“I’m all done with priests. This is purely a good Samaritan gig.”

She got back in the car, hurled,

“You need to call the Samaritans yourself.”

And burned rubber outta there.

Cops watched way too many cop shows.

Malachy was in intensive care, no visitors. I’d said I was a relative and was told a doctor would see me soon. The health service is so bollixed that that probably meant two days. I had a book so I didn’t mind too much.

The new John Cheever biography, by the same writer who’d done the stunning bio of Richard Wright. The book sure captured the torment, agony, guilt, and utter loneliness of the alcoholic. I didn’t really need it described; I lived it every frigging day, heard “Mr. Taylor?”

A doctor, towering above me. Pristine white coat with all the pens in the top pocket. One, to my joy, was leaking. A name tag identified him as Dr. Ravin. Not Irish then but fuck, few were these days. They’d fucked off to where the money was.

He asked,

“You are a relative?”

Yeah, brothers in animosity, bonded in hatred, and related by booze. I said,

“Yes, first cousins; we are very close.”

Close to murder mostly.

He did the sympathy dance, I nodded idiotically, then he said,

“The padre…”

“Priest.”

I snapped.

How often do you get to correct the medical profession?

Yeah.

He said,

“My apologies, he has suffered severe trauma, he is in a coma and the next twenty-four hours are critical.”

“Will he die?”

He reassessed me. Then maybe acknowledging I was in shock, soft-pedaled. He said,

“He is not a young man and, alas, he has not taken care of his body very well, so, as I said, the next day will be crucial.”

“Cigarettes,”

I said.

He nodded then asked if I had a number I could be reached at.