Season 4, Episode 1
"New Beginning"
MD1016
The day was bright and warm, with an easy breeze and the soft scent of flowers in the air. It was deceptively beautiful, and Niamh was having none of it. She crossed the street, only glancing for oncoming traffic, and headed for Fitzgerald's. The door was locked, of course, but Niamh had the key. She opened the door, and then quickly closed it behind herself. The dim light inside was a relief, and so was the stale smell of Chinese food. No one had bothered to wash up. Assumpta was lying in a hospital bed, and the pub was left to tidy itself, it seemed. Anger clenched in the pit of her belly, and Niamh forced herself to take a deep breath. Then she collected the plates from the nearest table, and headed into the kitchens. It was the least she could do for her friend.
"Niamh?" Ambrose. She heard the door shut, and went back into the bar to find her husband looking around at the mess. "Ah, there you are. I called after you on the street."
"Did you? I must've been somewhere else."
Ambrose cocked his head and gave her a compassionate raise of the brows. He was such a good man. And kind. But she didn't want kindness now, and she didn't want company. "I'm just going to wash up at bit. Can't leave this like it is, can I?"
"Niamh, you should be resting."
"I'm all right." She began to stack more plates, scooped the forks and knives up and dropped them into an empty glass.
"You're not. You're upset."
"Of course I'm upset!" she said, slamming the plates down. "Has there been any news?"
Ambrose shook his head. His face was long and pale, and she knew he was just as worried as she was. A wave of guilt washed through her, tears burned her eyes. She turned away from him, wiped at her face.
"Niamh." He touched her shoulders, and she couldn't hold back the sobs any longer. She threw herself into his arms, and they went tight around her. She felt him kiss her ear.
"Niamh, luv, it's going to be all right."
"It could've been you."
He pulled away, searched her face. "What are you on about? Assumpta was – it was an accident."
"Yes," Niamh said between hiccoughs. "An accident. It could've been…you. Or me. Assumpta's only twenty-five and she…twenty-five's so young."
"Calm yourself," Ambrose said, as he led her to a chair. "I'll fetch you some tea, shall I?"
Niamh shook her head, grabbed his hand before he could leave her side. "Accidents happen all the time. Remember that statue that nearly fell on your head?"
"I'm not likely to forget that."
"Neither am I. What if I have an accident? If Assumpta can die at twenty-five, who's to say I can't?"
"Assumpta didn't die."
"Who would take care of Kieran?"
Ambrose rolled his eyes, took a deep breath. Then he pulled up a seat beside Niamh, and took her hand. "I'm his father. If something were to happen to you, of course I would care for him. He's my son."
"But what if we go together?"
"You're turning morbid on me."
"What if there's an accident with the car? What if we go off a cliff?"
"Niamh!"
"What? It could happen. I'm not feeling as indestructible as I did yesterday. And Kieran needs parents."
"He's got parents."
"When we're gone," she insisted.
With a sigh, he looked down at their clasped hands. "I thought we'd agreed that your father-"
"I don't want my father raising my child," Niamh said. "He'll have Kieran living a life of crime before he's walking. No, he needs real godparents – not just someone in name, but someone who can really care for him. Someone who can teach him right from wrong. Someone who will love him like we do."
"No one will love him like we do, Niamh. And we're not going anywhere."
"You don't know that. Assumpta certainly didn't know what was going to happen when she went down in the cellar last night."
"Look, she's going to be all right."
"You don't know that, either. The christening is next Sunday, and I don't want my father or your mother named as the godparents any longer."
"Then who do we ask? Who do you want? Assumpta?"
She looked into his wide, blue eyes, into the depths of the question behind them. No, not Assumpta. They both knew it couldn't be her.
The door opened then, and Niamh jumped. The look on her face must've been terrible because the moment Liam saw her, his own expression fell. "Oh, no. It's bad news, is it?"
"No news," Ambrose said quickly, as Niamh tried to wiped at her face and get her emotions under control. She felt hot and angry, and she didn't want to share her grief with intruders. Fitzgerald's was her refuge, her shade.
Donal glanced anxiously between Niamh and Ambrose, and then closed the door and followed Liam to the bar. Niamh tried not to care, and went back to clearing glasses. But the boys didn't take the hint.
"Fitzgerald's isn't open," Ambrose told them.
Donal and Liam exchanged a look, that at any other time might've been comical. Now it just made Niamh sick.
"Then where do we go?" Liam asked. "Come on, Niamh. Make us some tea."
"I could do with something stronger," Donal said quietly over his crossed arms.
"You will not. It's ten in the morning," Ambrose objected.
"It's been a helluva morning," Liam said diplomatically.
The door opened again, and they all turn to see Niamh's father walk in holding a fussy Kieran. Brian looked instantly relieved when he saw Niamh, and he handed the baby over to her. "Make us a sandwich, there's a good girl."
"Make it yourself." The baby was a welcome weight in her arms, and more comforting than Niamh had expected. She pressed her nose to the top of his warm head and inhaled. Her son. Her beautiful little boy. She kissed him, and he settled against her, his pudgy little fingers pulling reassuringly at her hair.
Brian, unaffected by her rebuff, turns to Ambrose as he sits at the bar. "Any word yet?"
"None," Ambrose told him. "When Niamh returned this morning, Assumpta was still unconscious."
Brian nodded, but Niamh could see the frown on his face, the worry in his downcast eyes. And then in the next second it was gone, and he was looking at her. "Sandwich?"
"I'll take one of those, too," Liam said with a nod.
"And me," Donal said, raising his hand.
She looked to her husband for support. Here was the kind, gentle man who had told her she was over tired and should rest, now staring at her as if the last ten minutes hadn't happened. Wasn't he supposed to watch over her? Wasn't he supposed to be her gallant knight, and fend off the mean ogre and his henchmen?
"And what about you?" she demanded, shifting the baby to her hip.
"Well," he said, his face lighting at the prospect of a sandwich, "if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
He's beyond tired, beyond distraught, and as he sits and watches her lie there, silent and pale, he thinks if she dies, he might just die, too. He can't imagine living in a world without Assumpta. He tries, but it's not in him. His mind wanders to the shape of her wrist, to the dark circles haloing her eyes, to her unnatural stillness. He's never known her to be still. Even in their quietest moments together she is energy and cleverness; so very full of life.
Her fingers are cold, and he slips her slender arm beneath the blankets. He held her hand once, using her cold hand as an excuse. He'd said a lot of penance to make up for that moment of weakness, but he would've said more for another minute in that car – and there's no absolution for a want he doesn't regret. How could he regret her? How could he deny the gift that she was? That she'd give him?
Peter has always thought himself a happy man. He's considered himself lucky to have known the grace of God, and to have found himself there. He's helped people, guided them, touched lives – sometimes more than he intended. He's wanted for nothing.
And then they met by chance on the side of the road in the middle of a rain storm that had come out of nowhere. Divine intervention? The thought now makes him snort because from in that first short ride in her van she challenged him, insulted him, and made him smile. She wasn't daunted or humbled or polite. She was simply Assumpta; indignant and combative, wry and irreverent, and she touched him that day without even meaning to. And every day after. She's made him think, forced him to see and understand, allowed him to find his own voice, taught him to fight. She's helped him, guided him, changed him – certainly more than he intended. She's loved him. She's changed him, irrevocably.
Peter never knew loneliness until he met Assumpta Fitzgerald. And now he fears he will never know anything else.
Siobhan stood at the sink, filling the teapot, looking out the window. The movement of the tree caught her eye, and her sleep-deprived brain latched on to that gentle sway. When the knock at the door startled her back to herself, the pot was over flowing.
"It's unlocked," she called, dumping half the water, and then settling the kettle on the stove. She turned to see Brendan looking at her, half hidden by the door. He looked awful. "Oh God. Assumpta?"
"Peter just called," he said. "She was awake and talking. Michael says she's doing very well."
The relief that flooded Siobhan was so strong that she went light-headed for a moment, and she leaned on the white worktop to catch her balance.
"You look like hell. You should rest."
"I could say the same to you."
"I'm not pregnant."
"No, you're not," Siobhan snapped, sharper than she intended. Why could Brendan always stir her up? What was it about him that made her want to hit something? "It's none of your business what I do, so."
"None of my…Siobhan." He said her name like she was one of his wayward students he had to reason with. But she didn't want to be reasonable, and she certainly didn't want to be talk to like a child.
"Thank you for telling me Peter called, but if you don't mind, I've got three farm visits this morning, and I'm already running late."
"You're exhausted. What are you trying to prove?"
"Prove?" It was almost laughable. How long had he known her? "I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm trying to make a living. I've got a child to support."
He looked sufficiently chastised, and Siobhan felt a guilty spark of victory, but it winked out the moment he said, "I can help. With money."
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You're a school teacher. I out earn you three to one. I don't want your money, Brendan. I don't need your help."
His face went stony and unreadable, and for a moment Siobhan thought she'd sorely miscalculated. But then he thrust his chin up in that pompous way of his, and turned a cold shoulder, just like she knew he would.
"You needed my help to make our bastard well enough!" he said, and then slammed the door on his way out.
Our bastard. He's actually said the word, and it cut deeper than she might've expected. She didn't think she'd ever forgive him. She certainly didn't want to.
Niamh is troubled; Peter can see it in her face. She's worried. She's tired. They're all tired, sitting there at the end of the bar – Brian, Paraig and Siobhan. But Niamh is the one who nods to him, and he follows her down and away from the others. She says she's noticed Father Mac's name on the board for services through the rest of the week. Her eyes are questioning, imploring, and all Peter can do is nod. She asks if it's a question of faith, which is almost laughable, but not quite. He tried to assure her that his faith is intact, though it's a lie. Peter lies now, apparently. When did he start that? She offers to listen, if he wants to talk. He wonders if she's willing to offer absolution, too. He tells her he's fine. He thanks her, orders a sandwich take-away – something fresh to busy her for a moment somewhere away from him. It was harder going into Fitzgerald's than Peter expected, and harder facing his friends. They know now. He tells himself that they knew before, but now it feels different. Now he's made his confession public. Priests simply don't go to pieces over non-practicing publicans.
Peter decides to wait outside, away from Brendan's look of quiet concern.
Assupta Fitzgerald. Only she would defy God's will and go on living after He struck her down. Father Mac chuckled lightly to himself at her bedside. Well, at least she had the decency to look like death.
She'd fallen asleep again, and he thought to pray for her for a while. He didn't make a habit of praying for the ungrateful and unfaithful but, well, he still had some compassion in his stodgy old heart. He'd seen the state of her feet when the nurse changed the wrappings, and Assumpta would be suffering for some time to come. Burns like that didn't heal overnight. He prayed she wouldn't suffer too much.
"What's going on here?" Father Clifford stood in the door, puffed up like a partridge. The man looked positively on the edge, and that would do nothing to dispel the rumors that were most certainly flying.
"Just visiting," Father Mac told him lightly. He stood, favoring his stiff back and right leg. He'd been sitting too long.
"What? Assumpta? You must be joking."
"We had a lovely chat before she dropped off to sleep again."
Peter's eyes narrowed on him. He didn't like it when his curates questioned his motives. "Can I speak to you outside, Father?" Peter asked, already halfway to the door. He opened it and stood expectantly, waiting as Father Mac indulged him.
Once the door was closed, Father Mac dryly informed him, "She's not a damsel in distress, Father Clifford. She doesn't need protecting. Least of all from me."
"She's a woman who's just been through a severe trauma and hasn't yet had time to recuperate, and you're – just what are you doing here, Father? Just what do you hope to achieve?"
"I've known Assumpta Fitzgerald since she was born. I christened her. I do not need your permission to visit her bedside at a time of crisis!"
"She doesn't want you."
And there was the rub. "You think she wants you, though?"
"I know she does."
That kind of certainty, of arrogance didn't come cheaply. Father Mac had been confident that Peter's confessions would hold all his deepest, darkest secrets, but now he wasn't so sure. He searched his angry face, his blood-shot eyes for answers, but didn't find anything more than a man in pain. Peter was not one to hide his feelings, and that, in the end, would hurt the Church.
"I wanted to be sure…that she was sure," Father Mac admitted. "I don't want to petition the Cardinal if there's going to be a change of heart."
"It doesn't matter if she's sure or not. I'm sure," Peter insisted. "I want my release. That should be enough." His anger faltered then, and his eyes slipped behind Father Mac to the closed door. "She's in hospital." It was a quiet sort of plea. "You've upset her."
She had been upset, and Father Mac carried that guilt heavy on his conscience. "I was just asking questions. Questions that needed to me asked."
"Not here. Not now."
"Has it ever occurred to you that you might not be the first priest to feel this way? Why can't you simply…deal with these emotions privately? Why must you announce them to the world? Flaunt them in the face of the Church?"
"Privately? You mean…what? An affair?" Apparently the thought hadn't occurred to him.
Father Mac sighed. The man was beyond difficult. "Assumpta's not a Catholic."
"But I am! And I've taken vows. We've not so much as-"
"She's a married woman!"
Peter paled a little, faltered. "Yes. I know."
Father Mac knew he'd broke through the blind love and found the tiny bit of reason still left in the man. He lowered his voice, softened his words. "Peter. I understand. I do. But think for a moment. Assumpta Fitzgerald isn't going anywhere. It's still possible to have her in your life, to share your like with her in a platonic-"
"Oh, come on!"
"So, then, it is about the sex."
"It's about love!" Peter said, passion and fury reddening his face. "Love. And free will. And doing right by Assumpta. I can make her happy – as happy as she makes me." And the poor sod believed it, that Father Mac could see clearly.
He shook his head. "You forget yourself, Peter. You're just a man. No man will ever make Assumpta Fitzgerald happy. Not for long.
"You're wrong."
"Oh, Peter. I have never been so right."
Father Mac's words are heavy in his head as he makes his way up the street from the bus stop. He is drained, physically and spiritually, and he can't find a calm for the rage that bubbles in his chest. He wants to lash out, he wants to hold her, but he can't do either. Assumpta was still sleeping when he left her, but he simply couldn't sit there any longer.
No man will ever make Assumpta Fitzgerald happy.
He sat by her bedside and tried to pray; for her, for him, for them both. He wanted to ask for guidance, for forgiveness. Prayer had always been his comfort. He needs comfort now.
Brian Quigley comes out of Peter's house, and Peter stuffs down the feeling of violation. He asks Brian what he wants. Brian tells him that Peter's home is meant for the local curate, and it's fairly clear that's not Peter anymore. Brian's kicking him out. He says it's nothing personal. He claps Peter on the arm and give him a wink, and says something about how he expects Peter now has a new place to hang his hat. But, it's not like that. He can't just move into Fitzgerald's. He's still a priest in name, even if not in spirit. He's a priest who can't pray. He's fallen.
He held his limp son across his chest and shoulder, smoothed over the rounded little back, warm and solid beneath his hand. The evening was lovely; Ambrose wished he was enjoying more of it. They walked slowly down the sidewalk, an evening constitutional after a satisfying supper, or at least that's how it had started out. But his wife began to dither on almost immediately about dying and responsibilities, and while Ambrose was the single most responsible person he knew, that didn't seem to be enough for Niamh.
"What about Paraig?"
What about Paraig? They hardly knew Paraig. They didn't socialize, and while Ambrose would allow that under any other definition Paraig would be considered a good friend, if not particularly close, they were talking about naming him godfather to their son, and Paraig simply wasn't that good of a friend.
"He's done wonders with Kevin on his own," Niamh continued, not really needing anything more than the occasional non-committal grunt to continue the conversation on her own. It was easier to let her talk it out, to reach the logical conclusion on her own. She invariably did, anyway, sooner or later.
"Of course, Kevin's not much of a challenge on his own. And two of them might be a bit much. Or, perhaps Kevin would be a big help to him. He is old enough to babysit now. Why don't we ever have him babysit?"
Paraig smoked and Paraig drank too much, and he was too old to be worrying about a baby as young as Kieran. Paraig had raised his son, and Ambrose wanted to raise his own.
Down the street Ambrose spied Brian coming out of Henley's, but not as quickly as Father Mac apparently did. Father Mac intercepted him, pulled him aside, and the two of them stood close, talking. There was something afoot there. Something nefarious, to be sure. Both men glanced around before continuing their conversation.
"Then it'll have to be Siobhan," Niamh said with a finality that caught Ambrose's attention. He glanced at her. She didn't seem terribly happy with her decision, and when she looked at him he could tell that she knew he wasn't either. "She's a good person."
"Upstanding," he agreed.
"And she's nurturing. She'd have to be looking after all those animals like she does."
"Of course." And she drank too much, and was too old. And they didn't know her any better than Paraig.
"I do wish Assumpta…" Niamh didn't finish her thought, but she didn't have to. After a year and a half of courting and two years of marriage, Ambrose knew his wife very well. Assumpta was Assumpta. There was no way to get around that. And no parent in their right mind would give her their child.
"Brendan's a teacher," Niamh said, distant and unenthusiastic. "He's good with the children, I've seen it for myself. He'd make a good father, I think."
But not as good as Ambrose, and certainly not to Ambrose's son. And Brendan was just as old as the rest of them. And he drank.
"Siobhan and Brendan together, then?" Niamh asked, though it was clear she wasn't really wanting an answer. They both knew that it was the only logical choice, no matter how Ambrose hated it. They would ask Siobhan and Brendan to be Kieran's godparents, and Ambrose simply couldn't die. Ever.
"We'll need to ask them before the christening on Sunday. Oh, with everything that's happened do you think that Father Peter remembers that Kieran's christening is on Sunday?"
"Niamh, luv, he didn't even say mass. He has other things on his mind. Father Mac will do it." And Father Mac had apparently finished his conversation with Brian because he gave him a pleased pat on the shoulder as they walked away from each other.
"I don't want Father Mac," Niamh insisted. "I like Father Peter."
Ambrose was still distracted by what was going on across the street or he never would've said, "Yes, well Father Peter likes Assumpta Fitzgerald a little too much now, don't he?"
Beside him Niamh stopped dead. "What did you say?"
Niamh wasn't a stupid woman, and she wasn't blind. She knew as well as they all did how much Father Peter fancied the knickers off of Assumpta – and Ambrose worried that wasn't much of an overstatement.
"I like my priests chaste," he said, knowing that it would earn Niamh's wrath and not caring. After all, he wasn't the one who'd taken a priest's vows, and he wasn't the one breaking them. A man should live up to his promises – even the difficult ones that he later regrets. Without his word, a man was nothing.
Niamh looked at him with that one thoughtful expression he hadn't yet learned how to read. "You don't know that," she said, though perhaps, perhaps she thought he did. He wasn't about to take a chance on it, though, and he kept his tongue.
Naimh saw Father Peter up head, slowly making his way down from the church. He looked distracted, distant, and she pulled the pram over and stepped on the brake.
"I'm going to talk to Father Peter," she told Ambrose, and ignored the face he made.
Peter didn't seem to notice her walking straight for him, and when she called out to him, he looked up blinking. "Niamh," he said. He didn't seem pleased.
"Walk with me, Father?"
"Now isn't a good-"
"Father." She used her stern mother's voice that always seemed to work on Ambrose, and Father Peter fell into step beside her. They headed toward the bridge.
"Do you need counseling?" he asked, almost as an afterthought. His eyes skimmed over the lazy water in the river, and he seemed almost churlish. That wasn't like Father Peter at all. "I'm sure Father Mac-"
"I don't want Father Mac."
"Niamh." He sounded very tired, very beaten, and Niamh's heart went out to him.
"I rather think it's something to do with Assumpta," she said gently, but he still flashed her an irritated glance. At least he's seen her. "I'm just guessing, of course." He didn't confirm or deny, and she gave him until they reached the middle of the stone bridge before she said, "Out with it, Father."
"Please," he said quietly, with a shake of his head. "Just…call me Peter, all right?"
"So, you are leaving the Church, then?" She had trouble keeping the disappointment from her voice.
"I can't really talk about this with you, Niamh. It wouldn't be right."
"Fath – Peter. Peter. That's going to take some getting used to."
"Does it bother you?"
"A bit," she admitted. "I'm sorry."
"No. No, don't be sorry. You've nothing to be sorry for."
She stopped then, in the shade, and a cool breeze lifted the hair from her neck. "Can we speak plainly? If you're not going to be my priest, then I do hope you will be my friend." He smiled, and she felt a small sense of relief. "I want you to christen my son."
His smile disappeared. "Niamh, I can't-"
"Of course you can."
"No, really. I can't. I'm out of Grace."
It took a moment for Niamh to catch her breath again, and then another moment for her brain to think of anything to say. And when she did, "Oh," was all that came out. And then a clumsy, "I hadn't realized," followed. She started to walk again, just so she wouldn't have to look at him. He followed.
"Realized what?" He sounded confused, but Niamh just shook her head, not wanting to say the words out loud. Why hadn't Assumpta said anything to her? Hadn't she trusted her? Assumpta was her best friend. "Niamh, hold on a moment."
"It's just…it's something to get used to, isn't it? You not being a priest. You and Assumpta. Assumpta and you. I really thought she'd tell me if anything happened. I mean, she's never really been forthcoming about her love life. It was pulling teeth to get her to say anything at all about Enda Sullivan-"
"Niamh," he said, in that familiar, calm, reassuring tone. "We haven't."
"You haven't?"
"Nothing has happened."
"It hasn't?"
He shook his head, and have her another small smile. He looked very tired, and she felt guilt for questioning him. "Oh."
"You look relieved. You don't approve."
"No, no. No, it's not as simple as that. I've been a Catholic all my life, Fath…Peter, and certain habits die hard. A married woman and a priest?"
"Yes, well. I'm sure the rest of the village is likely to agree with you."
"And still…" She grinned. "It's wonderfully romantic, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Forbidden love – it's quite sexy, that. Oh, God, I'm going straight to hell."
And then Peter gave her a real laugh, and she instantly felt so much better.
"Niamh, you've lived here your entire life. How difficult am I going to make things for Assumpta?"
"Very," she said honestly.
"Will she lose business?"
"Yes. Though…I can't think that Kathleen has ever willingly stepped foot in Fitzgerald's before, so maybe not the business that really counts. BallyK will come around. Everyone likes you. And Assumpta, well, like her or not, everyone loves her here. How is she, by the way?"
"Tired. In pain, I think. The burns on her feet look painful."
"When will she be coming home?"
"Another week."
"And then what will you do?"
He looked at her, and then looked away, up at the tree cover overhead, and then down the road they were walking along. With a wince and a shrug he admitted, "I don't know, really. I'm basically unemployed, and as of Saturday, homeless."
"What? My father has kicked-"
"He's preparing for the new priest, I'm sure, Niamh. It's all right."
"You've got a place lined up, then?"
"Not as such, no. You wouldn't happen to have a spare couch, would you?" She hesitated, and he quickly added, "No, no. I should've have asked."
"It's not that, Fath…Peter. It's not you. It's just….well…with Kieran and Ambrose…and the new baby on the way…"
"What? Another? Oh, Niamh! That's wonderful! I hadn't heard."
She beamed, she couldn't help it. "We thought to announce it the night of the food competition, but well…and then we decided we'd keep it to ourselves for a while, you know, until things settle a bit."
"Niamh, I'm really happy for you."
"Thanks…Peter. But it doesn't help your problem."
"Not a problem," he said lightly. "I prefer to think of it as a challenge."
"Forgive my presumptuousness, but won't you be staying at Fitzgerald's?"
He shook his head, and his face darkened. "I think it would be better for Assumpta if I didn't. At least for a while and people see that I'm not about to grow horns or sprout a tail."
Niamh linked her arm with his, and they started walking again. "That could take a while, you know."
"Yes," he agreed. "But it looks like I've got one convert."
He's saying good-bye as he pulls the books from the shelf, as he takes the crucifix from the wall and carefully wraps it. The boxes are getting full. When did he collect so much? He arrived with a rucksack and now he has enough to fill a house. Where will he put it all? It won't fit in his car. He'll have to rent storage, he decides, and then wonders where the money will come to do that.
He's never wanted for anything, but now he wants. He's never had any money, but now he's poor. His vocation is gone, and now he's unemployed. Now he's homeless. He's lonely. He'll go back and sit with her tonight.
There's a bang at the door and then the sound of footsteps running. Children, no doubt, acting out on their parents' whispered condemnations. Rocks and sticks and hastily scrawled messages – he expects them, so they won't be a surprise. Peter opens the door to see who it might be and is met with flames. The door's on fire. It takes a moment for him to react, but then he runs into the kitchen and pulls the pot of boiling spaghetti off the stove, and tries to douse the flames. The only flare larger, hotter. The flames of hell, he thinks. God is angry. God has forsaken.
He runs out the back door and through the night. He forgets that he has a telephone, and he runs for help. He calls into the darkness. He cries out. Nobody hears him. He is alone.
The lights are on in Fitzgerald's, and he rounds the corner to reach the door. They're all there, and they stand when they see him. They know something is wrong and they're frightened. Peter speaks, he points, and Niamh calls the fire brigade. Paraig fetches the extinguisher from behind the bar. They all rush out, and Peter follows as if in a dream. The air is cool and heavy, and he's sweating as he reaches his little house beneath the church. It's engulfed, and the fire is beautiful as it reaches high toward the stars above, towards the heavens. It roars as it devours, and it lights the faces of the people who have come to help. He is surrounded by friends.
He is alive, and Assumpta is alive. They are not forsaken, he thinks. They are blessed with a new beginning.