The Dramatist by Ken Bruen Page A

the clergy any more, except the old biddies who try to grab your hand, ask you can you get Padre Pio’s glove.”
    “Saint.”
    “What?”
    “St Padre Pio. He was canonised during the World Cup…the day Spain beat us on the penalties.”
    “They should never have sent Roy home.”
    I wasn’t going to open that can of worms. Not since the shooting of Michael Collins had the country been so divided. You either backed Roy Keane or you didn’t. Even Northern Ireland didn’t arouse the same passions. Malachy gave a deep groan, the signal for nicotine. I have never known anyone as addicted as him. He’d light one from the butt of another. The urge was on him now and with ferocity. I began to walk down the ward and he followed, whining,
    “Hey, I haven’t finished.”
    “You’ll want a smoke, right?”
    “So?”
    “So, even priests have to obey the rules…well, the blatant ones anyway.”
    At the alcove, the huddled smokers chorused,
    “Father.”
    He ignored them, grabbed my arm tightly, and I said,
    “Back off.”
    He didn’t, went,
    “Your mother had to be moved to a nursing home. She’s paralysed on one side and requires twenty-four hour nursing.”
    She’d hate that, had said once:
    “Nursing home? Knacker’s yard more like. Once you go in, you never come out. Promise me, son, promise me you’ll never let that happen.”
    I never promised, but my father would turn in his grave so I asked,
    “Where is it?”
    “Grattan Road, called St Jude’s.”
    He released my arm, seemed uncomfortable, so I pushed,
    “Is it OK?”
    He stubbed his cigarette on the floor, ashtrays all round him, said,
    “It’s a bit basic. She doesn’t have a lot of money, but well, life is hard.”
    One of the smokers moved forward, asked,
    “Father, could you give us a blessing?”
    “Don’t annoy me.”
    He hissed and stomped off.

 
    The hospital had cleaned my clothes, but the bloodstains still clung faintly to the shirt. I looked bedraggled. To ease my limp, they’d given me a walking stick. I’d refused but had to relent. Leaning on it, I thanked the nurse, got a supply of painkillers and took the elevator to the ground floor. A fortune had been spent on the hospital foyer and spent recklessly. It looks like the departure lounge of an airport, with a flash coffee bar, massive potted plants and an air of opulence. Nobody can find Admissions, and people wander round in dazed confusion.
    I phoned a taxi and the girl said,
    “It will be about twenty minutes. How will the driver know you?”
    “I’ll be in the coffee bar, I have a cane…”
    And before I could continue, she roared,
    “Five nine, pick up at the hospital, an old guy with a walking stick.”
    Click.
    Tried not to think about that, got a coffee and eased myself carefully into the chair, heard,
    “Jack!”
    Turned to see Ann Henderson approaching. My heart lurched. She was wearing cord boot-cut pants with a tight yellow sweater, the sleeves rolled back, showing a light tan. Her wedding band seemed to shine. She asked,
    “May I sit?”
    “Sure.”
    As usual, the very sight of her brought a lump to my throat. I’d hung the handle of the cane on the rim of the table, and she glanced quickly at it. I said,
    “I’ve just been described as an old guy.”
    That hurt her and I felt a twinge of pleasure. Christ, I wanted to hurt her badly. She answered,
    “I am so desperately sorry.”
    “Why, because I’m old?”
    Shook her head, vague annoyance for a moment, then,
    “For what happened to you.”
    “You didn’t do it.”
    “I caused it. I told Tim about our meeting, and so he wrote the note to you out of jealousy.”
    And then,
    “But I didn’t know about the note until after you were hurt.”
    I let that hang there. If she’d hoped for understanding, I was all out. I put the spoon in my coffee, stirred madly. She moved her hand to touch me and I snapped,
    “Don’t you dare.”
    She recoiled as if bitten. I said,
    “He came to see me, your