Father Mac murdered another chewable antacid. His Grace's dinner invitation was by no means unwelcome, but Bishop Costello had a fondness for awkward silences and terrible restaurants.

"The Holy Mackerel" in Cilldargan was at least three kinds of terrible. It was borderline blasphemous in name alone, with the predictable yet offensive ichthys logo. It was nominally American in its approach, as evidenced by the name, the dreadful cowboy-themed staff uniforms, and the tendency to drown absolutely every menu item in alcohol, fat, or sugar. Finally, by apparent decree of the management, the place was addicted to background noise, with commercial radio blaring over the speakers at all times.

It only occurred to Frank now just which broadcast he might encounter: tonight was Tuesday.

Surely he couldn't be blamed for hearing it in these circumstances. Perhaps they could talk over it, he thought as he tucked into his drunken mussels. Immediately he learned that wasn't possible: he'd have a hell of a time just chewing this food before it got cold.

"And we're back with more of The Pit," said the announcer.

The bishop looked toward the loudspeakers with a grin. "Love this show," he remarked between sips of Budweiser.

Frank forced a smile over his uncooperative mouthful.

"If you're only just joining us, my guest this evening is dream-interpretation expert Colleen Stack. We've already dissected the familiar symbolism of losing all your teeth; now 'Paul' is on the line from 'somewhere in County Wicklow' with another common theme. Paul, go ahead?"

"Thanks. Lately I'm having a recurring dream about nudity."

Frank froze in place.

"Your own nudity?" the woman asked.

"Mine and...someone else's," said the poorly-camouflaged voice of Peter Clifford.

"In public?"

"Sort of everywhere."

"What's your relationship to the other person?"

"That's a good question..."

Feeling his own blood boil, Frank checked his senior for signs of recognition. Bishop Costello was, as ever, infuriatingly inscrutable. He bore a look of ambiguous, calm reflection, as if he might be contemplating either Father Clifford's frailties or human nature itself.

The dream expert was on a roll. "You're giving me only something very basic to go on, Paul, but generally we think of nudity in a dream as a symbol for some kind of truth - either something hidden that needs to be revealed, or something already quite obvious that needs to be properly acknowledged, such as trying to be what you're not. Does that ring any bells in your situation?"

"Yes," the caller said, barely audibly.

"Whoever this person is, you need to come clean with him or her."

"You're right."

Frank's jaw was already exhausted from pulverising the rubbery bivalves. It dropped half-open with this.

The host chimed back in now. "Thanks for ringing us, Paul. Now we have Mike on the line, who says he keeps dreaming of waking up and going through his usual morning routine...only to find he's not woken up at all and he's late for work. Hello, Mike!"

The bishop finally set down his bottle. "How's the curate getting on these days, anyway?" His face gave no clue of whether he'd recognised the young priest's voice. The parish priest could think of no safe way to ask. He looked down at his plate as if for advice.

The remaining mussels were all shut tight.

Padraig scratched his bicep through his shirt sleeve for what must have been the twentieth time since his arrival at the pub Thursday evening.

"You all right?" Siobhan asked, glancing out the corner of her eye. Michael took sudden intense interest in his soup spoon.

"Fine," Padraig replied, indignant.

"Been at your arm all night," Brendan muttered.

"Spider bite," Padraig lied.

"Ah," said Brendan. "What kind?"

It was apparently too much scrutiny for the mechanic to bear. "I said get off my back!"

Michael handed Assumpta a few coins to set a glass of Powers before Padraig. "Betting pool's been won and lost, Padraig," said the doctor. "Might as well 'fess up."

Padraig sighed and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a square, putty-colour patch. Brendan nodded his approval, but Padraig shook his head.

"I'm a low-down cheat!" he wailed.

Niamh shook her head. "Look at this," she said, pulling a child's chocolate-flavour lip balm out of her pocket. "Ambrose likes it," she smiled devilishly.

Brendan made a face of mock-betrayal, but it quickly changed to a fond smile. "Think they make that stuff in roast beef flavour?"
Siobhan made a face.

Assumpta found herself chuckling. "You're all unbelievable. Michael, have you...?"

The doctor was caught in a storm of microsleeps, nodding off every few seconds and then jerking upright again. He hadn't heard her.

She thought for a moment, then mixed a Black Russian.

"On the house, Doc. It's hardly any caffeine."

He accepted the cocktail without protest, looking partly revitalised after a few sips.

"Any other side effects besides the itch?" he asked Padraig.

"Nightmares, I reckon," Padraig grumbled. "Long one last night, felt like it lasted years. Assumpta married her ex, and then she got electrocuted to death, but all anyone wanted to do was eat; then Father Clifford ran away forever; then Niamh got a bad haircut and fell in love with some blithering arse; then Ambrose fell off a cliff, and - get this - I left town to quit drinkin'!"

Scattered chuckles greeted this absurdity.

"Are you sleeping with the patch on?" Michael asked.

Padraig looked ashamed. "Don't mean to, but you know how I love a kip."

"Right."

"Should've tuned in to The Pit the other night," Brendan piped up. "Whole hour with a dream interpretation expert. Come to think of it, one caller sounded a bit like -"

"Hogwash," Siobhan interrupted. Michael looked shy again.

"You don't believe in it?" countered Brendan.

"Not when a man's taking transdermal nicotine replacement therapy, no."

Niamh nodded. "Dreams might mean something important once in a while, but that one just sounds like bad brain chemistry."

Assumpta thought of her fortune. Then she thought of a few other choice scraps of paper, and an unjustified panic rose in her chest.

"Sorry," she breathed, rushing into Accommodations.

A moment later, her voice echoed through the pub. "NIAMH!"

Niamh gave an apologetic shrug to the regulars and followed into the lounge.

"What?" she hissed.

Assumpta shook the rubbish bin. "Did you empty this?"

"Thought you'd want me to, before collection day. Why?"

"Nothing," Assumpta said too quickly. "Thanks."

Niamh shot a wary look, then turned on her heel, brown waves bouncing on her shoulders.

"Wait," Assumpta said.

"What?"

"When you took it out, did you...notice anything?"

Niamh's expression changed to a perplexed one. "Lots of people are throwing away the breakfast coupons."

Assumpta caught her breath. "Oh, too bad," she bluffed.

Niamh rolled her eyes. "If you want me, I'll be in the bar," she called over her shoulder.

"Joni Mitchell, was it?" Assumpta said to herself, thinking only one erstwhile regular would have appreciated the joke.

Peter peeled the moist receiver away from his ear. He'd largely tuned out Father Mac's dressing-down; something about consulting secular sources of personal guidance in a public manner, about proneness to ill advice and scrutiny in the parish. The curate had toyed with asking just what the Parish Priest was doing listening to The Pit himself at that hour, but decided against it in the end.

Now it was late. He grabbed his keys.

His sixth church excursion marked as slippery a Lenten resolve as any - a mere late night drive-up visit, a clandestine pilgrimage in the cool fragrant dark. He crossed the courtyard with a boyish sense that he was courting disaster, and sat on a dew-misted bench near the statue of St. Amand.

Patron of bartenders and innkeepers, he thought. Would Assumpta ever condescend to pray to you?

He shook his head in response to his own wondering.

Is this an intercession, then? Asking you to break her heart for me because I couldn't dream of it? Because I'd only get too close and want it for my own?

You're already too close. You already want it for your own, he imagined a voice responding. You'd do anything for it.

I know.

Seems you've already made up your mind.

It's not that simple.

It isn't so complex, either. You know what you could live without in the long run. You know what you couldn't.

Peter shook his head again, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets against the damp chill of the air.

What would people think?

Well. That's a very Father-MacAnally sort of way to view the matter. You must know a few are wondering already.

Joking and wondering are different things.

So you tell yourself.

Now I know I'm imagining this.

Look at you, man. You're even nervous thinking I'm aware of how you feel. Do you think you can pull a fast one on me?

Peter got to his feet and shuffled back to his car.

Fine. If you're really out there counselling me, give me a sign.

He turned the ignition. "The Sign" was just starting on the radio.

"Ace of Base. Very funny," Peter said aloud.

Look at the tuner.

It was a frequency he didn't recognise.

Thanks if you're still along for the ride. I hope this chapter doesn't come off too heavy-handed. Please add a grain of salt to my depictions of spiritual or parapsychological matters, snotty remarks about the cuisine of my own homeland, and to my little thinly-veiled soapbox about certain things in the original narrative.

That said: penny for your thoughts, as always!