BOOK ONE
TO HELL OR THE HIGH COURT
Thanks Mam and Dad for believing in me,
Thanks Katie for being such a cool person,
Thanks Lily for the hugs, the loves and for being you.
OUR LEVEL OF LIBERTY WAS A LOTTERY OF BIRTH
DETERMINED BY THE LONGITUDE AND LATITUDE OF OUR DELIVERY.
I CHOOSE TO USE MY FREEDOM,
AFTER ALL, THEY CAN'T SHOOT ME.
This is my story, this is a true story.
Ramshorn Republic
by Martin McMahon
Copyright 2012 Martin McMahon
All rights reserved
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1311-2
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
FOREWORD
You were robbed. You know it, I know it, we all goddamned know it. I am sick to the back teeth of hearing ‘we partied now we pay the price’. What's this ‘We’ business paleface? I didn’t party, I worked, much the same as the majority, yes majority, of working stiffs in this Ramshorn Republic. You think I should pay for your corruption? Think again.
Ten years ago I wrote the first three chapters of this book. I dusted them off yesterday and read them almost like it was the first time. Ten years evaporated in an instant and an old familiar feeling rose in the pit of my belly. We were robbed, all of us, and I saw it happen before my eyes. I have a clear conscience about it all though because I blew that whistle ‘till it broke. ‘Everyone's happy’ I was told, ‘why rock the boat?’
Ten years on, everyone is not happy. Now they take from the meekest in society to pay the bills of the few.
Want to know how you were robbed? Well come on in and take a seat. This is not going to be some vague concept explained in abstract terms, oh no, that’s just not my thing, this is gritty realism, names, dates, the lot. I’ve left the first three chapters unchanged, maybe time has mellowed my outlook on the rest of it, but I doubt it.
Ten years ago I summarized the story for prospective publishers;
‘This is the story of a multimillion euro tax scandal. It exposes a conspiracy between elements of the State and Industry. It is based upon over two hundred documents legally obtained through Data Protection and FOI. Further evidence is provided in the form of judicial and quasi-judicial proceedings and first hand interviews with key individuals along with articles from publications as diverse as Business and Finance and An Phoblacht. Much of the information it contains is already in the public domain and this story organises that information into a cohesive form that propels the reader through a whirlwind of conspiracy and corruption before finally exposing the shocking truth. The unusual perspective of the author serves to considerably widen the appeal of this story. In essence it is a David and Goliath story with all the highs and lows one would expect of a great read. Complex legal argument is deciphered and explained in the author’s own unique style in such a way that even the most inexperienced reader can easily follow. The story is set in a modern Dublin with contemporary and colourful language contrasting with the rigidly controlled legal argument and interpretation investigated by the author. This is an everyman story but is unique in its genre’.
Now ten years on, with our country in the crapper, I’d add this line, ‘There would be no need for austerity if the forces of the state recovered what was stolen.
Chapter One
The Game
September 2000
It rained and it rained and it rained. My wet gear had given up trying after the first hour. I was soaked through three layers, soaked through to the skin. Rivulets of chilled rainwater found a way past my helmet and rolled down the back of my neck. I shivered and twisted the throttle back a fraction. The rear wheel spun for a second in the river of rubbish, filth and rainwater that flowed down Shelbourne Road. I eased off a little and watched a car plough straight through the stinking oily pool that had gathered under the railway bridge on South Lotts Road. A wave of backwash flowed over my boots leaving a ketchup stained burger wrapper stuck to the bottom of the front forks, the next wave washed it away.
“28” Somers voice screeched over the two way radio.
I reached for the radio strapped to my right shoulder. My gloves were soaked through and through, so much so that I couldn’t feel the transmit button.
“28” Somers yelled again, “28 Martin, where the fuck are you?”
I pulled quickly to the kerb and flipped the tinted visor up. The driving rain stung my face. I squinted through the discomfort. Using my teeth, I pulled the dripping wet glove from my right hand. The skin on my hand was jet black where the dye had run from the glove.
“Go ahead” I shouted through the radio.
“Where are you?” Somers shouted.
He knew exactly where I was.
“South Lotts for the IFSC, Alexandra Road and back to Shell in Clonsky” I answered, “same as this time yesterday and the day before and the day before…”
“Thomas Street for the base by five” Somers cut across me.
“It's a motorbike I'm on not a goddamned rocket”.
“Just do it” he ordered.
There was no way I could make it. Forty-five minutes through rush hour traffic, not a chance and Somers knew it. He was trying to provoke an argument. I didn’t rise to it.
“There's another one in Fairview for Knocklyon” Somers voice blared again.
It had been like this all day. For eight hours I'd raced through the city, picking up here dropping off there. Somers was pushing me hard. They wanted me out, I knew it, they knew it. I flipped the visor down and pulled away from the kerb. Just as I passed through the deepest part of the flood the engine revs dropped off. I twisted the throttle back all the way but it wasn’t enough. It spluttered briefly and died. Water had gotten in somewhere. I tried to get it going but gave up after a few minutes.
“Shit” I mumbled not really caring.
“28” I yelled into the radio.
