Free Twisted Agendas by Damian McNicholl

bent out of shape,” said Piper. “He’s only saying what people are thinking.”
    “What kind of man are you anyway?” Pat said, turning back to Danny.
    As he rose out of his seat, Danny raised his hands but Pat snatched his jacket off the armrest. “Is the tricolour flying from Belfast City Hall yet?” he asked. “Last time I
saw, it was still the bloody Union Jack.
    Pat reminded Danny of some of the bullies at his school. They were so pugnacious, so quick to take offence.
    “Hey listen Piper, no more visits to parliament, at least not for a wee while.” He hugged Piper and then smiled at Danny. “That was some dinner she made, wasn’t
it?”
    Danny couldn’t answer, he was so amazed at how quickly Pat’s mood had changed.
    Though he’d vowed not to look at the shotgun again, Piper’s escapades at Westminster brought Danny’s uneasiness about her back and he wondered if
there’d been a sinister reason for her going there. He knelt and stretched his hand toward the far right corner of the wardrobe where he’d placed the weapon, hoping his fingertips would
feel its smooth metal snout. He felt nothing but the rough grain of the wardrobe. He shifted the bottoms of the dresses, trousers and coats and peered inside. The gun was no longer there.
    Saying she needed a break from her revision and as his German course hadn’t yet begun, Piper insisted on taking Danny on what she’d called a ‘tour of
London’s offbeat places.’ After calling at the US Embassy to renew her passport, they’d visited Saint Giles, a quaint church where Oliver Cromwell was married, and paid two pounds
apiece to climb to the top of the Monument so he could see out over the city. They were now standing in front of a three-storey house in Craven Street where the statesman Benjamin Franklin had
lived for sixteen of the eighteen years he’d spent in London.
    Throughout the tour, Danny wondered how to bring up the anxiety he felt without insulting her if he was wrong. Standing before the old house afforded him an opportunity.
    “Franklin was a revolutionary, wasn’t he?” he said to Piper, who’d now dyed her hair a colour she described as ‘Irish red’. To Danny, it looked the same
colour as an aubergine.
    “I think of him as an inventor first.”
    He pretended to mull. “Pat a bit of the revolutionary, eh?”
    “Hmm. I read in a magazine back home they’re planning to open this house to the public at some point.”
    A squadron of pigeons passed over the rooftops on their way to nearby Trafalgar Square.
    “I think Pat supports terrorism judging from last night’s comments.”
    “Franklin was very friendly with the landlady’s daughter Polly. Apparently he treated her as a second daughter while he lived here. They remained lifelong friends.”
    “Do you support terrorism?”
    “Polly was at his bedside when he died in Philly.”
    “I mean, could you shoot anybody?”
    Her deflections were as rude as they were admirable. He’d always found it difficult to turn a tricky conversation, especially with his father. Unsure now how to proceed without getting
angry, Danny glanced across the street while he considered his options. A man in a beautifully cut denim shirt with a yellow Venetian lion on its breast pocket was at the bus stop. He’d seen
the tourist at Saint Giles taking photographs. The man looked up from his newspaper and their eyes locked for an instant, before Danny turned back to Piper.
    “You’re avoiding my questions, Piper. Why?”
    Her eyes remained fixed on the shiny black front door of the house. “One person’s definition of terrorism is another’s definition of war.”
    “Is that something you learned on your course?”
    “It’s what I believe.”
    “How come you believe that?”
    “Well, seeing as we’re at Franklin’s old pad, let’s consider the case of the American patriots first. They didn’t jump on some ship and sail to England to ask the King for independence. They knew