A Galway Epiphany

Benjamin J. was outlining the plan to Connie. Almost every aspect of it horrified her. He registered her reluctance, demanded,

“Who said those children had to die to make this miracle unique? Wasn’t that your idea?”

She didn’t answer, lost in the part where Brid had to die. He moved in front of her and, with slow measured timing, slapped her face, harsh enough to leave the track of his fingers on her cheek. He snarled,

“Either get with the game or wallow in obscurity. You want to burn with glory or be like that parasite Brid, a feeble thing that pisses and moans.”

She managed to pull herself together, said,

“I’m in.”

He gave her a second slap, keep the vibe alive as it were. Then,

“Here’s what we’re going to do. You and Brid go in the house. I’ll have dealt with the children and their minder, so no problem there. The timers will kick in and you simply need to ensure your ally joins the martyrs.”

He seemed to relish the word martyrs, continued,

“Then you stagger outside, your arm badly burned, collapse beautifully for your photo opportunity, wail, oh I tried to save them. The media will lap it up.Then you can swoon or whatever you deem appropriate.”

He paused, asked,

“You can do hysteria, right?”

She could barely think but said,

“I’m hysterical already.”

He raised his hand, warned,

“Save it. We don’t want to appear rehearsed.”

He moved to the drink cabinet, plucked out a bottle of Black Bushmills, said,

“Let’s have a wee dram to cement our grand design.”

Her mind was already in flames and a moment of insane logic had her ask,

“Isn’t Bushmills the Protestant drink?”

The best laid plans.

Connie moved through the smoking house, flames everywhere. Brid had gone upstairs to deal with the children and the carer. To her astonishment, she found one child dead, his throat cut, and the carer bedside him, also dead. No sign of the other child. She rushed down to tell Connie, who walloped her with the tire iron.

Connie hit her again, screaming,

“I’m so sorry!”

The fire was in full rage, she whispered,

“Another minute and I’m out of here.”

She did as Benjamin had instructed and put out her hand, let the fire travel up to her shoulder. The pain was beyond belief and she quickly managed to douse it but the agony... She could hardly see, made her way to the door, pulled the handle.

Locked.

How the fuck could that be?

She turned to see the fire speeding toward her, pulled frantically at the door, then realized, as the flames reached her, that Benjamin had locked her in.

Her last words were

“Oh, Brid.”

The fire took her.

It took two battalions of firefighters nearly five hours before the blaze could be contained. A fire inspector, hours later, on his first cursory inspection, hung his head in shock, said to his deputy,

“Multiple casualties, including a child.”

The deputy said,

“Sweet Jesus.”

Benjamin J. watching the inferno from a safe distance, laid out five nonsafety matches, said,

“One each.”

He prided himself on his expertise with figures, never got them wrong.

He did now.

His count of five was wrong.

It was four.

The fire and resultant deaths did not play large in the media, as you would have expected. Almost immediately it was suppressed, with a report saying,

“Tragic accident involving members of a religious community.”

No one wanted to stir up what might be a fiasco, with the death of the miracle child, a highly suspicious fire, the death of two American nuns. The term “ongoing investigation” successfully quelled awkward questions.

The miracle of Galway was officially dead.

I met with Owen Daglish, bought him the obligatory drinks, and let him talk. He seemed as shocked as anyone else, began with,

“It’s a clusterfuck of epic size.”

I waited.

Then,

“The two dodgy nuns, Yanks, only added to the potential scandal so it is felt that the whole shebang is best left alone.”

I asked,

“And the child? Where is the other one?”

He shrugged, said,

“Collateral damage, but the Church seems relieved the whole miracle business is over.”

I pushed,

“What about arson?”

He rounded on me, literally put a hand to my mouth, warned,

“Shush. Jesus, don’t even breathe the word.”

He drank a double Jameson in a gulp, said,

“The Guards would be in deep shit if arson had occurred, especially as it was suspected for some time that other dodgy fires were never fully investigated.”

I sneered,

“Case closed.”

He had no answer so I ventured,

“Ever hear of Benjamin J. Cullen?”

I could tell by his face that he had. He looked away, then said,

“No.”

I said,

“You’re a bad liar.”

That gem hovered over for us until he said,

“Cullen was of interest to us but he’s connected to all kinds of top people so we were told to stay away from him.”

I said,

“He gave me a nonsafety match: It’s his calling card.”

Owen sighed, said,

“A discreet investigation was conducted but nothing solid was found. The guy gives out matches. Try bringing that to a judge — a judge Cullen plays golf with.”

I stood up. Owen asked,

“You don’t want another round?”

I tried to keep my rage in check, said,

“I’d love another drink.”

He seemed relieved, said,

“There you go, same again?”

I said,

“Just not with you.”

I got back to my apartment late. Shadows in the hallway and what appeared to be a bundle of rags outside my door. I edged forward cautiously. In the past, items left outside my door brought nothing but strife and violence.

The bundle moved. A small face appeared.

I was dumbstruck.

The girl Sara, one of the miracle children. She looked at me, said,

“Help me.”

I got her inside, gave her tea, biscuits, all of which she devoured with a fierce focus. I waited until she settled a bit, then I asked,

“How?”

I expected her to speak, if she could indeed speak at all, in broken English, but her English was near fluent — just one of many surprises to come. She said,

“I have listened and imitated English for many years, all the time of my travel.”

Then,

“May I have more tea?”

I got that, my mind in wonder mode, poured a large Jay for my own self. She said,

“I followed you after you got out of the hospital. I believed there was something on your face that said you were a man who helps.”

I said,

“You’re very grown-up for what? Fourteen years of age?”

She gave a tiny smile and it transformed her from urchin to someone aware and capable.

She said,

“I am much more in years than that but, during our travels, our being moved from country to country, it was wise to seem like a child.”

The question hanging over us,

The fire?

She saw in my face, said,

“I was not in the house.”

I asked the glaring question,

“Why?”

She studied my face, found nothing to spook her, said,

“I go to get candies for the boy. ‘Candies’ is the correct word?”

The fuck I knew but I nodded.

Her face crumpled for a moment and a tiny tear escaped, rolled down her cheek, fell to the carpet with — I swear — a soft sound. She composed herself with a practiced effort, fixed her features into a hard nine-yard stare, said,

“I cannot say his name, not since he burned, and I had left him unsafe, always, before, in all the danger, the ships, the bad men...”

Paused.

“The very bad men, women too, I kept my boys safe. I had a knife after Greece, and I used it.”

A hint of pride in that but short-lived as she realized again she wasn’t there when it counted. She continued,

“I saw the man.”

Fuck.

I held up a hand, went,

“Whoa, what man?”

Her face darkened, she spat,

“The man who set the fire, the man who waited until it burned high, then he bolted — is right word, to ‘bolt’? To stop? The door?”

God almighty.

I checked,

“You saw him? You saw him clearly?”

She looked at me, asked,

“You see the demon, you think maybe you forget what he looks like?”

I poured another Jay, she asked,

“This is Irish whiskey?”

I held the bottle mid-pour, asked,

“You know it?”

She gave a mirthless laugh, said,

“I know

Brandy.

Ouzo.

Metaxa.

Tequila.

Rake.

On the ships, all the travels, the men, they give us all kinds of drinks, to have a way with us?”

Jesus. I didn’t want to ask. Would you?

She said,

“I had my knife and I drank their poisons.”

Added sadly,

“The boy, they made him sick so I drank his.”

My face must have registered some of my horror. She said,

“I tell you before, I tell you, I am older than my face. My body is small, no food or food with worms, you do not develop, but my mind, I fed my mind with hate. Hate makes you old in the heart, in the soul.”

Unconsciously, I muttered,

“An old soul.”

She gave me a lovely smile and it transformed this girl-child into something glorious, something fantastically ferocious in the very best way.

She put her hand out, commanded,

“Now give me Irish whiskey where I do not have to use my knife.”

There was absolute threat in this request but a soft pleading too. I poured her a shot, she held the glass still outstretched, said,

“A drink for not-a-child.”

I poured more and she drank it like a docker.

I asked,

“You were there when a truck hit me.”

She gave a guilty smile, so I pushed,

“Did you try to rob me?”

“Yes.”

I near shouted,

“You could try denying it, for God’s sake.”

She went hard-core serious.

“I do not lie. I do many things that are very not good but I never lie.”

Oddly, I believed her.

Another smile, then,

“I know a man who is good — dangerous but good. I know because in the three years of our journeys to this...”

Pause.

“...place, I have known almost nothing but the terrible men, so one who has some soul of light, I know it.”

Well, I was this far in, might as well go for broke. I asked,

“The miracle? The Madonna cry, what was that.”

Without a beat, she said,

“A trick, a cheap light trick they have in village in Guatemala.”

Before I could echo “Guatemala,” she yawned, asked,

“Please, now I sleep.”

I gave her my bed, said,

“Sleep well. You are safe here.”

She gave me an impish grin, said,

“Of course. I have my knife.”

Touché.

As she turned to go, I noticed the snake tattoo on her left arm. As her arm stretched out, it seemed as if the snake, a cobra, unfurled, its hood in full effect, the fangs clearly etched, and, I swear to god, it looked like it was about to strike me. I jumped back in fright, muttered,

“Fuck, get a grip.”

She smiled and almost absentmindedly scratched at what appeared to be a cross under her left jaw.

She then uttered a sentence I didn’t understand. The way she said it, it sounded like a curse. I am far too familiar with curses to mistake one for a blessing. She then gave me a look of such sultry, sensual intensity that I had to turn away. She disappeared into the bedroom. I was badly shaken, got a pen, and wrote down what she’d said as phonetically as I was able.

Took me ten minutes to find an approximation on Google; it was Aramaic.

Another ten minutes to attempt a translation; it seemed to be:

You will perish in awesome torment.

No, that couldn’t be right. She was just a young, traumatized child, and I would keep her safe. Like all my bright ideas, interpretations, I was utterly wrong.

I sat by her bed, keeping vigil.

Alas, being a semiliterate horror movie buff, the movies

Orphan.

Case 39.

Did cross my mind.

Both feature a child way older than appearances suggest.

I shrugged them off, or tried to. Then Sara began to shiver, soundlessly scream, make contorted turns in the bed. Sweat was rolling in rivulets off her tiny form. Warily, I got a damp cloth, tried to cool her brow, all the while aware she might suddenly knife me.

A leaflet slipped out from under her pillow. It had a picture of a small village, Ballyfin, and a plea to save the village. The headline was simple:

“Provide Our Miracle.”

I’d work that out later. Right now, I needed another opinion.

I phoned Keefer, said I needed his help.

He didn’t ask why or when, simply said,

“You got it.”

Such friends are utter gold.