Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

24 Hours
by Julie Barrett

Niamh Egan stood in the doorway of the Garda house and frowned as she gazed across the street at the dark pub. Assumpta Fitzgerald rarely slept in - except on Sundays while most of the locals were in church and the law prevented her from opening. The publican had looked terrible the night before, and croaked out a promise to Niamh that she would go to bed and leave the clearing up for the morning. It was still on the early side, she reminded herself.

Kathleen Hendley swept the last of the debris from last night's rain off from the steps of her store and began to set out fresh flowers and newspapers. "Good morning, Niamh! Did Kieran keep you up again last night?"

"'Morning, Kathleen. No, Kieran was only up once to eat. I was grateful for the sleep." She pointed to the pub. "We had quite a night over there last night."

"Should you be working at a public house with a new baby and all?" The shopkeeper disapproved of the idea of public houses in general, and in specific of a new mother out working, even if she did only have to walk across the street.

Niamh tried brush off Kathleen's obvious dig. "Ah, it helps keep Kieran in nappies. The Gards don't pay much, but I'd never make Ambrose take a different job."

Inside, Kieran began to cry. "He must have heard us talking about him. See you later, Kathleen." Niamh took one more glance at the dark, curtained windows on the first floor of Fitzgerald's, and then went to tend to her baby.

Father Peter Clifford washed out his tea mug and placed it on the drain board next to the sink. Almost time for confession - or as he preferred to call it, meditation. He had hoped that moving around some of the confession times might help to bring more people in. Instead, it just resulted in grumbles from some of the regular parishioners. He'd hoped that if he made it more convenient, then more people might come. On the other hand, some people wouldn't be bothered to show up if confession was available twenty-four hours a day, right on their doorstep.

Peter sighed and walked the short distance to St. Joseph's. Niamh stood waiting for him at the gate, rolling the pram back and forth. "Guess that was quite a party at Fitzgerald's last night," he joked, noting the look on her face.

"Can you look after Kieran for just a couple of minutes?" Ambrose is on patrol, and..." She paused, as if looking for the right phrase. "I'll be right back."

Peter took the handle of the pram and grinned at the baby. "He can help take confession."

"Oh, I forgot you'd moved the times. I'll find someone else."

"It's okay. The place isn't exactly jumping with people wanting to confess their sins." He looked up and down the empty street to emphasize his point. "Go on."

"Thanks. He's had a busy morning, so he'll probably not wake up." The Gard's wife ran down the road, her long dark hair bouncing on her shoulders. Peter pushed Kieran in through the front door of the church and down the aisle, where he knelt down before the altar and crossed himself.

"Assumpta?" Niamh called up to the window, in hopes the publican would answer. Nothing. She unlocked the door and let herself in. The pub was dark, and smelled of stale beer. Clearly, Assumpta had followed her admonition to get straight to bed. "Phew!" Niamh wrinkled her nose and took a look around. Empty glasses and plates littered the tables. Apparently the only concession the publican had made to neatness was covering the taps at the bar. She picked a napkin up from the floor and placed it on a table, then made her way up the staircase. Gently, she knocked on a closed door. "Assumpta?" She knocked again and pushed the door open. All she could see at first was an unkempt shock of dark hair. Finally, a pair of pale hands appeared from underneath the duvet, followed by a face that could best be described as death warmed over. Niamh believed that she had seen movie vampires with more robust complexions. "Mother of God."

"Not exactly," the publican replied hoarsely. "Though I did spend quite a bit of time at the 'porcelain altar' last night." Niamh reached over and felt her friend's forehead.

"You're burning up!"

"I'll be okay. " Assumpta tried to raise herself, and fell back in the bed in exhaustion.

"You're in no shape to do anything. Let me get you something to drink." Niamh raced downstairs and quickly returned with a glass of water. She placed her hand underneath her friend's head and made her take a sip.

"And look, there's the Child of Prague!" Peter pointed to the statue in its niche and looked down at the restless baby cradled in his arms. "Well, you know all about how babes really get wet, don't you?" He looked up at the newly-cleaned statue and shook his head. Liam and Donal had done a good job of removing the chip fat "sweat" from the statue, but Peter still felt angry over the entire incident. He said a silent prayer asking for help in dealing with his feelings and crossed himself. Kieran began to stir. "And over here," he walked to his right and held the baby close to a second statue. "This is the Blessed Virgin Mary. One day, I'll take you out to see my favorite statue of her. Well, that's the grand tour of the sanctuary. What do you think?" Kieran seemed unimpressed. "Maybe it's time for a nap. I'm ready for one already." The church door swung open just as Peter turned around. The figure silhouetted in the doorway appeared to be a pregnant woman. Peter's guess was confirmed as she made her way down the aisle.

"I thought I'd better come in. Dr. Ryan says any day now, and I'd feel better having this baby knowing I'd confessed my sins."  As she moved closer, Peter observed that she might be as old as twenty.

"Is this your first child?"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, just a lucky guess." He placed Kieran in the pram and the boy immediately began to cry. The curate smiled sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I got stuck with babysitting duty."

"I thought he looked a little young for his first confession." A smile crossed her face and pointed to the pram. "Do you mind?" Peter assented as she held the baby in her arms. He immediately stopped crying.

"I think you'll make a good mother."

"Thanks. Uh, I'll take him in with me, if that's okay." Peter thought about the offer, and decided that she was in no condition to try to run off with the baby. She eased herself into the confessional, and Peter settled into his chamber.

"Bless me...Father!" The last word was spoken at least an octave higher than the rest.

"Are you okay in there?"

"Uh, I think this baby needs a nappy...now." Peter exited the confessional and took the baby through the already open door.

"Are you sure he's wet?" The priest sniffed at the baby's bottom and shrugged. "Let's get you changed."

"Here, let me." The young woman bent over the pram and began to undo the snaps on Kieran's clothing. She quickly finished the job and produced a plastic bag. "Looks like mom left you well-prepared." Peter took the bag and disappeared into the Sacristy. He made a mental note to empty the wastebasket after confession time. He returned to find the pregnant woman looking pale, and stretched out on a pew. Kieran was quietly lying in his pram. "Father, can you take my confession now? I think that maybe I'm going into labor."

Peter looked around the sanctuary, unsure of what to do. "You don't look too well. Shouldn't I go get Dr. Ryan?"

"Hear my confession, please." Peter nervously assented and listened to her talk. He quickly absolved her sins and ran out the door.

Dr. Ryan was not at home.

"Where's my son? Niamh said he was with you."

Peter spun around to find the Gard. "Ambrose, have you seen Michael?"

A look of panic crossed the young man's face, as he noted the expression of worry on the out-of-breath priest. "What's wrong with Kieran?"

"Nothing, Ambrose," soothed Peter. He's at the church, and he's being watched, but there's a woman there who's gone into labor."

The Gard immediately became all business. "Dr. Ryan's with Assumpta. You get him, and I'll go to the church."

Peter entered the pub and noticed the mess. "It really must have been some party last night," he muttered under his breath. As he climbed the stairs, he replayed Ambrose's statement in his mind. "Assumpta!" He raced up the remaining stairs and into the publican's bedroom. He stopped for a moment and tried to gain his composure. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he simply burst in, all upset. There was enough talk in the village as it was. He tried his best to hide his worry and cracked open the door. "Assumpta?" Dr. Ryan and Niamh looked up at the priest, and Assumpta managed a weak scowl. "What's the matter?"

"Where's Kieran?" Niamh asked, the worry evident in her voice.

"With Ambrose, at the church."

Dr. Ryan snapped his bag shut. "I'm leaving you with enough antibiotics to get through to this evening, and I'll call in a prescription for you. You should be up and about by tomorrow."

"I've got to open," she whispered.

"Not for at least twenty-four hours," he admonished. "You're contagious." The publican moaned and tried to sit up in the bed. "Assumpta," he warned.

"I've got to go to the loo, if you don't mind." She glared at the doctor, who stepped back and gestured for her to go on. Niamh helped her down the hall.

"Peter, have you had a flu shot?"

"Yes," the priest nodded.

"Okay. You can visit, but be careful."

"Actually, I came here for you. There's a woman at the church, and she's gone into labor. Ambrose is with her. I think she just started, but she doesn't look very well to me. But then, what do I know about these things?" The curate raised his arms in a sign of mock futility and managed a weak smile.

Michael's face fell. "It's Claire, isn't it?"

"I believe that's her name. She's young, not quite my height..."

"I just saw her maybe a half an hour ago, and she certainly wasn't in labor then, though she looked like she could start anytime in the next few days. You said Ambrose is there," he asked as he took bag from the night table. Peter nodded. "She's in good hands." The doctor called out his good-byes and made a hasty retreat. Peter sat down on the corner of the bed. He knew should be getting back to the church, but he had a feeling that no one was there for confession. Besides, there was only half an hour left anyway. He decided that he'd give his good-byes to Assumpta, then leave.

Niamh and Assumpta returned and Peter stood aside while Niamh helped the patient back into bed. Assumpta looked tired, but not as pale as the woman he'd just left at the church.

"I hope you're not here to give me a blessing," Assumpta told Peter.

"What? Oh." He looked down at his clothing and realized that he was still wearing his stole. "I was taking confession, when this woman went into labor, so I came to get Dr. Ryan."

"Oh, I'd better go and rescue Kieran, then." Niamh tucked the protesting publican under the covers. "It's time to feed him, anyway. "

"Well," Peter began, "If you want me to get him..."

"You're not equipped to feed him, Father Clifford. Besides, I can't bring him back here. Not with Assumpta sick and all." She walked out, and then stuck her head back in the doorway. "Don't worry about opening."

"That's easy for her to say," Assumpta croaked. She sat up in the bed, and Peter made a move to help. "I'm not an invalid, you know. Now that I've been up and..." she cocked her head "...down the hall, I feel like I might live. You can put that thing away for a start."

Peter smiled awkwardly and removed his stole. "Listen, if there's anything I can do..."

"I don't need a priest."

"...as a friend." He reached out to take her hand, but she moved it away.

"Peter, you..." You've caught me at a vulnerable moment, and you know it. She put that thought out of her head. "You don't want what I've got."

"I've had my flu shot."

She moved her hand under the covers. "Make yourself useful and get me some more water."

"Yes, ma'am." Peter saluted and left the room.

"Why does she have to make everything so difficult," Peter asked himself as he filled the glass with water. He rummaged around in the refrigerator and found a carton of orange juice. He filled a second glass and walked back into the bar. This place was going to have to be cleaned up before Niamh could even think about opening. He supposed that he could get started on that task, but he'd have to go lock up the church first. He would much rather tend to Assumpta, but he knew that she wouldn't have any of that. Before he could put a foot on the stairs, the front door opened, and a man in black strode though.

"Ministering to the sick, are we?" Father MacAnally closed the door behind him.

"Uh, yeah, sort of. At least as much as she'll take."

"I'd just driven up to the church, and..." The siren from an ambulance cut him off in mid-sentence. "That's what I came down to tell you. She wants you to go to the hospital with her." Peter looked down at the glasses in his hands, then at the stairs. "She's scared, Father."

"Of course. I'll go right away."

"Allow me." Father MacAnally took the glasses from his curate. "I'll play the Angel of Mercy."

"She'll like that," Peter replied sarcastically as he bolted out the door.

"I'm sure she will," he said with a wink.

Peter Clifford ran up to the church just as they were placing the woman in the ambulance. She was hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor, the latter of which beeped rhythmically. "Glad you could make it," Dr. Ryan said, pulling him aside. "Her vitals aren't looking too good."

They piled into the ambulance behind the gurney and settled in. "Claire," Peter took her hand. "Look at me. It's going to be okay." 

"I'd like the sacrament."

"Of course." Peter placed his stole back around his shoulders and produced a sacrament kit from his coat pocket. "Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. Amen." Before he could start the next sentence, the heart monitor began to beep arhythmically.

"Sorry, Peter," Dr. Ryan motioned the priest aside. "Stay with me, Claire."

"It's just all priests all the time around here." Assumpta rolled her eyes at the sight of the parish priest. "Couldn't get here fast enough, could you?"

"Father Clifford had more urgent business, I'm afraid." The publican drank some water and coughed. "I'm sure you know the ambulance wasn't for you."

"I'm not that bad off." She took another sip from her glass. "Who's it for?"

"A young lady named Claire. She came to Ballykissangel have her baby. I gather her husband is overseas in the service, and her parents live nearby. She went into labor over at the church, and she asked for Father Clifford to accompany her to the hospital." Fr. Mac made himself comfortable in the chair, clearly enjoying his lot. "So, it looks like I'm your caretaker for a little while."

"I don't need a caretaker," she declared.

"Unless I'm mistaken, it's just about opening time. Someone's got to make sure you stay in bed." As if on cue, Padraig's voice yelled for service. "See?"

Assumpta groaned. "The place is a mess."

"I noticed," he responded dryly. The priest walked to the door and stuck his head into the hallway. "Just a moment," he called down.

"Oh, and you're going to run the pub? Dispense religion and drinks, will you?"

"Father MacAnally, is that you?" Padriag asked.

"Yes, it is," the priest returned. To Assumpta he said, "I'll be back."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she whispered as he left the room.

"What do you mean, she's sick? She's never sick." Padraig surveyed the empty room. Dirty glasses and plates were piled on tables. "The place looks terrible."

"You should see her."

Padriag rolled up his sleeves. "Well, then. Let's get this place cleared up for her, shall we?"

"Well, I..."

"Come on, Fr. Mac. We can't drink out of dirty glasses." The priest rolled his eyes as if to say that this job was beneath his dignity. "If you can help clean up at the parish fete, you can do this."

"The parish fete is not a public house."

"Think of it as a service to the community. People have to eat, you know." Reluctantly, the parish priest rolled up his sleeves and began to gather glasses.

"I just hope the bishop doesn't drop in."

"If he does, we'll give him a drink."

The two men managed to get the dirty plates and glasses into the kitchen and clean the tables. As they wiped down the last table, Niamh entered.

"I wish I had a camera."

"Why?"

"No one's going to believe you two cleaned this place up."

Fr. MacAnally bowed. "I am only a humble servant."

Niamh frowned. "You didn't take confession over from Fr. Clifford?"

"Everyone here knows that if the priest isn't at the church, he's at the pub."

"That was uncalled for," Niamh admonished.

"Don't have a fit when you see the kitchen," Padraig remarked in an attempt to change the subject. "We just kind of threw everything in there." Niamh stepped through the door to survey the damage.

"Well, at least you didn't break anything. Seriously, that's a load off my shoulders. Thanks. Have yourselves a drink on the house. I'm going to check on Assumpta." Padraig wasted no time in complying with Niamh's orders. Fr. MacAnally took a stool at the bar and sipped at his bottle of beer. He preferred whisky, but Padraig had opened the bottles before he could open his mouth to ask.

Siobhan Mehegan entered the bar and sat down at her customary stool. "Where's Assumpta?"

"Upstairs. She's got the flu." Padraig popped his head up over the bar.

"And she left you in charge?"

"No, Father MacAnally and I just cleaned the place up a bit. Niamh's upstairs. Want your usual?"

"Thanks, Padraig." She surveyed the room. "You two actually cleaned this place up? Now I'd have paid money to see that."

"We're not completely useless you know," the mechanic shot back.

Niamh crept down the stairs and entered the bar area. "She's asleep."

"That will do her more good than anything else," Fr. Mac observed.

"Siobahn, can you take Kieran for a bit this evening? Just while Ambrose finishes up some paperwork. I'm going to have to open tonight."

"Sure, no problem."

"I don't suppose you can do lunch," Padraig asked.

Niamh shook her head. "Crisps will be it until I get the kitchen in order, I'm afraid."

Ambrose appeared at the door, carrying a cranky baby. "Sorry, love. I think he's hungry."

"Hungry? I fed him just before I left. Did you check his nappy?"

Her husband sniffed at the baby's garments and wrinkled his nose. "Sorry."

"That's okay, but just don't keep him in here, with Assumpta upstairs sick and all."

"He's not going to catch the flu all the way down here."

"I'm not taking any chances. I'll be home as soon as I can, okay?" Ambrose and the baby disappeared. "I guess I'd better take care of the kitchen. Can you look after things, Padraig?"

"Sure, but if I have a customer at the garage..."

"Right. I appreciate it."

"Let me lend you a hand, Niamh," Siobhan offered.

"I won't say no." The two women vanished into the kitchen.

 

Peter Clifford sat on a bench in the hospital corridor, his head in his hands. The ambulance ride had been harrowing, with Dr. Ryan urging the driver to go as fast as possible along the twisting roads. While the doctor and a technician worked to slow down labor, Peter prayed and offered what comfort he could.

Claire hadn't made it to the hospital in spite of their efforts, and now the doctors were desperately trying to save the life of her baby. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Michael Ryan.

"They've stabilized the baby. If she makes it through tonight, chances are that she'll survive."

"Would you like me to call her parents, Michael?"

"The hospital has already taken care of that. The Logan's on their way." He sat down next to the priest and slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Peter noticed that the doctor looked like he'd been through the wringer. "Claire apparently had a heart attack. This sort of thing is very rare, but it has been known to happen. There had been absolutely no indication of a problem when I saw her earlier today. The report from her doctor indicated that she was a healthy woman. They'll be doing an autopsy, and we'll probably know more then."

"Is there anything I can do, Michael?"

"Can you stay for a while? I think the Logan's can use some support."

Peter placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "I'd planned to do that. But I was actually asking about you."

"If you can be here for her parents that will help me. Well," the doctor stood. "I'm going to check on the baby. If I'm not back here when the parents arrive, have me paged."

"Right." Peter watched Michael Ryan walk away, shoulders hunched.

"Lunch is over, and everything is in order downstairs. I'm going to go home for an hour or so, then come back to open. Can I get you anything before I go?"

"I'm not a complete invalid, you know." Niamh shot Assumpta a look. "I'm sorry. I really do appreciate all you've done. I'd have given anything to see Fr. Mac and Padraig down there clearing tables, though."

Niamh laughed. "That was quite a sight."

"Oh, I know. Dr. Ryan was going to call in a prescription for antibiotics. I don't want to be Typhoid Mary at lunch tomorrow."

; "You'll only work lunch if your fever is gone and you're not coughing," Niamh admonished. "I'll call the hospital when I get home and see if he's still there. Maybe he can bring them back. If not, I'll run over and pick them up."

"You're a lifesaver, Niamh."

"I'm sure Ambrose will be glad to have Kieran out of the house for a bit. Call me or Padraig if you need anything."

"Fine. Now you go home and rest."

The bus from Cilldargan pulled to a stop as Niamh locked up. Peter climbed down the stairs and meandered over to one of the benches in front of the pub. He let out an exhausted sigh and collapsed into the seat. "You look awful, Father. Don't tell me you're coming down with it, too."

"Claire died on the way to the hospital."

Niamh crossed herself. "What about the baby?"

"If she makes it though the night, she'll probably be okay." He rattled a paper sack. "I've got some antibiotics for Assumpta."

"Great. You just saved me a trip into Cilldargan." She unlocked the door and held it open. "You can let yourself out through the other door. Just turn the lock on the inside knob before you go. I'll be back in about an hour."

Peter walked through into the pub. The place looked much better than it had this morning. He wished he could say the same for himself. He crept up the stairs in case she was asleep. That precaution was not needed, for he found her propped up in bed, reading a book. "Special delivery." Assumpta looked up and regarded the man standing in her doorway wearing a thin smile and holding a paper bag.

"You look worse than I feel."

"You're welcome," he replied as he placed the bag on her nightstand.

"Thanks. What do I owe you?"

We'll worry about it later."

"Peter..."

"They didn't cost much at all. Don't worry about it."

Assumpta opened the bag and removed a bottle of pills and a receipt, both of which she eyed intently. "Go downstairs and get yourself a drink and we'll call it even."

"I don't mind if I do. Can I get you anything while I'm at it?"

"I'd kill for a hot cup of tea. Why don't I come down and help?"

"Just stay there."

"Peter, I'm tired of just laying in bed."

"Do you think it's wise to go down in the kitchen while you're still contagious?"

Assumpta considered the statement. She worked hard to maintain a spotless kitchen, and she reluctantly came to the conclusion that it wouldn't do for her to go rattling around there in between openings if there was a chance she'd spread her bug. "Oh, all right."

Peter returned to find that Assumpta had been up and cracked open the window. A cool breeze played at the curtains. "It was getting stuffy in here." He handed her a mug of tea and sat down with his lager. "Thanks."

"Thank you." Peter raised his glass in salute. "I certainly needed this."

Assumpta studied Peter's face. It was quite apparent that something had gone terribly wrong at the hospital. "Come on, tell me about it."

"About what?"

"I can tell that something's wrong. If you can't tell your bartender, who can you tell? Oh, I forgot, you're a priest."

"That was unfair, Assumpta." She simply stared at him. He let out a sigh. "Well, you'll hear soon enough. Claire died on the way to the hospital."

"Oh, I am sorry."

Peter Clifford sank down into the chair, and instantly realized that he was beyond tired. Getting sleep was another issue, though. "Michael thinks she had a heart attack, although she seemed perfectly healthy."

"I can tell how you're taking this. What about Michael?"

Peter shrugged. "To say he's perplexed would be an understatement. I suppose he could use a friend tonight, though."

"I'd say you both could." She moved over and patted the bed. "Come on and sit here so I don't have to strain my voice." To her disappointment, Peter moved the chair over next to the bed. "Afraid of getting the flu?" Or something else?

p; "Even though I've had my shot, I ought to play it safe." They both winced at the double meaning. "Assumpta..."

"No, I didn't have a flu shot."

"That's not what I was going to ask, but now that you've brought up the topic, why not?"

"I'm allergic to the vaccine. Now, what were you going to ask?"

Peter's right hand twitched as he considered reaching for her hand, and then thought the better of it. "Oh, I was just going to ask if there was anything else I could do." That was a lie, and they both knew it, but neither had the will to articulate their thoughts. Peter broke the ensuing silence. "I'm sorry about leaving so abruptly this morning."

"That couldn't be helped."

"Yeah, but I could have left you with someone other than Father MacAnally."

Assumpta laughed. It was hoarse, and she coughed, but Peter was glad to see her smiling. "You can pick 'em, can't you?" Peter smiled back. "Oh, he was happy to tell me why you had to leave, on real parish business. And I think he got a kick out of having me as a captive audience."

"Assumpta, I am sorry. That must have been terrible for you."

"Oh, he only stayed up here for a couple of minutes. The front door was unlocked, and Padraig came in looking for service."

"Don't tell me..."

"Would you believe Padraig talked him into helping clear up? I can see Padraig doing it out of self-preservation, but I don't know why Fr. Mac stayed behind."

"Christian charity, I'm sure." Peter smiled, but wondered what reason the parish priest did have to stay around and help.

"Ha!" She coughed again and looked that the clock on her nightstand. "Time for another horse pill. I think Siobhan could have done better on the medicine front." She took a pill, swallowed it with some water, and made a face. "Tasty stuff."

They sat in silence, each wishing they could cut the small talk and tell the other how they really felt. Peter looked at his watch.

"Sorry. I'm not good company," Assumpta whispered.

"No, I was just thinking that Michael might be back soon. But he said he would check up on you when he got back into town." As if on cue, they heard the bang of the door downstairs. "Might be the man himself." Peter excused himself and went downstairs to check.

"Still here, I see," Niamh observed as she pushed past Peter.

"Hello yourself. It hasn't been an hour yet, has it?"

"Just about. Kieran's asleep, and Ambrose is back at the house."

"You haven't seen Dr. Ryan, have you?"

Niamh looked out through the lace curtains at the street. "No, and his car isn't at his surgery, either."

"He said he'd check in on her when he got back to town. Well, Assumpta looks like she could use some rest, although I'll bet she's going stir-crazy upstairs. I'll leave you with her."

Niamh looked relieved. "Right."

"Call me if you need anything."

"You go home and get some rest, Father Clifford. You look like you need it." She closed the door and walked quietly up the stairs, where she found Assumpta brushing her hair. "Primping for the priest?"

"Niamh! Of course not. Peter thought that might be Dr. Ryan. Besides," she frowned at the mirror, "my hair is a fright." She studied her own features in the mirror, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Niamh, I think I could do with a shower. I was thinking about doing just that, and then Peter showed up."

"Do you think that's wise? I don't want you getting a chill."

"Chill? It'll cool me off." In more ways than one, she said to herself. Niamh made Assumpta promise to blow-dry her hair before she went back to bed, and then left the publican to her ablutions while she went downstairs to inventory the pantry.

Peter made himself a cup of tea, and then settled in to read the post. Bills and more bills, and a letter from Manchester. He tossed the bills aside and tore open the letter. The return address was from his sister. Their mother was still not her best, but she was showing signs of improvement Peter said a prayer for his mother and wished that he could be there with her. He had just turned to the bills when he heard a knock at the door. Dr. Michael Ryan stood on the doorstep, looking haggard.

"Come in, I've just made tea."

"Just what the doctor ordered." He managed a weak smile and practically fell into a chair at the kitchen table. "This is the one aspect of practicing medicine that I like a lot less than the others." Peter delivered the mug of tea and the doctor took a long drink. "I'm glad you could be there to talk to the Logan's. Thanks."

"Part of the job - one of the parts I like the least."

"You know, sometimes I think that if I had a practice in the city, I'd be able to deal with this better. You know, just by virtue of having more patients."

"Having had a practice of sorts in the city, I'm here to tell you that it's still hard. I can't say that I hate it..." Ryan nodded in agreement. "...but I always feel a sense of dread when I have to talk to grieving relatives. I mean, offering hope and encouragement is part of the job that I enjoy, but I suppose it's that I just dislike having to deliver the bad

"Nobody likes to do that, Peter." Michael studied his tea for a moment. "But it always hurts to lose someone, especially when

"Michael..."

The doctor held up a hand. "Peter, I know the teachings of the Catholic Church. I've been there a few years, you know. It's hard when you work so hard to save someone's life, and they don't make it. There's the guilt of wondering if you did enough. I'm not talking Catholic guilt; this is plain medical guilt."

"We can't save everyone, Michael. But I know how you feel. You deal with the body, and I deal with the eternal soul." Peter sipped at his tea, and found that it had gone cold. "How about something stronger?"

Michael Ryan shook his head. "No, I'm not finished for the day."

"Like a pot of coffee, I mean. I've still got lots to do; I can't fall asleep yet."

"That I could do with," he told Peter as the priest began to rummage through his cupboards. A moment later, Peter leaned against the counter and spread his arms open.

"Oh, well. It was a good thought, but I have none. I'm out of everything, by the look of it. I'd planned to stock up today."

"The best-laid plans."

"Yeah. Tell you what: I'll buy us dinner at Fitzgerald's."

"Niamh many not have much on tonight."

"A packet of peanuts is better than what I've got." The curate reached into a cupboard and produced a package of biscuits that looked like it had seen better days. "I'll bet they could carbon date this." To prove his point, he tossed it on the table, where it landed with a loud thud. The doctor winced at the sound. "I've probably got something growing in the refrigerator that Brendan could use as a science experiment Oh, Well. I'm sure I'll get to Kathleen's tomorrow."

Michael Ryan finished his tea and stood. "I'll take you up on that. I think that by then we'll both be ready for a drink, too - my treat. But first, I promised Assumpta I'd check in on her, and I had better check my messages."

When Peter walked in to Fitzgerald's, he found the regulars propping up the bar as usual. Beyond that, there were few customers. Niamh looked visibly relived that the place wasn't jumping.

"Father Clifford," she called out. "How

"Fine, Niamh. How about yourself?"

"Not too bad," she answered. "Do you mind checking up on Assumpta?"

"No problem." He started up the stairs, and then turned back to face the bar. "Niamh, what have you got on for dinner tonight?"

"Just sandwiches, Father, sorry."

"Beats Jurassic era biscuits. I'm buying for Dr. Ryan when he gets in." Niamh signaled her assent and Peter made his way up to Assumpta's room. The door was closed, and he knocked gently. "Assumpta?"

"Is that you, Peter? Come in!" The publican was propped up in bed, reading. Peter noticed that she had changed her clothes. "Hey."

"Feeling better?"

"Oh, yes. I took a shower after you left, and it did a world of good. I think my fever is gone. Dr. Ryan said that maybe it was just a 'hit and run' 24-hour bug. If so, I'd like to get the number of that lorry that ran me over. So, as long as I take my antibiotics like a good girl, and if I'm not running a fever in the morning, I'll be good to go."

"Ah. Well that's good to hear."

"So, how are you doing?"

"Me?" Peter reacted with surprise. "I'm not the one in bed with the flu."

"No, but you looked pretty wrecked yourself when you were here earlier."

Peter shrugged. "Oh, once I get a sandwich and a lager in me, I'll be right as rain."

Assumpta sat up straight. "You know, I could die for a sandwich."

"Your wish is my command."

Ten minutes later, Peter went upstairs bearing a sandwich, crisps, and a fresh pot of tea. She brightened at the sight. "Ah, you're a miracle worker."

"I give Niamh full credit for this."

"Aren't you eating?" The disappointment was evident on her face.

"Ah, well, I'm buying dinner for Michael Ryan tonight."

"Umm, that's good," she said between bites. "I'll forgive you this time. Where are you taking him?"

"Here."

"I think he deserves better than that. Not that Niamh doesn't make a mean sandwich..."

"We're both too tired to drive into Cilldargan. Besides, I think we've both spent enough time there today." Assumpta nodded. "So, can I get you anything else?"

"You can stay here and talk, if Michael isn't here yet. I'm bored stiff." Peter laughed. The thought of staying here with Assumpta was certainly attractive. "You should laugh more often."

"What, are you saying that I don't have a sense of humor?"

"No, I'm saying that I haven't seen you laugh much lately." This was true. Between losing his Javelin, the incident with the Child of Prague, and his mother's condition, Peter Clifford didn't have much to be happy about as of late. Then there was everything that happened today. "I am concerned about you, you know."

"Oh?"

"I don't want to have to break in another priest."

Peter sat down in the chair next to the bed. "Oh, is that it?"

"Yeah. No telling who Father MacAnally would bring in."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to have to do that."

"What do you want, then?"

"What I want..." ...is just the unattainable. What I want is you. But I'm a priest. And I'm not sure that I'm what you want. "I just want you to get better."

"Am I interrupting?" Dr. Ryan appeared at the door.

"No, Michael, not at all. I'll meet you downstairs."

Sleep did not come easy for Peter Clifford, even though he was very tired. He lay in bed tossing and turning, rehashing the events of the day over in his head. Today had been rough. He'd barely known Claire; she'd just come to town a few weeks ago. Yet he couldn't help but wonder that if he'd gotten hold of Michael sooner that things might have been different. It was his duty as a priest to hear her confession, but was it also his duty to preserve her life? He had little doubt that Fr. MacAnally would tell him that he'd done the right thing. That, however, was cold comfort.

And then there was the other event of the day. Every time he had reconciled himself that he and Assumpta Fitzgerald were no more than friends, some event or other came to pass to make him feel differently. He wanted to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be okay. No - he wanted to hear her tell him that everything was going to be okay. This was all too much. He was a priest, and a priest shouldn't be having these sorts of feelings. But he was human. And humans did have these feelings. He can't deny they exist, but he can't act on them either.

Peter finally got out of bed and looked out of his window. The street was dark - save the light in Dr. Ryan's surgery. His beside clock indicated 4:00 am.

Michael Ryan sat hunched over his desk, pen in hand. Writing reports was the second worst part of his job, but something that had to be done. Still he was somewhat grateful for the polite knock at the door. He found Peter Clifford, looking about as lacking in sleep as he himself felt.

"Michael? I saw your light on."

"I couldn't sleep either," he replied, holding the door open for the priest to enter. "Seemed like a good time to catch up on some paperwork. Don't take your coat off, though. You can come with me on a little call."

"A little call?" Peter echoed.

"Yeah," Michael disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a vacuum flask and an extra cup. "Let's go have that cup of coffee."

Dr. Ryan expertly navigated the dark roads. Peter had no idea where they were going. Nearly three years in Ballykissangel, and he still hadn't worked out the maze of small roads in this part of Wicklow. Finally, Michael pulled off to the side of the road. "This is it. Come on." Peter grabbed the flask and cup and followed him through a dark meadow, guided only by the small beam of a flashlight. "Right here," he said, indicating a rock. They settled in, and Peter noticed the first pink tendrils of dawn off in the distance. "A nurse in the geriatric unit at the hospital called this God's picture show. I daresay she was right." Peter unscrewed the stopper from the flask and poured two cups of coffee. They sat in silence as the light show intensified. "Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk? About what?"

"It doesn't take a medical degree to tell that something's eating away at you, Peter."

The priest laughed ruefully. "You're not my confessor."

"I am your doctor, and I'm concerned." Peter sipped his drink and stared straight ahead. "You know it won't go any further than here."

"It's not that simple, Michael." Peter knew he could trust Michael Ryan, yet he was afraid to put his feelings into to words. If he couldn't tell Assumpta Fitzgerald, how could he tell anyone else? Somehow, it just did not seem right.

"Is anything?" The doctor noticed that his companion started to gently rock back and forth. "You know, it's not easy being the Rock of Gibraltar for others when you're crumbling inside."

"I wouldn't say I'm crumbling."

"Did I say you were?"

Peter stopped his movement and looked the older man in the eye.

"A few cracks perhaps," he stated cryptically. Michael reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small flask and poured a measure of liquid into his cup. "Here, it'll take the chill off," he smiled as he poured some into the priest's cup. "I know: Alcohol actually lowers the body temperature."

"Loosens the tongue, eh?" Peter looked down at his drink.

Michael sniffed at the flask before replacing the lid. "Nah, if I'd wanted to do that, I'd have brought the good stuff, and given you more of it." Peter couldn't help but laugh. They clinked cups and watched the pinks give way to oranges, and finally blues.

"I really do appreciate your concern, Michael, but I honestly don't know if I can even put this into words." The doctor nodded. He thought he knew what was eating at the curate - hell, everyone in town probably knew - but he had no intention of backing Peter Clifford into a corner. That, he decided, would be the wrong move. "What about you, Michael? Are you doing okay? I mean losing Claire and all yesterday..."

The doctor took a sip of his beverage and winced. Maybe he should have brought the good stuff, he thought. "We'll know more soon, after the autopsy."

"Is that necessary?"

"I'm afraid it is, being essentially an unexplained death. Her parents weren't thrilled, but it's out of my hands. I would have asked for one anyway." The curate gave him a questioning glance. "I need to know that we did everything we could for her."

"Would it have made any difference if I'd have gotten to you sooner? She insisted that I hear her confession first. If I'd had any idea..." In the end, her confession had been very routine. No, that was not fair. Even the smallest of sins was still a transgression, and absolution was necessary.

Dr. Ryan shook his head. "Nobody had any idea, Peter. Don't beat yourself up over it. I expect the autopsy will confirm our suspicions." He swallowed some coffee. "I sure hope it does."

"Are you worried about a lawsuit?"

"There's always that possibility." He paused to gather his thoughts. "You know how it is, Peter. Everyone looks to you as though you have all the answers..."

"I can think of a few who don't."

Ryan smiled. "There's always a few."

"You knew the job was dangerous when you took it..."

"So did you."

Peter drank from his cup and tried to keep from losing his composure. "Touché'" He grasped his knees and began once again to slowly rock back and forth. "Sometimes I wish I did have all the answers. But if I did, I'd probably be riding around in the Popemobile. I'd settle for my Javelin, actually."

"Losing that car really hurt, didn't it?"

"I'm a priest," he stated mechanically. "We don't form attachments to material things." He laid his forehead against his knees. Finally, he looked up at Dr. Ryan. His eyes were ringed with red. "It's not just the car, but what it represented. To me, it was a sign that I'd finally gained the trust of the community. It was though I finally belonged."

The use of the past tense was not lost on the doctor. "Don't ever think that you're not a part of Ballykissangel."

"Sometimes I wonder." Peter looked out over the hills. As the sun rose, the heat began to turn the moisture to mist. The effect was definitely soothing. He wondered how Michael Ryan had found this spot. "Now, would you stop changing the subject:

How are you holding up?"

Now it was Dr. Ryan's turn to look out over the hills. "It's always hard. And her parents were good friends. I hope they still are. But I'll get over it and carry on. I always do."

Both men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Peter spoke.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Go on..."

"Why didn't you ever get married?"

Michael leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky. It seemed like a strange question, but nothing he didn't mind. "I was...for a while." Peter wondered how to ask the inevitable next question, but he was saved the effort. "She had Hodgkins Lymphoma. We did what we could." Michael Ryan stared into the distance. "We married when I was still taking pre-Med classes. I knew she was ill, but..."

Peter let him contemplate for a few moments. "So you never though about remarrying?"

"I'm married my work now, I guess."

"Just like a priest."

"I didn't say ... well, this isn't confession. Let's just say that I've had some other relationships. They didn't work out. I came to realize that I can't ask anyone to be available for me when I'm unable return the favor - at least on a consistent basis." Peter nodded. "This isn't to say that I'm abandoning the possibility that I might find someone." He poured more coffee in his cup and offered Peter some, which he accepted. "So, what about you?"

"If you mean to ask if a bad relationship drove me into the seminary, the answer is no. Oh, I dated around a bit, but..."

Ryan sat up and put his cup near his lips. "No Miss Right?"

"Or Mr. Right." Michael spat out his coffee. "That was a joke."

"I know. I just wasn't expecting it." The tone of a ringing mobile phone cut off their laughter. He extracted the instrument and answered. "Michael Ryan...Yes...That's wonderful news...He's coming home when?...Of course, I'll be glad to...You too..." He pressed a button and faced Peter. "Good news. The baby made it through the night. The father will be on his way home as soon as they can arrange transport, and in the meantime, Claire's parents are going to take charge of the baby. She'll have to stay in the hospital for a few more days, at least."

"That's great, Michael." Peter stared at the hills. Everything looked so amazingly tranquil. He breathed in the morning air and smiled. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, though I don't know what I did."

"You brought me to the picture show."

Dr. Ryan eased himself to his feet and grunted. "I love it here, but the old knees sure don't. I've got patients coming in this morning. I suppose they'd appreciate it if I've had a shower."

"And I can think of a few parishioners who would be less than pleased if I didn't show up for Mass...not to mention my parish priest."

Indeed, several parishioners - Kathleen prominent among them - were waiting impatiently at the door when Peter ran out of the presbytery and up to St. Joseph's. They greeted the sight of his still damp hair with whispers, which he ignored. As he changed out of his vestments after Mass, the telephone in the sacristy rang. It was Fr. MacAnally.

"I heard you had quite a day yesterday."

"Yes..." He was too tired to play games, and wished that the parish priest would just get on with it.

"I just wanted to reassure you that you did right by Claire."

"What, did you think I wouldn't have gone with her to the hospital?"

"No, no," the priest soothed. "Claire told me you'd taken her confession, even though you wanted to get Dr. Ryan first. You did your duty to her, and to God."

"I can't help but wonder if things would have been different if I'd have contacted Dr. Ryan first."

"Father Clifford, you had no way of knowing what was in store for that young woman. What if she had died while you were chasing down Dr. Ryan? You would have denied her the chance to confess her sins."

"I hadn't looked at it that way."

"Get some rest, Father Clifford, and you'll start to see things in a different light." As much as Peter hated to admit it, Fr. MacAnally was probably right on this one. He muttered something to that effect into the telephone. "And how is Assumpta Fitzgerald doing?"

"I haven't seen her since Michael and I had dinner there last night. She seemed to be improving." Peter seized the opportunity to shift the subject. "So, what's this I hear about you and Padraig clearing tables?" He heard a low chuckle on the other end of the line. "So it isn't a malicious rumor, then?"

"Call it penance." Peter knew not to take that one any further.

Peter locked the church and headed down the street to the pub. It was still early, but perhaps Niamh would let him in. He found Assumpta outside, sweeping the walk.

"Should you be doing that?"

The publican laid her broom against the wall and placed her hands on her hips. "Oh, 'good morning, Assumpta. How are you feeling?' Much better, thanks." She grabbed the broom and began to sweep with renewed vigor.

Peter felt duly reproached. "I'm sorry, it's just..."

"Well, you know: I took up my bed and walked." Peter shrugged his shoulders and walked away. "Hey, wait a minute."

He took a few more steps, and then turned to face Assumpta. "Let's start again, shall we? 'Morning, Assumpta," he said as he walked back to the pub. "I'm glad to see you up and about."

"Ah, well," she smiled. "Just a twenty-four hour bug, apparently."

"Good. If there's anything I can do..." The two locked eyes for a long moment.

I can think of plenty you can do, she thought to herself. Instead, she shook her head. You've done quite enough - no, I really mean it. I don't know what I'd have done had it not been for you, and Niamh, and Padraig. Yes, and Fr. Mac. God, I wish I'd had some pictures of that."

"Would have made for some good blackmail." Assumpta laughed in agreement and looked down the street over Peter's shoulder. "Hi, Michael."

"Well, I must say that you look quite good." The doctor held up his bag. "Do you mind if I look you over?"

"Is that really necessary? I feel fine."

"Just want to make sure the fever is gone, and your vitals are okay. And do yourself a favor and don't knock yourself out with work today."

"That's easy for you to say."

"I'm serious, Assumpta. Just for a day. It'll help get your immune system back in order."

"You're the doctor." She opened the door and walked inside.

"I'll be up in a minute." He turned to Peter. "I had a call from Cilldargan this morning. They actually got the autopsy done last night."

"And?"

"It was just as we suspected. She had a heart problem. It was one of those things that wouldn't show up unless we'd performed a whole battery of tests. And we normally don't go around doing cardiac stress tests and the like on pregnant women unless we have a good reason to do so. She went into hard labor fast - sometimes that happens - and the stress was apparently too much."

; "Is it sort of like one of those athletes who seems in good health and suddenly keels over during a game?"

"Pretty much." He placed his hand on the door to the pub. "Peter, I'm going to the hospital in a bit to see the baby and Claire's parents. Want to come along?"

"Sure."

A dozen or more tiny babies were lined up for inspection behind the maternity ward viewing window. Peter Clifford stood amongst new fathers and other relatives straining for a glimpse of their own newborn family members. Which one would be Claire's baby? If it was a girl, he realized, she must have a pink card with her name on it. That narrowed it down to a good half dozen. He was just starting to sort through the names when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"She's there, on the end. Teresa Claire MacDonnell."

Peter spotted the bed and moved down to take a closer look. "She's a beauty, Mr. Logan."

The grandfather beamed, though his eyes bore dark circles from lack of sleep. "Looks just like her mother, God bless her." They watched the baby stir in her little cot. "Father, I don't think I told you this yesterday, but I'm glad you were there with our daughter. She's - was - very devout, and I know it must have meant a lot to her that you were there with her."

"I'm so sorry we couldn't have done more for her."

"You did what you could, Father, and so did Dr. Ryan."

"Have you told him that?" Mr. Logan nodded. "Good."

"And we're all so grateful that little Teresa is here with us."

"I see where Claire got her spiritual strength from, Mr. Logan."

Michael Ryan joined them. "How are you doing, Jack?"

"I'm holding up. I was just telling the Father her how much we appreciated everything the both of you have done."

"I only wish it could have been more. Where's Maeve?"

"Would you believe it, she's in a new parent class."

"After six kids, you'd think she had the parent thing down," Peter said.

"Oh, she can feed and bathe a baby, all right. It's those disposable nappies that have her flummoxed."

"She'll get the hang of those - I did." Mr. Logan looked askance at Peter. "Babysitting my younger siblings." He smiled and grasped the older man's hand. "If there's anything we can do... I think that some of the ladies have organized food for you and the family for the next few days."

"Thanks." Logan glanced at his watch. "Well, I think the class is over. I thought I'd take Maeve out for some lunch. I doubt that either of us will eat very much, but they'll be taking Teresa back to the nursery now, so there won't be much to do for a few hours. By then, Jonathan's parents will be here. He'll be a couple more days, I'm afraid."

"That sounds like an excellent plan," Michael said. "I've got some patients in this afternoon, but call me if you need anything."

The men shook hands and parted ways.

"Need a ride back, Peter?"

"Thanks."

Fitzgerald's was more busy than usual at lunch. The regulars were propping up their end of the bar and stuffing down sandwiches and beer. Most of the rest of the crowd looked to be tourists passing through. Assumpta and Niamh rushed between the kitchen and the bar, passing out food and pulling drinks. Peter Clifford ordered a sandwich and a lager at the crowded bar and found an empty table in the corner. He pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen and began to write.

"Taking up literary endeavors, are we?" Assmumpta placed a sandwich on the table.

"Just my grocery list."

"It's a novel from the look of it."

"I'm out of nearly everything."

"How'd you let yourself do that?"

"A priest doesn't run on schedule like a train."

"You should have done your shopping instead of sitting with me yesterday."

"I could have, but I wanted to stay with you." They looked at each other in silence.

"Ministering to the sick?"

"I didn't do it because I had to, Assumpta. Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?" The publican rolled her eyes.

"I'm feeling much better. But Niamh's going to clear up after lunch so I can rest like a good girl. Satisfied?"

"Hey, how about a little service," Padraig demanded.

"Oh, button your lip. I'll be right there."

"Is that any way to talk to the man who cleaned your bar yesterday?"

The publican shrugged. "Duty calls."

"Yeah." Peter took another bite of lunch and finished his list. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Assumpta tend bar. She looked over at him, and he looked back down quickly, unable to establish true eye contact. She looked away, gathered some glasses, and vanished into the kitchen.

The priest finished his beer and quietly left the bar, leaving a half-eaten sandwich behind.

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