The Miracle Man

by James Skivington

  “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 i
s, 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.”

  “The Virgin Mary, Father,” Dermot said quickly, before Father Burke could put down the telephone. For a few seconds there was silence on the line and then the priest said,

  “What?”

  “The Virgin Mary, Father. The one that appeared to Limpy McGhee last night? I’m afraid the newspapers’ll be plastering that across their front pages tomorrow, not to mention the television. You can just imagine it, can’t you? ‘Ex parish priest hoaxed by spoof virgin,’ and ‘Bishop sees cardinal in virgin crisis.’ You have my sympathies, Father, because I know how much you’ve supported the miracle theory from the beginning. Through thick and thin, in fact.”

  There was a little choking cough from the parish priest before he said,

  “Thank you very much for your concern, Mr McAllister, but I have no wish to discuss the subject with you.”

  “Well, if you say so, Father. But it was only because I have a genuinely high regard for your integrity that I thought you deserved to know about the press conference. Get a chance to redress the balance, sort of thing. Give your side of the story, you know? Still, in the circumstances, I can understand why – ”

  “Just a minute. What press conference?”

  “The one that’s being held in the hotel this afternoon at four o’clock.” Dermot had a sudden flash of inspiration. “In time to catch the evening television news and tomorrow’s first editions. We’re going to have John McGhee there and those fellas that played that horrible trick on him last night. Something has to be done, Father. I mean, if stories like that get around, it could undermine the credibility of this whole miracle thing – and make us the laughing-stock of the country. So the boys are going to say how sorry they are, that they didn’t mean any harm, and Limpy McGhee’ll forgive them and tell everybody that his vision and the miracle were absolutely genuine.”

  “You’re saying – that was only a practical joke last night?”

  “Well of course it was, Father. And I said to those fellas, ‘Look, boys, I like a joke as well as the next man, but you’ve gone too far this time.’ I just knew I’d have to do something about it. Somehow I felt a sense of responsibility. I don’t know why.”

  “Mr McAllister, I must say, that’s a bit rich coming from a man who charges the faithful to get into the Mass Rock site to worship – not to mention some other aspects of your personal behaviour.”

  Dermot gave a heavy sigh.

  “Charging to get into the Mass Rock site – perhaps that was a mistake. But I’d just paid out for that field and I had to try and recoup some money from it somehow. I couldn’t put sheep back in there with people crawling all over it. I’ve been giving it some thought and I’ve been considering donating the site to the Church. In fact, it might be a good time for you to tell the Bishop, when he makes his visit. And then maybe by that time I’ll be in a position to make an announcement about Burke Hall, too.”

  With a broad smile, Dermot waited in the ensuing short silence.

  “Burke – Hall? What d’you mean, Mr McAllister? What is that?”

  “Well, we really need a proper chapel hall, Father, especially with all these people visiting Inisbreen. So, I was considering giving a bit of land and a cash donation to start off the fundraising, so that a new hall can be built, and who better to name it after than the man who first recognised John McGhee’s experience as a miracle.”

  “Burke – Hall,” the young priest replied. “I – I don’t know what to say. It’s a very nice thought, Mr McAllister. Very nice indeed.”

  “A lot of people I’ve talked to say it’s no more than you deserve, Father. Anyway, we can discuss all that later. The main thing is to have a successful press conference this afternoon. But we don’t have the experience to put the religious argument, your kind of ability to get into the cut and thrust of debate with that journalist rabble. We’re only amateurs. They’d wipe the floor with us.” Dermot paused for a moment and then said,

  “Inisbreen needs you, Father.”

  At the other end of the line Father Burke cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice had a determined edge to it.

  “Four o’clock, did you say? That doesn’t give me much time to prepare, but if I was to get onto it right away – I think I should be able to put something together. After all, the Bishop would never forgive me if I failed in my duty to put a good case for the Church and against that grubby materialism of the press.”

  A little later in the morning Dermot sat leafing through the bundle of cheques from banks in London, Dublin, Belfast, Cork and Limerick and he had every reason to smile. In two weeks he had taken more money than he would in six in his busiest period at the height of the summer. He put the cheques aside and started on the substantial pile of notes, sorting them into fifties, twenties, tens and fives before beginning to count them. You couldn’t beat cash. Most of the newspapermen had been surprised and annoyed when he told them that he didn’t accept credit cards. They seemed to think that he was under a legal obligation to do so and probably believed that if they were to wave an American Express or visa card at an Amazonian Indian in return for his services as a guide, the native would produce a sales voucher and an endorsing machine from his loincloth. The Miracle Man’s leg
had certainly brought a small economic miracle to the Glens Hotel and there was every prospect of more if the crowds kept coming. The bandwagon was rolling now and there would always be enough eejits claiming they had been the subject of miracle cures to keep it on the move. Dermot squeezed the thick wad of bank notes. If the press conference went well – and Father Burke’s presence would make all the difference – if they could pass last night’s incident off as a joke, they would be in with a good chance. He smiled. If that was the case, it couldn’t have turned out better if he’d planned it himself. What was needed now, though, was some proper organisation. If entrepreneurs like himself and Frank Kilbride were to have a chance of bringing some economic prosperity to Inisbreen – and to themselves, of course – there would need to be some changes. A decent road, for a start, and a car park at the miracle site. The commercial possibilities were endless. Already he had spoken to Mrs Standish, the Summer Cook, about an idea he had had for a new dish at the hotel – Lamb McGhee – which would be a leg of lamb marinated in Bushmills whiskey, Limpy’s favourite drink. She had said that she thought it might not be in the best of taste, so to speak, but she would give it a try if that’s what he wanted. And he had thought up a dozen other ideas in the last week, all of them potential moneyspinners. Dermot leant back in his chair and imagined a steadily growing pile of cash in his bank account.

  He was in the middle of adding up a column of figures when the telephone rang. He glanced at it but kept adding. If one more guest rang up to complain about the hardness of the bed or the poor television reception, he would tell him to pack up and get the hell out of it. Who needed them? There were plenty more. He stopped counting and looked at the ringing telephone. No, that wasn’t the way to maintain a steady flow of customers, keep them happy – and relieve them of the maximum amount of cash. Lifting the receiver he said smoothly,

  “Good afternoon, the Glens Hotel, how can I help you?”

  “Dermot?”

  He felt a little shiver of recognition tinged with excitement run down his spine.