A vaguely familiar figure danced slowly by in a false silver nose and a black cowboy hat. He must be a Tim Strawn, Lee Marvin’s evil twin brother in one of the year’s hit movies, Cat Ballou. His partner, her long blonde hair loosely round her, wore a simple, flowing, white floor-length dress and a circlet of flowers on her head. O’Reilly had no trouble recognising Julie Donnelly.
The couple stopped. “How’s about ye, Doc?”
“Donal,” O’Reilly said. “Hello, Julie. You look lovely. Lady Godiva?”
“Aye, before she got up on the ould gee-gee in her birthday suit. There’s a limit, you know,” Donal said.
“You’re getting to be the master of disguise, Donal,” O’Reilly said. “A regular man of a thousand faces.”
“Like your man Lon Chaney?” Donal winked. “Aye, me and my new dog—er, Brandywine—done good last weekend down in Cavan. That wee lad Art O’Callaghan’s nearly as smart as Colin Brown, so he is.”
Which may account, O’Reilly thought, for Colin’s recent attempt to drown Art. O’Reilly had known since last year’s Christmas pageant that Colin did not suffer rivals lightly. O’Reilly lowered his voice. “Still using that water-soluble dye?”
Donal nodded. “Aye,” he said, “and a new paint you can wash off, but that’s for something different, so it is.” He pointed to a window where a painting depicted the banshee holding curled bony fingers over a gaping coffin. “I done all the windows in here for tonight. We’ll clean it up tomorrow.”
“I’m impressed, Donal,” O’Reilly said. “You’re quite the artist.”
“Och,” said Donal, “we’d a great art teacher when I was at school.”
O’Reilly shook his head. He never ceased to marvel at the hidden talents of many of his patients. His thought was interrupted when Julie said, “Lord above, would you look at that there?”
O’Reilly had to look twice. Hard to believe, but Sylvia, the slim, sinuous, sexy siren from Ahoghill, was being steered round the floor by a jacketless, sweating Bertie Bishop. He stopped, and with one hand pushed her away to the length of their outstretched arms. She thrust out one leg as might a tango dancer and started to pirouette back.
Fingal watched the scene unfold as if in slow motion; the girl spun, Bertie’s gaze—lascivious was the only adjective O’Reilly could think of—ran from the tip of her high heel to the white strip of thigh above the fishnet’s welt. He wondered what the sight was doing to Bertie’s blood pressure.
Shirley Bassey belted out “Goldfinger.”
The man with the Midas touch.
A spider’s touch.
Other couples stopped to watch as Bertie, clearly revelling in his moment of fame, cocked his head back like a flamenco dancer and adopted an arrogant sneer. He pushed Sylvia away for a second time, looked puzzled, grimaced, and yelled, “Oh shite.” Then he clutched his chest, rolled his eyes to heaven—and crumpled to the floor.
35
Lilies That Fester Smell
“I know I’m on call today, Fingal,” Doctor Corrigan said, “but I need ye to help me out.”
Fingal lifted his head from his task of bringing the Register of Births, Deaths, and Marriages up to date, a job he loathed, and looked at Phelim. His parting might have been arranged using a micro-calliper, so precisely was it aligned. “If I can.”
“Charlie’s gone for the weekend, Miss O’Donaghugh and I have to go out for a confinement, and Minty Finucane from Bull Alley dropped in. They’re worried about Dermot, the little lad with the stone bruise we saw yesterday. Says the lad has a fever. Wants one of us to go and see him.”
“Fever? That doesn’t sound good. I’ll go straight round,” Fingal said. He shoved the hated paperwork away and went to get his bag, glancing at his watch. Five o’clock. He wasn’t seeing Kitty at her flat until six for dinner. He’d pick up a bottle of wine from an off-licence on his way, couple of pint bottles of Guinness. Might even stretch to a bunch of flowers. Ever since she’d said she wasn’t pleased with how infrequently they could meet, he’d been trying to keep his promise to see more of her. He’d lots of time to see the patient and get to her place.
“Thanks,” Phelim said. He took off his spectacles, huuuhed on them, polished them with a hanky, and stuck them back on his nose. “Probably nothing to worry about, but a bit of reassurance won’t hurt.” He walked for the door and turned. “I’ll see ye on Monday, but I’ll be late. Another bloody commitee meeting about dispensary boundaries.”
“Monday it is,” Fingal said, and followed Phelim into the yard, slung his bag into the bike’s basket, and pedalled off standing on the pedals and bowing his head into the wind of his passage, wanting to get to Bull Alley, see Dermot Finucane, and get away as quickly as possible.
Familiar streets now after four months. He’d learnt the shortcuts and indeed so narrow were some of the alleys that linked streets it was often faster getting about by bike if he had more than one call to make. Left from Aungier Street would take him onto Golden Lane, which shortly after changed its name to Bull Alley, which ended in a T-junction with Patrick Street. Places he’d been to as a student like Francis Street, Swift’s Alley, Weaver’s Street were not much more than ten-minute rides away.
“Hello dere, Doctor Big Fellah,” a woman carrying a wicker basket full of laundry called as he passed her on Golden Lane.
“Hello yourself, Clodagh. Grand October day.” He recognised the pipe smoker, one of the Dempseys’ neighbours from Back Lane. “In a rush,” he called over his shoulder as he sped by.
Fingal swerved to avoid a tugger, wondered for a moment about Lorcan O’Lunney and his back, and paid no attention to several beggars, most of whom now recognised him and didn’t waste time importuning him. On the corner of Bride Street and Bull Alley, a man had placed a battered fedora containing a few coppers on the footpath and was playing a slip jig on a penny whistle. Fingal recognised the tune, “Drops of Brandy,” played in 9/8 time.
He propped his bike against the wall, grabbed his bag, went through the open front door, and knocked on the Finucanes’.
It was opened by Mrs. Finucane. She looked haggard. “T’anks for coming, sir. He’s taken a turn. His foot’s festerin’. Come in. Come in.”
Festering, Fingal thought, wrinkling his nose. During his time in Sir Patrick Dun’s he’d become thoroughly familiar with the stink of infected flesh.
“We bought a mattress from dat poor one who got evicted yesterday,” she said, “so Dermot could have a bed of his own.” She stood wringing her hands. “And I’ve changed his poultice like Doctor Corrigan said. But the little lad’s been shiverin’ and he’s burnin’ up.”
Fingal’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. He saw Dermot lying on a single mattress in front of the unlit fire, crossed the room, and knelt by the boy. “Hello, Dermot.”
The boy turned his head. His eyes were glazed, a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. He mumbled.
Fingal felt a hot sweaty forehead, took a pulse racing at 120 per minute, and said, “I’m going to take off your poultice.”
It wasn’t difficult to untie the knots and remove the pus-stained thing. Fingal had to force himself not to turn away from the smell. At once he saw the red streaks beginning to run from the abscess toward the boy’s ankle. The infection had reached the lymphatic channels that carried fluid from the tissues, the lymph, back into the general circulation. Dear Lord, not a clostridial infection. Please not gas gangrene. He looked at the wound, now ulcerated and red, but it didn’t have the hideous red-purple colour of gangrenous, wet, dead tissue. The leg itself wasn’t swollen nor when Fingal gently palpated it could he feel the crackling sensation—crepitation—associated with the presence of gas in the tissues. The boy was drowsy, and gas gangrene patients were usually alert and complaining of severe pain. Fingal put his head close to the ulcer and sniffed. He could not detect the classic mousy odour. He straightened and heaved a sigh.
He’d bet his life, and if he were wrong, the patient??
?s, that this was not a clostridial infection. It was probably streptococcal, in which case, judging by how close to reaching the ankle the red lines were, there was a little time left before amputation of the foot became imperative. But just how much time he couldn’t be sure. And what the hell was the future for a boy with one foot? Incongruously, a line from a song ran in Fingal’s head, “You’ll have to be put with a bowl to beg…” Not if he could help it. Didn’t red prontosil kill that particular bug in mice?
He stood. “Mrs. Finucane, I’m sorry, but the infection’s spreading.” Fingal wondered if this was because of Doctor Corrigan’s unorthodox method of using a hot rather than a boiling poultice, but simply wasn’t sure. It had been meant to be kinder to the patient, was obviously a technique the doctor had used successfully for years, and, anyway, why worry about it now? What mattered was that an infection was progressing, overwhelming Dermot’s own defences. It must be stopped.
“Dear Jasus.” She clapped both hands to her mouth and started to weep. “He’ll take the blood poisoning. It’ll be the deat’ of him…”
It was true. If the infection spread fast enough and widely enough, the bloodstream would be flooded with bacteria, causing septicaemia, known as blood poisoning. It was usually lethal.
“And him my only one, just Dermot and Minty and me. Dat’s all of our family.” She wept silently. “Don’t let anythin’ take Dermot from us, sir.”
“It will not,” Fingal said. “By God, it will not.” He put an arm round her shoulder and squeezed. “I want you to trust me.” Fingal inhaled. He’d been anxious enough considering a risky course of action which might save the boy’s life and not at the expense of his leg either, but now he was even less confident that it would be the right thing to do.
She stared directly into his eyes.
“We can send Dermot to hospital now,” he said. “The surgeons will have no choice but to amputate the foot, but he’ll live.”
“Take off his foot? Och, Jasus. Do they have to?”
Fingal blew out his breath, pursed his lips, clenched his teeth, and made his decision. “Maybe not,” he said.
“Honest to God?” He heard the hope in her voice, saw a tiny smile start.
“I know a doctor at the Rotunda…”
“Rotunda? But sure dat’s for women and babbies, not wee boys like Dermot.” Her face crumpled.
“I know, but Doctor Davidson’s treating infections just like the one Dermot has. There’s a new medicine that should be able to kill the germ that’s infected Dermot. If I can get some—” He debated for a moment about whether to tell her the drug was experimental, that as far as he knew it had worked only in mice. No. It would take too long to explain. If he was going, he had to go—now. “I can be there and back in under an hour. I think it’s a gamble worth taking.”
“A gamble?” She frowned.
“If I can get the medicine, it might kill the germs in time to save Dermot’s foot. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
He glanced back at the red lines. How high the life-saving amputation would have to be would depend on how far they had travelled up the boy’s leg. Fingal needed to get going at once. If he wasted too much time it could even cost Dermot his life. “I’ll not deceive you, Mrs. Finucane,” he said, “there is a risk, but I honestly think it’s worth it.”
She sniffed, dashed away a tear. “If you say so, Doctor. I want Dermot to have a normal life. I don’t want him to be a feckin’ cripple. Do what you t’ink best for my boy.”
“I’m off,” he said. He left his bag and ran to the door to meet a man who must be Mister Minty Finucane coming in. “Your wife’ll explain,” Fingal yelled, and grabbed his bike.
* * *
He was panting when he propped his bike in a rack and headed for the Rotunda Hospital’s front door. The traffic had been heavier than he’d expected when he’d reached O’Connell Street and it had taken him twenty-five minutes to get here. He went through the front door. Now he had to find Doctor Davidson or at least someone who knew about the trial with red prontosil and who might be able to help. If anyone would know it would be one of the senior nursing sisters. Inhaling hospital smells—Dettol, baby puke, and floor polish—he trotted along a familiar corridor to the post-natal ward. That’s where any cases of puerperal sepsis would initially be diagnosed, and if anyone would know about the trial of Prontosil, they would be on this ward. Terrific. Sister O’Grady, an old friend, was on duty.
“Hello, Fingal. What brings you here on a Friday night?”
“I need help, Oonagh,” he said.
“With a midwifery case?”
He shook his head. “I’ve a kid with an infected stone bruise. He’s going to lose a foot unless I can kill the infection. I wondered how the trial with Prontosil was going.”
She glanced round and lowered her voice. “We’re not meant to talk about it, but we think it’s working. It seems to do the trick in about thirty-six hours.” She nodded her head once and smiled. “It’s quite miraculous, but hush-hush. Doctor Davidson doesn’t want to raise hopes until he’s absolutely sure it does work.”
Fingal understood. It was rightly considered unethical to trumpet premature news about a potentially revolutionary form of treatment until its efficacy had been proven beyond doubt. But Sister’s word was good enough for him to want to try Prontosil for his patient. He clenched his fists and grinned. “That’s amazing. Now, how could I get my hands on some tonight?”
Her smile disappeared. “You’d have to speak with Doctor Davidson, the master, but he’s in London at a conference.”
“No.” Fingal nearly shouted the word. Damn it, damn it, he was sure he was so close to being able to save Dermot’s foot and now that chance was being pulled away. “Is there no one else I could ask?”
She frowned. “I—I suppose you could talk to Doctor Williams, the resident doctor.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll get him.” She picked up the earpiece of a telephone, held it to her ear, jiggled the cradle, and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Operator? Connect me with Doctor Williams, please. He’s in the common room.”
Fingal shifted from foot to foot, inwardly muttering, “Come on, come on.”
“John? Oonagh. Doctor O’Reilly’s here and he needs to talk to you. I’ll put him on.”
He took the earpiece in one hand and bent to speak. “Doctor Williams, Fingal O’Reilly here. We met last year when I was here doing my midder.”
“I remember. Big lad, got your nose bust in a boxing match. How can I help you, Fingal.”
The “Fingal” was very collegial. A promising start. “I’ve a thirteen-year-old with an infected foot, it’s going to have to be amputated…”
“But this is a maternity hospital. I don’t think we can help him.”
Fingal heard the puzzlement in the man’s voice. “I don’t expect you to, but when I was here, Doctor Davidson was investigating red prontosil. I think it would work for my patient. Save his foot. Can you help me get my hands on some?” Say yes, damn it. Say yes.
Silence.
“Hello. Hello. Are you still there?”
“Doctor O’Reilly, I’m sure you mean well…”
The formal Doctor O’Reilly. He’s going to say no.
“… but I have absolutely no authority to release an experimental drug to anyone, no matter how worthy the cause might be. I’m sorry. I really am.”
Don’t give up. “Is there absolutely no possible way you could let me have some? Please?”
“I am sorry, Doctor O’Reilly. I truly am.”
Fingal took a deep breath. Inside he was yelling, but that would get him nowhere. “I understand. Thanks anyway. Good night.” Fingal put the earpiece on the cradle and broke the connection. “Thanks for trying, Oonagh,” he said.
“No luck?”
He shook his head. “Looks like I gambled—and lost.”
“I’m sorry.”
Fingal’s mind was in turmoil. Gam
bled. The word struck a chord. Gambler. Bob Beresford was a gambler, and Bob—Fingal looked at his watch, quarter to six—might still be home and able to get some Prontosil from the research laboratory. “Oonagh, can I get an outside line? It’s urgent.”
She lifted the earpiece. “Get me an outside operator, please.” She handed the earpiece to Fingal.
“Operator here.”
“Merrion 385, please.”
Pause. Strange noises. “Hello, Merrion 385.” Bob’s voice.
Glory Hallelujah, he was home. “Bob? Fingal.”
“Hello, Fingal. Nice to hear from you. How’s life abusing you—”
“Bob. I need help. Wait for me. I’m coming over. It’s urgent.”
“All right. I’ll be here.”
Fingal did a quick calculation. Parnell Square to Merrion Square? About a mile and a half. “Be there in ten, fifteen minutes.” He hung up the earpiece. “Thanks, Oonagh. I’m off.”
“Good luck, Fingal.” He heard her words as he fled down the corridor. Maybe Bob could help, just maybe, but Fingal O’Reilly wasn’t going to give up without trying everything possible.
36
The Heart No Longer Stirred
Sylvia crouched over Bertie, eyes staring, both hands over her mouth.
“Come with me,” O’Reilly said to Donal to the accompaniment of Sylvia’s high-pitched keening and cries from others of “Oh my God” and “What happened?”
O’Reilly took three paces to Bertie’s side, knelt, ripped open his shirt, and felt for Bertie’s heartbeat. None. “Blue blazes.” O’Reilly pounded his fist against the breastbone, and again. A couple of swift blows might get the heart restarted. No pulse. He put the flat of one hand on Bertie’s chest, his other hand on the back of the first, and leant his weight forward to compress the chest. He relaxed and pressed down again. “Donal,” he called, “run and get Doctor Bradley, Kitty, and the marquis here on the double. And Sylvia, try to calm down. It’s not your fault.”