“Is this just a temporary home?”
I didn’t like him any better than the first time I’d met him. I said,
“Surely all of our existence is temporary.”
He didn’t rise to the bait, said,
“The fee we gave you?”
Waited.
I said nothing. He continued,
“Let’s call it a retainer: We may need your irregular services in the future.”
I asked,
“You’re done with the miracle, that’s it, end of story?”
He smiled, a very ancient one, framed from decades of Vatican chicanery, said,
“It was never really going anywhere but best to nip it in the bud.”
I pushed.
“The welfare of the children, that doesn’t concern you, even a little?”
The smile mutated into something more sinister. He said,
“When and if they show up we shall of course be very attentive.”
Then he changed direction, rubbed his finely manicured hands, said,
“Let’s have a wee drink to mark the end of this whole sorry episode. You do have libations, I’m sure. I mean, it’s what you do after all, drink?”
My turn, I snarled,
“Not if your life depended on it.”
He actually made that tut-tut sound that grinds my nerves, said,
“How small-minded of you, Taylor, but everything in your small world is thus. Tiny gestures masquerading as victories.”
Something occurred to me and I said,
“Malachy, I imagine he’s not about to be our next bishop?”
Now he laughed outright, sneered,
“That imbecile was never in the frame, good heavens, he’s the worst kind of PR.”
I really wanted to batter him into humility but that would be pretty much a lost cause. I said,
“You need to go now.”
He took a last look around, said,
“If I cared at all, I might even pity you.”
I opened the door, wanting to be shot of him and his maliciousness.
I said,
“The terrible thing is, there are some decent priests around. I’ve even met one or two, but you, you’re more than likely the new face of the future, the slick corporate asshole who never leaves prints.”
He was delighted at this, said,
“For a moment there, Taylor, you verged on actual insight. I doubt we’ll meet again but it’s been entertaining.”
Not sure if I even thought about it as my hand lashed out and slapped his face, twice, hard and fierce.
He was stunned, took a moment to focus, then warned,
“You’ll regret that.”
I finally got to smile, said,
“My whole life is a tapestry of regret but I promise you that will never, ever be something to add to the list.”
For the first time, in a very long time, I felt a tiny touch of pride in my own self.
A
MIRACLE
ENGULFED
OBLITERATED
DECIMATED
IN
FIRE
Benjamin J. was outlining the plan to Connie. Almost every aspect of it horrified her. He registered her reluctance, demanded,
“Who said those children had to die to make this miracle unique? Wasn’t that your idea?”
She didn’t answer, lost in the part where Brid had to die. He moved in front of her and, with slow measured timing, slapped her face, harsh enough to leave the track of his fingers on her cheek. He snarled,
“Either get with the game or wallow in obscurity. You want to burn with glory or be like that parasite Brid, a feeble thing that pisses and moans.”
She managed to pull herself together, said,
“I’m in.”
He gave her a second slap, keep the vibe alive as it were. Then,
“Here’s what we’re going to do. You and Brid go in the house. I’ll have dealt with the children and their minder, so no problem there. The timers will kick in and you simply need to ensure your ally joins the martyrs.”
He seemed to relish the word martyrs, continued,
“Then you stagger outside, your arm badly burned, collapse beautifully for your photo opportunity, wail, oh I tried to save them. The media will lap it up.Then you can swoon or whatever you deem appropriate.”
He paused, asked,
“You can do hysteria, right?”
She could barely think but said,
“I’m hysterical already.”
He raised his hand, warned,
“Save it. We don’t want to appear rehearsed.”
He moved to the drink cabinet, plucked out a bottle of Black Bushmills, said,
“Let’s have a wee dram to cement our grand design.”
Her mind was already in flames and a moment of insane logic had her ask,
“Isn’t Bushmills the Protestant drink?”
The best laid plans.
Connie moved through the smoking house, flames everywhere. Brid had gone upstairs to deal with the children and the carer. To her astonishment, she found one child dead, his throat cut, and the carer bedside him, also dead. No sign of the other child. She rushed down to tell Connie, who walloped her with the tire iron.
Connie hit her again, screaming,
“I’m so sorry!”
The fire was in full rage, she whispered,
“Another minute and I’m out of here.”
She did as Benjamin had instructed and put out her hand, let the fire travel up to her shoulder. The pain was beyond belief and she quickly managed to douse it but the agony... She could hardly see, made her way to the door, pulled the handle.
Locked.
How the fuck could that be?
She turned to see the fire speeding toward her, pulled frantically at the door, then realized, as the flames reached her, that Benjamin had locked her in.
Her last words were
“Oh, Brid.”
The fire took her.
It took two battalions of firefighters nearly five hours before the blaze could be contained. A fire inspector, hours later, on his first cursory inspection, hung his head in shock, said to his deputy,
“Multiple casualties, including a child.”
The deputy said,
“Sweet Jesus.”
Benjamin J. watching the inferno from a safe distance, laid out five nonsafety matches, said,
“One each.”
He prided himself on his expertise with figures, never got them wrong.
He did now.
His count of five was wrong.
It was four.
The fire and resultant deaths did not play large in the media, as you would have expected. Almost immediately it was suppressed, with a report saying,
“Tragic accident involving members of a religious community.”
No one wanted to stir up what might be a fiasco, with the death of the miracle child, a highly suspicious fire, the death of two American nuns. The term “ongoing investigation” successfully quelled awkward questions.
The miracle of Galway was officially dead.
I met with Owen Daglish, bought him the obligatory drinks, and let him talk. He seemed as shocked as anyone else, began with,
“It’s a clusterfuck of epic size.”
I waited.
Then,
“The two dodgy nuns, Yanks, only added to the potential scandal so it is felt that the whole shebang is best left alone.”
I asked,
“And the child? Where is the other one?”
He shrugged, said,
“Collateral damage, but the Church seems relieved the whole miracle business is over.”
I pushed,
“What about arson?”
He rounded on me, literally put a hand to my mouth, warned,
“Shush. Jesus, don’t even breathe the word.”
He drank a double Jameson in a gulp, said,
“The Guards would be in deep shit if arson had occurred, especially as it was suspected for some time that other dodgy fires were never fully investigated.”