AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny's election chances are scuppered by his lodger's crimes and things get worse when he discovers the investigating Garda officer has an axe to grind

IN HIS mind’s eye, Vinny Fitzpatrick had imagined them marching into chambers for the 31st Dáil, the four horseman of a political apocalypse, Ming Flanagan, Mick Wallace, Shane Ross and himself.

To ringing applause, they would have taken their place in the opposition benches with the other Independents, most of them Leinster House rookies, while up in the public gallery, Angie and the twins would have waved down and smiled.

Only it wasn’t going to happen; not now, not ever. In sporting terms, Vinny had been withdrawn from the General Election under starter’s orders. Rule 4 didn’t apply and his €500 deposit was confiscated. So too was his pride, and very nearly his freedom.

Even now, on the first evening of March, he was struggling to grapple with the seismic events which had turned his world upside down. “And Fianna Fail think they messed up,” he muttered to himself, reaching for a fistful of fig rolls which he dunked into a mug of sugary tea. Vinny’s problems had first surfaced a week earlier when he’d been summoned to Clontarf Garda Station to be told that his old family house in Causeway Avenue was being used as a brothel.

He thought the garda, of rural stock, had said “brother” and Vinny had begun to explain how he didn’t have a male sibling but two sisters, when the garda cut across him.

“Howl your whist,” he hissed. “Sit in the waiting room through there. The inspector will want words with you.”

When the inspector called, some time later, Vinny recognised him as Frank ‘The Ferret’ Flanagan, from their schooldays in Joey’s CBS in Fairview. “Ah Ferret, can you tell me what’s going on please?” The Ferret reddened, then bent down to Vinny, so close that Vinny could see the veins in his pointy nose and catch a garlicky whiff wafting through pronounced front teeth. “It’s inspector to you Vinny, do I make myself clear?”

The Ferret went on to explain how, following surveillance, a raid that night in Causeway Avenue had led to the arrests of a 38-year-old from Liverpool called Spud Murphy, and six young women, four from Dublin and two Poles.

In addition, the gardaí had escorted off the premises a doctor, who had been caught in fragrante delicto, a journalist, lorry driver and barman, who had all been ordered to stay in Dublin pending the outcome of the investigation. Vinny was aghast Spud should have been carrying on behind his back like this. He had warmed to the Scouse scallywag and couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was to go from bad to worse.

“You see, the thing is, Vinny,” said The Ferret. “Running a brothel is against the law in Ireland and carries a penalty of imprisonment, so we must take this seriously.”

Vinny nodded. “Absolutely Ferret, I mean inspector. He must be punished, I couldn’t agree more.”

The Ferret walked around Vinny. Standing behind him, he said softly, “You don’t get it, do you? Your tattooed mate has shopped you. He says he operated this little house of horrors with your blessing. And that he paid you a slice of the profits last month in hard cash, €1,000 he says, and another sum was due soon.”

Vinny’s blood curdled. He recalled flashing the cash from the advance in rent which Spud had given him in January and shivered.

“We have a witness in Foley’s who says you were throwing 50s behind the bar in like snuff at a wake, which is not like you apparently.”

Vinny didn’t like the line of questioning, nor The Ferret’s obtuse logic, but he said nothing.

“You see,” continued The Ferret. “I’ve just left your friend in a cell. He says you’re the “Mister Big” behind a prostitution racket across the city, and he’s only a small cog in the operation. What have you to say to that?”

Vinny said nothing, His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, which wasn’t a pretty sight. His mind was numb. “I’ll tell you what, Vinny. Why don’t you spend a wee while in a quiet room down the corner? I find solitude can be a good thing when it comes to clear thinking,” said The Ferret.

The next thing Vinny knew was a sound he would take to his grave as a lock slammed shut and a key was turned in a squeaky lock. He was in a small, windowless, room with four hard-backed chairs and a table. “Good God, what have I done?” he said aloud before clasping his potato-shaped head in his hands.

It had been the start of a wretched time in which Vinny had gone through an emotional wringer. The Ferret had left him stew all night before releasing him the next morning and warning him not to leave the city limits.

Twice, he had been summoned back to the station, scared out of his wits. Each time, The Ferret, together with another cop, a broken-nosed giant, had badgered him for the locations of other brothels, the names of his pimps. Vinny couldn’t help because he knew nothing and had pleaded his innocence.

He was so ashamed at falling for Spud’s antics that he hadn’t the heart to tell Angie. He also sensed that throwing the rent money around in Foley’s made him look, at best, like a “Big Time Charlie” – at worst, a beneficiary of ill-gotten gains.

After pulling out of the final days of canvass citing exhaustion, Vinny made a phone call the night before the election to the returning officer in the constituency of Dublin North Central explaining he was withdrawing his candidacy for reasons he couldn’t articulate. He apologised deeply and said he would accept whatever punishment was meted out.

The returning officer said the Garda would have to be informed of this most irregular, and grossly inconvenient, circumstance.

He had also tut-tutted at having to contact every polling station in the constituency before 7am in the morning to ensure a line was drawn through ‘Vincent Fitzpatrick, Non-Party’ on all ballot papers. “You will never be able to stand again,” he chided.

Vinny thought of all the honest folk who said they’d give him their first preference vote, the drivers in the garage, the Clontarf Crooners, the lads in Foley’s and Boru Betting. He thought too of his rousing speech in Chanel College which brought the house down, and felt a lump rise in his throat. He was letting all these people down.

After the phone call, he sobbed so loud that Angie, who had been putting the twins to bed, rushed downstairs to find her husband puffy-eyed and distraught. It was then that Vinny cracked, spouting out the torment inside him in great Vesuvian gulps.

That had been Thursday night. Within 24 hours, Angie had Vinny’s life back on a straighter keel after she’d engaged Bob Farquarhson, a high-brow legal eagle from Clontarf tennis club, to take up her husband’s cause. Farquarhson had promptly decamped at Clontarf Station where he’d established Vinny had never been charged, had no case to answer, and had almost been the victim of a serious injustice. “It’s mind-boggling to think Inspector Flanagan, with his experience in the force, should trust the word of a rogue like Murphy with form as long as your arm. Tell me, did you ever do anything to upset him, Vinny?” wondered the avuncular lawyer.

Vinny thought back to fourth class in St Joey’s when he’d come up with a nickname for an unpopular pupil that stuck. “No, I’ve never had a cross word with that man in my life,” he said without a flicker of emotion.

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