About the Novel
Acts of Allegiance
Nominated for the International Dublin Literary Award 2019
“Acts of Allegiance is a wonderful brew of a book about politics, family, violence,
love, betrayal – life, in other words. Peter Cunningham has written a winner.”
– John Banville
Paris: May, 1969. Scents of spring blossom, coffee and high-octane petrol. Irish diplomat Marty Ransom has been summoned to meet Charles J. Haughey, the Irish Minister for Finance what’s decided between them will change the course of Irish history. The Minister wants a go-between with the new IRA faction in the North: he knows a key player is Marty’s cousin Ignatius. He has no idea Marty is reporting to MI5 in Dublin. As the deadly endgame draws near, Marty must choose between the past and all he holds dear.
Reviews
“Acts of Allegiance is a wonderful brew of a book about politics, family, violence,
love, betrayal – life, in other words. Peter Cunningham has written a winner.”
– John Banville
“[A] masterful novel. The sign of a great writer is to take the personal and specific
and draw out what is universal about it, and Peter Cunningham achieves this with
tremendous skill.”
– Jane Casey – The Irish Times
“The prose is rich and silken. Cunningham is one of this country’s more cherished
storytellers…”
– Hilary White – Sunday Independent
“Acts of Allegiance is a rare find that manages to combine literary lyricism with a satisfyingly propulsive, airtight plot. [A] cracking tale of espionage, state secrets and betrayal… [t]his book is an intriguing excavation of how the personal and political can tragically collide.
This novel couldn’t be better-timed, as Brexit causes border talks to resurface and the ties between Britain and Ireland are brought into question all over again.”
– Maryam Madani – Totally Dublin
“[T]inged with lost innocence …intriguing…. a novel of ideas..”
– Edel Coffey Irish Independent
Extract
“He calls it the explosion. Not the bomb, or the outrage. The explosion. He always describes it in the same way: an ear-sucking frenzy that bursts from shops and houses and lacerates the air. A towering force in which bicycles and books are bizarrely suspended. He recounts how he is rammed face down to the road, how the earth tilts sharply, like the deck of a listing ship, so that he feels he is slipping off, and grabs at the egg- smeared cobbles to save himself. He describes how his ears whine at high pitch, and how, when he regains his feet, choking, he can hear distant geese in fright, and only gradually realises they are house alarms. His account of how he stumbles through the slabs of dust, blood in his mouth, never wanting to arrive, reciting old prayers, begging for mercy, is always the same.”
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