Once upon a time in the land governed by a new coalition...

MARY HANAFIN hadn’t been Taoiseach long. She had only recently succeeded Brian Cowen, who took over from Bertie Ahern after the disastrous election of 2006.

Cowen had led the party through nine years in opposition, but had resigned after falling short of a majority at the end of the rainbow government's second term in office.

Hanafin had been the unanimous choice to succeed him, and it was she who had put the new coalition together. It hadn't been easy. The media was universally hostile, and several members of her own party harboured the deepest misgivings. But it was either do it or spend another five years in opposition, and none of them was ready for that.

This was their second meeting as a cabinet, but their first in Government Buildings. Traditionally, the first meeting of any new cabinet takes place at Áras an Uachtaráin, immediately after ministers receive their seals of office. That first meeting had taken place only a couple of nights ago, and the Taoiseach could still remember how it felt to receive her seal from the hands of President Adams.

Although, of course, he had been courteous and polite, there was no disguising the satisfaction, triumph even, in those normally impenetrable eyes of his.

And why not, the Taoiseach thought.

It had been astonishing when he had won the presidency a few years ago, in an election that had convulsed the people. But now here he was, presiding over the formation of the first Fianna Fáil/Sinn Féin government in the history of the State. While many had regarded it as a logical outcome to the peace process, and a way of embedding Sinn Féin into the democratic process, others were very nervous.

Gerry Adams in the Áras that was one thing, but at least the presidency was a symbolic post, with no executive power. The thought of Sinn Féin in government still had the power to frighten the lives out of a lot of commentators, and to generate a lot of hostility to the newly-formed government.

But there was work to be done. Despite the continuing growth of the economy, and the fact that Ireland was now a good deal richer than America, crime had burgeoned in recent years. Youth gangs had become an urban crisis. Patrolling every night in their souped-up cars, they were a law unto themselves.

In the more disadvantaged areas of Dublin, drive-by shootings had become common. The solutions that had been tried in the early years of the century which involved criminalising hundreds of young people while continuing to ignore the conditions in which they lived had only succeeded in producing a hard core of hardened gang members, with no respect for authority, for the police, or even, it often seemed, for their own lives.

Hanafin had been education minister in those early years, and she often regretted now the fact that not nearly enough had been done to recognise the growing alienation of these young people, and the despair already evident in many of their communities. What might have worked then would certainly not work now. Now, only an even heavier security response was possible. Heads would have to be knocked together, even if it meant people getting seriously hurt in the process.

She wasn't sure if she could bring Sinn Féin along with the steps that she believed were necessary. For years, Sinn Féin had campaigned about issues of equality and disadvantage, and their rhetoric had been very hostile to any idea of stronger police action in the neighbourhoods. Of course, there had

always been suspicion that Sinn Féin had been active in fomenting some of the unrest, and one Sinn Féin councillor had been arrested a couple of years ago on suspicion of supplying guns to some of the gangs.

The party had always denied any involvement, and had consistently argued that the solution to the issue lay in better housing, more educational investment, and better services in the local communities. How would they react now they were in charge? To the Taoiseach's surprise, however, the Tánaiste had a plan already worked out.

"It's the Government that runs the country," the Tánaiste said, "not these gangs of youths and wasters. I'm proposing we send a special force in there right now to clean them out. We employ massive force, take them by surprise, and just take them off the streets. There are prison camps available in the Curragh, and we can pack a lot into Castlerea now that it's empty."

It might have sounded radical, but the way Mary Lou McDonald delivered her proposal made it sound like a weekly shopping list. She had that deadpan, matter-of-fact way about her, the Taoiseach reflected, ever since she had been elected to the European Parliament and gone on to take Tony Gregory's Dáil seat in Dublin. Things were still rumoured and whispered about that campaign, but there was no doubt it had been a turning point for Sinn Féin.

Up to then, they had never succeeded in electing anyone who could credibly be offered as a minister, but Mary Lou's election, and her subsequent elevation to the post of campaign manager for President Adams, had given her the profile the party needed to campaign for government. Now, as Tánaiste, she was in a position of real power just like her counterpart Martin McGuinness, now in his 10th year as First Minister in Northern Ireland after the

Assembly elections of 2006 made Sinn Féin the largest party there.

"I'm not sure what you mean by special force," the Taoiseach said, "and you're surely not proposing to intern these young people?"

"I don't care for the word internment," the Tánaiste said. "I think we should call it corrective custody. And we have the men for the job they're trained and ready. We might have to find a way of calling them special reserves, or something, but I promise you they're good at cleaning out young fellas who don't toe the line."

"It sounds like you're talking about the provos of old," the Taoiseach said. "But they were all stood down back in 2005. They wouldn't be much use to anyone now."

"They were never stood down," the Tánaiste said. "Sure, the guns were given up, or most of them. But the organisation never disbanded, and we kept all the disciplinary instructions intact. There were fairly healthy financial reserves available to us back then, and that has enabled us to keep 1,500 men well-trained and disciplined. They're perfect for this job all we have to do is decide what we call them."

The Taoiseach decided not to react to the idea of the provos' "financial reserves". Of course, she had known for some time that there was still a hard core of provo troops, though it came as a shock to realise how big it was.

"Just as well, I suppose," she said, "that we have this job for them to do. I'd hate to think what you might be planning for them otherwise."

The Tánaiste didn't reply. She just smiled. And suddenly, the Taoiseach was scared. My God, she thought to herself, what have I done?