The Miracle Man (17 page)

Mrs McKay let the newspaper fall to her knees and said aloud,

“Did ever you hear the likes of it? That drunken wee skitter McGhee has done it now. Played right into the hands of this fella here,” she said, nodding towards the empty study
across the hall where Father Burke’s rough sketches for a shrine, a car park and a two-lane highway to the Mass Rock lay spread out on his desk.

Walking a little stiffly because of the arthritis gnawing at his knees and hips, Bishop Tooley came into his sitting-room, where he saw Father Burke reading a breviary and sitting in his chair, no less. The young parish priest continued to read for a few seconds before looking up. Piety, the Bishop thought, or just a hint of arrogance? On the other side of the fireplace he slowly lowered himself onto the hard, straight-backed chair which should have been taken by his much younger visitor. Father Burke got to his feet and they shook hands.

“Good afternoon, Bishop Tooley. I trust you are keeping well?”

There was an eagerness about this young man, a kind of missionary zeal that the Bishop didn’t much care for. It almost always spelt some kind of trouble. Couldn’t they find any priests that were, well, ordinary? If it wasn’t rabid Republicans who wanted to convert all Protestants to Catholicism by force – like those Spaniards in South America did to the natives a few centuries back – and have the whole of Ireland speaking Gaelic within a decade, it was young sophisticates who openly advocated, Liberation Theology and married clergy and talked about “packing it in” – God forgive them – if they decided it wasn’t for them. And what was it this fellow had said he wanted anyway?

“Good afternoon to you, Father. Don’t let me keep you from your breviary.”

“Oh, not at all, Bishop, not at all.” He closed the book and patted it lovingly. “It’s very good for passing a spare moment. Always have it within easy reach,” he said and then added quickly, “as I’m sure you do yourself.”

Bishop Tooley remembered the fellow now. Difficult to
make out what he was saying sometimes, what with the hearing going a bit and his Dublin accent. If only there were more vocations to the priesthood from local young men. Look at that time in Ballymane when they had a priest from Clare. Nobody could understand a living word out of him. Nor could the priest make out a word of theirs in the confessional. Weren’t there some people coming out of confession not knowing whether they had been given absolution or not and others claiming to have gotten away with adultery at the price of just a Hail Mary and a Glory Be. One old woman had been in tears, convinced that she’d been told to say a hundred decades of the rosary by “that clown from County Clare”, as he had come to be called, simply for having put salt instead of sugar in her neighbour’s tea because of some minor slight. There were even parishioners who demanded that a tariff of each possible sin and its penance be pinned up on the church noticeboard so that each person could check if he or she had been sentenced in an equitable manner. What’s this his name had been? Father Finnerty? Finaghy? No, wasn’t that where the Orangemen held a parade every year?

“Thank you for sparing me the time, Bishop”, the young priest broke into the bishop’s thoughts. “I know how very busy they keep you.”

Busy, did he say? He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Yes, at this time he would normally have been busy – taking a nap.

“What can I do for you, Father?” The name just escaped him for the moment, but it would come, it would come.

“You might recall, Bishop, that a few days ago I telephoned you to discuss a rather unusual occurrence in my parish – Inisbreen – where a man had apparently experienced an instantaneous cure to what had been a lifelong affliction.”

Burke, that was the fellow. He’d once known a family by
that name, from Galway, wasn’t it? Father was a headmaster. Lovely man. Obviously no relation to this man.

“At the time, Bishop, I think you were – quite rightly, I’m sure – somewhat sceptical, although I must say I never had any serious doubts about it myself. Now, however,” in a burst of enthusiasm Father Burke sat forward and clasped his knees, “my suspicions have been totally vindicated. Yesterday evening, two independent witnesses saw the self-same thing at the precise spot where the previous incident occurred, what would appear to be a vision of the Blessed Virgin herself.” The young priest sat back with a smile of self-satisfaction, but the Bishop regarded Father Burke with some incomprehension. Of course people had to bear witness to the Blessed Virgin, had to have a vision of her, as Mother of the human race, as intermediary with the Lord. That went without saying. Surely the man hadn’t come all this way to tell him that. In the circumstances, though, it might be better to humour him. At least he hadn’t come to say he was “packing it in” or wanting to discuss Liberation Theology, thank the Good Lord.

“I agree with you, Father. Yes, indeed I do.”

“You do?” Father Burke looked surprised. “Well, I’m very glad to hear that, Bishop.” He smiled and nodded. “Very glad indeed. So, what do you think I should do about it? I was thinking of perhaps,” Father Burke held his hands apart, as though the thought had just occurred to him, “having a shrine built. Oh, nothing elaborate of course, and naturally it would be paid for by public subscription. I mean, it’s early days yet and confirmation is needed, but we really should plan ahead.”

“Plan ahead, did you say? Isn’t the Christian life all about planning ahead, Father? Planning, by our actions in this life, for our existence in the next one? There is nothing – “ he held up an emphatic if wavering index finger, “ – nothing, that will repay an individual as much as devotion to our Blessed Mother – after the Lord Jesus, of course.” What did they teach them
nowadays, that he had to come and ask questions like these? He should’ve learned these things at his mother’s knee. Unless, of course, he had been the product of a mixed marriage. Or, given his age and zealousness, had he been ensnared by the principles of Liberation Theology – whatever they were?

“So I have your support in this, Bishop?”

“My what?”

“Your support, Bishop. Your – blessing.”

Bishop Tooley looked at Father Burke for what seemed like rather a long time and then, suppressing a shake of his head, slowly raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross, whispering,

“In nomini Patris, et Filiis, et Spiritu Sanctum, Amen.” The Latin still came easiest to him. The young priest at first looked a little bewildered, then smiled hugely and told his superior, “Thank you, Bishop. Thank you very much indeed. You can safely leave this matter entirely in my hands. I’ll keep you fully informed of developments – “ he smiled again, “ – both literal and figurative. And I’ll get to work on plans for that shrine right away.”

Bishop Tooley was happy at seeing the young priest smile. A little shrine to the Blessed Virgin would be nice. It obviously didn’t take much to please the fellow. A blessing and a few words of encouragement. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so difficult after all. Now perhaps he would go away, settle into his new parish and run it quietly and efficiently. He had met one like this many years before. Made a big fuss at the beginning and then quickly settled down. Hardly ever heard from him after that. Or was he getting him mixed up with the one who ran off with the headmaster’s wife? God willing, this one would go about his business and ensure that both of them had a nice, quiet life.

Just after lunch-time, and with two stiff whiskies inside him to
fortify himself for the coming ordeal, Fergus Keane called Harry Martyn, his editor on the Northern Reporter.

“Mr Martyn? It’s Fergus Keane here.”

“Keane? Oh, yes, Keane. What’s the point in saying, ‘It’s Fergus Keane here’? Where the hell is ‘here’?”

“Inisbreen, Mr Martyn. You know, following up the Mass Rock Miracle story? You printed my piece this morning.”

“Did I?” There was a pause. “Yes, I suppose I did. It’s a wonder I can remember my own name, the amount of work I’ve got to do around here.”

“And – it’s an exclusive, Mr Martyn. A complete exclusive. Can you put that on my next piece? I negotiated that with the Miracle Man himself.”

That was the way to do it. Give him the good news first, and then while he was expressing his approval, slip in the bit about the five hundred.

“Oh God, you didn’t promise him any money, did you? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred bloody times, Keane. No chequebook journalism. Apart from the fact that it costs money – which this journal does not possess – I don’t hold with it. It’s against my principles. So you’ll just have to tell him he’s getting nothing, d’you understand, not a penny, not a brass razoo. Tell me that you understand, Keane.”

Fergus Keane, being a university graduate, had thought of this possibility, and had devised a stratagem.

“But – Mr Martyn, I’ve signed an agreement on behalf of the paper. Doesn’t that constitute a legally binding document? I mean, I wouldn’t want him to sue us or anything. It could cost a fortune. Perhaps even put us out of business altogether.”

“Oh, God Almighty, how much for, Keane? How much have you signed a bloody document for, you pillock?”

“Only – five hundred pounds, Mr Martyn.”

“Five – hundred – pounds!” Each word sounded as if it had been wrung from the very heart of the editor of the Northern
Reporter and as such intimated that he would break down and become incoherent at any moment.

“Five hundred – ? Have you gone totally out of your mind, Keane? Have you any conception,” Mr Martyn’s voice rose to such a pitch that he could have been in contention for female lead at the Royal Opera House, “any clue whatsoever of how many small ads that represents?”

“But, it’s a world exclusive, Mr Martyn – and the Northern Reporter’s got it.”

A pitiful groan escaped the editor and slithered down the line to Inisbreen.

“And you believe it’s a genuine story?”

“Oh yes, Mr Martyn, I certainly do.”

“And you think it’s going to run and run, do you?”

“Definitely, Mr Martyn. Or should I really say, absolutely indefinitely.” Fergus’s modest attempt at humour, which he thought rather good in the circumstances, evoked no response in kind.

“Well in that case – we’ll pay the money.”

“Really? Oh, thank you, Mr Martyn. That’s terrific. I can’t say how pleased I am that – ”

“And it’ll be deducted from your salary.”

For a moment there was complete silence on the line.

“But – Mr Martyn – I can’t afford that!”

“I’ll take it out of your salary rise.”

“Oh, I didn’t know I was getting one.”

“You won’t be. Not for the next three years,” the last two words were shouted, “at least!”

“But it’s an exclusive, Mr Martyn. Think of the increased circulation.”

“The only increased circulation around here will be mine – at the thought of paying five – hundred – bloody – quid!” And then the editor’s voice sank low, taking on almost a pleading tone. “Keane, Keane, Keane. Where the hell’ve you been all
your life? It’s only an exclusive until some rag comes along and offers him a few quid more. And anyway, it’s dull, Keane, dull, dull, dull. Isn’t there any sex angle you can put into this? What readers want is something to brighten up their drab lives, take them out of their pedestrian rut. You know, ‘Geriatric sex addict runs off with schoolgirl bank robber.’ That sort of thing. Bring back a story like that, Keane, and promotion will be rapid and substantial. So this old guy’s leg’s been cured. So what? End of story. He’s not going to have a miracle happen to him every week, is he? Has anybody else had a miracle happen to them?”

“Well, no, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. But other people have now seen the vision and there’s a stream that’s appeared beside the Mass Rock. The locals are saying that it’s holy water.”

“Well, that might run, Keane, but this story bloody won’t. Next week it’ll be as dead as a dodo. So you can tell your man that we’re not writing his story and he can forget about the five hundred – agreement or no agreement, signature or not. You get yourself back here, pronto. There are two art exhibitions and a council meeting coming up and I’ve got nobody to cover them.” There was a slurping sound from Harry Martyn as he gulped another draught of tea the colour of rust. “And don’t come in here waving a big bunch of expenses, son, because you won’t bloody get them.”

“But Mr Martyn, I can’t come back! This is a big story, an exclusive. All the newspapers in Ireland will be onto this now. And then the English ones, not to mention tv and radio. I’ve got to stay here and follow it up.”

Fergus Keane heard a long and painful sigh.

“Keane, believe me, I’ve had plenty years of experience of this kind of thing. Miracle stories are ten-a-penny in Ireland. Too many tossers wandering around with their heads full of drink and bloody leprechauns. This is a bummer, Keane. In a few days you’ll probably find out it was a hoax.”

“Oh no, Mr Martyn, it’s genuine. I know it is. In fact, I would stake my reputation on it.”

“Keane, you little prat, you don’t have a bloody reputation! Now would you get yourself back up here, in double quick time.”

Fergus stood for a moment, heart beating fast, watching his reflection in the glass of the telephone box as he composed a determined countenance, more for the impressive reflection of his face in the glass than for any effect it might have on his voice. Then he said, slowly and very evenly,

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr Martyn. It’s my duty to stay here and uncover the truth. And you’ll see, I’ll prove to you that I’m right.”

And then to his own amazement Fergus gently replaced the receiver and stood for a few moments trembling with excitement at his own audacity and the prospect of success that lay before him. Just before he stepped out of the telephone box, he squared his shoulders and allowed a casual grin to slant one side of his mouth. That too looked good in the reflection, he felt good, his instincts were good, and he had now mastered every aspect of this job. He didn’t need any editor, and certainly not Harry Martyn, to tell him when he was onto a big story. He would send in the best damned pieces that had ever been printed in the Northern Reporter, or any other paper, for that matter. And when The Times and The Daily Telegraph were chasing him – The Washington Post flitted through his mind but he thought it was a little premature for that – when the big London dailies were offering him a fortune to go and work for them, he would tell Harry Martyn where to stick his job. But if he didn’t pay the miracle man his five hundred, there would be no exclusive, no fame, no fortune. So, he would just have to take it out of his own meagre savings. It would be an investment in his talent. And after the story went nation-wide and every paper was clamouring to get the inside track, Harry
Martyn would be rushing to pay him back his five hundred, and a nice fat bonus on top of it as well.