The Miracle Man (37 page)

“And you didn’t think you should tell me? I mean, you let me carry on under the delusion that everything was fine and that – ”

“Now I wouldn’t go reading too much into that, Father. You know what the boys around here are like. It was probably only a bit of fun.”

“Oh no, this was no bit of fun, Mrs McKay. It was him all along, this Seamus Kernohan. But I’ll bet someone put him up to it.” He punched one hand into the palm of the other. “I should’ve stuck with my intuition. I just knew it was a fraud. I just knew it.” He turned away. His shoulders seemed to have sagged even more, his hands kneading each other in front of him. “Thank you for trying to spare me, Mrs McKay, but it’s no use.” He paused in the doorway but did not look back. “I’m going to pray now, and then I’ll have to think how I’m going to tell the bishop that his visit will have to be cancelled – and that he’ll need to find a new parish priest for Inisbreen.” As he went
disconsolately across the hall to his study, he said to himself, “I wonder if they serve tea and cake in the monastery.”

Father Burke was not the only one who sensed impending disaster following the discovery of the fake Virgin Mary at Limpy McGhee’s party. Dermot had hastily arranged a meeting with Frank Kilbride and now as the evening sun threw long shadows across the valley they sat in Dermot’s car on the road to Castleglen and looked down to where Inisbreen sat astride the river at the end of the sandy bay.

“That bunch of feckin’ eejits,” Dermot said again. “Why the hell did they have to cock it up on this of all times? And just when things are building up nicely. God, they’re fighting to get into the miracle site, the hotel’s booked solid for weeks and you must be making a fortune from those bloody awful souvenirs you’re selling.”

“Just supplying a need, Dermot. Just supplying a need. But how long is that going to last now? Inisbreen’ll be a joke from one end of the county to the other and before we know it business’ll be back to where it was before you thought this up.”

“Oh you needn’t tell me. I know, I know. I’ve thought of nothing else since I heard about it.” He thumped his fist off the steering wheel. “And that was to be it. Just one last time, in front of all those witnesses and with the newspapers there and all.” He gave a sigh and looked down to where the tree-covered slope gave way to the ground containing the Mass Rock, the field which had first given him the idea. “Frank – we’ve got to do something to save this.”

“Well, the first thing you’ll have to do is tell Kernohan and the other two to keep their mouths shut.”

“D’you think I’m stupid? I’ve already done it.”

“Well, we better hurry up and decide what we’re going to do next. And there’s no way we can keep this quiet. The story’s all round the place already.” He shook his head. “I even had
Peggy May going on about it this morning, giving me her version – which amounted to, ‘That wasn’t very nice of them boys to play that trick on Mr McGhee.’ Dermot, we’ll never get another chance like – ”

But Dermot’s thoughts were racing in another direction.

“What? She said what?”

Dermot had turned and was leaning towards Frank Kilbride, staring into his face.

“Who?”

“Peggy May. Tell me again what she said.”

“‘It wasn’t very nice of them to play a trick on Mr McGhee.’”

Dermot relaxed back into his seat, a smile slowly came to his lips and he slapped a big hand onto one knee. “That’s it, Frank. That’s the get-out, d’you see? The boys were simply playing a trick on McGhee. Nothing to do with the other – real – appearances. They didn’t do it before, weren’t there, knew nothing about it. Simple.”

“But there weren’t any real appearances.”

Dermot sighed.

“We know that, Frank, but we’ve got to make sure nobody else does, mh? It’s perfect. Just a bunch of the local lads getting pissed and having a bit of fun at Limpy’s expense. Well done Peggy May!”

Frank Kilbride considered this for a few moments. “Well, I suppose it could sound plausible.”

“Plausible? Frank, it couldn’t be better. Especially if we get – “ Dermot paused for dramatic effect, “ – the boys to admit it themselves.”

“Admit it? Who to?”

“To the press, of course,” Dermot said, and then almost shouted, “God damn it, why didn’t I think of that before? What we need, Mr Kilbride, sir, what we need is – a press conference. A bloody press conference! Let’s use them for a change. I’ll call
a press conference – and we’ll have Limpy McGhee there and John Breen and company.” There was a pause and then Dermot added, “And – one Father Ignatius Loyola Burke.”

“Burke? After what happened between you and the piano teacher? He wouldn’t come within a mile of it.”

“Oh, I think Saint Patrick’ll be there all right – if it’s put to him in the right way. He’s got as much invested in this as anybody, perhaps more. Number one, he’s been backing it right from the start. I know for a fact he’s been to see the Bishop at least twice trying to persuade him it’s genuine. Now if it appears it’s been a fake all along – and I happen to know he’s worried as hell about that – he’s going to look a complete eejit. And priests aren’t supposed to be that gullible – only their parishioners. That’s number one. Number two. I don’t think he could resist the opportunity to blow his own trumpet.”

“Well, maybe. How come you know so much about him?”

Dermot gave a little chuckle and started up the car.

“I think you’re forgetting, Frank. His housekeeper – Nora McKay? – she’s a cousin of mine.”

“Ah, Christ, you haven’t told her, have you? We agreed that we’d – ”

“Of course I haven’t bloody told her! But she’s told me plenty about our venerable parish priest, and I reckon we’ve got him by the short and curlies. Besides, I think he’s earned a little time in the limelight. We probably couldn’t have got this far without him. This thing’s got a momentum of it’s own, now. You wait and see, he’ll jump at it.”

Limpy blinked in the unaccustomed light of early morning and set off down the path that led from his house to the road. Beside him the big black dog walked obediently enough, led as he was by the long piece of string his master had looped through his collar, although the dog too was used to lying late and might well have been wondering upon what new adventure they
were now embarked, especially since Limpy carried in his other hand a battered suitcase. One clasp was broken and a piece of rope was tied around the middle of the case, which bumped against Limpy’s leg. When he had first thought of quitting Inisbreen, he had wondered how many suitcases he would need to carry all his worldly goods but had quickly if reluctantly concluded that most of what was left after the big clear-out at the river was distinctly unworldly and should have followed his kitchen table and its contents down to the sea. And he knew that if he were to throw this suitcase into the ditch now it would not make one whit of difference to the rest of his life. Not much to show for over sixty years of living.

He did not look round at the Mass Rock site as he passed. Despite the fact that his leg had been sorted by the so-called miracle, it would have been better if it had never happened. He’d been happy before, or at least not too unhappy most of the time. Now everything had changed, now he was the butt of jokes the length and breadth of the county and probably beyond. Even the dog had lately taken to pissing exclusively outside, which was welcome but disconcerting. Clearly he wasn’t happy either. Now they were off to find a new billet some place where he would be unknown and he didn’t much care where it was or perhaps even if he ever found somewhere. And even if he was discovered dead in a ditch, that might be a fitting end, as he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been born in one in the first place.

The car was past him by a few yards before it suddenly stopped and reversed to draw level with him.

“Hey, Mister McGhee!”

Limpy looked over at the car. It was Fergus Keane.

“Where’s your car?”

“Ah, don’t talk to me about cars. Bloody thing’s knackered. Engine blew. And can I get a hold of that bastard in Castleglen that sold it to me? Can I buggery! They’re quick enough about taking yer money.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you going off on a trip?”

“Aye,” Limpy said without enthusiasm, “off on a trip. And what brings ye out this early?”

“I was coming up to your place. See if I could do another piece on you. Or d’you still have the exclusive with that other paper? The one that was able to bribe you away with big money?”

“Well, I’ve still got the money and if they want it back they’ll have to find me first. But why the hell would ye want to do an article on me now?”

With surprise the young reporter looked at the old man.

“About the miracle, of course. What else?”

Limpy started walking again, so that Fergus had to let out the clutch and creep alongside him.

“What miracle? It was them boys all along. It was – a fluke – a freak – a – I don’t know what the hell it was, but it was no damned miracle. There’s nothing to tell any more. So away ye go home and write about things people want to read, hurling matches and – council meetings and stuff.”

Limpy had not stopped walking.

“But it was a miracle!” Fergus shouted. “I believed that and so did you – and you still do!”

“Aye, well, nobody else does, so there’s an end of it.”

Fergus continued to reverse the car as Limpy plodded along with the dog on one side and the case on the other. Then Fergus said all at once,

“You’re not just going on a trip, are you? You’re leaving! For good!”

“So what of it? I’m a free agent.”

Immediately Fergus slammed the gears from reverse into first, sank his foot on the accelerator and roared off down the road, spraying gravel on the dog which bore it with a fortitude that would have astounded Limpy had he not been sunk in the gloom of his thoughts. Fifty yards away the car slithered to a
halt, nose into a gateway, reversed and came flying back up the road to stop beside Limpy. The passenger door flew open.

“Get in!” Fergus commanded. Limpy stopped and looked at him. “Get in.” And when the dog made to jump up on the seat, the young reporter said, “Oh no, not in here. In the back for you – and no pissing on the seats.”

“I’m going to the bus stop,” Limpy said. “Just drop me anywhere near there.”

Fergus stopped the car by the side of the road and began to reverse into a gateway.

“It’s the other way,” Limpy said. “Into the village.”

Fergus’s words were almost lost as the car roared off in the direction from which they had just come.

“You’re not going to the bus-stop. You’re going home.”

“What? By Jasus – You listen to me, Fergus Keane. I’m catching the bus to Ballymane, an’ neither you nor – nor – the Virgin Mary herself is going to stop me.”

Fergus Keane laughed.

“Mr McGhee, you’re almost as pig-headed as me. So, where’re you going?”

“I’m going to Ballymane and then – we’ll see. What is it to you anyway, where I go?”

They had reached the path which led to Limpy’s house and Fergus pulled the car in and switched off the engine.

“Because you should be here, where you belong. Whatever anybody else says, a miracle did happen up there. Your leg was cured, wasn’t it? And there are crowds of people coming to see the miracle site, aren’t there?”

“That’s as good a reason for leaving as any,” Limpy mumbled.

“The point is, they’ve decided that a miracle has happened. This isn’t just about you any more, Mr McGhee. It’s much bigger than that now. I was the one that brought the story to the world. But you’re the man that started it all off. The Miracle
Man.” Fergus put out his hand and gripped Limpy’s arm. “This is where you should be. This is where you belong.”

Limpy looked out of the window and gave a shrug.

“I don’t know nothin’ any more. For a while there I thought I was landed. Leg fixed, bit of money, getting back with Cissy. Now everybody thinks I’m a fake – and she thinks I’m a sex maniac, thanks to you and your bloody front page headline.”

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry about that, but I was only trying to help.” Fergus turned and looked earnestly at Limpy. “I don’t think you’re a fake, Mr McGhee. I believe you. Stay here and make the rest of them believe you.”

Such an intensity of feeling shone out from the young man’s eyes that Limpy smiled in embarrassment.

“Ye’re a good lad, Fergus. Ye’ve been with me since the beginning and ye’ve held yer ground. Which is more than I can say for most.” He sat for a few moments looking out at the wooded hillsides and the green fields on either side of the river. Then he clapped a hand on his knee and declared, “Okay, I’ll give her another go, young Fergus, on your say-so.” He snorted. “Stay and do my Miracle Man act for the natives, although I’ll take no pleasure in it now. Still, I suppose it’s a small enough price to pay for the celestial transplant.”

Fergus gave a secret little smile. Sometimes the thought of how persuasive the Press could be was almost overwhelming.

Dermot sat in his little office under the stairs and hoped that Father Burke wasn’t going to bring up the subject of Nancy Quinn. As it was he felt bad enough about it, wished he’d never got involved with her – never even met the damned woman – except to buy the Mass Rock field from her, of course. Agnes and Patrick had not returned and there was little immediate prospect of their doing so, although he did have the beginnings of a plan formulating in his mind. And it was nobody’s fault but his own. He might have known better than to trust a
woman who at all times carried a spare pair of knickers in her handbag. Dermot picked up the telephone and dialled the local number. At the other end, the telephone rang and rang. He was about to give up when it was answered by Father Burke saying abruptly,

“Chapel house. Yes?”

Dermot drew a deep breath and then said in his brightest hotelier voice,

“Good morning! Is that Father Burke?”

“Yes,” the priest replied.

“Father, this is – Dermot McAllister. I know you’re a busy man, Father, but if you could give me just two minutes – ”

“I don’t have anything to say to you, Mr McAllister – except goodbye.”