Line of Flight.
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McAllister’s Line of Flight is more than just another thriller; it explores the aftermath of a peace process that has left fear, doubt and loathing to breed under the shiny new skin of reinvestment, forming a volatile cocktail that needs but the barest spark to ignite. McAllister’s skill at capturing the language and nuances of the main factions is impressive, but the warning it provides for those waging a war on terror is terrifying for us all.
This is the new Ireland, where the guns of former “freedom fighters” control drugs, money laundering, prostitution, the protection rackets…
Any money that Jimmy Terrance earned was by the sweat of his brow. Yet – or because of this – the Loyalist Council ask him to act as honest broker in a dispute between them and the IRA.
Old enemies form new alliances based on greed and power, and Jimmy’s own men start to die: by bullet, by bomb – and a harmless old car-park attendant is burned to death.
Jimmy finds himself fighting for not only the Peace Process and the life of the Queen of England, but the very existence of his own family.
McAllister’s Line of Flight is more than just another thriller;
it explores the aftermath of a peace process that has left fear, doubt
and loathing to breed under the shiny new skin of reinvestment, forming
a volatile cocktail that needs but the barest spark to ignite. McAllister’s
skill at capturing the language and nuances of the main factions is impressive,
but the warning it provides for those waging a war on terror is terrifying
for us all.
"a strong charge of authenticity." - The
Guardian
Sam Millar:
Line of Flight is a gripping read. It draws you in immediately and keeps you
captivated right to the very last page.
The Irish Times:
A fast paced thriller... complete with the suspense, the chase, the thrills
and the spills.
Black Mountain Review:
McAllister’s command of plot and breakneck pacing is impressive.
Extract From Line of Flight.
JIMMY AT HOME
Jimmy’s wife, Eleanor, took the call. She had a quick draw for the
phone when one of the children was out late. She was incensed; she was
outraged at her wee boy spending the night with that woman.
‘Is this what I raised you for, raised you decent?’
‘Mum, I’m over twenty-one,’ said JP, and hung up.
Eleanor raved on about JP’s immortal soul and how he was putting it at
risk by fornicating with a whore of Rome. She told Jimmy, ‘A woman like
that, he could get anything.’ She marked JP down as having Aids and
went back to sleep, happy with that thought.
Aids and immortal souls were the last thing on Jimmy’s mind. If certain
people on either side found out about the affair JP might end up dead in a nasty
sort of way. He didn’t even bother trying to sleep after that, he
slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs.
On the way he looked into Sandra’s room. The quilt had slipped a bit; he
straightened it. The sight of his daughter’s foot sticking out, the
light airiness of the room with its soft pinks, made him feel tender and
loving towards them all. He stood there for a time because he knew the
problems would start in the kitchen. Finally he shifted himself, went down
and put on the kettle.
JP returned with the false dawn.
Jimmy glared at him from over his umpteenth cup of tea: ‘You better
be fit for work.’
‘I am.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Jimmy as JP sat down in Doc’s chair.
That made Jimmy remember something: ‘The other day... That’s a good
throw you have?’ He cursed silently; he knew his voice hadn’t
come out right.
JP’s voice was strained at well: ‘The boxing club you sent
me to as a kid. Remember?’
‘Where you kept getting your head knocked off ?’
‘Things have moved on. They teach judo now to black belt stage.’
‘Bugger,’ said Jimmy, and was tempted to sort somebody for the embarrassment
he felt. He asked, casual, ‘Who runs the classes now?’
‘I do.’
Jimmy started in his seat. ‘You never said?’
‘You weren’t listening. I mean... you were busy.’ JP coloured.
‘I was so. It just didn’t register.’
They sat on. Jimmy found he enjoyed talking to his son, to this man. He
thought JP was a bit shy and unsure of himself, but there was a fine line
of steel running through his every thought. He couldn’t figure out how he’d
ever missed it.
‘Dad,’ JP leaned forward, anxious, ‘Roisin and me, we were
thinking of America, a travel agency in New York. We could funnel clients
to you. You know: tours of the battlefields of Belfast, meet the men who were
the Men Behind the Wire; that sort of thing.’
All the worries of the night exploded out of Jimmy. ‘I could wring your
neck. Have you any idea how much danger you’re in?’
‘Mick...’
‘From your own side, ass-hole!’
Jimmy found he was sweating: ‘Oh go to your bloody bed.’ He jumped
to his feet and stormed into the kitchen.
JP followed him. He hung uncertainly in the doorway. ‘Dad...’
Jimmy had the teapot in his hand; he was ready to put his boot to it. ‘What?’
‘What’s going on?
‘None of your damned business.’
‘We’re losing men.’
Jimmy put the teapot down like it was made of the finest china: ‘I don’t
want you involved. I never wanted you involved.’
Again he knew his voice wasn’t right, too much strain and too much emotion.
He covered quickly, spoke rough, ‘You’ve a lot of bridge building
to do with your mother.’
‘I suppose.’ It came out reluctantly. JP wiped at his forehead.
Jimmy saw the movement and the lack of colour around JP’s eyes. At that
moment he desperately wanted to take his son in his arms and soothe him,
to tell him that everything would be okay. Their eyes met and he knew JP wanted
the same. It was enough for the both of them.
He took his cup and digestive biscuits, opened the backdoor and looked
out. It was a good morning, overcast but clear and no hint of rain. He
threw the biscuits at the dogs and wandered into the yard sipping as he
went. He saw Doc standing at his bedroom window and waved.
Jimmy looked back. JP had followed him.
Jimmy said, ‘You were talking about America?’
The first bullet missed. The second missed as well but flattened itself
against a wall and ricocheted, catching Jimmy on the rebound. It tore through
him like a dumdum bullet. The third tagged a shoulder; the fourth clipped
his head.
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