The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2)

by Caimh McDonnell

  "But they'll be out again in a couple of hours…"

  "Sofas now, please," said the white-haired man, still smiling and never taking his eyes from Brigit and Dr Sinha. Muscles grumbled something beneath his breath, but he duly began pushing the large sofas back in front of the doors, their metal legs screeching on the marble floor. "We have to take security seriously, you understand."

  "Of course," replied Dr Sinha. "I am Dr Sinha, and this is my colleague, Nurse Conroy."

  He smiled at them both in turn. "Charmed to make your acquaintance. You can call me Ger."

  As he spoke, a dark-haired woman emerged from a side door and strode across the reception towards them. She wore a scowl and enough metal in bits of her that it must take a month to get through airport security. She nodded curtly at Ger, and stood behind Brigit.

  "And now, if you'll forgive the further imposition, I'm afraid we must search your person."

  The search the female guard had given Brigit on the other side of the barricades had been a lot more civilised. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo started patting her down with a lot more vigour than necessary.

  "Easy!" said Brigit.

  "Now Belinda, play nicely," said Ger, which resulted in a marginal improvement in the level of rough-housing. Brigit looked across to see Dr Sinha smiling patiently as he received a similarly thorough examination from Muscles. When it had finally finished, and the woman they called Belinda had tehnically got further with Brigit than any of her first three boyfriends, the searchers took a step back.

  "And now," said Ger, holding out a Tupperware container, "your phones please."

  "I'm afraid," said Dr Sinha, "we were told to keep them with us, in case of… circumstances."

  Ger shook his head. "Not possible. They are too easily used as a listening device."

  "But—"

  "This is non-negotiable."

  Ger's smile slipped down into a firm, straight line and he gave Dr Sinha a look of absolute steel. Sinha looked at Brigit, shrugged and then put his phone in the box. Begrudgingly, Brigit did the same.

  "Thank you. You will, of course, get them back on your departure."

  There then followed a thorough inspection of all the medical supplies, which were taken out of the two backpacks they were in and placed in carrier bags. The contents of Sinha's carefully packed doctor's bag then received the same treatment. Finally done, Ger led them up the stairs. "Apologies for the walk, but we don't use the lifts. Can't have someone getting trapped in there."

  They reached the first floor, where a large open-plan office had once been. The desks had been mostly pushed against the windows, and this was now acting as some form of communal area. A couple of improvised washing lines were strung across the far end. Various people looked out at them from doorways. One group sat around a meeting table, playing an enthusiastic game of Monopoly. In one corner, a couple of women and a man were working in an improvised kitchen. Pots sat on camping stoves while they chopped various vegetables and perused a supply of cans. A few kids ran around the place and then hid behind desks, eyeing them with suspicious curiosity as they passed. The whole place had the feel of a music festival, without the music, that was being held in an office block.

  Ger guided them into an empty meeting room that had its blinds drawn down. One desk was pushed up against the window, with another sitting in the middle of the room, two leather office chairs on either side of it. Muscles and the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo filed in behind them. "We have set aside this room for you to use as an office. The residents have agreed to visit you in a certain order to avoid queueing."

  "Can I ask," said Brigit, "where is Father Franks?"

  "He is upstairs working on something, but you will both meet him later on and he thanks you for coming. In the meantime, one of my two colleagues will stay with you, obviously depending on the gender of the patient."

  "No." Dr Sinha said it with an air of calm, as if he'd just been asked if the number 39 bus had passed yet.

  "I'm afraid" said Ger, "that in the interest of securit—"

  "My interaction with any patient," said Dr Sinha, "occurs entirely under doctor-patient privilege, and it is not ethical to allow any observation of that."

  Ger's charming smile slipped off his face. "Apologies, but this is also non-negotiable."

  "I am sorry to hear that," said Dr Sinha, picking up his bag from where he had placed it on the desk, "please take us back outside. Do pass on my best wishes to Father Franks."

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment, Dr Sinha keeping the smile fixed on his face while refusing to flinch.

  "Very well," said Ger, before turning to the others, "you can wait outside."

  With that, all three of them turned and left. Dr Sinha calmly began taking supplies from his bag and placing them on the desk nearest the window. Brigit joined him and started taking the supplies out of her bag. She nudged him with her hip and whispered, "badass."

  They spent the next two hours dealing with a random series of maladies, ranging from the innocuous to the concerning: one older gent with high blood pressure had run out of meds, a couple of recovering addicts had the kind of problems you have for life once heroin has ravaged the human body, and two women and a man were experiencing remarkably similar STD-related issues. Brigit wondered if they each knew exactly how similar. There'd been one sprained wrist and one broken foot, both having been ably managed thanks to one Romanian lady's first aid training. Colds, bumps, bruises, itches, in they came and out they went. A couple of parents with limited English and wearing the same worried looks Brigit had seen on every parent's face in her time at A&E. The kids had been fine. The same couldn't be said for a middle-aged man with chronic bronchitis. As agreed, Sinha wrote prescriptions as required, keeping them to be given to the authorities to be filled and sent in.

  The mood of the place wasn't quite as Brigit had expected it to be. There was an air of unspecified oppression. She noticed Muscles and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo having a quiet word with everyone before they entered. Still, in the privacy of Sinha's makeshift surgery, nobody had seemed particularly keen to unburden themselves.

  Their final call of the day had been the best. A couple in their early thirties, getting confirmation that she was in fact pregnant. The two of them holding hands and beaming at each other like idiots. As the happy couple left, Ger re-entered. "The Father will see you now."

  They were taken up two further flights of stairs to a quieter floor of the building. Here the open-plan office area had no desks, and the offices and meeting rooms, now transformed into bedrooms, had blankets hung from the windows for privacy. Brigit guessed this was the 'executive floor' where Ger and his cronies had their digs. They brought them to a large corner office, and Ger held his hand up as they reached it.

  "Please wait here," he said. He knocked quickly on the door then entered, closing it behind them. They stood looking awkwardly at each other – Brigit and Dr Sinha plus their escort of Muscles and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

  "So," said Dr Sinha, when the awkward silence clearly became too much for him, "you have plenty of room here. Seems very comfortable."

  "More comfortable than our presence is making those fascists that are using economics to oppress the masses," said Dragon Tattoo. As Brigit watched her speak, she got the feeling like this was an almost knee-jerk response. Like ‘God bless you’ to a sneeze.

  "Yes," said Sinha, "lots of room. How many floors is this building?"

  "Enough," said Muscles, like that was a state secret too. They could just stand outside and count the windows.

  The door opened and Ger stepped out. "He can see you now."

  Dr Sinha moved forward and Brigit followed him. As they reached the door, Ger put his hand lightly on Sinha's chest. "Can I just remind you about patient confidentiality."

  Sinha smiled. "I am delighted to see you have got so onboard with the concept."

  They entered the large office. All of the blinds were down
and covered with improvised curtains, save for one which the sun streamed through. In one corner, a large oak table with a lot of blankets on it was being used as a bed. In the other sat two large chairs. Father Daniel Franks sat nearest the window, cocooned in blankets so that only his bald head was visible. The tufts of hair over his ears were unkempt, framing a face that looked haggard and drawn. In the chair beside him sat a middle-aged woman, who held a cup of water and whose face showed an undisguised concern. Franks shone them a weak smile. "Doctor, thank you so much for coming." His voice was more of a raised whisper, robbed of the oratory skills that had captivated a nation. It still had that northern burr to it, but mixed with short inhalations that seemed to require effort each time they were drawn.

  Dr Sinha and Brigit both looked at Ger, before moving across the room towards Franks. His formerly chubby face was now gaunt, and his skin carried an off-milky texture.

  "Thank you, Gearoid," said Franks.

  Ger looked at them, hesitated, and then left the room.

  "Father Franks," said Dr Sinha, "you do not look well."

  Franks patted the hand of the concerned woman beside him as he spoke. "No flies on you, Doc. I was diagnosed with stage four cancer six months ago now. I'm on a wee bit of borrowed time."

  Franks looked at their faces. "About five people know what you now do. And yes… if you're doing the maths… you're right."

  Brigit understood what he meant. Six months ago, that was when he'd first come to prominence.

  "You want to really find out what's important in your life, know it is truly going to end. When your tomorrows start running out, you realise you can't wait for them any more. You want to do something important before you go."

  Dr Sinha placed his hand on the man's brow and then moved his head to look into his eyes. "You should be in a hospital."

  "Ah, Doc, it's all right. I've made my peace, so I have. Ye can relax."

  "Would you stop doing your job if I asked you to, Father?"

  Franks looked up at Dr Sinha. "Fair enough," he said with a weak smile, before making eye contact with Brigit for the first time. "He's a bit of a terrier this one, isn't he?"

  Brigit tried to force a smile back at him.

  He turned his head to the woman looking on with concern. "Bernie, love, would ye mind stepping out for a wee bit."

  She nodded, touched his hand affectionately and then got up to leave. He watched her go. "She's an angel that one. So how're things downstairs? Everyone healthy and all that?"

  Dr Sinha began gently pulling the blankets down that cocooned Franks. "I am happy to report no serious issues."

  "Ah, great. They're good people. Thanks again for doing this."

  "You're welcome." Dr Sinha put his stethoscope to Frank's chest. "Take a deep breath, please."

  "It's been a while since I've done that."

  Franks spent the next couple of minutes breathing in and out, while Dr Sinha listened to his chest, his face becoming a steadily more unhappy picture. Feeling suddenly useless, Brigit didn't know what to do with herself. Franks pointed to the empty seat beside him and smiled, before falling into a racking coughing fit. Brigit noticed a box of tissues beside her chair, grabbed one and held it out for him, which he took. Once his breathing had returned to normal, Dr Sinha began taking his pulse.

  "I'd like to run some tests," said Dr Sinha.

  Franks looked up at him and held his eyes for a moment. "We don't need to do that, Doctor, no disrespect. If I was just another patient in your hospital, they'd be calling for me, not you."

  "I can at least give you a shot, and something for the pain."

  "You're a good man."

  Sinha moved away and started taking some supplies from their bags. Franks turned back to look at Brigit, giving her a soft smile. "Thank you for coming, Nurse Conroy, I know it was an odd request. I hope you appreciate why."

  Brigit nodded.

  "They don't want my phone up here. The government are monitoring our communications. If they were to find out about my condition… we don't want it being used as an excuse."

  Brigit nodded again.

  "Bernie told me about your message. I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "Well," said Brigit, "Bunny McGarry has disappeared, last seen eight days ago now. I'm just trying to gather any information on where he might be from those who spoke to him last."

  Franks gave her a quizzical look. "I've not spoken to Bunny in sixteen years."

  Brigit had double-checked the bill last night after Sinha had told him whose number it was. "A couple of calls to you, and three or four texts, are on his bill."

  "I dunno where you're getting that from, Miss Conroy, but we've not talked."

  Brigit ran her hands through her hair and puffed her cheeks out. "Ah, the lady… Bernie, could she have—" Brigit stopped as Franks shook his head emphatically.

  "I'll not say why but just… rest assured, she wouldn't be communicating with McGarry, hand on heart. Not possible. When I say we haven't spoken, I mean we don't speak." He gave her a meaningful look. "Now, maybe he was trying to get hold of me, texts didn't arrive or…”

  "According to his bill, you had a twenty four minute chat on Tuesday, a week ago." Brigit took the copy of the bill that she had shoved into her coat pocket that morning and showed it to Franks. He stared at it and then he looked back at Brigit.

  "With God as my witness, that didn't happen."

  Brigit looked again at the phone bill, not knowing what to think.

  "Can I ask," said Franks, "what’s your interest here?"

  "I work with Bunny."

  Franks gave her a confused look.

  “Bunny has left the Gardaí.”

  "Ah," said Franks, "I see." Then Franks looked at her for a long moment. “Be careful.”

  A wheezing cough shuddered through his frail body again.

  Brigit picked up his cup of water and placed the straw in his mouth. "Oh, I'm sure I'm not in any danger."

  Franks let the straw fall away. "Thank you. I meant, be careful… of him."

  Brigit looked at him and then dabbed at his mouth with the tissue.

  "Bunny McGarry is a rare thing. A man truly capable of anything. The only compass he follows is his own. One day, you'll end up on the other side of something and, believe me, it will go badly for you. He'll lie, cheat, blackmail – whatever it takes. He's not a bad man. He's worse than that. He's a good man who'll do bad things for what he thinks is right."

  Brigit looked at the window. An azure blue sky provided a backdrop for the building opposite, the sunlight gleaming off its silvered windows.

  With the gap in conversation, Dr Sinha stepped forward, a needle in hand.

  "Now," said Franks, "why don't we let the good doctor do what he must and then you two can be on your way." Franks closed his eyes. "This has been a very long day."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sunday 6 February 2000 – Afternoon

  Jarleth Court stared into his pint of lager, watching the bubbles fizzle to the surface and then disappear. Truth be told, he wasn't normally much of a drinker. Still, when his phone had rung at lunchtime on a sleepy Sunday, tearing his life down around him, drink had felt appropriate. It must be buried somewhere in his Irish DNA, the belief that alcohol can somehow help. In a way it had been a relief. The upside of the worst thing possible happening, was that it couldn't happen again. There would be a certain freedom in disgrace.

  A woman he recognised from one of his constituency clinics walked by and shot a shy wave in his direction. He knew a lot of people in the pub and more of them knew him. He'd been a fixture in local politics for twenty years. Ten as a councillor, before moving up to four as an independent TD. Then they'd redrawn the boundary and split his hardcore support down the middle. It was decried in the press as dirty politics. The main parties played dumb and pretended it was all a quirk of geography. Still, last time out he'd given it a damn good shot anyway. His opponents had spent ten times as much and he'd sti
ll run them close. Then he'd gone back onto the Council and redoubled his efforts. If anything, the whole thing had made him even more popular – the working class hero who terrifies the establishment, that's what they'd called him. That'd change now.

  A man whose name he couldn't recall patted his arm on his way back to the main bar from the loos, the roar of the Super Sunday football calling him home. The lounge was relatively quiet, blessed as it was with an absence of the big screens that seemed to be ubiquitous in pubs these days. There was a big football tournament in the summer though. Marla the landlady had proudly told him how they were getting a load more screens put in, and a little bit more silence would die.

  People had mostly let him be for the last few hours. None of the usual polite chat before bringing up a little thing they needed help with. Maybe his body language was sending off the vibe that now was not the time. He'd sat there alone and steadily drank, still he was nowhere nearer the oblivion he sought.

  The stool beside him squeaked softly as it was drawn back from the bar and a bulky form in a sheepskin coat plonked itself down. Court didn't look up, he didn't need to.

  "Do you never take that bleedin' coat off Bunny? Ye'll not feel the benefit."

  "It cuts down on ironing, Councillor."

  "Does it now?" Court picked up his half empty pint and slurped at it. Bunny waved at Anto the barman, pulling him away from flirting with a couple of soccer widows at the other end of the bar.

  "A pint of Arthur's," said Bunny, "and same again for himself."

  "The condemned man ate a hearty last meal," said Court.

  "There's no need to get all melodramatic about it."

  Court barked a humourless laugh and went back to finishing his pint.

  He drained it and then put his glass down on the counter harder than intended.

  "Do you know how many people in this pub I've helped over the years Bunny?"

  "Plenty, I'm sure."

  "But do you know the actual number, I mean? I've been sat here counting. Seventeen, I reckon. I mean directly like, not counting the stuff that we all benefit from. I've not taken a holiday in eight years, d'ye know that?"