PLATFORM:Maverick must take the fight to the white collar gang and the brown envelope brigade, writes MARGARET E WARD.

WANTED: MAVERICK gunslinger to cut down enemies of the State.

Year 2010: Tumbleweed blows through the empty streets of the International Financial Services Centre. The once proud little place in the wild west of Europe is almost abandoned. A few nervous survivors squint through cracked glass at the young, fair-haired woman outside. She is wearing sandals and walking carefully through the bank statements and construction dust swirling around her.

“Hello. Is anyone there?” the tanned blonde shouts at the large buildings. A shrouded, emaciated figure scurries down the steps, grabs her hand and pulls her roughly inside.

“Shhh. You don’t want them to hear you,” says the old woman.

The girl is visibly shaken. “What happened here? Who are you? Who are they?”

“I am Cathleen and this is a damned place. You shouldn’t be here. Go now – while you can.”

“Wait. I’m so confused. My name is Sorcha. I used to work here, but I left for Australia in late 2008. That was only two years ago!”

Cathleen: “Much has changed. A great gang of bandits swept through the land. We were all robbed blind – in broad daylight – and the populace is very frightened and incredibly broke.”

Sorcha: “What about the sheriff and the governor? Why aren’t they doing anything about the outlaws?”

Cathleen: “The sheriff disappeared when things got tough and the governor ...”

The old woman bares her teeth in a growl.

Sorcha: “Omigosh. Why did you make that horrible face?”

Cathleen: “He’s locked away in a big building in the city centre. They say he’s very unpredictable. One minute he’s singing Frank Sinatra’s My Way and the next he’s mumbling ‘what’ll we do, what’ll we do?’ in a small, trembling voice.

Sorcha: “There must be more of you than there are of them. Why don’t you all get together and do something about it?”

Cathleen: “Well, laws don’t apply to the white collar gang or the brown envelope brigade like they do for us citizens. Anytime we try to have a voice – on equality, democracy, consumer rights and government accountability – we are silenced. Besides, there’s no fight in us now. Personally, I have nothing left.” She stretches her arms wistfully around the room.

Sorcha: “Don’t tell me you live here? It’s an old bank branch, not an apartment!”

Cathleen: “The wealth was taken from me. My four beautiful overseas properties had to be put up for auction. My pension is gone.”

Sorcha: “Someone must be able to help. Where is everyone?”

She moves towards the door.

Cathleen: “Be careful; there is a hard wind outside.”

She looks into the distance, catching a memory. “The people needed a leader, but no one came.”

Sorcha: “There is always hope. America maybe?”

Cathleen: “No. They have problems of their own. Perhaps? Hmm. There was a legend told in 2009 about a mysterious stranger who would ride in from the Border to save the day.”

Sorcha: “Tell me more. Can I phone or e-mail this person?”

Cathleen: “Impossible. You’ll never get through. In desperation, we tried his favourite form of communication last week – a full-page newspaper ad. Here. We’re still waiting for a sign.”

Sorcha opens the folded page and reads it out loud “Wanted: Maverick gunslinger to eradicate citizens’ enemies.”

Cathleen: “They say he’s a businessman, a frontiersman and a cattle rancher. He wears the striped shirts and heeled boots that are the marks of his clan. Most Dublin people won’t even cross over into that cowboy’s county – Westmeath – for fear of getting the chop.”

Sorcha: “He sounds frightening.”

Cathleen: “Maybe so, but the myth says he’s also very efficient at eradicating waste and wasters. He makes quick, tough financial decisions and carries them through.”

Sorcha: “You make him sound like Superman. No one can fix everything overnight.

“Shouldn’t you all be taking responsibility for what the Government is doing, or not doing, with your money? You still pay taxes. It is your money after all.”

Cathleen: “We know nothing. We see nothing. We point fingers. We do nothing. We will be remembered for nothing. We are waiting . . . for something.”

Sorcha: “I’ll go then. May I have your shroud? It is cold out. I’ll go back to Oz while you wait for a gunslinger, any gunslinger, to answer the call.”

Sorcha walks out into the grey evening, her stooped shoulders giving her the walk of a defeated old woman.

• Margaret E Ward is a journalist and managing director of Clear Ink