The Everlasting Hoax

For the non-convalescing man, the wards seemed like pleasant sanctuaries and their beds quite possibly the warmest and most comfortable in the whole world, with their doctors and nurses possessing notably amiable and wholehearted natures.  If you were one of them confined to the gurney, however, it was probably a different story, depending on the extent of your affliction.  For Oran, it was gallstones that were his trouble, or cholecystitis, to be exact, an inflammation of the gallbladder, and he was got to in the nick of time, as it transpired, because he might not have survived if the ambulance had been as late as the police.  They were to arrive about fifteen minutes after the vehicle drove off and their investigation into the events of that day was to hit a wall because nobody was willing to give anything away under questioning.  The town went uncharacteristically quiet.  And in a single moment every Gulliver who ever followed that line of thought renounced their membership against the sudden wave of unpopularity which engulfed the factions.   When the guards quizzed Lavery about the broken window, it was declared an accident on behalf of a clumsy employee and there was nothing more said about it.  Thomas Potter’s Arsenal-marked desktop was cleaned off the street and The Martlet would persist as the second most popular newspaper in town.  Potter would be given a new computer.  Whether he liked it or not.  And Arthur Lavery would, to the satisfaction of all concerned, hold on to his troubled publication for the foreseeable.  One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t have the town against him like that ever again.  Keep things parochial, he would continue to say.  And be sure to make everyone a star.  No star in the town ever stayed that way for long.  The ones that shone brightest were in line to eclipse whatever beam The Martlet aimed at them – Ernest Gilgan being one such celestial episode.  It was by no means one and the same but the Gilgans would receive additional remuneration to take the edge off their great loss.  And just like the politician’s daughter before him, Ernest Gilgan would have his work adapted by Hollywood and A Sudden Lavender would soon see its profile increased further.  I didn’t know any of the stars of the production in question but I could tell their young faces from the TV and the papers so they were obviously well-liked by the current crowd.  The Gilgan estate would expand, though they would be careful not to flaunt it about the place, in light of other rumours which had entered the public consciousness on that tumultuous day. 

First time in a hospital in as many years.  A good thing too.  Long before the smell of burnt plastic and furniture permeated the place, there was a strong scent of hospital in the Berrills’ home.  That may have had something to do with the various medicines they kept to aid them in their old age; I had never put it to them specifically as it would have been quite a crude thing to ask, I felt.  This is just to say that I was not unaccustomed to the odour of rehab from hanging around them regularly. 

I held back in the corridor for about ten minutes before entering the ward as I had mixed emotions about seeing Oran on his back.  There was still no way of knowing if I had helped put him there with my unintentional jab during the brawl.  I had it in my head he would start shouting at me when I went in.  Give me a piece of his mind for my negligence in battle.  If he was indeed awake.  So I kept peeking in hoping he would be asleep and that I might catch him in a state of unconsciousness and show my concern for his well-being surreptitiously.  Until I caught his eyes during one such peek and I had no choice but to go in and see him.

‘Well,’ he said to me.

‘Well,’ I said back.

‘You’ve nothing for me?’ he asked.

I held out my empty hands to confirm this and suddenly felt bad that I hadn’t thought to bring something.  It wasn’t that I didn’t know what I should bring for him.  I simply didn’t once consider the idea.

‘You’re a terrible man,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said.

‘Grant got away with the Montescus then?’ he said.

‘Yes.  The poor man.  He was in a bad way leaving.  But happy, I suppose, with his acquisitions.’

‘Good.’

Of other glints to occur in the firmament, F. Noel Montescu would come away with some recognition.  (Though never McGloin.)  Write-ups would in time appear nationwide and some would fleetingly discuss the lives of Montescu and his animals.  And the end of the world.  People would always find time for the end of the world.   

‘Mr Grant said there could be some interest in a second article about Montescu.  For one of the bigger papers.  If you were inclined to do one as The Scouring Tout.’

‘The Tout?  We’re done with him.  And anyway what could the Tout say that Montescu hasn’t?’

‘You’re still so down on yourself and the Tout.  It’s unfortunate.’

‘I’ve nothing to be up on myself about.  Nor does the Tout.  All we did was make the air slightly rancid with claptrap.  The Gilgan lad, God rest his pitiable soul, did more than we ever did, to be perfectly clear.’

‘Well, it’s hard to get a book out these days.  Fair play to him for that.’

‘I don’t mean the book.  I mean the journey to Pmurehia.  Non-existent as it is, and preposterous the thought, he at least went out there to look for the bloody place.’    

‘Fair play for that too.’

‘Get out there and do it while you’re young.’

‘You’re speaking like these are your final words on all matters.’

‘Maybe they are.  I’ve not long left, at any rate.’

‘The kingdom of Heaven’s on your mind, is it?’

‘Stop!  The everlasting’s a hoax.  Committed by far better eremetics than you or I.  Ones big on discipline and with a healthy regard for scholarly work.   I can’t imagine the holy fathers spent their days going through the Police Academy films.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I’d bet on it.’