A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1)

by Caimh McDonnell

  Having watched Dr Sinha handle the husband from hell with such good grace, Paul had been naturally inclined to like him. However, the good doctor’s assessment of his situation was beginning to sway him from that point of view.

  “Yes, lucky,” Dr Sinha repeated. “You see the back of the shoulder is actually a pretty great place to get stabbed. Once the knife avoids the rotator tendon, which I’m pleased to say it did in your case, there is little chance of permanent damage.”

  “Oh… good.”

  “Very much so. Don’t get shot there though, that would be most unfortunate. There's a large artery and important nerves controlling the arm in that area, not to mention a joint no surgeon in the world can reconstruct. That would be nothing but bad news.”

  “Good tip,” said Paul. “Just so I know, where is a good place to get shot?” He’d not yet realised that Dr Sinha was not at home to sarcasm.

  “Gluteus maximus – most definitely. Gunshot, stab wound – if you get the option, go ass every time.”

  Clearly, the doctor had been around some very polite gunfights.

  “Now, when I say ass, obviously I mean the cheeks and not the…”

  “Super,” Paul interrupted. “I think I’ve got it.”

  Sinha’s cheery demeanor changed and Paul instantly felt guilty – like he’d just dropkicked an excited puppy.

  “Sorry,” Dr Sinha said. “I have a tendency to become overexcited about medical issues, leading to an inappropriate bedside manner.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Well somebody did,” said Dr Sinha. “I was quoting from the report I got at the end of my probationary period,” before adding in a hurt tone, “apparently, I enjoy my work too much.”

  Paul glanced over at Hubby again. “Give it time. I’m sure it’ll wear off.”

  “Actually, I wanted to ask you about something else.” Dr Sinha unclipped Paul’s chart from the bottom of the bed. “I’m a bit confused. It says here that your assailant…” He paused to read from the chart, “coughed blood onto your face?”

  “Yes… erm.” Paul’s stomach turned at the memory of Brown’s demented death mask leering down at him.

  “Was he wounded?”

  “No!” Paul was rather offended by the question. “I didn’t…”, he stammered, “I was purely defending myself.”

  “Right, I see.” Dr Sinha’s expression made it very clear that he didn’t see at all.

  “I believe he is in the late stages of terminal lung cancer,” offered Paul.

  “And he stabbed you in the shoulder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he…?”

  Dr Sinha was beginning to really irritate Paul now. “You’ll have to ask him that.”

  “Oh… OK,” he said. “It is just, it says here, that he is… dead.”

  “Oh…”

  “Massive heart attack it says here.”

  Paul didn’t know how to feel about that. Right then, he didn’t want to feel anything about that. He hadn’t spent nearly enough time feeling sorry for himself, and now he was expected to move onto dealing with that piece of information.

  Dr Sinha gave him a peculiar doe-eyed look. Paul could see he viewed this as a bedside manner training opportunity. He tilted his head to the side, unknowingly giving it the full Virgin Mary.

  “He must’ve died after…”

  “Yes, because he was definitely alive before and during.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “No,” Paul responded. “I’d just met him.”

  Dr Sinha’s face brightened. “Oh – well that’s not so bad then, is it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I mean, I’d much rather a stranger tried to kill me than somebody I knew well.”

  “I guess.” That was certainly one way of looking at it.

  “The good news is, St. Kilda’s have sent over a copy of Mr Brown’s most recent blood work and, as far as we can see, he had nothing contagious. No AIDS, Hepatitis, Ebola…”

  “Fantastic.”

  So, you’re perfectly fine…”

  “Other than the stab wound.”

  “Ah yes, ha ha. Sorry.” He actually said ‘ha ha’ in a way that Paul found irritating. “Still though, you and I have dealt with some difficult information and now look – we are making jokes! This has gone very well.” He resumed beaming at Paul. “Which brings me to the next issue we must address. There appears to have been an issue with the emergency contact details the nurse took from you when you were admitted.”

  “Oh?”

  “It happens all the time. People are rushing about…”

  “I’d been stabbed.”

  “You’d been stabbed. We rang the number you gave us and, apparently, it is a Chinese takeaway called the Oriental Palace.”

  “It’s not just a takeaway. They’ve recently expanded to include an in-dining area with ambiance.”

  Mrs Wu would’ve been proud. She had been answering the phone ‘Hello Oriental Palace, now including an in-dining area with ambiance’ for nearly three months. She clearly didn’t know what ambiance meant, but somebody must’ve told her the place had it, and she was damn sure going to sell it.

  “I see,” said Dr Sinha. “And do you have a relative working at the Oriental Palace?”

  “No, not as such.” Or at all. “Ask for Mickey.”

  “OK. Mickey who?”

  Paul had been dreading that question. Who really knew the second name of their regular delivery guy? Sure, Mickey had come in and nabbed the occasional smoke or life-threateningly cheap Eastern European beer on a slow Tuesday. He’d even stayed to watch half of Roxanne on DVD once, but a second name seemed like a very personal question. Mickey had told him he was not from China, and how annoyed he got when people assumed he was. Unfortunately, Paul had forgotten where Mickey was from, so that was another no-go area.

  “Just Mickey.”

  “So, no relatives you’d like us to call?”

  “Nope. None.”

  Dr Sinha was clearly uncomfortable at this. “Well, as someone from a very large family, may I say, I envy you. I spend half of my salary on birthday cards alone.”

  “That must be tough.”

  “It is!” Dr Sinha started warming to his subject. “Seven siblings and 26 nephews and nieces the last time I counted. Bang – another baby. Bang bang – twins. It does not stop.”

  “Wow.”

  “So, I’ll just put down here ‘patient has no family’?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about a partner?”

  “No.”

  “OK, great. So you are totally alone,” said Dr Sinha. “I mean, other than this Mickey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Super.”

  “You’re certainly making it feel that way.”

  Dr Sinha flipped over the pages on the clipboard. “Well, I think that’s everything, unless you have any questions for me?”

  “Nope,” said Paul.

  A loud attention-demanding cough from Hubby echoed around the ward. His second opinion still hadn’t shown up.

  “Absolutely any questions at all?” asked Dr Sinha, a hint of pleading in his eyes.

  Paul felt obliged. “When can I get out of here?” Once he’d thought of it, Paul realised that he really did want to know the answer to that one. He was starting to develop a strong dislike of hospitals.

  “We will check everything again tomorrow and, assuming it is all OK, you could leave in a couple of days.” He hesitated. “But… you wish to speak to the Gardai.” He actually pronounced it ‘Gar-dee’ in the overly careful way of someone trying to use another language’s word.

  “Not really,” said Paul. He didn’t – what would be the point? Yes, he’d been stabbed, but the person who’d done it wasn’t anywhere the police could reach, at least not without a Ouija board.

  Dr Sinha looked embarrassed. “Sorry, I may’ve got that wrong. This is my second language. The Gardai wish to speak to yo
u.”

  Paul got a sickly feeling in his stomach. The whole getting stabbed thing had rather distracted him from the bigger picture. He’d gone into a room and five minutes later, a guy had died – after a physical confrontation with him, during which the aforementioned had felt moved to stab him. Paul could see how that would look bad. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more difficult he found it to make it look anywhere close to good. He couldn’t get in trouble with the police; it violated the second commandment. SHE had been very clear on that.

  He glanced around the ward and noticed the flash of a high-vis jacket through the swing doors at the end.

  “Is there a guard outside?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Dr Sinha. ”And between you and I, myself and the rest of the staff are very pleased by his presence. Earlier on, he was kind enough to assist us in calming down a man who had taken a little too much methamphetamine.”

  Paul ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck, as he was want to do when stressed.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” said Paul, “this is bad.”

  Dr Sinha patted him reassuringly on the hand. “Relax Mr Mulchrone, I’m sure it will all be fine.”

  “Yeah,” said Paul, “because that’s the kind of night I’m having.”

  Chapter Four

  Paul knew exactly where he wasn’t.

  He wasn’t in the offices of Greevy and Co Solicitors, even though Shane Greevy was sitting across the desk from him, reading from a large leather-bound book. Greevy was his usual self – 40s, balding, thin and wearing a perpetual smile despite never looking happy. The man grinned like minimum wage workers wore seasonal fancy dress, as if he was being forced to comply with a memo from head office. Actually, come to think of it, this really wasn’t the offices of Greevy and Co solicitors. Paul noted that his subconscious had somehow upgraded the decor to be all mahogany and padded leather, even adding an imposing grandfather clock in the corner. In reality, their offices were a couple of dingy rooms in Phibsboro, located above a sofa shop that had recently, after a three year long closing down sale, unexpectedly closed down.

  This dream was one of only two Paul could ever remember having, although both recurred with great frequency. This was the one he normally preferred. Apparently it was unusual to be aware that you were dreaming while it was actually happening. Knowing he was didn’t mean he could wake himself up though. He seemed to have no choice but to sit there most every night while the whole thing repeated over and over again.

  Greevy looked up from the leather-bound book and coughed pointedly, clearly unhappy with not being paid full attention to. That was another thing, the book. Fidelma’s actual Will had just been a few pieces of mundane A4.

  Greevy continued reading: “…my property of any nature and description and wherever situated, including my house in Richmond Gardens, my savings accounts and share portfolios, I leave to Donegal Donkey Sanctuary.”

  At this point, the donkey situated behind Greevy’s right shoulder made its usual ominous growling noise. Paul was pretty sure real donkeys didn’t growl but he’d be damned if he was going to fact-check his own nightmares.

  “However, prior to that endowment, I leave the following provision to my Great-Nephew Paul Mulchrone.”

  Paul looked up at his Great-Aunt Fidelma, sitting astride the donkey’s back as always. No matter what he said or did, she never spoke. She just wore that same ‘what’s that smell?’ look of disapproval on her face. She had not spoken directly to him on either of the occasions they’d met in real life. The first time, he had been a 6-year-old boy fidgeting behind his mother. He had been utterly focused on his assigned job of minding the big blue suitcase. Fidelma and his Ma had argued before she had slammed the door in their faces. Paul hadn’t understood. He’d complained and cried about the cold, until his mother’s tears had stopped his own. The next, and last, time he’d met Fidelma was the week after he had turned twelve years old. His birthday had been the day before his Ma’s funeral, so nobody had remembered. The room they’d brought him to had featured a big tree painted on the wall. Paul had stared at it as Fidelma had once again ignored him and delivered a sermon on the wanton behavior of ‘the young’ to a pair of confused and increasingly angry social workers. Then she had stormed out. The man from social services had opened the door to scream a rude word after her and then Paul hadn’t seen him again.

  “He is to be given use of my house in Richmond Gardens and a stipend of €500 a month to live off. This is only a temporary measure while he endeavors to find proper employment, a challenge given his poor start in life.”

  And there they were, the five words that had come to define him; ‘his poor start in life.’ It had been those five words that had so enraged him that he’d decide to game her system. Instead of looking for a job, he would live forever off €500 a month. Fuck her. Fuck the donkeys.

  “…allowing for the following provisos. One: he is to receive no other assistance of any kind from the state, charities or any other source. Two: this provision will end should he get in trouble of any kind with the police.”

  At this point, the other occupant of the dream hooted and jumped up and down in the seat behind Greevy’s right shoulder. It was Martin Brown. Still in his hospital gown, blood dripping from his open howling mouth. He was hammering away on an old typewriter as if taking notes, for reasons beyond Paul’s understanding. His presence was a new and unwelcome addition. Paul kept trying to lock eyes with the donkey; even in his dream the sight of all that blood turned his stomach. Unhappy at being ignored, Brown leapt from his chair and ran around the desk, his gait stooped like a chimp. He disappeared from Paul’s field of vision but his bony hands clasped around Paul’s neck. Paul tried to prise them off but they were freakishly strong. Greevy continued reading.

  “Three: to improve his moral fibre, he shall be required to complete six hours of charity work a week, to be verified by Mr Greevy.”

  Paul screamed as he felt Brown’s teeth sinking into his right shoulder. As he struggled to get free, Greevy’s voice droned on. Brown’s hands started to drag him back off the chair. Paul looked up into Fidelma’s ever-disapproving face.

  Then he felt a hand gently shake his left shoulder and another voice, softer and further away.

  “Paul? Paul? Are you OK?”

  He turned to see Nurse Brigit Conroy looking down at him, her face a picture of concern. This was new too.

  And then the grip of the skeletal hands around his neck grew tighter and he screamed.

  Paul awoke with a start, gasping for breath, looking into the concerned face of Nurse Brigit Conroy.

  Strip lighting and antiseptic air. Starched sheets against his skin, tucked in too tight, restraining his body. He knew where he was. The hospital. He lowered his head back onto the pillow as the pounding rhythm of his own heartbeat receded in his ears. Now that the ‘where’ of his situation had returned to him, the ‘who’, ‘when’ and particularly ‘why’ followed close behind. He took a couple of deep breaths.

  “How’re you feeling?” she asked.

  His senses recovered, Paul was able to establish his position vis-à-vis Nurse Brigit, namely – being angry.

  “Oh super, thanks for asking,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about…” she trailed off.

  “Sorry about what?” Getting me stabbed? Oh don’t give it another thought. I’d nothing else planned for the evening, and they’ve given me a shed-load of free drugs, so I’m making out like a bandit here.”

  She made to speak but he wasn’t anywhere near done. He’d played this conversation through in his head several times, and he had plenty more script loaded up in his internal teleprompter that was raring to go.

  “Or – are you sorry that they’ve to do tests, to make sure the blood coughed into my face wasn’t filled with anything too contagious? Or that I’m now a suspect in a murder investigation?” His voice started to rise along with his anger. “Exactly which of those
things are you sorry for?”

  “OK, well… all of…” Her voice faltered and her eyes began to well up.

  “Oh no!” He said and pointed at her accusingly.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you dare – don’t you bloody well dare!”

  “What?” A hint of annoyance crept into her voice as she pushed a knuckle into the corner of her eye.

  “You know what,” he said. “Don’t you dare cry! I have every right to be angry. Don’t you take that away from me.”

  She nodded her agreement.

  “And don’t agree with me. You don’t get to be reasonable,” he said. “Thanks to you, I could be dead! So you stand there, not crying – and take the damn good tongue lashing you’ve got coming.”

  He’d never used that phrase before in his life and, even as it came out of his mouth, the little internal editor in the back of his brain looked up from his newspaper and sneered. Where the hell had that come from?

  As Brigit dabbed a tear away from her left eye with the corner of a tissue, her right eyebrow rose ever so slightly, in the tiniest acknowledgement of his peculiar choice of words. For some reason that made him even angrier.

  “And don’t you… don’t you DARE find my choice of words funny.”

  She shook her head furiously but even as she did so, a nervous smile played across her lips.

  “Stop – stop it right this minute!” His tone was becoming pleading now. He could feel the conversation slipping further off the course he’d planned out.

  A giggle escaped her lips. She immediately clamped her left hand over her mouth and extended her right in a gesture of placating apology.

  “Stop being so immature!!”

  She nodded now, her eyes clenched tightly shut as tears of another kind started to trickle from their corners.

  She drew a long deep breath in through her nose and removed her hand from over her mouth.

  “Sorry, I’m… sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long night and… OK, I’m fine. Keep going.”