The Miracle Man Read online

  Harry Martyn took a little longer than normal to reply.

  “They have, have they? The Church and the medical profession?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.” Fergus grasped his

  opportunity to impress. “But of course, I’ll be checking it all out. This could really be something big, Mr Martyn. I think maybe I should stay here for a day or two and follow this up. Dig out the facts, you know?”

  The “Yes” that came in reply was non-committal. “I suppose there just might be something there. Although I’ll take a lot of convincing, I’ll tell you.” But his interest had been aroused. “Keep me posted on this one, Keane. We might just be able to wring a story out of it.”

  “Will do, Mr Martyn. No problem.”

  “Okay, speak to you tomorrow.”

  And then Fergus remembered what was probably the most important thing he had to say.

  “Oh, I meant to say. I’ll be needing some – “ Fergus grimaced and closed his eyes momentarily, “ – expenses, Mr Martyn.”

  There was another silence before a verbal hand grenade was lobbed down the line.

  “Expenses! What the hell d’you want expenses for? Even if we could afford them. If you’d ever seen the bills I get here you’d know better than to ask for expenses!”

  “Well, I’m sorry but – I’ll need to stay somewhere to-night and, I don’t know, I might have to pay this man something for the exclusive story. How much do you think that should be, Mr Martyn?”

  Again, silence, before a strangled cry indicating that the editor of the Northern Reporter had spilt hot tea into his lap.

  “What? Chequebook journalism? That’s totally against my principles, Keane, especially where our money’s involved. For God’s sake, this isn’t bloody Fleet Street. Scoops, expenses, money for stories! You’re living in cloud-cuckoo land, kid.” There was a slurp of tea and then the editor told Fergus, “Look, you can have today and tomorrow to follow this up, but I want you back at this office on Tuesday morning, bright and early. And you needn’t come to me waving a bunch of extravagant expenses, because you won’t get them. And Keane, this better be good.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will, Mr Martyn,” Fergus Keane said, his mounting excitement tempered by the knowledge that he had already run up a substantial amount for his three companions in the bar. There was no reply from the other end. Mr Martyn had rung off. Fergus Keane stood in the telephone booth and squared his shoulders. This was it, he thought. This opportunity, this chance of a big scoop – he had a mental image of a little plastic shovel sliding under a dog turd and realised that the word had now been ruined for him by his editor’s callous description – had landed squarely in his lap. Was he going to seize it or let it pass and regret his action for the rest of his life? Of course he would take it. Wasn’t he going to be an ace reporter? Leaving the telephone booth and walking down the hall he swayed a little, but he put it down to the unevenness of the floor.

  The car came racing along the narrow road and slewed to a halt beside the gate that led to the Mass Rock field, sending a shower of stones into the ditch. The driver’s door was flung open and with some difficulty Fergus Keane hauled himself out to stand swaying in the middle of the road while the other three men extricated themselves from the small vehicle. Limpy was the first to emerge, followed by Pig Cully and Dan Ahearn, who stumbled to his knees and had to be helped up by the other two. Side by side they drifted across the road like an errant chorus line, before running forwards in unison towards the gate.

  “Jasus McGonagle,” Dan Ahearn said, “I’m full.”

  Pig Cully, whose small, glazed eyes looked out from a face of bright red that seemed to wobble independently of his neck, said nothing.

  Limpy stated, “She doesn’t open, boys. It’s up and over.”

  All four of them started together onto the wide gate which squeaked on its rusty hinges. Dan Ahearn was the first to the top where he clung quivering to the gnarled wood before giving a shout of “Ah, Jasus!” and falling headlong over the other side. Fergus Keane slithered over the top to join him on the ground, but Limpy picked his way nicely up one side and down the other, long practised as he was in the art of drunken gate climbing. Somehow Pig Cully had managed to get himself stuck on the top and cursing loudly had to be helped down.

  “We can do without that kind of language, Cully,” Limpy said in an officious tone. “This here’s a holy place.” And for good measure, he made the sign of the cross.

  The four of them progressed slowly across the uneven ground, with stumbling runs down inclines and teetering backwards on the upward slopes. At one point Fergus suddenly ran ahead on his own and fell into a clump of bracken. From beneath the green fronds he looked up at the three faces spinning above him and said,

  “Now I know why some people stop going to Mass.”

  Then he turned his head and was sick into the bracken. The other three simply staggered away and left him to crawl out by himself. When Limpy reached the clearing in front of the Mass Rock he held up his two arms before him.

  “There she is, boys.” A sideways stagger threw him off balance but he righted himself with some dignity. “The Mass Rock herself.” He appeared to give a little bow. Fergus staggered past him and stood looking open-mouthed at the ancient symbol of Christianity carved into the grey rock overshadowed by the surrounding trees.

  “How – old is it?” he said softly.

  “Ah, now your asking,” Limpy said. “Hundreds of years. Hundreds.”

  Behind them, Pig Cully stood stiff as a statue, while Dan Ahearn, head sunk to his chest, was stepping back and forth to maintain his balance.

  “And this is where it happened, Mr McGhee?”

  “The very spot, Fergus. I was proceeding in this direction – ”

  “You wouldn’t know how to proceed, McGhee, if your bloody life depended on it,” Pig Cully slurred. Limpy ignored the remark.

  “I was proceeding in this direction here,” he indicated with a great sweep of his arm and fell against the reporter, “like this,” he said and suddenly set off across the field in an exaggerated imitation of his former limping gait. Fergus Keane was clearly impressed. Tilted to one side, Limpy executed an arc and came hopping back towards the other three. “And then,” he said, “it happened. Flash of light. Your woman appears hanging above that rock, speaks to me and then – bang! I’m on the friggin’ deck and she’s gone.” He stopped to get his breath back.

  “Like you said, this is a religious situation,” Dan Ahearn declared in a grave if indistinct tone. “There’s no call for foul language.” He looked up at the rock and crossed himself before his legs gave way and he sat down heavily on the ground.

  “When I got up there was a helluva pain in the oul’ leg, but as I headed for the house there, she got easier and by the time I was halfway across, the leg was fair flying.” Again Limpy set off at a brisk pace, careening across the uneven ground, until he disappeared with a shout over the top of a hummock.

  “I think,” said Pig Cully, “the Miracle Man just fell on his arse.”

  His boyish features upturned and his eyes fixed firmly on the Mass Rock, Fergus Keane walked slowly towards it. As though expecting to see the Virgin Mary appear before him at any moment, his eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. Limpy’s head and shoulders appeared as he crawled over the top of the little hill, mouthing obscenities, his cap slewed sideways on his head. Then slowly down the fair-skinned face of the young reporter large tears ran and he moved forward, closing his hands before him in an attitude of prayer. Step by step he drew nearer to the rock. There was a splash from beneath his feet.

  “Shit!” he said and drew back from the little stream of water that flowed between the stones. He began to stamp his feet. Limpy came puffing up the slope and stopped, looking from the young man’s wet shoes to the running water. He gave a low whistle.

  “By Christ, boys, come and see this! C’mere!”

  With some difficulty, Dan Ahearn and Pig
Cully joined the other two and they all looked to where Limpy was pointing near the base of the rock.

  “A stream!” he said, hardly able to contain himself. “A stream, as sure as God! It’s a sign, if ever I seen one! Maybe now yous’ll believe me. That, Pig Cully, is holy water.”

  Dan Ahearn slapped his thigh and said, “Damn me,” but Pig Cully said,

  “Holy water ballocks! It’s a bloody spring, McGhee. There’s hundreds of them up and down this glen.”

  “Listen, Doubtin’ Feckin’ Thomas, in all my born days there was never a spring next or near there. I’m telling you, that’s miraculous water – so you want to show a bit of respect, Cully.”

  While the two of them began to argue about the source of the stream, Fergus Keane slowly lowered himself to a kneeling position, said softly,

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” and dipping his fingers into the water made the sign of the cross on himself. Now there was no doubt about it at all. The story must be genuine – and he would be on his way. This was going to be the biggest thing ever to hit the front page of the Northern Reporter.

  chapter eight

  In the sitting room, young Patrick McAllister sat hunched up on the couch and awaited the arrival of Miss Quinn. His hair had been wetted, parted with precision and slicked back, his grey school socks – unusually for him – were pulled tight to his knees and his crisp white shirt gave him an air of elegance and composure entirely foreign to his nature. This was the way it was every Thursday afternoon at four o’clock when he had his piano lesson in the apartment at the top of the Glens Hotel, his Mum out playing golf with her friends, his father hovering around somewhere, putting his head around the door now and then to say something like, “Very good, Patrick. When d’you think he’ll be ready for the Albert Hall, Miss Quinn?” There was nothing he disliked more than piano lessons, with their interminable scales and those little black dots dancing before his eyes, each one looking very like all the others. And Miss Quinn always made him play things over and over and over until he got them exactly right, even although sometimes he could hardly see the piano keys let alone the little black dots on account of the tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. But Miss Quinn did smell nice, especially when she leant close to him to show him what to do, with her chest – which was much bigger than Mum’s – sometimes rubbing against his cheek. And she smiled a lot and had long red hair and sometimes when his lesson was finished she would play the piano and sing a song and Dad would come in and listen to it and smile. But Patrick still didn’t like piano lessons and would much rather have been out on his bike or clambering over the rocks to look in pools for little fish and crabs and those bright red squidgy things that clung to the side of the rock and squirted water when you squeezed them.

  He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost ten past four and his spirits suddenly rose. Maybe she wasn’t coming today. He jumped to his feet and went towards the door, giving the piano a dark look as he passed it. Then he stopped, went back and closed the lid, a smile of satisfaction on his plump little face. Outside his bedroom door he stood, trying to decide whether to change into older clothes and go out to play or go as he was while the opportunity lasted and risk his mother’s wrath. It was better to go now, he decided. His father could appear at any minute and even if Miss Quinn wasn’t coming he would be made to practice until five o’clock, the time at which the lesson normally finished.

  With exaggerated steps he began to tiptoe towards the stairs. He would have to remember the squeaky floorboard on the landing outside his parents’ bedroom. If he could get past that to the stairs, he had made it, and he would be off down the back way and through the kitchen to the yard. And Mrs Megarrity wouldn’t tell on him. It would be their secret, just the same as it was a secret between them the stuff he had seen her drink out of the little bottle that smelt like the bar and was for her health.

  And then he heard the noise, a sort of springy sound, like the time he and his cousin Joseph jumped on the bed like one of those bouncy castles and Mum came in and shouted at them. There was another sound, too. He leant towards the door of his parents room and listened. Somebody’s voice, but not talking. A sort of groaning, and maybe there were two voices because sometimes it was high and sometimes it was low. The springy sound went quicker. A voice said, “Oh, Dermot,” and it was definitely Miss Quinn’s voice and his eyes widened in bewilderment at the thought of her being in his parents’ bedroom because he had definitely never seen her in there before. He heard the deeper voice groan – it sounded like his father’s – and the scrape of something on the floor and Patrick thought that maybe they were moving furniture although it was usually Mum and Dad that shifted the furniture around. But why was Miss Quinn helping Dad do that instead of giving him a piano lesson – he still didn’t want the piano lesson – and if she liked that better maybe she could always move furniture when she came, and forget about the piano lessons.

  Slowly he stretched out his hand and grasped the door knob. He should go down the stairs now, when they were busy moving furniture, but he was curious. Maybe they were doing it as a surprise for Mum when she came home. But Dad might be angry if he wasn’t practising his piano. He would just have a little look and then go. Remembering to step over the squeaky floorboard, he slowly turned the handle, pushed open the door a few inches and listened. Somebody was puffing and blowing and then Miss Quinn said, “Oh,” again. It was bloody hard work moving furniture. Dad always said so. Edging his head through the gap, Patrick looked into the room. He couldn’t see either of them. They must be behind the wardrobe. Miss Quinn said, “What’s wrong?” and his Dad’s voice said, “It’s gone again, dammit.” If they had lost something, he could help them look for it. He was good at finding things. When Dad had asked Mum what had happened to the bowl his sister Geraldine had given them as a present, Mum had said it was lost. But Patrick had found it, underneath a pile of old clothes at the back of a wardrobe and borne the navy and yellow striped bowl to his parents in triumph. Mum didn’t seem very pleased and said he’d been told before about “raking around in places” that didn’t concern him and then Mum and Dad had an argument and Patrick left the bowl and went off to his own room. Sometimes you couldn’t work out what parents really wanted you to do.

  Peering through the bars at the end of the bed, he saw his Dad lying face down on top of Miss Quinn, with her looking up at him. What could he be looking for there? His face was stuck up against her chest. Maybe her necklace had fallen down the front of her dress. Except she didn’t look as if she was wearing a dress. And she said, “It’s flat. I knew we shouldn’t have done this, Dermot.” Patrick tried to see what could possibly be flat, and thought the only thing might be Miss Quinn, with Dad lying on her.

  “Bugger it!” his Dad said, which Patrick knew was a bad word that was never said when Mum was there. It seemed obvious to him that there would be no piano lesson that day and the best thing he could do would be to sneak off down the stairs and leave his Dad and Miss Quinn to whatever kind of grown-up thing they were doing. He began to move back, slowly pulling the door closed, only to step on the loose floor board which gave a loud squeak.

  Patrick jumped with fright, stumbled forward and fell head-first against the door which swung open and banged against the wall.

  “Jasus Christ!”

  “Oh my God!” Miss Quinn and his Dad spoke and jumped up at the same time. His Dad was pulling at his trousers and Miss Quinn’s chests were all bare and wobbly until she saw Patrick staring up at them and covered them with her hands. “Oh my God!” she said again. “I thought you said you’d locked it?”

  “Patrick!” his Dad shouted, “what the hell are you doing?”

  Slowly Patrick got to his feet. Would it be better to help them look for the thing they had lost? One look at his Father’s face told him otherwise. He stared at both of them for a few long seconds then turned and ran from the room, with his Dad calling after him down the stairs,

  �
�Patrick! Come back here this minute! Patrick, do you hear me?”

  And then he ran even faster. He ran down the stairs and through the rear hallway towards the kitchen door. In the door, across the kitchen – even if Mrs Megarrity was there – and out the back door, and he would be free. Later, his Dad wouldn’t be so angry. He never was. Patrick slowly opened the kitchen door. It would be better to walk, or Mrs Megarrity might shout at him. She was standing at the sink peeling potatoes and she looked over when he went in. He was breathing hard from his run down the stairs and his cheeks felt hot.

  “Well, Master McAllister. And what can I do for you?”

  Patrick moved steadily towards the back door.

  “Nothing, Mrs Megarrity, I’m just going out to play.”

  She dried her hands on a cloth and came towards him.

  “In your good clothes?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at him more closely. “And what’ve you been up to? You’ve a face like a beetroot and you’re breathing fit to bust. Eh?”

  He was close to her now, almost overshadowed by her great chest.

  “I was just – I haven’t been doing anything.” Why didn’t she just let him go out the back door? And his Dad could arrive at any minute.

  “You’ve been up to something. You’ve got that guilty look about you. What happened?”

  Unlike Mrs Megarrity, she sounded almost kindly.

  “I’m just going out to play for a while because I can’t do my piano lessons because Miss Quinn’s helping Dad move furniture.”

  There. Now could he go out to play? Mrs Megarrity’s face screwed up and she leant closer to him and he could smell on her breath that stuff that was good for her health.

  “Moving furniture? Where?”

  “In my Mum and Dad’s bedroom.”

  Mrs Megarrity looked like she was pleased at this.

  “Were they, now? And did you see them?”

  “Just for a little minute when I – fell in the door.”