They'd travelled quite a distance ahead of me, and feeling myself

tire, I shouted out, "Excuse me!" They stopped, turned, waiting for me.

I reduced my run to a power walk and was soon upon them.

Seeing them looking at me, waiting for me to give a reason for

stopping them, I began to gabble. "Erm – I didn't mean – I mean – what

I said – I meant – I'm sorry...."

Makeup-Man, seeing my struggle, helped me out, "There's no need

to say sorry for being a nice wee fella."

His words gave me focus, "No, I know; what I mean is, I didn't

mean to give you a notion that might take you away from your friends,"

I said, happy to get it off my chest.

The woman who said it piped up, "Don't worry about that; we'll

handle any notions he has." Both women linked their arms through his,

"We take care of each other, so we do, we have to."

"Are you sisters?" I asked.

"We are," said the woman, nodding to the other. She slapped

Makeup-Man with the back of her hand, playfully, "And he's as good

as," she said, causing all three to take to the road again, propelled by

peels of joyous laughter.

Wanting to wish them well, I shouted out, "I hope you find

something nice today."

Makeup-Man shouted back, "You never know; one man's rubbish

is another man's treasure."

Treasure. I liked that word. Watching them walk away, I treasured

the sight of them, for their unity filled me with hope that one day in my

future I'd find friends like Makeup-Man's. Friends who'd treasure my

intangible difference the way the two wise women treasured his visible

difference.

......

Before I returned to the Cathedral, I realised I needed a sit-down.

Hoisting myself onto a short wall, I felt a tingle in my tummy. It was

similar to the one I'd felt when Dad took me on a rollercoaster in Belle

Vue Amusement Park in Manchester. That day had been the happiest

of my life, and somehow, I felt this day was comparable to it. The fear

and despair I'd experienced only moments before in the room with

Maria were akin to how I felt as the coaster approached the pinnacle of

the hill. And the rush of excitement and exhilaration The Three wise

Women instilled in me was akin to the thrill I felt as the coaster raced

down the drop.

But on that day, I'd had Dad by my side to share those highs and

lows. Without his companionship, I knew this day would never hit that

level of happiness. It was with a modicum of hope that I set off to re-

load my pistol at the Cathedral.

While I walked, I ruminated on a self-revelation – I realised that to

feel happy, I'd have to feel sad. Just like that day on the roller coaster

with Dad, I knew I'd have to hit the lows before I could feel the highs.

It was a grown-up insight, the maturity of which unnerved me because

if I felt like this as a kid, would it intensify as an adult? My inner voice

spoke with authority – 'Don't grow up, Gerard, it's a trap!'

......

With the loaded pistol safely in hand this time, I decided to visit the

newsagents for a browse to see if the new edition of Creepy was in.

The faint paint-like smell of ink-pressed paper welcomed me when

I entered Young's Newsagents, warming me with its promise of escape

from my own story into other narratives. Browsing the comic section, I

saw there was no new edition of Creepy. Disappointed, I made to leave.

But the girl at the counter called out to me, "Excuse me!" It was the

same girl who'd sold me my Creepy. I was concerned she was going to

tell me I could no longer purchase the comic. I approached with

apprehension.

Her sunny smile eased me, "You're the wee boy home from

England."

"Yes."

"Do you have an older sister with long brown hair?"

"I do, Maria.'

She reached under the counter, "She left this. Can you make sure

she gets it back?"

My jaw wobbled and dropped at the sight of it – Penman's pen.

Such was my astonishment that I took it without saying thank you

and left the shop.

......

This simple pen had become symbolic to me. Holding it in my hand186

and looking at it, I believed it represented abandonment. Dermot had

left it in the slaughterhouse; now Maria had left it at the newsagents.

Yet it always found its way back to me. I wondered why. Not having

the answer, I focussed on the pen, noticing Maria had chewed the top

off it. This upset me because I knew the destructive force of Maria's

possessor had done the damage. I wondered how she had got to the shop

and what for? It would have to be for something significant, given she

was in hiding with the stye.

But the pen provided me with good reason to return and ask Maria

these questions. With the pen in my left hand and the pistol in my right,

I set off –back to my mission.

......

My return journey was interrupted by a disturbing sight – blood.

Small speckles splattered the pavement below me. I put my foot on

a droplet and drew back; it smeared, fresh. Feeling this was somehow

fateful, I followed the trail.

It led me to stop at a place I usually hurried past, a building I feared

on Cavan's Main Street. The Surgical.

Its very name was sharp, conjuring images of blades slicing into

human flesh and other invasive instruments which hurt before they heal.

This, combined with the building's cold blue/grey façade and the recess

in which Our Lady the Virgin Mary stood with outstretched arms,

created a sinister feel and presence that belied the care and healing this

hospital offered. To my eye, it was more a haunted house than a

hospital.

Previously, when I'd rush past the open double doors, I'd take a fast

and furtive glance in, shuddering at the sight of a cage-like door that187

opened up into a vast elevator. Never did I want to be shut into it and

ascend to whatever horrors awaited above.

My thoughts turned to the unfortunate whose blood had been spilt.

A sound halted me, coming from within the confines of The Surgical.

A confused commotion of noise and motion, amidst all of which I

thought I heard a familiar name but couldn't be sure.

Walking back, I hovered at the entrance and honed in. Amidst the

noise, I heard the familiar name again, and this time I was sure –

"Dermot."

A female voice said, "Dermot," with a soothing sound, making it

the only word audible amongst the clattering chaos of noise filtering out

from the hospital onto the street.

My blood ran cold – the blood – it was my brother's – Dermot's

blood smeared Cavan's Main Street!

Shocked concern coursed through my body, and facing my fear, I

raced through the open door. The trail of blood stopped at the dreaded

elevator. My brother had been taken into this space to ascend for God-

knows-what. But what had he torn, what had been damaged? Looking

left to right, I muttered, "Please, God let him be alright, I know I said

his life was better than mine, but I didn't mean it."

Seeing a stairwell to my left, I bounded up until I reached a landing.

Standing in the empty space, I listened; all was quiet. The smell of

antiseptic surrounded me – the smell of sickness.

Instinctively, I rushed a second staircase. It led to another landing.

Again, all was quiet, with the smell of sickness all-pervading. A double

door opened into a bright white ward with rows of metal beds, on which

men, some laying, some sitting, looked in my direction.188

Knowing I was intruding, I stepped out of their sight, slipped, and

stumbled backwards. The wall stopped my fall. I steadied and looked at

the object I'd slipped on – my every hair bristled.

Picking the thing up, I studied it closely and was left in no doubt –

it was the sole of Dermot's training shoe.

Or rather part of it, it was ripped, chewed up and soaked – in blood.