![]() It was with surprise, then, that I recognised a relatively short guy in cargo shorts standing at the base of the monument and watching a volleyball game with interest. I’d been reading his work, his commentary from the communist block in Oradea my colleague Seamus had photographed – Tierney blank-eyed before a stairwell like a ruby oubliette – and I had a sense of a man who would stalk and lurk and turn spontaneously. There were people in the meadow, sitting in picnic groups or kicking balls, but I felt I would be able to spot Tierney easily. He advised us to watch out, always, for obelisks, since these were a symbol, and the greatest of these is the Wellington Monument. He had an interest in the reach and depravity of masonic brotherhoods throughout history and published pamphlets about it himself because the publishing industry was controlled by masons. In the morning, as we waited in the parlour of taxidermy birds, the proprietor came to talk to us – Clara is patient with people – about masons. Last year I ran a half-marathon and Clara and I spent the night in a B&B. After this I made for the Wellington Monument. ![]() The sound ground earthily around me with bikes clicking, crickets creaking, children, car engines. ![]() I realised on reaching the park that the toilets were shut, so I found a tree poured out like a porch and opened my fly. ![]()
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