The lock mechanism made an audible click in the surrounding silence, but the door remained shut. "Coast is clear," they heard Brendan whisper. "No rush, whenever you're ready."
It took a moment. The younger man and woman emerged, hair mussed, clothes rumpled, red-faced; both recoiled in pain at the sudden flood of light.
"You...saw your way through the blocking, I trust." Neither one would meet his eyes; both nodded, squinting. "Not sure if you heard Father Mac just now...?"
"I'd better stop home and make the call," Peter managed.
"And I'll go see what Niamh's on about," Assumpta said softly.
They still wouldn't look at Brendan, but he noticed they stole a glance at each other.
The fresh air was a comfort to Assumpta's burning cheeks as she made her way back to the pub. She felt drunk, almost, and tried her old trick from university, forcing herself to be hypervigilant. What had just taken place? What would have happened if it had been permitted to continue? What would happen now - were they really any better prepared to go in front of a crowd on opening night? Would he ever speak to her again? They had been seconds from going all the way, and...well, they had most certainly made a mess. You couldn't unring a bell.
She opened the heavy blue door as quietly as possible. She escaped the customers' notice, but Niamh alighted on her immediately.
"What on Earth happened to you?"
God, she hadn't checked her reflection. What if there were marks on her neck?!
"Never mind. The PPs and the bishop checked out."
"What? Why?"
"Apparently they found the accommodations...lacking. Accustomed to minibars, color TV, that sort of thing."
"Ah." Assumpta was too dazed to form her usual biting response.
"And truth be told, I think Father Mac was...a little embarrassed."
This provoked a sharp laugh. "Well," Assumpta replied. "Every cloud..."
"Seriously, why're you all...disheveled?"
Siobhan looked up from her own pint on hearing this, but said nothing. Assumpta excused herself to the pub toilet.
Niamh watched her go, then turned to Siobhan and shrugged.
"Say," said the veterinarian. "Wasn't she just at rehearsal?"
Dr. Michael Ryan was used to patients playing know-it-all, but this Sullivan character was testing his reserves. Between begging for a magic bullet like a pro footballer might use, and offering autographed CDs of his dreadful songs, the man seemed fully steeped in hubris.
"Just to get him through the show, Doctor," Brian pleaded.
Michael sighed. "I can offer a steroid for the swelling and a painkiller to take the edge off, but it's generally not advisable to trick the injury into hiding. You could do permanent damage to the joint by using it like normal when it's not."
"I do what I have to for my art," Enda replied. Michael thought briefly where the nearest vomit basin might be.
"Doctor, the show must go on," Brian pleaded.
"I'll do as you ask, but I tell you it's not a wise course of action." He retreated from the examination room and returned a moment later with an ominous hypodermic needle, fully loaded with cortisone.
Enda Sullivan puffed his chest like a wounded soldier in battlefield triage - and promptly fainted.
