The Miracle Man (13 page)

As Limpy stepped forward, Dan Ahearn swayed back at the overpowering smell of mothballs and stale sweat.

“Well, bejasus, if it isn’t the Miracle Man himself,” Pig Cully said, sweeping his arm in front of him and giving a gracious bow.

“None other,” Limpy said, with a broad smile induced as much by drink as by his burgeoning fame. “None other.”

Throwing his arm round the reporter whom he dragged from his refuge on a fence-post, Pig Cully said, “This here’s the man you were looking for, Limpy McGhee – or maybe we should call him ex-Limpy McGhee – now that he’s a walking miracle man. And this here’s – what’s your name again, son?”

“Fergus Keane, from the Northern Reporter” the young man said mechanically. He seemed to have some difficulty in breathing.

“Well well, the newspapers, eh?” Limpy said, with barely concealed glee. “Word travels fast. So I suppose you’ll be wanting an interview, young Fergus Keane?”

“Eh – if you wouldn’t mind, Mr McGhee,” he replied, although he looked in no fit state to conduct one. He glanced around him, as though seeking somewhere to lie down.

“Ask away, young fella. I’ll tell you all you want to know about the celestial transplant,” Limpy said grandly. He slapped the limb and rose a puff of dust from the leg of his trousers.

“As good as new,” Dan Ahearn averred. “Walks like a regular leg, so it does. You could go far with a leg like that.”

Pig Cully winked at Ahearn and said to the reporter, “No doubt about it, Fergus, you’re witnessing a living miracle in this man here. Brought about by – “ he lowered his head a little, “ – the Blessed Virgin herself.”

“The Blessed Virgin,” Dan Ahearn repeated, as if proposing a toast.

Limpy looked a little put out by these two muscling in on his new-found fame.

“Ye need to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth,” he told Fergus Keane, “and it’s got to be told in the right order.”

“After the exchange of a twenty-pound note,” Pig Cully threw in.

Whether it was because of the bracing sea air or the all-embracing whiskey, Fergus Keane’s lethargic attitude was rapidly dissipating in the face of his mounting interest in Limpy’s case.

“Are you saying, Mr McGhee, that – a miracle really did happen to you?” He turned to a fresh page in his notebook and held his pencil at the ready.

“I certainly am. Five nights ago at the Mass Rock.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. One minute the leg was good for nothing – and the next it was a new instrument entirely.”

“As good a leg as ever a man had under him,” Dan Ahearn said.

“Well, no offence, Mr McGhee, but you must realise that it’s a bit, well, difficult to believe. You know, miracles and all that.”

“No offence taken, Young Fergus, but I’ve been certified by the doctor – and the priest, so I have. There’s no doubt about it. I had a limp since the day I was born. They tell me when I was a nipper I even crawled with a limp and they say it was a pitiful sight. And after the other night it was gone entirely. Didn’t she speak to me and tell me she was going to do it.”

“Who?”

“The Virgin Mary, who else?” It now appeared that Limpy had been on familiar if not intimate terms with the mother of Jesus.

“The Virgin Mary – spoke to you?” The young reporter’s
eyes widened in wonderment before commercialism intervened. “Have you – talked to any other newspapers about this?” He scribbled something in his notebook. This was more like it. He might even have – the prospect of it made a little shiver of excitement run through him – a scoop.

“Oh not yet, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? Newspapers, radio, tv. Interviews, photographs. I soon won’t be able to step outside the house for them journalists and photographers. Bloody paternazis. Ah, I tell ye, that bastard Hitler has a lot to answer for.”

“Paparazzi,” Fergus murmured, and then, “You said it happened at some – Mass Rock. Where is that exactly?”

Limpy considered this for a moment and then said,

“I tell you what I’ll do, Young Fergus. If you and me go to the hotel, where we can have a bit of privacy, I’ll tell you the whole story and then I’ll show ye the place it happened. I can’t say fairer than that.”

“Thank you, Mr McGhee. Thank you very much,” Fergus said. “That would be fine.” This was a front-page story if ever he’d seen one, although he had seen very few in his new role as junior reporter, and he was going to be the one to write it. He could see his name above it now, in letters almost as big as those of the headline.

“And we’ll come along to see fair play,” Pig Cully said quickly, turning and winking at Dan Ahearn, who stuck up a wavering thumb and said,

“Fair play, Cully.”

“Just in case any details slip yer memory – Mr McGhee,” Pig Cully added. He slipped his arm round the reporter’s shoulders. “Have ye a car, son?”

“Yes, I have. It’s parked just over there.”

“Then, lead on, boy, lead on.”

After paying for yet another round of drinks, which his three
companions seemed able to quaff almost as quickly as he could draw the money from his wallet, with a spinning head but mounting excitement Fergus Keane went to the little wooden telephone booth in the foyer of the Glens Hotel. Judging by the stories which usually made up the front page of the Northern Reporter – “Facelift for Sewage Farm” and “Mother of Twelve Children Is Only Support Of Her Husband” – the editor, Harry Martyn, would be as excited as Fergus about this one. Fergus Keane, ace reporter, was on his way. The only problem was that, as it was Sunday, he would have to telephone the editor at home. Before lifting the receiver, Fergus stood for some moments, rehearsing in his mind what he was going to say, thinking that he should have jotted something down, some bullet points, as Mr Martyn liked to call them.

“Hello? Mr Martyn? This is Fergus.” He could picture the round face and the bald head with its fringe of dark hair above the ears. A thumb and forefinger he could imagine stroking each side of the man’s chin, as though searching for a beard. There would be a large mug of tea handy.

The loud voice came barking down the line.

“Fergus? Fergus who?”

There was a short silence, during which time the young reporter was overwhelmed by a feeling of panic and Harry Martyn’s memory caught up.

“Oh yes, Keane. Where the hell are you, Keane? And why’re you ‘phoning me at home on a Sunday? Good God, as if I didn’t have enough to put up with from Monday to Saturday without being badgered in my own living room.”

“Eh – I’m sorry to have to phone you, Mr Martyn, but I think this is very important. I’m at Inisbreen. Don’t you remember, there’s this man – ”

“Inisbreen? What are you doing at Inisbreen, for God’s sake? I thought you were supposed to be covering that dancing
competition at wherever-the-hell-it-was? Does nobody tell me anything around here?”

“But – “ Fergus could feel his whole journalistic career slipping away, “it was you that sent me here, Mr Martyn.”

“Oh, it was, was it? Well, alright then, but next time – keep me informed. How can I run a newspaper if I don’t know where half my bloody staff are?” There was the sound of slurping. “Anyway, what d’you want?”

“Well, Mr Martyn, I think I’ve got – a scoop.”

The slurping suddenly changed to a choking noise.

“A – what?”

“A – scoop, Mr Martyn.”

“A scoop? You’ve been reading too many comics, Keane. A scoop’s what you use to lift dog-shit off the pavement.”

With a pained expression on his young face, Fergus swallowed hard and wished he’d taken his mother’s advice and become a teacher.

“Well, Mr Martyn, there’s this man and he claims he’s seen a vision of the Virgin Mary and that he’s undergone a miracle cure to a life-long illness. He definitely appears genuine to me.”

Fergus waited expectantly for the praise that was undoubtedly on its way. Instead, a long sigh slithered down the line from Ballymane.

“Genuine to you? In your long experience in these matters, is that?” But then Mr Martyn softened a little. He’d been young once, although definitely never as green as this guy. “Look, son, your job is to expose these nutters, not take their side. I mean, I hate to disappoint you and all that, but there’s hardly a day passes in Ireland without some lunatic claiming he’s seen a vision or he’s been cured of Christ-knows what. Let’s get back to the real world, eh?” the editor said, his voice rising. “The harsh realities of life, the cut and thrust of politics, the broken homes, the – the – dog mess on the pavements. That’s what this newspaper’s for.”

“For – dog mess, Mr Martyn? Didn’t you just say that’s what a scoop was for?”

“No, not for clearing up bloody dog mess, for . . . Jasus!” There was a short silence and then a barely audible, “God give me patience,” and then louder, but softly, “For community issues, Mr Keane!”

“But this is a community issue, Mr Martyn. And I’m absolutely certain it’s genuine. In fact, positive. And both the Church and the medical profession have upheld his claim.”

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.