course he loved that, loved being the street poet with a cause. Personally, I didn’t trust them. Broadly speaking, I didn’t trust any politician and I knew some women who could tell a grim story or two about the top men in that party. Same for all the political parties I supposed. The left ones claimed to be different, but they really weren’t.

Still, I very much wanted to meet the whistleblower. It took some courage to go up against Neo like that.

Buswells was deliciously warm. The bar was dark and quiet, just the way the politicians coming across from the Dáil liked it. And in a corner, seated at a table with two spare, plush chairs, was Martin Doherty, TD, and beside him a woman of my age, mid-thirties.

Martin hurried to his feet. He was short but sturdy, with a body that had clearly been firmed up in a gym. Inner city accent. Thin tie, askew, and a pale shirt that seemed an obligation rather than clothing he was comfortable with. You got the impression Martin would rather just be wearing a tracksuit, but since he was a TD, he’d felt the need to spruce up a bit. ‘Horrible night. Thanks for coming. This is “Amanda”. How about I get you both a hot whiskey?’

We shook hands and I said, ‘that sounds perfect.’

As Martin left I took a seat beside Amanda, the whistleblower. ‘Hello,’ I said.

‘First off, you aren’t wearing or carrying an Explorer, are you?’ Amanda had quick-moving, brown eyes. Her short hair was black and curled in tight rings. On the back of her chair hung a stylish, long grey wool coat, which contrasted completely with her jeans, DMs and dark top with a catgirl anime character. I liked her look; it was hard to place. Goth? Punk? But with money.

‘I’m not.’

‘Of course. I had to ask.’ Amanda leaned over to look at Daniel. ‘And you?’

‘Not me. I wouldn’t wear one, even if I could afford it.’

‘Good. Now, quickly, before Martin returns. Once you’ve drunk your hot whiskey, I’m going to go for a walk with Cyn around Stephen’s Green. Just the two of us. All right? It’s not safe here and what I have to say to her is for her ears only. Is that okay?’

‘It’s all right with me,’ Daniel shrugged.

I looked towards the window and the darkness and the raindrops. ‘Do we have to?’

‘At the risk of sounding melodramatic, the fate of humanity is at stake. A little discomfort is warranted.’

‘Go on, so.’

Daniel caught my world-weary tone and chuckled.

‘Here we are.’ Martin was back, placing the steaming drinks on the table. Only a country as cold and damp as Ireland could have invented the hot whiskey. Honey, whiskey, a lemon piece in which four cloves had been stuck, and near-boiling water poured over the top. I inhaled the warm air above the glass. It was perfect. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Before he’d fully settled back into his chair, Martin had a speech for us. It sounded rehearsed. ‘People Before Profit will give you whatever support you need. We take the dangers represented by this technology very seriously. We believe a public meeting exposing the illegal and harmful practices of DreamAds would be an effective step. We are certainly standing by to ask parliamentary questions on your behalf. There needs to be protection in place…’

While Daniel was nodding approvingly, Amanda was squirming in her seat as though filled with responses whose energy was not released by her speaking but instead caused her to adjust the position of all her limbs.

‘… what?’ An experienced politician, Martin was perfectly able to read a room full of people, let alone someone just a table-width away from him whom he was fully attentive to.

‘Nothing.’

‘No, what? Really?’

‘It’s fine,’ Amanda sighed. ‘You do your thing. I appreciate it.’

‘You sound… sceptical.’

‘I’m not going to get into it here. Cyn and I are going for a walk. You should ask parliamentary questions. I’ll give you a list.’

‘A walk? Outside?’

‘A little discomfort is warranted under the circumstances,’ I said, downing my drink (warmth filling my chest), standing, and buttoning up my coat again.

The expression on Martin’s face was of dismay and he stood up with arms out, as if to herd us back to our chairs. Since I was closest to the exit, it fell to me to brush past him and for Amanda to follow. For some reason, this felt like a triumph and buoyed by the whiskey and wine I walked back out into the wet night without regretting my comfortable seat in the warm bar.

Despite my setting a brisk pace, Amanda caught up with me and placed a hand on the inside of my elbow.

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘Not yet.’

With impatience, I waited for the pedestrian lights at the top of Kildare Street to turn green. Only when we were across the road and walking clockwise on the path that ran around the green did Amanda start to talk, with interruptions whenever anyone coming towards us was within ten metres.

‘Whatever you think of the situation we are in, it is far, far, worse than you imagine.’

‘Worse than having adverts in my dreams?’

‘A whole different level of worse.’

‘Worse than having your libido imprisoned?’

‘Think that. But for everyone on the planet apart from a few billionaires.’