XXVII: Excitable Boy

His first meeting with the American had gone well enough. Worried about a girl, he was, and Desmond saw no reason to dissuade the worries. The girl was one of theirs, of course, and the injuries she had suffered – they were fake, he guessed. Surely all of the reports had been falsified. He found it hard to believe that the American's father was in on things, but it was easier to believe than a miracle healing, and surely that couldn't be the case. It was more believable as a conspiracy, and he wondered about that. He had never suspected such things existed before. Conspiracies existed far more believably than miracles, though, and so he would believe in the former unless further proof arrived.

He was supposed to meet with the American again, in a few days. And then again, a few days after that. They had scheduled his meetings, and he looked forward not to them, but to the free time between. There were enough paths in the parks to get some running done, and if he was going around the world, he would have to prepare.

'Boston is the Hub of the Universe,' he was told, and from the way the city clustered around itself, concentric spirals of roads and rivers, he could really believe that was the case. If he concentrated hard enough, he believed he could find the center of Boston, too, hidden amongst the bars and the arenas and the Colonial landmarks. Sure, the Yanks liked their landmarks. They didn't point him to the right places, though. The signs had not been useful in Piccadilly. They were not useful here.

It was strange, too. He may as well have been a local. Nobody was startled at his accent. He was told that there were a lot of Irish here, but it was really quite funny how nobody thought anything of him other than a Bostonian. He blended in surprisingly well. Perhaps they had been right to send him here and ask him to search out the doctor after all. Perhaps he could blend in here.

The Charles was quite like the Liffey in how it divided the town, and institutions straddled it like Finn MacCool across the Causeway. So this was Harvard, all buildings that looked as old as some of the newer ones in Dublin. That was funny to him – America was so young, and some of its buildings were so old. It made sense in a way, though. America was a contradiction, but it all worked itself out in the end. Everything did, from countries to people.

–––

It was an Irish bar they had set him up in, and he was not sure whether to be honored or offended at that. So he sat there, messing with the napkin holder, eating pretzels, drinking Guinness 'til the tap ran out and then wishing he had more. And still the doctor had not come, and he was beginning to wonder if he would ever come. And then, tall, shaggy-haired, recognizable. Desmond was out of the booth before Jack could find a place to sit, and, attentive and avid, made his way towards the taller fellow. "Ah, brother! Need a seat? I've been wonderin' what happened with you and the girl, yanno?"

Jack appeared to be taken aback. Desmond couldn't blame him. After a moment, though, he seemed to figure it was all right, and allowed a cautious smile. "Yeah. Sarah. She – she'll be all right, if you can believe it. Thanks for your concern." The gratitude was real, and, as if it was a spur to action by itself, Jack accompanied Desmond back to the booth.

Desmond took a handful of pretzels, crunched down on them, passed the basket towards Jack, noting sadly, "They're out of Guinness; my sincere apologies. They said I drank it all."

Jack grinned vaguely, reaching out for some pretzels. "Drinking like that's no good for an athlete."

"Neither's bruising your ankle," Desmond said. "I don't see that stoppin' you, now!"

Jack burst out in sudden, sharp laughter, so abrupt that Desmond could feel himself jump a little bit. The doctor then signaled the waitress for a drink, turning back towards Desmond. "So what brings you here, then? An Irishman in an Irish bar – I'm sure there's a joke about that."

"That's a right laugh. Tons of jokes," Desmond replied seriously. He thought, What brings me here is that they told me to find you, lad, but did not dare say that to the fellow. Instead, he turned his attention towards the rest of the bar, assessing it. Perhaps he could try to talk to Jack about the situation now. With any luck, the doctor would readily accept their request for assistance. All Desmond needed was the right time and place to approach it, and he hoped this was it. If it was not, he had one more chance, but already he could feel the opportunity of it starting to slip away. He would rather get things resolved now, if at all possible, and he took a quick survey of the bar, munching on pretzels all the while.

It was quiet now, and he was not sure if he had made it that way with a glance, if his timing was right, if they had made it quiet, or if it was mere chance. All of the options were equally convincing. He thought for a moment he saw a waitress studying him, could have sworn she looked Irish thanks to the red hair, but thought better of it then. He had things to do. They did not involve chatting up waitresses, even if they reminded him of home.

"I have friends at UCD and Trinity," Desmond started the spiel that he had rehearsed a dozen times already, watching Jack for any signal that the American was no longer interested in what he was saying, doing his best to be careful. "They're at the medical schools there. They had an offer to make a doctor friend of mine, and I thought, 'Jaysus, I met a doctor real soon ago, now.' " He settled in and started talking.

–––

They will not be happy with me. They will not be happy that I got nothing from him but shock and consternation. They will banish me to an island somewhere, like they did with Napoleon. His footsteps sounded harsh on the cobblestoned streets as he made his way away from the bar, running a hand through his hair. No doubt the doctor was still in the bar, enjoying the pretzels and drinks on the tab of the fellows that had paid for Desmond's ticket. He supposed that was all right, if the doctor's father was involved, but it bothered him nonetheless. He should have produced results. All he had done was frustrate everything – the project, himself, the doctor. It had been bad, and he knew that a third meeting, if one was to be had, would go no better.

What would happen to the project without the doctor's involvement? They had planned on this. For them to send him over here for the explicit purpose of currying favor with the doctor, they had relied on this. He could not see exactly what would happen, but he knew that it would be no good. He drew his coat around himself, shaking his head. The weather on this side of the Atlantic was even more brutal than it was in Ireland. The wind bit into him viciously, and he gave it a good, "Feck off, an gaoth Atlantach." It didn't solve things, of course, but he could at least pretend that it could.

They would have to do something about the doctor, though. It was all Desmond's fault, but Jackie-boy, brother-Jack knew too much now. Perhaps they'll banish him to a deserted island too, Desmond thought, a moment of levity working its way in there. A doctor without patients. Physician, heal thyself.

He had a race to win, though, so he would leave the whole banjaxed business here. In a mere matter of days, he would be halfway around the world, and they would have forgotten about him. They would be of no matter to him, and when he won the race, they would have to respect him, and they would be unable to make him vanish. The race was due to set off from Miami, and as long as he could make it down to Florida and out of America without any more trouble, he would be able to put this behind him. They would do nothing. He would be safe. He was not to be blamed for their troubles. He had given it his best effort. They could ask him to do nothing more.