The Paddy in the Box

An alcoholic, drug-addicted Dubliner living a life of sin is taught a lesson or two about the error of his ways, but this is one morality tale that goes completely wrong from the very beginning.

- 1 -

There's no other city in the world with the same character as Dublin. With all its quirks, commodities and kinks, it's battered old streets dripping with history in all its most violent (and outlandish) forms, it should come as no surprise that stories like the one I am about to relate to you populate every one of its nooks and crannies. All of the prostitutes, drunkards, junkies and gangsters that walk its pavement go hand in hand with the ones like you and me. The bastardly businessmen, the beefbrained bankers, the struggling students, the fledgling families. They say Ireland is a small country, but isn't it only even smaller when you realize one simple little fact. We all share the same underlying, untapped insanities and darkest desires. We think about them, we mull them over in our local in the wee hours of the morning over tepid pints, but never come to act on them. Because that'd be just outright taff and sheer bloody nonsense altogether, wouldn't it?

So thought Paddy Mulligan, a man who, as you likely guess, was no different from you or me.

Just an honest young man, early twenties, the entire world open for his taking, his ambitions deliberated on by himself and reliable old close friends cum fellow alcoholics at stupid o' clock most nights. Ah yes, his hopes and dreams were oh so wild; speed through college at the top of his game, find his girl and start the next generation of Mulligans, who would do all of the exact same things over and over again until time's end or the world's collapse. The career was one thing, like most people Paddy hadn't a clue what he'd do once he was out the door and fucked into the great big wide world. Maybe a bit of this, maybe a bit of that. Maybe even head over to join with the Canucks or the Aussies for a year or two, while his brain woke itself up to the fact that life was no longer a playground, but rather something to be worked at, fought for, every single day. Like a drowning swimmer trying to reach those last little bursts of air. Let's go back to his past for a moment. 

Doyle's. Near the top of Dame Street, just opposite Trinity. One time ago or another. 

Coming on close to two in the morning, the barman throwing dirty looks to the few remaining loungers as they chatted amicably over watery Guinness and stale scampi fries. Three of these said loungers were our boy Paddy and his friends Tony and Brian. They looked on as Paddy slouched against the varnished counter, one hand on his head, the other clasped firmly around his pint glass as he moaned about everything and anything.

"---I know what to do, but I also don't know what to do. The f**k's wrong with me?" 

Tony looked into the mirror behind the bar, soullessly, and Brian actually bothered to answer him, the voice drawly and sleepy.

"Ah Jaysus, any number of things. But on the bright side, you've got the time." 

"Time enough to finish this pint? Or time enough to figure out my life?"

Shrugging, Brian turned away from him to look at Tony, who had suddenly fallen fast asleep.

"I'd say both. But you know what I mean."

"The pints so. F**k it, another round? We've got a lot of figuring out to do."

"Sure why not. We'll use them to figure out the rest of time."

There's those last little bursts of air, courtesy of that June 11th late-night jaunt when Paddy and company decided (in their infinite wisdom) to traverse every single pub from Southside to Northside, in a fit of blindly glorious self-destruction. That little snippet came about 20 minutes before Paddy heaved over in a manic vomiting fit, his body crumpling like a Coke can on the sidewalk, surrounded by bits of fast food and ciggie butts, whilst articulating in phlegmy, gargling tones exactly what he wanted to do with his life. He was going to build his future, quite literally. Paddy had the bright idea of going into construction. Although his friend Brian pointed out he was feeding into the Irish stereotype of the uneducated working class brute and that construction was a risky business, the fact of the matter was that Brian was a c**t. 

And that was that, as far as Paddy's mind was concerned.

So then came the next few years (predictably), leading to Paddy's apprenticeship with his uncle Dermot, which then led to building loads of ghost estates back when everyone was well assured that hinging the entire economy on the property market was a fantastic f*****g idea, then realized that it was about as stupid as three Taoiseachs put together. Paddy realized this too, when he began receiving mortgage notices and bills in his letterboxes by the hundreds. In that little Crumlin council house, the papers piled right up to the top of his stairs and that's where they remained, right up till the day that we meet him. It was more or less the usual; waking up hungover and headachey, quick blast of coffee, out the door, into his little office out in one of those Ballyer industrial parks (in one of the ugly red brick boxes) and then sitting there all day, waiting for work to come, or for work not to come. 

Then, one of these days, just like the one we've described, that's when the most unusual call came. A simple job in the middle of town. One that wouldn't take all that long. The pay would be great indeed, so great that it may even merit Paddy to clear off almost half his active debts (financially and personally speaking). So he took it, scribbling down the address with a broken old pencil on a raggedy sheet of paper, before grabbing his van keys and speeding out of the carpark, more excited for this than anything in ages. Arriving at the unassuming little apartment complex in Sandyford, he walked through the glass-and-steel plaza before reaching his destination. Walking up the hallway and knocking on the apartment door, imagine the fright he got when it flew open and he was promptly smashed across the face with what felt like one f****r of a punch. He wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been out for, but one thing he was sure of was that something didn't feel right about where he woke up; a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds and stickthin jetstreaks. It was when he looked around that the horrible fear got hold of him.

Paddy, for one reason or another, was trapped in a clear glass box dangling hundreds of feet in the air. 

Now, setting aside that pivotal little moment when the fear first set in, the first thought that entered Paddy's groggy auld mind when he came to was not, in fact, how deeply scared shitless he was, but rather what f****r decided to put him here. The lads, for a laugh? Maybe, but it seemed a bit far even for them two. Jim from the neighbouring office? A little more plausible, just not when you considered the fact that he'd died years ago. Paddy's thoughts came to the inevitable (and fairly stupid) final guess; his parents? Perhaps. Especially considering the mess he'd made the last time they'd had Christmas together (an unfortunate incident involving someone's hand getting stuck up the turkey's arse). They were liable to do anything after that, but this seemed a bit high-rent. Besides, the pair of them had fucked off down to Cork for the weekend to see Paddy's uncle Johnny, who was just like his dad but ten times more insufferable. All these thoughts and speculations ran rampant through his mind before they settled down, and the fear came roaring back like a tidal wave. He felt it the same way you feel after being told the one you're after has gotten away, or that you're late for work. Just ten times more insufferable, like his dad.

"Jesus! Jesus f*****g God Almighty! GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" he roared at the top of his lungs, the sound reverberating inside the tight box and staying put right there with him. 

Kicking and scrambling, he looked all around him and saw nothing but, well, nothing. Because the f*****g thing was made of glass. Despite his best efforts anyway, he had no leverage. The most damage he could do the box was smearing it with the soles of his shoes, maybe leaving a scrape or two. He tried punching it as best he could, but nearly broke a knuckle and that was the end of that. So he lay there a bit, panting and paining simultaneously, too frightened to move or even think. When he did one or all three, the result was the same; a bit of crying, a bit of laughing, a bit of pissing even. Not enough to ruin his trousers, but enough that a few dribbles came out. Paddy was that way for a little while, sure look, see him now, the f****n' eejit. 

Who's doing this to me? Why're they doing it? And why the f**k did it have to be on a Monday morning?!

No answers, but a few questions begin arising when he felt something new in the air, a sensation that he'd never felt before and hoped he'd never feel again. Every hair on his body stood up at the same time, all the goosebumps breaking out on his skin, his heartbeat slowing down to a snail's pace. He decided to be brave and take a proper look at his surroundings, slowly turning himself over onto his stomach. 

Janey. Haven't been this high in years. Or since yesterday. It feels that long anyway.

It was difficult to tell where he was hanging, but his eye's best guess settled upon somewhere in town. Too far up to be able to tell exactly where, but with a few iconic landmarks close enough to be able to say so. From his vantage point, in the gap between the two buildings on either side of the box, Paddy could make out the distant, needle-like form of the Spire stabbing into the sky, the unmistakeable dome of the Four Courts, the out-of-place-ness of Liberty Hall. Like ants, people pushed and shove on the paths alongside snaking trains of cars and the bright yellow roofs of Dublin Buses, going about their daily businesses like nothing was out of the ordinary. The fact that nobody in the world, or the world itself even, didn't give a shite was what spurred on another rush of fear-fuelled anger, Paddy pounding his fists on the glass like a great overgrown baby.

Wait. Wait! OF COURSE! Why in the name of f**k---

He had to try, so he did. Paddy reached back and felt around in his jeans, hoping it was there, because it was one of those things that you always had but rarely needed, then rarely had when you always needed it. A mobile phone. Paddy, grinning like a Cheshire cat, maneuvered his arm over and brought the screen up to his face, looking at his reflection in the cracked glass. He pressed down on the home button and the smartphone menu flickered to life. He went into his contacts and stared down the list of names; Tony, Brian, Mam, Dad....Tony, Brian, Mam, Dad....ah for f**k's sake. I have to have more friends than this! Better check the call logs as well just in case. Sure, you never know.

Scrolling down, scrolling down, the screen whizzed by in a jumble of letters and symbols as Paddy fought to keep the sweat from entirely blurring his vision. 

Here now....there's one! Jimmy from the shop! I was only out with him the other night! Might as well give him a try!

Clicking onto Jimmy McGarvey's icon and pressing the call button, Paddy brought the phone to his ears and was summarily greeted by a voiceover message informing him he'd run out of credit. The real tragedy was the nearest Tesco was about 400 feet down and at least 10 minutes' walk away. 

But then Paddy remembered that Jimmy was a useless f****r, and decided not to call him. So he was stuck with the same four options; Tony, Brian, Mam, Dad. 

"For f**k's sake..." Paddy roared, "GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" His fists made weak, hollow thumps against the glass. Across from him, a bird on a windowledge looked up at him for a moment. Paddy looked up too, tears blurring his vision. He knew what it was though, as he spoke through gritted, nicotine-stained teeth.

"What're you looking at, ya feathery little f****r?!"

He made an almighty pound against the glass, causing the bird to tear away in a flutter of feathers and cawing. The window behind it was boarded over and covered in little white specks of shite. That's Dublin glamour for you. Paddy looked away from the faeces and back out over the cityscape, watching in a strange calm the glints of cars buzzing along motorways, seagulls swooping to and fro amongst the church spires and a lone aeroplane leaving a whispy jet-trail across the sky. 

F*****g beautiful. For a Monday anyway. 

That was a bit odd; the plane had suddenly veered course drastically, like the pilot decided he didn't like where they were going anymore. A little speck of an aeroplane was now a gradually growing dot. 

There's no way I'm drunk. Last time I drank in the morning was at cousin Mick's wedding four years ago, at that fancy hotel down in Cork.

The dot was getting closer and closer, hurtling itself like a raging cannonball through the sky. But for whatever reason, Paddy's still not worried. For some reason. Then again, like most every Irishman, he's only content to worry about something until its right at his doorstep. Ask Paddy about it, and he'd tell you to just look at what happened during the recession.

Oh sweet Jesus. First I get into this f*****g box somehow, now I'm about to be hit by a rogue pilot with a death wish. If that's what it is. Maybe it's not. 

Shut the f**k up.

Not a dot any longer, the plane took on a curious change, growing from a white blob of death and into a black mist, standing out stark against the peaceful blue sky. It looked like a giant wig headed right towards Paddy. But this wig had a face, one that Paddy knew all too well. He hadn't a hope of seeing it properly as the black mass reached peak speed and enveloped the glass box in a howling roar. His body went limp, feeling like a bag of jellified nerves as it was assaulted by some kind of unseen force. Paddy took it well though.

"Ah for Jaysis sake, leave me alone already!"

To his surprise, a hollow, demonic voice answered him back. It sounded like gravel being dragged along sandpaper. A terrible f*****g sound altogether. Paddy hadn't heard anything worse since the Taoiseach's last speech. Even then, his house had been infested with rats crawling in the walls, and he remembered the day because he wasn't sure which was worse. Now he think he knew the answer.

"Patrick David Joseph Mulligan, today is the day you have been chosen to learn your lesson!"

"What lesson would that be now?!"

"The lesson of self-discipline, self-respect, and namely respect for others! Your life has been nothing but a wretched wasteland of scum, villainy, filth and dishonesty!" the voice hissed, the sound reverberating and carrying inside the little box. Paddy was about three steps away from a heart attack, and only a few drops more towards completely pissing his pants.

"For f**k's sake, I'm not that bad! Sure I brushed my teeth this morning!"

"You used the vile liquids, the devil drink to wash it all down! Your sins are many and your regrets meagre. Alas, such is such! Your day has arrived Patrick Joseph Mulligan, and what a day it shall be!"

How does the f****r know that I always keep a bottle of Jemmy handy in the bathroom cabinet?! How is today my day, when it's a f*****g Monday?! And why the in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph am I still trapped in this bloody box!

Paddy took a little while to form his answer, the voice seems to have silenced him for the time being, although there's loads he's just bursting to say before they go. The roaring and howling outside the box started to die down a bit, so Paddy found his thoughts again and decided to speak, for what it was worth.

"Alright, look, let's just start at the beginning. First of all, who the hell are you to come here and annoy me first thing in the morning?!"

A few moments of silence, interrupted only by the cawing seagulls and distant sirens. The voice spoke again, in show-offy, mocking tones.

"I'll show you."

The black mass slowly began to evaporate and began to de-envelope itself away from the box, forming itself into a vaguely human shape. Not enough to be sure, but certainly enough that Paddy could have seen a person inside it. Nobody he knew though, because he'd already decided this was the most annoying thing that had ever happened him. Even for a Monday morning. The mass was finished reforming itself, and now looked like a gangly, pitch-dark figure, with elongated limbs and a perfectly round head. Paddy gaped in shock as, slowly, what looked like small little horns began to form on top, jutting out of the skull it seemed.

He looks like your man, Slender. The guy who lives in the woods and tries to eat little kids by hugging them to death. He needn't bother this time though, I think I actually prefer the bloody...God...f*****g pins and needles...everywhere. I can feel it.

"What do you say before my might? How does one feel? How will you, Patrick Joseph Mulligan of Dublin, Eire, answer for yourself before my visage?"

"Ehm...well...I was working up to that. But let's get something straight, the only people who call me by the full name are granny and my mam, only when I've done something bad. Hearing you say it to me over and over is just getting really f*****g annoying. Just call me Paddy for f**k's sake."

"Well well well, so this one has a mouth. All the more fitting, considering that is the very thing that has landed you in such trouble. Paddy it is indeed, so Paddy it shall be."

"When did I ever say it wasn't?"

"SILENCE!" boomed the black mass, making Paddy wish he could cover his ears if his arms weren't under his chin. 

There was another slight pause then, this one more awkward than the last. Paddy lay in the box, trying to keep his head from spinning while also figuring out how he'd explain this to his manager once he got back, if he ever got back at this stage. He wished now that he'd never given away his watch to the local gangsters to pay back his gambling debt. He really liked it too. Those shitebags didn't deserve it, then again, when you've a gun to your willy what's a man to do?

"So...what now? I'm supposed to be due back to work in an hour, and so far all you've done is give me a few really shittily written speeches. You said you're here to learn me something, just do it already!"

The black mass shifted, undulating gently. Its voice spoke out again, causing, Paddy noticed this time, the glass box to shake gently with each word.

"Let us begin by going back to your first issue; self-discipline. An issue you seem to have trouble with, as I recall. Their are many highlights to choose from."

"Too f*****g right..." grumbled Paddy. Sighing, he slowly turned over so that he was lying on his back, rather than stomach. Closing his eyes, the excitement pretty much over, he decided to write this off as another funny turn induced by a sleepless night of raging drunkenness that lead to a hallucinatory hungover state. The black mass came forward and floated right above him, it's face that wasn't really a face bearing into him with eyes that weren't even there.

"Let us go. The journey begins..."

And with that, it came through the glass and encased Paddy completely, plunging him into a world of darkness. He screamed for a few seconds, but that was all he got. 

- 2 -

When he came to, again, Paddy found himself standing in what was hands down probably his favourite pub in the city; Sicky McGee's, a perfectly habitable little dive found snuggled away amongst the various nooks and crannies of Templebar, with its cobblestone streets and growing flocks of obnoxious tourists. It was somewhere that lay off the beaten path, which the tourists would never follow for fear of not finding any leprechauns lurking about. Paddy had been a regular of Sicky's for years, ever since he'd first snuck himself in at seventeen using a questionable ID. It was everything a good watering hole should be; a bit shabby but not too rundown, old wooden paneling running along the walls and bar, the smell a mixture of stale cigarette smoke, cleaning products and spilt beer. Paddy thought that he'd never see it again.

But here he was now, standing in the middle of the lounge, while John the barman called over to him, with his great beer gut, damp stained clothes and thick Dub accent, the kind that more than makes up for in wisdom what it lacks in eloquence. You all know what I'm on about. 

"Howya Paddy! Fancy seein' you here!"

Yep. The f****r looked real, sounded real and even joked like the real thing. John was John and he was Paddy. The black mass was nowhere to be seen, so Paddy felt it rude to not to go over and grab some of the good stuff. He smiled at John warmly as he walked over, his shoes sinking into the red carpeting beneath. Settling down into his favorite seat, third from the left along the main bar, the front doors directly behind him. Perfect. Come in at the start of the night and walk straight up, get up at the end of the night and only have to navigate a short journey out the door. This is what Paddy thought he had in store for him, starting right now as

"F****n' hell John, it's like I've never left."

John spoke, in that strangely soothing-if-threatening monotone speak of his. He picked up a shining new pint glass and held it to the light, letting it gleam like a mythical jewel. 

"That's what you always say. And that's why you're always here."

"Right you are, Johnboy, right you are. Now hurry on with that." pointing an accusing finger at the pint-to-be.

Nodding, John began pouring a Guinness, grabbing two shot glasses whilst the stout was settling in the glass. Paddy watched the bubbles surging upwards, the rich sandy creaminess swirling upwards into that world-famous, ruby red colour. He'd always loved watching things like that; the little moments that mean the most. He kept watching as John set down the shot glasses in front of him; vodka and whiskey. Paddy looked them both over, as you do, before rubbing his hands together. Yes sir, today was going to be f*****g great. He just knew it. He'd worry about the rest later.

"A couple kick-starters to get the oul' tastebuds going."

John just grumbled a half-hearted mm-hm as he watched Paddy pick up the vodka and slug it down in one quick motion, pursing his lips and letting out a wry smile.

"One for the senses..."

He picked up the whiskey and slugged that back too, reveling in the fiery warmth it created in the pit of his stomach, the alcohol burning into a pleasant sting.

"And one for tradition!"

Slamming the glass down with a contented sigh, Paddy wiped a hand across his mouth. He pushed it and the other empty aside as John placed a fresh, cold Guinness right in front of him, the perspiration running down the sides in small streaks, and feeling like a small block of ice to the touch. Just the way a good pint should be. Paddy looked at it the way an archaelogist looks at a newly-discovered relic. 

"Jaysis, I think this is your best yet John! Look at that there now! Not even the lads at the brewery could do this justice."

John shrugged, indifferent. Without any reply, Paddy just shrugged and settled into his pint, taking himself a nice, long, deep sip. The sweetness hit the tip of the tongue, the roastiness hid the sides of his mouth and the bitterness came as the last dregs went down the back of his throat. He put down the pint and, after some thought, took another quick swig. The best of the best, Ireland in a glass. Settling the pint down carefully on the beermat, he decided to take another stab at easing some conversation out of John. Even if it killed him.

"John...how's things anyway? All well?"

Reaching into his shirt pocket, John brought out a pack of ciggies and lit one. This is one of the things that Paddy loved about him, he remembered then. The man, quite simply, couldn't have given a flying f**k about anything. The indoor smoking ban, trying to please, anything. When he spoke, you weren't sure if it was because he had to, or if he just didn't care either way. Savoring the nicotine, John shrugged his shoulders and stared into space.

"About as well as can be expected. Yourself?"

"Ah same old, same old. You know how it is. Struggling, struggling, struggling and never quite reaching the top. It's a shambles. You'd wonder where all the money's gone, you really would."

The barman shrugged again, flicking the ash into a pile of dirty dishes lying in the sink, leaving streaks of black wet ash across the cups and plates. Paddy grinned. Again, no a single f**k was ever given by good auld John in Sicky McGee's.

"Sure aren't we all the same. Money comes and goes Pat, but what is it they used to say, that it's on the inside that counts."

Paddy grimaced and took another sip of Guinness, savouring the flavours as they danced around inside his mouth. He let the words sink in for a little while.

"I don't know too much about that now John. But let me tell you, I agree with you that a man who makes up for inside what he lacks on the outside is a damn good one. Most of the time anyway. Some people are just arseholes."

John chuckled at this, regarding Paddy as just another old drunk who had to deal with on a daily basis. Even worse that he was forced to listen to them as well most of the time. But, in his view, at least Paddy was an interesting one. One who didn't go on about young people these days with their Bookface and smarty-phones, that they were the ones ruining the country. John often felt it was the other way round. Stubbing out the f*g, he threw a glance towards Paddy, who sat there with both arms resting across the counter, looking like a raggedy prince.

"Preach, brother Patrick, preach! Pray tell, how does one tell the difference between a damn good man, and an arsehole?"

Contemplating, listening to the flies buzzing in the air, the sounds of life beyond the front doors, letting the silence hang, Paddy came up with an answer. One that was smart-arsed, sure, but one that made perfect sense.

"Easy. One of them drinks in a pub like this, the other drinks in the Leinster House bar." 

"Seems a bit unfair doesn't it? Not everyone in the government is a lying shyster. Then again...."

"Ah f**k it! Life's unfair! And what's worse is that fuckers like these are the ones that only make it worse! I mean, look at us two, we're not making any problems, we're just sitting here having a drink and a chat."

John looked from side to side, as though he were expecting someone. Paddy looked too, across the lounge, at clusters of empty tables and chairs waiting to be filled. The TVs were all off, probably considering it was....what f*****g time was it again? That didn't matter. But it also didn't explain why John was looking for something that didn't seem to be there. Nor why he'd stopped talking. Paddy ignored his pint for a second and spoke out, wanting to point out the obvious elephant in the room.

"What's up? Why've you gone all quiet on us?" 

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just one of those funny little moments..." his voice trailed off, his eyes still locked on something, or somewhere, further than Paddy could see. Or ever hope to. After a little while, John explained himself.

"You know, the butterflies in the stomach. Like you'd get before seeing the girl you fancy, or going into the Leaving Cert. That feeling in your gut that tell's you something's about to happen."

"That's weird." Paddy whistled through his teeth.

John only looked back at him then, his eyes blazing, although whether in fury or insanity was hard to tell. Paddy knew those eyes well, with their menacing dark browns. He always thought they made your man look like a serial killer. Maybe he was. Paddy personally couldn't give a shite what he did in his spare time, so long as he got his drinks.

"Especially when you consider that the wife fucked off on me years ago, and the only school I ever went to was the one that teaches you drinking. Basically any boozer on a Dublin corner. Passed with flying colours, so I did..."

Raising his pint, Paddy gave him a mock salute.

"Hear hear! Sure, imagine if---"

He was suddenly cut off then by the sounds of the doors behind him opening and closing. Muffled laughter and footsteps directly approached. Ah this was great, the lads were here now too. Tony and Brian. They'd come in, sit down, get jarred with him, probably end up having some late-night philosophical debate or heart-to-heart with each other, cause havoc in a chipper somewhere, then head off home. The usual, open-and-shut night out. Paddy turned to greet them, spinning on the stool.

"There y'are lads! You both look...."

Fuuucking hell. This must be some iffy pint John's after giving me. This can't be real! No way!

Standing in front of Paddy, each the size of a fully-grown man, were a Heart, a Liver and a pair of Lungs. No eyes, no mouths, just huge oversized organs. They were a horrible colour, an affront to the eyes and nose. Dripping bodily fluids all over the carpet, leaving greasy stains, they began edging their way over towards Paddy, who wanted to run flying out the f*****g door but remained exactly where he was, too terrified to move or even think. They all took the seats on either side of him, wedging him right in the middle. John walked up, a huge smile on his face, those dark eyes gleaming.

"Now lads, what can I get you?"

"Clogged arteries." said the Heart.

"Anything alcoholic. Makes no difference to me." said the Liver.

"Same as him, plus a pack of smokes like a good man." said the Lungs.

Nodding at each of them, John turned to Paddy, pointing to his now half-drunk Guinness. The Heart, Liver and Lungs took a peek too, each of them making noises that sounded like tutting.

"Need a refill?"

Based on what I'm seeing here, I think I've f*****g had enough.

"Eh.....no thanks. I'm grand for now."

"Suit yourself!"

John walked off to sort out the gang's orders, leaving Paddy alone with the three....sentient intestines, for lack of a better term. If a better term even existed. He'd seen some weird s**t in Sicky's before, but this here took the biscuit. Maybe if he just ignored them they wouldn't talk to him. Aside from being so scared that he was ready to puke into his pint glass, he was still annoyed they weren't the lads. They might've been off-putting too, but at least their insides stayed inside. He kept getting the feeling they were looking at him, but that would've been thick. 

The ice breaks.

"So who're ye?" asked the Heart. "And what're ye looking at?"

"Who, me?"

"No, me arse. Yes you, ya f****n' eejit. Who are you and what are you gawkin' at?"

Paddy, for the first time in his entire life, was at a loss for words. He tried to find what he wanted to say, but it proved impossible. Somehow, it came out anyway.

"Paddy Mulligan. And who are you?"

The Liver and Lungs turned to the Heart and shook their....not heads, because that'd be bizzare. More like they made a few ungodly noises, gibbering and squeaks, whilst speaking in warbly tones. The Liver and Lungs spoke over each other, their voices mixing like the flow of rushing water, speech coming out like the words were hard fought and hard won. 

"Oh for Jaysis' sake---" began the Liver.

"You can't be serious!" good old Lungs came out with.

"--if I'd known we'd be dealing with such an uninformed---" Liver articulated, its juices hosing down most of the bar (and Paddy).

"This can't be the lad you're always on about!" the Lungs said accusingly to the Heart, before making a strange wheezing sound and letting out an almighty cough, loud enough to wake the dead. Gallons of black, oozing tar poured out of its ventricles.

"---imbecile!" finished the Liver, livid.

Just at that moment, John came back with their orders; two vodka and Red Bulls for the Heart, four Hennessy brandies for the Liver and the same for the Lungs, along with a packet of Pikeur cigars. Each let out their own little exclamation of joy, a sound both cringeworthy and undeniably fascinating. Paddy, for whatever reason, felt the shock beginning to wear off. These things could drink too. This meant he liked them. Sure, maybe they'd even give him a chance if he explained himself. He'd do that now.

Right so, better make this good. I'm not getting scared off out of here. I still have a pint and all!

"Look lads, I've no clue what you're talking about, but before we get into me, let me just ask you....are youse really what I think you are?"

They all leaned forward....or appeared to....listening intently. Gulping and feeling his forehead getting hot, Paddy wiped his brow with his sleeve. He grabbed his Guinness and took another drink, almost spitting it out. The pint had gone watery and lukewarm. The Heart, Liver and Lungs seemed to gesture towards each other with more of those awful funny noises. John looked on passively from one end of the bar, another cigarette in his mouth, blowing smoke with such disinterest that it bored Paddy to death just looking at him. But he had to look somewhere, because he certainly didn't like to keep his eyes lingering on that lot for too long. 

That was fixed soon enough though, when the Heart broke the silence.

"We are what you are. Simple as that."

The Liver and Lungs agreed, too busy with their drinks and ciggies to make any further comment. Paddy was just thrown entirely. Oh Lord, he's not just another drunk, he's a pretentious drunk! But everything seemed okay for now, so he decided to press on. 

"Very philosophical altogether. But what d'you mean?"

"I mean....that you're the same as us. Just another walking piece of meat." the Heart paused to pour some more brandy down its openings, giving itself a right old shudder.

"It's a little more complicated than that."

The Heart spurted a little blood then, fresh and warm. It landed in its drink, which turned a deep, rich winey colour. But the f****r didn't care. He somehow picked it up and just poured it back in anyway, its entire mass shaking violently as it did so, like before but this time worse. He tried to speak again but just kept spurting liquid everywhere, like a big meaty garden sprinkler. So the Liver and Lungs decided to answer for him by almost knocking the head off Paddy. 

"You've some neck on you, you know that?!"

"I've only ever seen him do that once before, and it nearly f*****g killed him!!"

Paddy put his hands up in self-defense, almost knocking over his pint, but he didn't care. It was well gone anyway. Glancing over to John, there was no help whatsoever. Just that same old bored puff-puff, tap-tap, inhale, repeat. Paddy would have done the same in this situation, mind you, but then again a situation like this never ever happened. Unless you were insanely zonked or off your tits, neither of which felt like the right answer now.

"I meant it's not as complicated as that, because, well, it isn't."

The pair of them continued their tirade, not giving Paddy an inch, even if he deserved it.

"Oh don't get all high and mighty on us, you f****n' waster. You're no different from us and you know it."

"Oh well is that so?"

"Too f*****g right it is. You sit there drinking day after day, smoking up a storm and filling your belly with deep-fried shite at the end of it all. Your health is your wealth, but you have no idea how to control it."

The Heart finally recovered and plopped itself off the stool, waddling its way over to Paddy with a purpose. He was so close to him, that Paddy could almost taste the body acids dripping off him. Which they should have done, because hearts were on the inside, never on the outside.

"Look, I'll just be blunt with you. Myself and my companions were not here today solely for the purpose of killing ourselves with copious amounts of alcohol, but moreso to teach you a lesson. The fun ends now and the learning begins."

"What d'you mean? It always annoys me when fuckers like you start getting all poetic, thinking you're Shakespeare or some other---"

The Heart reached out then and touched him, causing an unbelievable wave of pain to shoot through Paddy's entire. He was on the floor writhing and gasping for breath before he could even let a scream out, that's just how bad it was. Everywhere all over his body hurt. His arms, legs, feet, hands, neck, head, literally f*****g everything. It felt like having a raging hangover, whilst being stabbed in the stomach over and over again, while on fire too for good measure. This much pain would have been unthinkable to Paddy before, but now it became fantasy no longer. When would it ever stop?

"Do you think he gets the point?" asked the Lungs.

The Heart let out a low rumbling groan.

"Not a chance. Sure, we'll stop it when we finish these drinks."

The Lungs looked at the Liver, who looked at both him and the Heart before squeaking and gibbering a sound that just may have been a "doesn't make a difference to me". The Lungs and Heart went back to their stools, doing a little hop over the agonized Paddy on the carpet. The three organs raised their drinks, the glasses now a slimy and sickening sight to behold. In unison, they all let one more jab at Paddy out before washing it all down.

"Cheers to your health!"

John the barman looked over, smiling. This was a good old time alright, a few more nights like these and he'd be halfway to Jamaica. 

- 3 -

Finally, they decided to take pity on him. The Heart went back over, steaming drunk, and tried to figure out how to make the pain stop. Which took a little while, because in drunk time each minute feels like ten years passing by, with just as much damage being done in those sixty seconds as in an entire lifetime. Paddy was wishing he was well dead by the time that foul inhuman mass was leaning over him, its stench strong enough to repel even the most hardened sewage workers or doctors, like a wet dog covered in rotten meat.

"S-so, this is where we put the elephants into the jukebox...right through this...doo-hickey here..."

"Oh dear Lord man, what are you doing?! That's his arse!"

The Heart spun around, almost toppling itself over.

"I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING, I'M NOT DRUNK!"

No sooner were these words out of its...wherever it spoke from...than did the Heart feel that familiar old brick wall that hits you like a thousand tonnes after a heavy drinking session. The warmth coming over the face, a buildup of saliva under the tongue and inside your cheeks. The Heart tried to stop it, but to no avail. The inevitable happened.

"Huaaaaaaaargh!!" and with that, out came a stream of yellow pus dotted with clumps of black something, streams of it covering Paddy's wildly convulsing body. The juices began dissolving bits and pieces of his clothes too, a subtle sizzling sound like meat on a hot grill coming through the air. The small patches showed even smaller patches of Paddy's pasty white skin, dotted with freckles. The Heart continued to lean over him, trying to get the rest of it up. Paddy, even through his pain, glared up at him but the organ only smiled drunkenly.

"Better...out than in..." it belched. Letting out a phleghmy sigh, the Heart leaned down over Paddy to watch him. All of a sudden, a cold whoosh of air ran through the entire bar and covered him from head to toe. The Heart looked up to see the black mass floating beside him, with that same old vaguely familiar shape. Now, that same old demonic voice was at him, in full force.

"What have you done to him? I thought I was extremely clear regarding what to do with Mr. Mulligan!"

The Heart burped, quivering, and turned its gaze back to Paddy.

"Ah....f**k off you. I did....something to him anyway. All you've done is float around as a black fog and act creepy. What good is that to anybody?!"

"Bide your tongue, creature. Haven't you done enough damage?! Speak once more and I shall cast thee down to the seven levels of Hell!"

"Pffft, we all know that living here can be hell enough. I'd say you've already done your job!"

The Heart looked up and at the black mass, wanting to carry on this fight for as long as it could. He really hated him for pulling stunts such as these; finding those who needed their services and forcing him to help them. Often in the most extreme ways possible. But not today, today would be different. He would make a stand. So he opened his mouth and finally let it all out. As far as he could anyway.

"I didn't want this! Neither did the other two! All you're doing is making things worse, I've got everything....under....control!"

Feeling a little queer at the end of that, he tried to hold it down. Because he knew what was coming, and knew that no matter how hard he fought, it wouldn't make any difference. A fleshy, gutsy squelching built up and through his pores, out came a stream of yellow-black vomit, covering the carpet as well as the Lungs and Liver, who looked more annoyed at the whole affair than anything else. The black mass thundered, causing John the barman to duck behind the counter, teary-eyed with fear.

"Fool! FOOL! I SHALL DO IT MYSELF IF YOU HAVE FALLEN PREY TO HIS EVILS!"

The black mass swirled around Paddy, coating his entire body like it had done in the glass box. Paddy felt the pain leaving him like water rushing out of a bucket. There was still a bit of a dull headache there though. More drink would cure that....or would it? Paddy didn't know anymore as he got up onto uncertain feet and looked around him, his heart sinking faster than the Titanic as he saw the new member of the gang appearing beside the Heart, which could only make horrible sounding gagging noises as the Lungs and Liver gathered around him.

"That's it now, get it all up..."

"Just don't think of anything alcoholic. And while you're at it, have another drink to calm yourself down..."

"Patrick, returned from the dead I see. How has your punishment been thus far?"

Sweet Jesus. Not this c**t again. Mr. Dark and Pretentious everybody.

"Oh, fine, fine. It's not like I woke up this morning in a glass f*****g box, was deceived into drinking with three bollixes and then suffered the single most painful experience of my entire life. Just dandy, all hunky-dory. You see what I'm saying?"

"I cannot see, but only hear. However, there is more to come."

"How much more?"

The black mass shifted closer to him, the air like the coldest ice you'd ever encountered, the freeze didn't just attack your skin, but seemed to almost burrow right inside it.

"Oh, now that, Patrick, only time can tell. And as they say, time is what you make it. So be wise. Be very wise indeed."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Great. Now just f**k off and leave me alone for a second would you?"

The black mass moved away. Paddy rubbed his temples. How long had he been rolling and rocking on the floor for? The pub seemed changed. There was still all the same stuff, mind you, but it felt and looked completely different. The same shaggy carpet, once so inviting, now looked for what it was; wet, damp and miserable, still holding on to every last trace of its 70s origins as it could. His gaze went from the carpet to the bar, and John. It didn't look as nice as he remembered it. Just worn, tired and delapidated, like going back to a past holiday destination and finding out it's changed a lot since you had last been there. John looked a state too, with that dirty waistcoat, frayed white shirt, greasy hair and those f*****g cigarettes constantly burning. 

Christ, I'd love a f*g. Think there's a few left.

Into his pocket and out, his hand produced a box of sorry-looking Marlboros. He'd forgotten all about them, considering they'd been there since....when did they get there? Paddy didn't care. The nicotine cravings were stronger than ever before, probably thanks to all the fuckery and insanity he'd just been put through. He stuck one in his mouth and searched around for a lighter. 

That's weird. I forgot where I left this f****r.

His little tiger-pattern lighter, the one that Tony had brought him back from Poland a few years ago. He'd bought it a cheap street stall in the middle of Warsaw and forgot all about it. He said it was a last-minute present but Paddy knew it really meant he'd not given a damn about his birthday and shoved any old s**t into his hand at the first thought. F****r.

Nice and shiny. I'll have this and then I'm giving those three a piece of my mind for all the hell they've put me through. They took a bad day and made it even worse. And we all know that's impossible because there's nothing ever worse than a Monday bloody morning.

The flame hit the tobbaco with a comforting orange sparking, the fumes emanating both sickening and enticing at the same time, as with all cigarettes. Paddy brought the butt to his mouth and inhaled deeply, sucking on it as though his life depended on it. And perhaps it really did. As he smoked, he noticed the Heart, Lungs and Liver facing him. But he didn't care, he knew it meant something, but he simply didn't care. If he wasn't able to drink to feel better (the very thought of Guinness now continued to make him gag), then he was sure as hell going to indulge in his other bad habits, the ones long-tried and true.

"I bet you're all looking at me and thinking....what a f*****g eejit. Spends the last few minutes....hour....whatever it was....suffering worse than any lost soul in the pits of Hell. Then decides that a f*g is what'll make him feel better. Mind you, the Bible says you'll go to Hell for the other kind anyway."

"You really are one of the most weakly willed and pathetic people we have ever seen." the Heart declared authoritavely. 

"Truly a miracle of human degeneration." said the Lungs. "I weep for your future."

"Just a plain old stupid f****r."muttered the Liver, which Paddy noticed had gotten a lot grodier since he last saw him.

The three b******s took a look at each other and shook their heads. Or skin, or blood, or whatever it was. The flesh jiggled with some degree of emotion behind it, faint but certainly palpable. But that jiggle began to sound more and more like laughing, then turned into full-blown hysterics as Paddy stood there, ciggie in mouth and hands in pockets, looking both fucked off and perplexed. All he was doing was just diluting his PTSD with the working man's drug; nicotine. A need borne from a situation that he felt they had created. And here they were laughing at him. Paddy stole a quick glance over towards the bar and thought he even saw John snickering at him, his hands shaking and struggling to light....a cigarette. Surprise f*****g surprise. 

The f*g was good though; just what he needed. Paddy took another puff and let the tobacco taste linger on the tip of his tongue. He blew out the smoke in contentment, the black mass using a shadowy arm and hand to wave it away.

"Must you cloud the air with your filth?"

Paddy reared his head on him, ready for a fight after everything. If a man couldn't indulge his bad habits in times of crisis, then what could a man do? Paddy was a man and wasn't about to let this buzzkill ruin the craic.

"What are you on about? Giving out to me for smoking when you're made out of a huge f**k-off cloud yourself?! Jesus!"

Silence, total and absolute. The Heart, Lungs and Liver stood there awkwardly, not wanting to say or even do anything with the black mass' presence. John had clambered up from under the counter and was absent-mindedly wiping the same spot of the bar over and over again, his eyes fixed on Paddy and his gang of misfits.

"Aaaah....the sweet, sweet taste of satisfaction."

He was feeling good now, pretty damn good indeed. Not good enough to chance another pint, but probably good enough to head home. He'd been here for a few hours already, and for once in his life he felt that was enough. Maybe they're right about one thing, have to give them credit. I don't think I could ever touch a drop again....not for a little while at least anyway. The smoke was almost done now, the butt burnt down to just above the tip. Most people would've thrown it away right then and there, but Paddy was a man of dedication, a man who wouldn't give up that easily.

"Right lads, it's been swell, but I reckon it's time for home. On the bright side, I suppose a trip like this is worth a good story or two. Only to who I'd tell it....I've no f*****g clue."

Puff, puff, flick and the f*g was gone. Paddy pushed the organs out of the way, walked through the black mass and began heading for the door. He wouldn't be getting away that easily though, because they all caught up with him. The Lungs and Liver berated him again, their little tag team emerging once again. John waved his bill from behind the counter.

"Ah for f**k's sake, after all that you're just gonna go?!" moaned one.

"You'd be a f*****g eejit to walk through those doors, there's nothing out there for you!" berated the other.

"Oi, Pat, if you think you're just f*****g off with all my money again then you've got the wrong idea!" the barman screamed.

Now, now gentlemen. We're all aware that what you're saying is true, but let me just re-iterate to you how little I care about each of your respective misgrievances. Frankly, the way Paddy Mulligan operates is to always put off till tomorrow what can be done today. 

This is what he wanted to say, but couldn't be bothered to. Paddy figured meaning to say something was the same as still saying it. Because it was going to an audience that wouldn't ever misjudge it; yourself. These lads didn't believe it though, never would. The Heart, Lungs and Liver came closer. The black mass hovered behind them. John had rediscovered his balls and was now storming out into the lounge waving a receipt in the air, clutched between fat fingers.

"I told you only time would tell. Now it has told me, told us, everything. You walk out through those doors and nothing can ever be forgived. Such is the way your punishment goes, such is the way you are constructing it for yourself."

"Now look, I've had just about enough---"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!"

The black mass let out a chilling growl and surged towards him, coming right up to Paddy's face. There was nothing but blackness there, but then the blackness began turning to something else entirely. Very much like when you close your eyes and fool yourself into seeing things, an image began to take shape right before Paddy's eyes. First some small details swimming in the murk, then grouping together. What he saw next was truly unbelievable, like a confirmation that everything that had been going on did indeed have a reason, one that hit very close to home at that too. The features and shapes finished gluing themselves together.

Holy f**k. How did I miss it when it was so f*****g obvious right from the very start of this shitstorm?

Paddy stared into the black mist, back at his own face. Although the face did indeed belong to him, its appearance was strikingly different. Where Paddy's loose, messy hair hung in a quiff over his forehead, his counterpart's was neatly combed. Where his dark brown eyes rested in their sockets, his counterpart's were hollow and lifeless. Where his lips parted to form that winning Mulligan smile with bright white teeth, his counterpart's were a ghoulish yellow-ochre, like the teeth of a corpse. Those teeth began moving, and for the first time Paddy could clearly see the face the demonic voice belonged to; his very own.

"I see you have fallen silent. Are you surprised at what is before your eyes? You oughtn't be. This is the way it has always been, always will be."

I can't answer him back. Of course I can't. Because that'd be just talking to yourself, which is a terrible f*****g business altogether. Besides, this fella seems like a right prick. Which means I am too. Oh well.

He kept trying to find words, then finding nothing at all. The Heart, Lungs and Liver kept their distance, each of them silent for the time being. John didn't have a clue what to do, so he just shoved the receipt into his pocket and lit another cigarette, that same sick-of-this-s**t expression plastered all over his face. All the while, the black mass....or himself....whichever of the two it was, kept pressing him, trying with all its might to break him.

"You wonder why the events of today have happened? Why you found yourself in your little glass cage this morning? Why you came to this pub? Why I have revealed my true form to you now?"

He'd found his words now, and spoke them accordingly.

"Because I'm overdosing on a huge bout of extreme narcotics that is forcing me to conjure up all kinds of fuckery and madness?"

"NO! YOU MUST LEARN, MORTAL!"

In the flash of a second, Paddy found himself being hoisted up and thrown across the lounge, over the bar and crashing into the shelves, smashing all the bottles and cracking the mirror in a symphony of utter destruction. John began going nuts, as you can probably imagine. He flicked the f*g aside onto the carpet and began screaming his head off at the black mass....or Paddy's evil alter-ego....what the hell was he anyway?

"Oi, you, ya black b*****d! You're f****n' payin' for all them!"

The black mass paused, surprised, but apologetic.

"My sincere apologies to you, sir. Expect a full reimbursement shortly." 

Paddy lifted his head up over the bar, his hands clutching the sides. He wasn't sure if he was either cut to ribbons from all the broken glass and dead already, or had gone through enough agony already to forget about pain altogether anymore. 

"Eh, sorry? What were you saying again? About why this happened, and that, and who you are and all that shite?"

"Patrick, you spoke that just like your true self. Forgetful and highly uneloquent. Let me explain once more."

It zoomed over to in front of the counter, right where Paddy had been sitting only about an hour ago. 

"You see, Patrick, ever since your kind was first created, eons ago, you have all given in to the evils of temptation. As the modern world progressed, it became harder and harder to control, as the temptations grew more and more with each new evolution of society, if one could call it that."

"Are we getting to the point anytime soon? I'm feeling bored off my arse here. And sick and tired of your crap too."

"SILENCE DAMN YOU! I WAS GETTING THERE!"

"Alright....alright....f*****g hell. Go on so."

"Each new evolution of society brought with it new temptations. The invention of alcohol. Then the popularity of tobacco. Prostitution and monogamy. Wealth, power, greed, lust. All of them evils brought about by the very kind who were supposed to be doing all they could to avoid them. But in recent times, those who reign above came up with a simple solution."

Paddy was growing worse for wear by the second. He felt the back of his head and found a tender lump beginning to form. He winced as his fingers ran over it, a headache beginning to form. Hopefully this f****r would stop soon and he could head home.

"The solution was to possess all human beings with their own sub-personalities. Sub-selves as some call them. These sub-selves are beings entirely on their own, and have their own cycles and stages of consciousness, the same as human beings themselves."

"Look, look, enough already. Just tell me what's going on and stop with the f*****g poetics!"

This time, Paddy didn't shout at himself, or throw himself across a room again. Instead, the black mass that was also him just shimmered there, hovering in silence. John and the organs looked on, all of them now sat around a table, watching the scene intently, because there was f**k-all else to do. Paddy thought he could smell burning somewhere in the air, but ignored it. His mind was playing tricks on him again. Like it had been all day....hopefully. 

At the end of the day, one thing I've learned is that, well, Sicky McGee's has now officially gone from the best spot in Dublin to the worst hole in the entire f*****g country. Never again do I want to see John or those....walking meat yokes for the rest of my life. Oh wait, the f****r's ready to talk. Let's see what he has to say.

"Patrick, I am the embidoment of your inner consciousness. I am your sub-being, your internal existence. Physicalized."

"What, like a ghost or something?"

"In a way. But the only thing I haunt is you, and as I said, always will be."

"So if you're a ghost then you're dead?"

"Only when you make the decision for yourself, shall I be. And the time is getting close now when such a decision must be made, whether you are going to kill me, or spare me. Each one has different consequences, that could change your position greatly."

Paddy stopped listening for a second because he was certain there was something burning, more definite this time. The black mass must have caught a sniff of it too, because Paddy saw his sub-self's face turn up its nose at the scent of something. The two of them glanced over to where John and the others where sitting at the table. They were smelling it too, all of them glancing around like birds in a nest; the heads cocking at every little sound. The Heart, Lungs and Liver seemed baffled.

"What's that smell of burning toxins?"

"Is it you?"

"Nah, I already flushed myself out twice today."

"Dirty fecker."

John perked up, suddenly realizing something.

"Oh....F**K."

He reached into his pockets, searching for the cigarettes. He only produced an empty packet. Then, from behind him, Paddy and the others made out a rising cloud of smoke coming from the carpet. Bolting up, they all looked to where it was coming from; the f*g John had discarded earlier was burning into the carpet and a small fire was beginning to lick up the flooring, spreading too quickly for comfort. Everyone began panicking at the exact same time.

"John you f*****g eejit!" roared Paddy, as he struggled to climb over the counter.

The barman held up his hands in defense, flustered beyond belief.

"I wasn't thinking for f**k sake!"

"Quick, someone grab the extinguisher!" the Heart began bouncing up and down, it's entire mass pulsating rapidly. 

"There is none! It's f****n' gone!"

"What?!" Paddy finally rolled over to the counter, crashing to the floor. He got up and went straight to John, demanding an explanation.

"Stag party stole it, what can I say....f****n' Brits!"

"The door is right there!"

They all rushed the door at the same time, the organs lagging behind a little bit for whatever reason. However, upon reaching it, they were dismayed. Push or shove, but they wouldn't budge. They each took turns pulling at the handles, but again, they were like concrete. All the while, the fire continued to grow, now snaking across the floor towards the bar, slowly but surely. The tempers were beginning to flare almost as quickly as the flames, compounded by mania, booze and all-around stupidity. 

"This is f*****g crazy! We're all going to roast to death in here!" Paddy paced back and forth, frankly not caring whether he died or lived, because he was just about sick of everything. John stood beside him, twiddling his thumbs. 

"Wait a second, where'd that lot go?"

"That shower of b******s?"

"Precisely!"

They looked around the increasingly stuffy pub, but there was no sign of walking talking guts anywhere. Then, from behind the bar, came the clatter and clinking of bottles. Suddenly, each of them emerged; Heart, Liver and Lungs, each of them carrying an insane amount of alcohol, salvaged (or liberated) from whatever remained under the bar and on the other smaller shelves. Paddy, John and the black mass watched in awe as the lumbering pieces of meat began waddling over to them, full of a brewery's worth. The Heart, fully sober, encouraged the other two to ignore the three by the doors.

"Gentlemen, this will be our finest hour! Let's not go down in a blaze of glory, but rather a shower of drink!" pouring an entire bottle of brandy down his gullet as he moved.

"Amen to that!" the Lungs followed behind him, carrying a case of Jameson and a sleeve of cigarettes, encased in its fleshy folds. The Liver took another little while to come out, because as far as Paddy could tell, he was the only one who was still off his tits, because he stood screaming on top of the bar, not realizing how close the fire had managed to now reach. It was like seeing the lead singer of a band gesticulating to the rabid fans beneath them, loudly and boisterously. 

"This is the best f*****g session we've had for ages!" he yelled at the top of his gravely voice, both hands clutching massive litre-bottles of vodka and tequila.

For you, perhaps. For me it's been a nonstop nightmare. If he doesn't get down off there now, I'll f*****g go over and---

He was snapped out of his thoughts by John, waving his arms and raving like a madman.

"LOOK OUT!"

Before poor old Liver knew what was happening, a huge wave of flame shot up the counter and overtook in a matter of seconds, the booze-soaked wood like the ultimate firestarter. Liver tried his best to find a way out, but the floor below him was an inferno and the bar behind him was now a ticking time-bomb. Paddy couldn't look anymore, nor could John, although he didn't give a shite about your man about to go up like a bonfire. He was just mourning all the profits he'd lost. The black mass hovered, silent. Just the usual. 

Liver got about three seconds into "Nearer My God To Thee" before he finally dropped the vodka and tequila bottles, causing a massive explosion that obliterated the entire bar. His body began sizzling as the fire blanketed it, smelling like barbecue. Really, horrible, boozy barbecue that is. His screams kept rising and rising, before reaching a crescendo as his body too came apart, bits of it flying around the room and his fluids covering Paddy and John from head to toe. Some of it got in Paddy's mouth; it tasted like swallowing somebody's vomit. The black mass was already beginning to move away and John stood there, spluttering and sobbing as he tried to wipe himself clean with his waistcoat. The flames grew closer, leaving them with only another twenty seconds at most before claiming them too.

S**t s**t s**t s**t s**t---WAIT! THE BACK DOOR TO THE ALLEY! The one where John used to beat the shite out of obnoxious Yanks or nosey coppers!

"COME ON YOU F****N' EEJIT!" screamed Paddy as he grabbed John and made a beeline around the flames and into the one part of the bar still safe from the fires. A small door at the side led into the back, where a set of stairs led to John's dumpy apartment and a small corridor to the side led to their freedom. Paddy grabbed the barman's hand, which despite the heat was cold and clammy, his legs working overtime to get him out of the lounge as fast as they could. The black mass was right ahead of them.

"Get your hand off me! I'm no fairy!"

"Shut up the f**k! I'm trying to save your life!"

"If you wanted to do that, you needn't have bothered coming here today in the first f*****g place!"

Before Paddy was about to deck him, they had reached the door at the side of the bar and busted through it. The black mass stood in the doorway for a moment or two, it's version of Paddy's face looking at the raging inferno with a strange sentimentality. The real Paddy gawped, shocked at how bad things kept getting despite his efforts. He could barely make himself out through the smoke, coughing like mad and fanning it away as best he could with his free hand.

"It reminds me of home..." the black mass said. 

If a big massive fire reminds him of home, then it already sounds better than most parts of Dublin. At least it'd always be hot for one thing!

"GET YOUR ARSE INSIDE THE ROOM NOW BEFORE I PUT MY FOOT IN IT!"

"Patrick, I could not agree more."

Finally coming in, Paddy slammed the door and John ran over to quickly lock it, the keys shaking like mad as his hands struggled to negotiate the most basic of tasks. The smoke was rising now, Paddy's eyes were streaming with tears, his cheeks soaking wet. Everything from the tip of his toes to the top of his head felt like it was beginning to cook, just a little bit. He looked over at John; the same for him. The man was absolutely drenched in a mix of sweat, tears and Liver's bodily fluids. The black mass spoke, its voice strangely soothing given the situation they were facing. What was once psychologically scarring now became comforting.

"So what now, Patrick? It appears all odds are against us. I fear for your survival, as well as brother John's."

"Don't you worry. I've got a plan in mind. We'll be gone and down the street before youse know it."

"That is a first. Let us go now, post-haste."

"John? You ready?"

The barman nodded, his face fierce and voice hoarse.

"Ready....to f****n' batter ya once all this is over."

Patting him on the shoulder, the unlikely trio began to move down the corridor towards the door to the alleyway, Paddy leading the way.

"Now there's the man I know. It's good to have him back. Sure I'll buy you something nice when we're out of here."

"Like a new f*****g pub for one thing..." muttered the barman under his breath.

They went down the corridor quickly but calmly, the smoke less so down there. Up ahead, through the smoke, they made out the barred metal door leading to the outside world. Beneath it, on the floor, lay two familiar looking lumps of something. Dark, moving slightly and one of them doing a shitload of coughing and moaning. Illuminated by the ghostly green exit sign hanging above, the sight was straight out of a f*****g horror movie. Not that Paddy had seen many, but now he felt he never had to watch one ever again. Today had been terrifying enough. They approached the lumps on the floor and found, to little surprise, the Heart and Lungs lying side by side, Lungs lifeless and the Heart looking ready to call it quits. He looked the worst Paddy had seen him so far today; veins black as coal, covering him like a spider's web. Dotted around parts of the flesh were nauseating lumps and lesions, undulating with every breath the Heart took. 

"Jesus..." spoke Paddy and John softly, neither of them quite believing what they saw.

"Aaah....so you're back again....quite the reunion!" Even in near-death, the Heart still came off as pretentious and condescending. But that didn't matter anymore. Nothing really did. Paddy leaned down over him.

"Jaysus, quite a state you've gotten yourself in, isn't it?"

"Smoke inhalation. It's a killer. He went first..." the Heart pointed to the Lungs, who was splayed across the concrete floor, his hands still clutching the cigarettes desperately. Paddy knew nothing needed to be said. Anyone would recognize the irony, if they were here to see it. He leaned in closer to the Heart.

"You know, even though I thought you were a bit of an a*****e at first, you turned out alright."

"Yeah...well...look where it landed me. Now I'm left here, waiting for death to come to my door. It shouldn't be too much longer now."

The black mass spoke up then. "I could summon him if that is what you wish." Paddy glared at himself, wondering how he'd let himself become such a heartless f****r. Maybe it'd been all those years of....ah, better get this over with first. Then they'd talk the future. If he had one of course. 

"Doesn't have to be that way you know. All it'll take is just opening that door."

The Heart was about to say something there, but then a flurry of coughing caught up with him and he keeled over, black juices coming from the pores and lesions that covered him. Paddy noticed with horror that the veins were full of it, and they began growing, like the malicious little fuckers knew exactly what they were doing. John and the black mass exchanged a brief look behind Paddy's back. Both of them knew what was coming. The Heart finished his coughing and found his voice again, raspier than ever before.

"We...tried that. God knows we tried. But the f*****g thing...won't move."

Paddy felt himself go tense. He didn't want to believe it.

Oh my sweet holy Jesus. This just gets better and f*****g better. 

"Say that again." 

"You need a key. It just wouldn't happen. He tried before me but then we both fell down. I was waiting for him to get back up, but then he never did. The most regrettable part of this whole affair was that we even bothered in the first place."

"Well, John has the keys, so no worries there. Christ, you scared me!"

Looking over, John seemed like he'd just received really s****y news. Even worse than finding out you've been called early into work, or that your credit card won't take a transaction. Paddy studied him over, searching for any hint of what was up. But the man offered nothing, as per f*****g usual. He had to press him, even in a time like this.

"John...are you going to open the door or just stand there?"

"Ehm..."

"John! OPEN THE F*****G DOOR!"

At the other end of the corridor, black smoke began billowing around the corner, and a hellish orange glow was peeking out from behind it. All they could hear apart from their own voices was the menacing crackling of the fire as it destroyed Sicky McGee's from the inside out. The black mass' once comforting voice just started annoying Paddy again. He knew something was wrong, and was determined to find out.

"Getting very bad back there, brother Patrick. Time is growing short with each passing moment."

"NOT NOW! JOOOHN!"

Finally the barman cracked, his voice breaking and covering his face with his hands as cried quietly.

"I think...I think I...dropped the fuckers back there somewhere!"

THAT'S IT. I'VE HAD ENOUGH. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

Like a raging tiger, Paddy reared up and grabbed John by the scruff of the neck, forgetting his now-inevitable and soon to come death for a moment while he contemplated the various ways he could make John's arrive even quicker.

"IDIOT! YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE JUST DONE! YOU'VE KILLED US ALL!"

John didn't even bother fighting back, just meekly accepting the tirade of abuse.

"JESUS CHRIST I KNEW THIS PLACE HAD ITS QUIRKS, BUT KILLING YOUR CUSTOMERS SHOULDN'T BE ONE OF THEM! MY GOD MAN, MY F*****G GOD!!"

Paddy felt himself being pulled away from John and thrown against the wall. He was up to his dirty old tricks again. The black mass hovered before himself and John, pressing Paddy's face right against his own, real one. Those hollow eyes seemed to spark to life in an eerie manner when he spoke, and those yellow teeth didn't do much to make his voice any less threatening.

"Accept it already Patrick. Nothing more can be done. Every second we waste arguing now is another second lost for understanding and redemption."

"Yeah, yeah, alright, I'll just accept that today has been the single worst day of my entire life. And to think it'll end here in this shithole, surrounded by imbeciles, drenched in a huge f*****g fire...AND ALL ON A MONDAY TOO!"

"SILENCE! YOU MUST UNDERSTAND!"

"UNDERSTAND?! I THINK I ALREADY UNDERSTAND PRETTY WELL! I HAVE BEEN CONNED, DECEIVED AND BETRAYED FROM THE VERY BEGINNING! I'VE BEEN STUFFED INTO A GLASS BOX, POISONED BY THREE WALKING ORGANS AND NAGGED BY YOU EVERY SINGLE STEP OF THE WAY!!"

"LADS, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, LOOK!"

Another voice broke out then in the midst of the argument, clear as day despite all the chaos. Paddy and his other self turned to look. It was the Heart, blubbering and shaking as he underwent the final stages of asphyxiation. They all stopped going at each other long enough to get over to him just as he took his final breaths. Paddy was crying his eyes out now, so was John, but it wasn't the smoke that was doing it anymore. Paddy, despite his disgust, reached out and clasped the Heart's hand in his own, listening to his final words, which hung heavier than anything else in the air.

"Look...inside...and you'll see. See what really matters. You'll be surprised at what you find..."

He looked up at Paddy, now blacker and more diseased-looking than ever.

"Don't let it turn to stone...there's still time...quit while...you're ahead..."

By now, the flames were louder than ever and the black smoke began to billow madly up the corridor, coming for them like a wall of death. John looked at it blithely, accepting and appearing somewhat ready. The green exit sign was dying, the glow barely visible anymore. Just as everything around him began turning into pitch blackness, Paddy uttered one last phrase.

"Love many, trust few..."

He was ready to go himself, and closed his eyes, just to keep the stinging away even for a few moments. He heard the black mass muttering to itself, and the thuds of John kicking the door madly, fuelled by nothing but sheer panic. But Paddy wouldn't let himself go that way. He would do it his way. The best way.

"...always paddle your own canoe."

He never knew what it had meant exactly, or wondered why it had been worded that way. But it didn't matter now, because the words came from somewhere deep inside that told him everything would be okay. He felt the Heart's hand go limp, and allowed it to fall on the floor beside its owner. He kept his eyes closed as he listened to John panting, out of breath. The black mass was still silent, perhaps the f****r had even gone. He was dead anyway. Paddy made a note to himself to never come back as a ghost, because it would've been too annoying for Tony and Brian. 

F**k. The lads. They'll get a laugh out of this. It's perfectly suitable; Paddy Mulligan dies in the pub. He loved it so much he wanted to stay literally forever. Mam and Dad won't be too happy about that, but they'll care anyway. I wonder what they'll say about me at the funeral, if there is one. I wonder what the coffin will be like, if there is one. I wonder what the afterlife will be like, if there is one.

Slumping to the floor, he felt his body relax into the beginnings of death. The muscles lost their tautness. His breathing slowed, then eventually came to a stop. But even as his vital life support systems shut down and his brain turned slowly to mush, there seemed all the time in the world to think. So much time in fact that he ignored the agony as his lungs battled for air, but the throat and windpipe wouldn't let it happen. He twitched periodically, the nerves letting out a few final spasms as things went haywire inside. He wheezed and gasped, listening to John undergoing the same thing through the black smoke, which covered all. Any fight that was left in either of them was entirely gone. It would only take another moment or two before they lost full consciousness.

In those final fleeting moments, Paddy only heard one phrase repeating in his mind over and over, going out to everybody he'd ever known and loved. It was something he wished he could have just said earlier, but never got around to, like a lot of things in his life. The phrase was short, simple and direct.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

Then the blackness came one last time and Paddy closed his eyes forever.

- 4 -

My God. My f*****g God. Is this what it really feels like? Just blackness forever? I needn't worry about religion ever again. Then again, I never did much anyway. Where's the staircase beyond the clouds? The angels with the wings and those floaty golden thingies over their heads? The calming harp music and choirs? Nowhere. They're nowhere. Which means they're here somewhere too, but can't be seen or heard by anyone, anywhere, any time. This really f*****g takes the biscuit. All this buildup just for an eternity of blackness. F**k sake. 

Hang on, what's that sound?

A rising hum coming from the nothing, approaching closer and closer until it seemed to come to a stop, somewhere along the line. The air sounded like water; burbling and atonal, with only the occassional muffled yell or what may have been laughter breaking through from a place distant and long forgotten. Paddy couldn't react, wouldn't react, no matter how hard he tried. His entire body was still there, far as he could feel, but it felt like it wasn't. Nothing felt real anymore, because he was a nobody, nowhere and he didn't know when. Then it came, a sound that didn't belong here, not outside one's thoughts anyway.

"So what do you think?"

Who the f**k? Is that really who I think it is?

"Lord, you've really gone and fucked it all now, haven't you?"

That's putting it lightly. Whoever this is. 

"But that doesn't matter anymore. You've already figured that part out for yourself. Or so I hope."

Oh how I wish I could speak. If part of death is not being able to talk anymore then I can't f*****g bear it any longer. Plus I've only been here about a minute and a half.

"Don't. You needn't even bother. Because we all know what you'd say. Oh how we love to think about it. Sure it's good for a laugh. F**k off you this, leave me alone that, then getting pissed and blowing yourself up. That's what it looked like anyway."

There was a little bit of silence then, which made no difference because this strange voice was the first thing Paddy'd heard all the time he was here. Wherever here was. There was no sound, no feeling, no sense of consciousness. Once the voice left, everything ended forever. This wasn't a blackout, alcoholic coma or dreamless sleep. It couldn't be sliced any other way, try as one might. This was death, had to be. Just had to be. Because that's the way it was.

"You're probably wondering where you are by now, but there's no point pinning down an answer, because the answer you see is quite simple. It makes sense really when you look at it."

Sense? The most bullshit word in all the human f*****g language now. I've just seen my entire world go up in flames, lost a great barman and saw a liver, lungs and heart die alongside him. Bizarre as that sounds, I'm ready to believe anything.

The voice continued intoning then, but this was not the menacing iciness of Paddy's inner self. Possibly the strangest thing about the nothing was the fact that he didn't seem to be here. No. This voice sounded more like a smartarse teacher who knew they had caught you out after lying about actually doing your homework. Dull but with a gleeful "I'm going to embarass the hell out of you" ring to it. Right now, the darkness was facing him and was ready to do just that.

"You think, right, that when people die there's something afterwards? Jesus and the angels and Heaven and all that jazz? That the good ones go there and the bad ones go to the Devil and Hell and the lakes of eternal fire with monsters and demons? For all eternity? Well let me tell you something I've learned. If it looks like bullshit, sounds like bullshit and walks like bullshit, it probably is bullshit. And it is."

Is death different for atheists than it is the Jesus freaks? Am I in death 2.0 or something? I'm normally way more....well I used to be way more drunk than this to chat about the man upstairs. Maybe that's why I'm left here with all this, or none of this I guess you could also say. The f****r just felt left out so he's given me the same treatment I gave him in life.

"You see Paddy, none of it's real. It was all a lie just so nobody would ever give a f**k about dying. To give those in homes some comfort, or those about to face it a little bit of hope. Maybe they did exist at one time, who knows, but they're long gone now. Last I heard, father and son left us around the same time that we began f*****g killing each other just for the sake of it."

Even though nothing was really real anymore, this sparked some kind of change in the atmosphere. The heavyness felt even heavier and Paddy felt himself, or not himself, tensing up for some reason. Going back to the teacher analogy, this was the moment that the teacher was about to make you the class dunce in front of everybody. Your legs seemed to take an eternity during the long walk of burning shame back to your desk. But at least this time, there was nobody else around. 

"Father and son saw what had been going on; all the wars, all the fighting, all the shite that makes humans human I suppose. Oh sure we've done some good, but you can't have the good without the bad. Just the way it is. For every Ghandhi, you have your Hitler. For every murder, you have a wedding, and so for every life spent, you must have death come."

Death is really annoying now. If I have to listen to this s**t for the rest of time, then I'm tempted to go and kill---oh wait, I already did. Now there's literally nothing left to sweep off the table. If you can't have the power to end it all yourself anymore, then what more do you really have? Just wanting, wanting, wanting until you f*****g get fed up and then the cycle starts all over again?

The voice sounded like it was getting closer to wherever his ears where in the nothing. By now, the air felt as heavy as a mountain of lead bearing down on everything, everywhere, every time. 

"So because of this odd little dilemma, with all these folks dying and having nowhere to go, father and son had to think, and think bloody fast. They'd had no Heaven or Hell anymore, that is if they existed. I'm no f*****g theologist. But the point is that both were closed....or full to capacity....and this led to where we are now. The middleground. The in-between. The good and bad lumped together in one big nothing, forever waiting for the answer." 

The heaviness left, to go back to the nowhere it came from. More silence came then, but a peaceful one. Like the place was trying to tell Paddy that everything would be okay, just let this one sink in for a bit before trying to digest it again. But in all that quiet, one thought kept reaching back in and nagging away, not wanting to be ignored, demanding the fullest attention.

The middleground. The in-between. The good and the bad, not one or the other. Just both. Which basically means everybody in the entire world. Suppose the advantage of not having had a drink before dying is that the mind becomes clearer.

"It's a lot to take in, yes, but it's also fairly important stuff. And the best part is, even if you don't get it, you'll have plenty of time....the rest of all time....to think about it."

Shut up. I'm thinking here.

"Everything you think becomes everything you say. Think of this as like being stuck inside your own head, where there is no distraction or interference, just yourself and your mad f*****g thoughts. Which basically means I can read your mind."

So if it's the good and bad people, what does that make me?

"Good question. I've been trying to figure that one out myself. You were never very good, no doubt about that, but you've never been all that bad either. You had your moments in both camps. Like the time you almost killed Danny Murphy for nicking your favorite toy. Remember that one? You chased him around your garden and tried to brain him with a great big f**k-off rock, would've succeeded too if your mam hadn't come out for a smoke and seen the two of you playing caveman."

The little f****r. Nobody touches teddy. Especially not when their hands and face are covered in chocolate ice-cream and Coke. Caving his skull in wouldn't have made a difference, it was already messy enough. Plus, again, teddy was never the same after that day. 

"And all over a teddy bear too. Why even bother? If it'd been a brick of cocaine or the family jewels I would've agreed, but over a cheap s****y little bundle of fur and cotton? Nah, it's not worth it. Then again, it wasn't even yours to begin with, was it now? Your parents had no money, nor did the rest of the family. Your friends weren't that generous with birthday presents."

Cheap s****y little bundle of fur and cotton? It wasn't cheap. That was actually high-quality material, stolen directly from the Hamleys on Grafton Street. I can only say it now because I'm too dead for me anyone to come looking for me. It's not stealing really, that's one way of looking at it, sure, but it's not all-over stealing. More like permanent borrowing.

"There's loads more we could go into outside of that; unpermitted loans from the bank of Mam and Dad, throwing your beer at that homeless guy in town one night, falling out with your former best mate by riding his missus while knowing exactly what would happen? Dirty prick. Missing both your granny's funerals to go out on the piss? No good, no good, no good at all. And you still wonder why you're here? Honestly."

They still weren't coming back full force, but some hints of emotion seemed to be present. 

"You stole, lied, cheated and betrayed. Most people are only seriously guilty of one or maybe two, but in typical Paddy Mulligan fashion, you just wanted it all. You just had to go and do all four. You're just lucky you didn't go for the other ones you could have added; murder, drug addiction, fascism, pick any poison you like and it'd be all the same."

Well....maybe I've managed to really deeply bury some of the worse stuff. No killing people or mass genocides, but some narcotics here and there. Everyone experiments when they're younger, in more ways than one. Even in death you're still entitled to your dirty little secrets. Some people die just to hide them anyway.

"I'll take that one as a joke. Actually, come to think of it, I don't want to know."

The emotions were definitely beginning to come back now, but with that, came the regrets. The way emotion moved in death felt funny; instead of a constant feeling, it was like hitting different parts of your life at different times and getting quick little buzzes of mania, frenzy or extreme sorrow. Emotional needles were stabbing you all over so quickly that one did not make sense of it, nor did they have to. 

"But there is one thing I do want to know. And you don't have to worry now, it's nothing bad. Nothing to do with the Christmas incident a few years back, or why you never voted in the marriage referendum. I know all that already. What I want to know, what I want you to answer right here....nowhere....right never, is how sorry you feel?"

I hid my secrets and kept them well. I loved my parents and never told them. I loved the lads and now they'll never know. And here you're after telling me everything that's s**t about me? How the f**k do you expect me to feel? Sorrowful? Fancying a cry? Wanting to end it all over again?

No. I won't bow down to self-pity, that time has long come and gone. All that's left is me stuck here forever with nothing but memories of missed chances. It's the worst f*****g thing I can imagine, worse than death itself, which this already is. 

Emotion overtook him the most then, like a sensory overload. From the darkness came another rumbling, like a volcano about to erupt. All around the nothing this sensation persisted; even though it was detached, Paddy felt his body being shaken violently up, down, sideways and diagonally by unseen forces. Maybe it was his imagination, maybe it was the mysterious voice, maybe it was his inner self. Maybe even father and son. Just as it felt like everything was ready to break in two, the images burned before the eyes and showed him something that was thought long forgotten, lost to time. 

They look a lot different than I last remember them. My old man has gotten even older, so has the old lady. Who's that sitting besi---Jesus Christ, is that the lads?!

"Well well well, it appears we have visitors in our little domain. Don't worry, they've not snuffed it too, this is just vision. Pretend it's like a movie or dream, except you're awake and stone cold sober while it all goes on."

In the middle of the darkness, ghostly white shapes rising from the black, were an old couple and two slightly younger, but middle-aged, men standing around a coffin. They all wore black clothes, looking very respectable and clean cut. The older ones were crying uncontrollably, the woman in particular. The two middle-aged men just stared down into the coffin silently, one of their lips moving but no conversation coming through.

Mam. Dad. Tony. Brian. 

"This is what'll be happening over the next few days. Right there Paddy are the four people who care about you more than anything else in the world, even if they never really said so while you were around. Look at them there now, all there for the same person. You. But that was never the case in life....because you never let it be."

They look, they all look....f*****g terrible. If only I could see them properly, touch them, hold them....do anything I could to fix the past. But it seems now that maybe the past fixes you. Jesus, I'm starting to sound even worse than that heart.

He watched with unseeing eyes as his mother approached the open casket, a cloth held to her face, wiping away tears that, surprisingly, seemed endless. All his father did, could do, was watch expressionlessly as his son lay in a bed he'd never get out of. One that would go, locked and bolted shut, six feet underground, never to be seen again. In the nothing, the emotion tore away at his gut, paining him like his body, if it still existed, being torn in half slowly, ready to burst. She looked much, much more aged since he'd last seen her, with her once-blonde hair now a shining white. Dad had no hair at all, but retained that moustache of his that always gave him that air of authority. Even in death, some things never changed.

She always told him to shave it. Said it made him look too British. Every morning, without fail, in that dingy little kitchen drinking tea and eating stale toast. The crumbs would collect in it like nobody's f*****g business, which it wasn't anyway. He was good with her though, patient and fair. Both of us come to think of it.

Oh God, Oh God, what have I done?!

"The lads look just as you, and me, thought they would. Too devastated for words, but not careless enough to ever forget. All they wanted was for their mate to keep going, push on through. Like dear old mum and dad, they knew what lay beneath the surface, even when you tried to f*****g hide it with countless litres of whiskey or the finest stout. A troubled, lonely man who could only battle his demons one way. By living them out!"

Tony and Brian watched as Paddy's mother ran to her husband, the bereaved parents embracing each other more lovingly than they had in years. In that ghostly white transparence, flittering in the dark, Paddy looked on as they came to the casket and stood there like statues, studying his lifeless body. One turned to the other, and spoke words that weren't said, but which could be heard anyway. 

You know we both saw this coming.

One turned to the other who had spoken, and again, even though nothing was said, his face betrayed more than words ever could have.

I just....just wish we could have done something.

A sigh then, although whether angry or sad was hard to tell. 

We did enough. I just hope he knew that. 

And if he didn't?

The image was beginning to grow dimmer now, as the two of them walked away, arms around each other and heads bowed. One last look back from Tony as the procession moved away, growing brighter and brighter as they were about to burn out, memories floating in the ether that held all, and knew everything.

Then we deserve to be lying there right beside him. 

With a sudden flash of light and reverberating whoosh, the image disappeared and its remnants glided to and fro, before coming apart themselves and being lost forever. Never to be seen or experienced ever again, at least not until the time was right. With the image went all the sensations it had awoken, the small snatches and snippets of feeling. Also never to be experienced again, leaving whatever was left of Paddy stuck here in the dark, entirely alone, forever, with his final judgments.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't care if I have to say it a million times or a hundred f*****g million times, because that's all there's left to say. I'm sorry. Hopefully they all know that by now. They used to think I'd never apologise to them, but now it's all they'll be hearing for the rest of their days. 

"So, well, I suppose the lesson is clear enough now. It f*****g better be anyway. Otherwise you're pretty much unsaveable, like most of the others in here. The worst part about it all for everybody is that they're left realizing what they should've done with themselves while they still had time, then having no time left, but then all the time in the world afterwards to think about it. Maybe father and son had the right idea, because what better way is there for you fuckers to give some meaning to life....by constantly being reminded you never really had it at all?"

That....makes a whole lot of sense. Probably more than I ever got when I was alive. Now all I have left is myself, and every bit of time there is to remind me why I hate it so much. I would say I wish to f**k it would be over soon, but then again it already is? Or is it? I'm still thinking. 

"We can tell you're not used to it. Nobody ever gets used to it. Instead they just deal with it."

The heaviness came back again, in full force. Pressure mounted all around, taking up every little bit of nothing it could. It was like being sandwiched between two tanks driving towards each other. Then an image came back; another showing of the funeral procession, but now with a priest standing at the headstone, reading the usual verses. Paddy watched as the only four people who really loved him more than anything bid their final goodbye, the coffin being lowered into a grave that swallowed it up. Like ocean water engulfing a sinking ship in its death throes.

"Want to know the meaning of life? It's simple, like I just told you. Don't get used to it, just f*****g deal with it."

As the casket went entirely from view and the ghostly white mourners turned their backs on it, all one could do was simply agree. Because despite its simplicity, it seemed only true.

Just. F*****g. Deal. With. It.

- 5 -

After watching his own funeral (and being early for it, to the surprise of many), the darkness was all Paddy knew after the next little while, as he struggled to adapt to this strange new form of reality. He would've tried to measure how long it had been, but time had become an abstract concept from days gone by, relevant only to the living. Here he was in the domain of the dead; a windless, cold, echoey place filled with the memories of the countless millions who occupied it. Now he was one of them, pure and simple, no matter how one saw it. Once the initial realization that he had actually really died this time had passed, the next stages of insanity and fierce denial came. They were to be expected for all the newly deceased, who didn't quite grasp yet how to handle the constant dreamlike state of death, which once tapped became a neverending bliss.

On the bright side, there's no bright here. Because all that brightness does is just show your problems for all they are; problems. Better to hide in the dark where it's safe, where nothing can reach me, nothing can happen to me. I've already done everything you can do to yourself.

And look where it landed me. 

They probably still care too, God help them. But soon that'll be gone as well, and for them it'll be back to the usual shite; working the weekend, being bored off your arse at home, making ends meet with what little dough the gangsters in Leinster House leave us with, trying to think of what to eat for f*****g dinner every night. If I could go back....only if I could, would I tell them what they're doing wrong.

Because I can see it all now. The little problems turning to bigger ones which turn into the massive ones that come, when everybody dies. 

SHUT UP! YOU'VE NO F*****G CLUE WHAT THEY THINK, DO YOU? YOU'RE JUST BEING SAD AND MYOPIC BECAUSE YOU GOT WHAT YOU DESERVED, YOU EEJIT!

No. Let me hear myself out, you'll see where I'm going with this one, trust me. Now, what I'm trying to say is quite simple. Obvious really. F*****g took me long enough to really figure out. Everyone takes life for granted, and they should, why wouldn't they? If you're lucky enough to be born in a Western palace, or unlucky enough to be born in a third-world hellhole, the mindset is quite the same. I haven't told myself to stop yet, so let me elaborate. The mindset is the same because both types take life for granted in their own ways. One looks at mobile phones, the Internet, fast food, school, college, a stable job somewhere, and thinks its always there when you need it. The other looks at war, disease, famine, tyranny, genocide and oppression. Nasty stuff. But they take it for granted because what else do they have to cling onto? What other normal is there? I'd like to know, would liked to have known now. 

But then when your time comes and the land falls dark, both types know there's nothing you can do about it. Nothing at all. Father and son just get bored one day and decide to flick your life switch, to spare you the trouble of having any extra time. So then you come here and find out nothing matters in the end. So that's when you get to thinking....and keep listening now, it gets good....that everything you did in life was wrong, because you wasted time worrying about all the small things and never saw the bigger picture.

I mean, Christ, when I think of the places I could've gone, the people I'd have met, the things I could've done....ah f**k it, no use now. Because there's nothing else to do in here apart from haggle over bad memories and even worse regrets.

It was easy to see that the adjustment was difficult, with the fact that he was really alone this time and had no way out of it, neither through bribery nor his gift of the gab. All he could do was float in the ether and get lost in his mind. The real cruelty of it all, apart from being dead, was that the human mind is everybody's worst enemy and the keeper of the darkest parts of ourselves. All the bad habits, hidden desires and untapped cerebral passageways lined with depravation and disease. Paddy went along them many times, wanting to see what he had been keeping hidden from himself for so long. A shocking display too, like a "greatest hits" compilation of the vilest and most disgusting things he had ever contemplated, but had never acted on. Much like the rest of us.

Wanting to kill? Check. Wanting to really, really mangle somebody who fights with you? Check. Breaking one person's heart to take somebody else's? Check. Becoming a serious junkie addict and leaving everyone behind? Check-a-roo. Oh come on, don't judge yourself. We've all thought it at some stage. Even the quiet ones, and it's those you have to watch out for. That's why they're the quiet ones.

Sometimes he still saw little snippets of life going on without him. Usually it was mostly Mam and Dad sitting around forlorn at home, staring into space, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Maybe every now and again they argued, their mouths screaming and shouting but nothing coming out. Tony and Brian still went out together every now and again, usually to all of Paddy's favourite pubs, which hurt most because he couldn't be there for them to share the laughs. He didn't miss the drinking or the vomiting, just the moments where something like this seemed impossible. Not for another fifty or sixty years anyway. To those he was looking at, fifty or sixty years seemed a lifetime. He'd just have to wait till their time came too. 

Mam and Dad are close themselves already. So I can expect them here sometime soon enough, as terrible as that sounds. It'll be nice to have some company then. Maybe we can do all the catching up then that we never did above ground. Or under the sky. Whittling away forever by talking about what we all hated about each other, why we never did anything about it and will never be able to do anything about it. In death, all the skeletons come out of the closet. 

Tony and Brian took their friend's passing with a mix of destructive glory and grief-wracked rash decisions. They drank themselves silly, dabbled in the devil's dandruff to excess and began (horror of all horrors) seeing people. Soon the lightbulb went off, and replacements for Paddy were brought in and tried out, one after another. Most of them were fuckers the two of them had met somewhere else, at work, at second-rate parties, frantic nightclubs, people who seemed interesting the night you first met them, and then turned out to be as plain and ordinary as a grey brick wall. Drab, uninspiring and just another part of the fabric. One after another they came, each one more boring than the next. 

Not Toby, he'll just talk about himself all evening. Not Joe, he's got anger problems. Not Michael, he's just an outright prick. Absolutely definitely not Dave, because he'd sooner bash your head in than ever do anything useful for you. All these people know is how to watch paint dry or be their extremely unimpressive selves. So unimpressive that even sinking back into the rambling and ranting seems a slightly more engaging alternative. 

And oh, are there many! Too many wasters, bores and imbeciles to ever count.

When he wasn't watching his friends, all that Paddy could do was be there and think. Think was the key word in death. Think of everything he'd achieved, failed to achieve or, worst of all, things that held nothing but regret. Regret was another word embedded inside of think, and its consequences were far more damaging. All the things that were done and dusted, which could never be taken back. On top of the betrayals, thefts and verbal assault, something else lingered.

There was a time when I used to never think of saying sorry. It would all be sorted out in the long run. As long as I knew what I did was wrong and never thought of it again, learned my lesson and all that, things would be fine. Stupid f*****g decision. 

"Stupid f*****g decision indeed. You're a man with some baggage on him, and by that I don't mean your reproductive organs. That would be the opposite. But there's a lot you've been held accountable for. The best part? Nobody'll ever get to hear your side of the story. Father and son made their final judgment long, long ago." 

Why should they get all the glory? Why leave everybody here to suffer in this dark f*****g hellhole? You've already got the answers.

"No, nobody has the answers really. That'd be even more idiotic than your whole entire life put together. Right and wrong aren't worth a thing, all that matters is how you feel afterwards. Give a friend some money to help them through a tough time? Great. Then they go off and get addicted to heroin. Decide to treat them with some tough love and they decide to clean up their act? Wonderful. But then you'll probably end up jealous they have a better life than you."

F**k. This makes less and less sense the more I think about it.

"It should. That's all part of the process. If anything in life made sense then it wouldn't worth it in the end." 

The end is here now, and it still doesn't make any sense. I can't breathe, see or move. If I'd known it would be this lonely, I would have converted to Hinduism and meditated fifteen hours a day. 

"Nothing makes sense here either. So if you think about it, you're still alive then? Which isn't cheating you, it's not called the afterlife for no reason. Father and son have their own ways of doing things that are beyond even me sometimes." 

F*****g right they do! Did the lazy fuckers never have the decency to provide even a chair and some TVs around here?! It kills me to think of all the football and late-night comedy I'll miss. The good stuff mind you, only the golden oldies.

"And you too are beyond me sometimes. I think you are even beyond yourself. Because never before have I come across a soul who's so self-obsessed and whiney. I thought that all the rich spoilt brats and junkie singers who arrive here were bad enough to deal with, but you take the biscuit." 

Oh, f**k off. On top of all the other diarrhea on my plate, I don't need your bullshit philosophy as extra portions. 

But the portions piled on, continously, moment after moment, never ever ceasing. The voice questioned every aspect of Paddy's personality, attitude, (former) lifestyle and habits. Death was turning out to be the long interrogation that would never end, try as you might. All the skeletons come out of the closet in the end.

"Did you never ever stop and think? I know you didn't, but it'd be interesting to hear what you have to say. I need something to kill a bit of time. Lord knows you have enough of it to share."

.......

"Oh, no reply? No witty retort filled with sarcastic satire?

.......

"Such is life and death. One minute you're all talk, the next you're giving me the cold shoulder. What have I done that so deeply offends you?"

.......

"Told you the truth about everything you believed in your pathetic, short life? Tough s**t. You should've known a long time ago that truth cuts deeper than anything else. Truth about friends, family, and especially..."

.......

"Yourself."

There was something about it all that felt very tense. But no words came from Paddy, because the limit had been reached. He had come to grips, in a funny way, with the entire situation. Nothing more could be done, said, thought or argued in any way, shape or form. Simple as. Maybe if he had lived and died differently, there would be more to discusss in the everlasting nothing, where time evaporated and life became a flow of disjointed memories. Consciousness in the moment, existence itself, also was fiction. 

"Oh you know, I tried, I really tried. But it seems that I don't need to keep trying any more, because you've managed to help me reach the goal I wanted to achieve this whole time. Maybe you thought I was just trying to annoy you, slander you, ravage the last of your nerves to brittle pieces, but the truth is much more relevant. You do want to know the truth, don't you?"

.......

"Oh stop it already. Just talk. It's not going to make any difference. Either way I'll always be here, always talking, always knowing anything and everything about you. Because I'm the central cog in the great information super-highway of humanity. Nothing gets past me and everything goes in."

.......

"Jesus Christ. One would think you've had enough already. But if you want me to just f**k off and let you ruminate over something you'll never have back, then so be it. But you're an idiot for letting it go, and for also thinking you'll never have it back."

.......wait, what?

"A-ha! There we go! How's tricks, Padster?"

What were you on about there? I mean, being wrong about not getting it all back?

"Oh, don't worry. That's fine. You didn't express interest the first few million times. Go back to fantasyland if that's more use to you."

I'm trying to be serious here! What did you mean? Is there a way out?

"Well, since you asked so politely, I'll let myself tell you even though I really shouldn't."

I'm quaking in my boots. Just get on with it.

"You see, Paddy, death is death, no question about it. You went through it, you have undeniably expressed grief and loss, you have undeniably understood your shortcomings. The booze, the f**s, the mischief, all that's been settled. But never mind all that now, because there's a juicy little tidbit that I'm just dying to let loose."

Right so, this better be good. I've done enough waiting around in here to last me an entire lifetime. It's felt that way anyway, considering how short of a go it was. Indulge me with your juicy little bits.

"I'm not saying I spoke to them directly, or if they spoke to me, that's not important to you. But what is important is that father and son have conferred with myself, and we came to an agreement. Without your knowledge. Considering your behaviour, we've decided to let you go." 

I've been fired?! How the f**k do you sack somebody from dying?! Last time I got sacked was when I was seventeen! I still maintain to this day that it was his fault for walking into the knife display, not mine for putting it there! 

"Calm yourself already. Stop talking nonsense. We haven't sacked you, nah, we were working up to that. But we've decided to be kind and give you a second chance. And you're damn lucky at that too, because second chances in this world are about as rare as happiness and peace in yours."

Paddy was so stunned that for a moment it had to sink in fully. A second chance? After all of it? The boozing, the smoking, the shenanigans? That nightmare in Sicky McGee's? Questions came quicker than answers, the usual case with anything in life indeed. The darkness felt like it was beginning to recede, just a bit. Pure black turned to a lighter shade of grey. Weightlessness turned to weight, in some form. His soul began to reattach to certain parts of the body, like it had real substance. Now so did his path. 

Do I have to it all again? Why exactly is this happening?

"The worst parts of yourself are what you came to be dominated by. Look at it this way, you've lost the battle but not the war. You've got a bit more to do first, but we do look forward to having you back in here when you're ready. I know myself anyway that you've definitely been one of the more entertaining ones around here."

Gray turned to the beginnings of light silver. Light cut through the black like cracks crawling over a pane of broken glass, pieces of it dissolving whilst it was being swallowed by something greater. His body was slowly returning; consciousness became accompanied by a brain, the greatest gift of all, its processes far more complex than any computer. Now that his brain was back, so did the senses. Smell, touch, taste and sight. Beyond the light there was something coming, slowly forming into a shape. 

What's happening to me?

"We've already started the process while we've been talking. Painless, isn't it? All you should be feeling is a slight tingle, maybe a slight chill downstairs, but other than that it's a good sign. You're being taken back from here and put back to where you were before."

You're f*****g me back to where I came from, finally? F*****g took you long enough. I'm dying to get home and.....and....I don't know. I honestly have no idea.

"Well you'd want to hurry up and get one, it's going to finish in a bit. See, there's something coming through now."

Indeed there was. A succession of darker and darker shapes zipped back, forth and across in the white. Not much sound yet, but what could have been a rushing stream or volcanic beginning. There was a low, rumbling swirl that promised a climax, coming along soon. Paddy's body was almost ready now, with his brain working, heart pumping and limbs functioning. He could see, move and feel again. Both corneas locked firmly on to what lay ahead.

I've been a right and total prick while I was in here, but at least you let me realise it. 

"Don't worry, don't worry. Just remember one thing though. Promise me, promise all of us, until we meet again."

What is it? I owe you that much.

"Everything that ever happens to you....all of it can be fixed with one simple word. I don't think I have to tell you what it is, or even how to say it."

Feeling the emotion pouring back into him and the mouth letting out of one of his trademark Cheshire cat grins, Paddy felt tears pouring down his cheeks as he croaked out the word with a quiet gratefulness.

Sorry.

"I know you are. But I'm not the one you should be telling...."

Just then, the darkness collapsed entirely and the field of white came into view, a brilliant laser beam flash coming over everything. Paddy felt himself rushing forward at an incredible speed, so unbelievably fast that it could have been fatal, if he hadn't died already. A succession of sounds, symphonies and screams filled his ears as the flash took him through all the universe's strangest and most unheard of dimensions. There he saw some incredible things, lands that were equal parts wonderful, nightmarish and jaw-dropping. The whiteness continued on between them, like electric sparks in his vision, his corneas swelling and head wrecking with each new wonder. 

Then suddency struck. No more white light, no more speed, no more sights of faraway places. Just the blackness again, like somebody flicking off the lights in a room. For a few seconds, nothing moved, nothing at all. All was quiet. Paddy listened for the comforting thump-thump of his heartbeat, but nothing came, just an eerie ringing silence. The world had ceased to exist again, along with everybody in it. As the stillness went on, the paranoia increased. Paddy felt his soul slip back into the first terrors the earlier death, wondering if he was stuck yet again. Maybe father and son had changed their mind, maybe the voice had been lying again. 

I'll have to wait and see. Nothing more can be done. Dead or alive, there's no difference. Like your man said, if you can think about it, then you're still there. Just more in one place than the other.

Just as he was about to prepare for second death, a voice broke through the darkness, one that didn't belong to his friend in the nothing or the black mass which came before it. Paddy had heard that voice his entire life, but never in his entire life had he been more thankful to hear it than when he heard it now.

"Wake up darling, everything is alright....everything's alright."

"Come on now, wake up, good man."

They were coming, and would be here soon.

- 6 -

The voices. Oh, those voices. Like angels singing to me in the middle of paradise.

How they came and how they conquered, overpowering his emotions so easily that any fight was non-existent. The whiteness was beginning to recede slowly, like clouds parting with each other on a clear day, the division growing second by second. His breathing returned, along with thought, full memory, perception and movement. All he could hear for a little while was a roar, then the tinny static of a closed eardrum. This wasn't death, nor sleep, but somewhere in between. Paddy thought about what the world would be like when he woke up properly, whether or not it had drastically changed since he last saw it. Maybe we'd invented the hover car and finally figured out world peace. Maybe that blonde madman in the States had finally pressed the red button and turned the world to fire. Maybe nothing had changed at all. The most depressing of all was that the third option was the most likely.

"Oh lovey, come back!"

"Leave the lad alone Molly, for f**k's sake!"

"Talk to me like that again and I'll--"

No mistaking the unmistakeable. Trust them to start arguing right in the middle of a moment such as this, when their only child was lying right in front of them, sprawled over a f*****g hospital trolley in a squeaky clean, white-tiled room. At least it felt like that, because the leather was chafing his back. Paddy could hear over the rising argument the doctor trying to maintain order, to no avail. His voice made Paddy picture a great fat duck squeezed into a white coat, quacking away like Donald or Daffy. 

Now that right there is the funniest thing I've thought of all day. Or in the last minute I've been brought back to life.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan, I think he's coming to!"

"SHUT THE F---Oh my Jaysis, sorry pal, not you!"

"Yeah don't worry, he only saves the worst insults for his wife....of FORTY FORGETTABLE YEARS!"

"AND WHO'S TO BLAME FOR THAT?!"

The quack-doctor is probably ranting and raving to himself right now about how much he'd love to put these two on the trolley himself if they don't shut up in a minute. 

Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan did indeed take the time from their daily domestic squabbling to inspect their son, who was slowly coming around after all. The doctor, by no means a great fat duck nor with the speaking voice of a cartoon character, just sighed and shook his head, resting a hand on his temple whilst muttering something or the other about euthenasia and "gratefulness". The parents looked down, both of them huddled together and staring wide-eyed, like children looking at presents on Christmas morning. This gift wasn't wrapped with red paper or a nice little bow tie. Instead it was covered in a strange gelatinous fluid, smelled unearthly and was dressed in a shabby pair of shoes, trousers and stained white shirt. 

It was all that was left that was clean. Give us a break.

This was their greatest gift of all, the one they had given themselves a long time ago; their son Paddy. They'd brought him into this world, seen the destruction left in his wake and, the very day they'd decided to come up to Dublin for a surprise visit, had spent the last few hours thinking they'd lost him forever. 

And they did, I think. 

"Ah for God's sake, the suspense is killing me!" uttered his father, as he looked about anxiously. The doctor was standing across from him, staring intently at the heartrate monitor and looking like he was ready to burst. Molly looked rightly fucked off at what her husband had just said, however.

"Michael, don't speak like that! Have some respect!"

"Shove your respect. I want my son back!"

The doctor shushed them both as he looked at the heartrate monitor, his eyes burning with over-caffeinated exasperation. Michael and Molly gaped as they tutted and turned back to Paddy, who was beginning to twitch to life. First the movements were small, hesitant, then gradually they became more animated. His hand shot up a few times and the chest was heaving up and down like a stormy ocean. It was the equivalent of waiting to see if the light you'd just replaced in the kitchen was either going to shine, or explode into steaming hot shards. Right now, Molly and Michael were thinking of the shine and nothing else. Close to tears, Molly pressed her face into her husband's shoulder.

"I can't look!"

"F*****g hell Molly, he's already died once, the f****r could hardly manage it again so soon!"

"I know, I know, but still--"

"But still nothing! Just wait and see for the love of God!"

Shame about that one there, because God isn't around to answer anyway. I know. I've heard it. On the bright side though, there's plenty of love to go around. That much never changes.

Just when Molly began threatening divorce for the fifth time that day, she got cut off by an explosion of coughs, wheezes and gasps emanating from the trolley beside her. Before she could turn to look or her husband could muster up something foul to say, Paddy shot up straight, bewildered and dizzy. The doctor almost fell over with fright, stumbling backwards and almost toppling the dripfeed, the thing tilting and tumbling like a drunk dancer. Molly and Michael cared not, however, happy only to see their son returned at last.

"Paddybear!"

"Gobshite!"

The duo hugged him tight and hard, squeezing as much love out of him as humanly possible, almost crushing his frail body to bits with their combined strength. Paddy tried his best to speak, but despite the millions of things that could be said, alongside millions more still to be said, all he could do was get caught up in the moment and start weeping openly. Molly dabbed at the tears madly with a tissue, taken straight from the depths of her handbag. 

"Oh it's a miracle! A real miracle! Me and your father thought you'd never come back to us!"

"F*****g took you long enough anyway..."

"MICHAEL!"

After he'd gotten some level of control back over himself, Paddy managed to rediscover his voice. There were so many questions to ask, so many things to clear up, so many unspeakable things he had to hide after what felt like one dream that had lasted forever and a day. He decided to begin right at the beginning, which, stupid as it sounded, made perfect sense. Considering he'd been trapped in a glass coffin, spoken to his intestines and experienced the great unavoidable bore of death, there was nowhere else to go. His ticket was up indeed.

"Where've I been? How'd you find me?"

"Mr. Mulligan, let me first say how glad I am of your recovery. You have spent quite some time in the netherworld it seems!" 

Sweet. Holy. F**k. It can't be. Not in a million years. I'll know that voice for the rest of my life.

The doctor came forward into his field of view, a chubby, aging gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard and thick-rimmed glasses, a scruffy intellectualism clinging to him. His face stood out like a sore thumb, the skin leathery and taut with wisened age. A small namebadge clipped to his coat read: Dr. Graham O' Dwyer. Dr. O' Dwyer came over to Paddy's bed, looking so pleased that one could have sworn he was the cat that had taken the cream.

"Yes, indeed. I know this must seem jarring to you but you needn't worry, all is well. You're probably wondering how you came to be here."

"F*****g right I am!"

"Easy, easy. Don't strain yourself please, we don't want you dying....again. Well, nearly dying anyway. You'll be surprised to know how we found you. It was a miracle your parents came upon you when they did, for you were lying in a pool of vomitus and alcoholism."

"Did you need a ladder? Or was it a crane?"

The good doctor looked to Paddy's parents, bewildered, but no joy there. They too were confused as f**k. Maybe it was the morphine. Or maybe it was just their son. One could never tell the difference between sober Paddy and....well....the normal Paddy. The doctor looked back to his patient, baffled.

"Ladders and cranes? Most uncouth. What on earth are you on about?"

"You know what I'm on about. And I know what you're about to say. Some evil fecker thought it'd be a great laugh to have me dangling to my death over the middle of town, in a glass box even tighter than the Taoiseach's purse strings. I've no idea how I got up there, or how you even got me down. But what I do know is what I saw and felt."

Molly and Michael looked a new shade of white now. This wasn't a Paddy they were used to. He'd never been as bad as this, not even at the last family wedding. Either he'd gone completely bonkers or the morphine in this hospital must have been stronger than anywhere else on Earth. Actually no, scratch that, the universe. They'd do something about it in a minute, but for now it was very entertaining all the same. Leaning forward in expectation, they let their son let rip as the good doctor stood, stunned.

"What I saw and felt afterwards is impossible to describe. Just f*****g impossible. How'd you like to walk into your favourite boozer and drink with things that don't belong outside of your tummy? Listening to hours of them talking shite? Watching as they decided to go and blow themselves up?"

"Mr. Mulligan, I know you've been through a traumatic experience, but there's no need to--"

"NO NEED TO WHAT?! EH?"

"....no need to....prattle on. I'm sure there's a rational explanation."

The dirty, slimy little b*****d. The voice is the same gravely drivel and even the way he stands just screams Satan. He knows I know who he is. And he knows I know who he is. Quid pro quo.

"Oh yeah, I've got a rational explanation for you. How's this one, and listen up mam and dad, this'll explain a lot!"

No worries there. The pair of them looked like statues on a park bench, with his dad's arms folded neatly across his chest, and mammy clutching her handbag the way a child clutches a small teddy bear. They'd listen to anything he had to say by now, how could they not? Paddy raised a feeble finger and pointed it straight at the doctor. The old man's eyes blazed whilst his mouth slowly unhinged in shock.

"THIS MAN....IS RESPONSIBLE! HE DRUGGED ME, SHOVED ME INTO THE BOX AND THOUGHT IT WOULD BE GREAT CRAIC--"

Doubling over in a fit of coughing, he kept his finger raised to show he wasn't finished. Not by any stretch. Clearing his throat and spitting phleghm into a potted plant by his bed, Paddy kept up the tirade.

"THOUGHT IT WOULD BE GREAT CRAIC....TO PSYCHOLOGICALLY TORTURE ME FOR HIS OWN SICK AMUSEMENT!!"

That did it. The doctor rushed over with his fists raised in the air and with a face scarier than anything ever seen in a horror film. But it was scary all the same, as his voice reminded Paddy of the chilling, icy evil he had felt coming from it only a few lifetimes earlier. In that f*****g box.

"YOU NEVER LEARN DO YOU?!! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO COME IN HERE AND ACCUSE ME OF SUCH CHARGES?!!"

"Oi, speccy, leave my lad alone! Or I'll deal with you myself!"

"Michael, Michael, don't be an eejit! You're the same age as him!"

"You're right love, but frankly I couldn't give a f**k."

The doctor spun around to face Paddy's father, waving his arms wildly and still spewing vile filth. Although it felt like he was doing it more out of enjoyment at this stage than anything else. He'd calmed down now, the anger having left him in the usual way it does. You release a little bit, then a bit more, then you realize how much of a show you've just made of yourself. The good doctor's normal volume was restored, but that same creepiness lingered.

"Neither does your son. Clearly. First he talks gibberish about cranes, then arson, then accuses me of being a cold, calculating psychopath who's capable of carrying out all the crimes he's described in great detail. If I could laugh at it, I would. But I can't, so I shan't."

Silence held domain in that little white room after these words were spoken. Paddy's heartrate monitor kept beeping away. Michael faced off against the man who had suddenly taken on the air of judge, jury and executioner, while Molly busied herself by looking for the sucky sweets she'd buried at the bottom of the bag, next to Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earhart. 

"You telling me my boy's gone nuts? Is that it?" 

"Well....just take a look at him, Mr. Mulligan. Wouldn't you say the same? Given his outburst moments ago, I'm afraid that....I must begin to think there is little else we can do for him."

The good doctor pointed at said nutcase lying in bed, staring into space, a funny little expression on his face, like he was seeing something that only he could see. A few words came out, but all of them unintelligible. About the same kind of thing you'd hear after a night on the lash. 

Where's the beeping gone? Hello? Anyone want to give us a hand? Or stand there screaming at each other like children?

"But you've not even tried anything?! Sticking your finger in your hole would be doing more for Paddy than whatever you're doing right now!"

"Language, Mr. Mulligan. Let us be reasonable. If he has indeed come to be clinically insane, then the best thing to do for him is to get him the best treatment possible. There's several places we have strong ties with for cases such as this."

"There is no way, no way, that my son's living in a loony bin! And how dare you even suggest it, you stuck-up, pen-pushing b*****d!!"

The good doctor exploded once more, the ice melting and the lava flowing forth in steaming great quantities. 

Don't worry, we're almost there. They'll still be there by the time I'm back. I can't wait for you to meet them too. Just you wait. Just you wait.

"WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT MINDING YOUR F*****G LANGUAGE?!!"

Just then Molly cried out, not because she'd finally found her barley sugars or that winning Lotto ticket that always seemed to get away, but because she'd seen something that horrified her to the core.

"Oh God Michael, look!"

But he already was. So was the good doctor. 

Well, this is interesting. So much for not making a scene. So nice of them to drop in after all this time. One father and son meets the other.

Cast in a heavenly golden light, floating just inches under the ceiling, were the Father and the Son. Not Paddy and Michael mind you, the other pair. The ones who are meant to greet us all at the pearly gates after they've decided you've finally had enough. Nobody said a word, nobody moved. The sounds of the hospital beyond the door seemed to get swallowed up by a sudden tranquility, like a vacuum, but with distant hints of choir music and warm, summery smells. Paddy smiled, wider than he ever had before, as he hovered somewhere above, watching his parents drop to their knees in awe while the doctor stood standing, his white hair having turned even whiter.

Son was the first one to speak, his beautifully chiseled face not moving, but the words coming unmistakeably from him anyway. They were spoken with a soothing sweetness, the voice of unconditional love if ever there was any. 

"Do not be afraid, for I have come in peace, my children."

That face. The beard. The long hair. The robes. This was something that had never been seen before, or heard of for thousands of years. Yet now he stood right here before all of them in grace and glory. His voice sounded like it had always been there, that it would always be loving and helpful, never once screaming in a volcanic pitch. No. This was one who knew true power and its use, yet chose not to use it in favour of reason and sound judgement. 

He's a good man. I didn't think it before, but a fine, good man. Son's a friendly fella too. No complaints there. Although I do wish they'd let me hang out more.

"Now, tell me, what is the meaning of all this? This is not true to your ways, nor the ways I created you."

Michael stood up and cleared his throat, extending a hand. 

"I've been waiting for this a long time, my Lord. I would start giving out about waiting too long, but since I've spent a week in this hospital, living off junk food and stale coffee, I'll not give out anymore. I just wanted to say how great it is to see you pair."

Molly got up too, still clutching that damned old handbag. If there were no barley sugars in there now, there just might never be. But there was always a way to fix everything, no matter what. Since these two were here now, she could just pray for more if worst came to worst. Paddy wanted to avoid that at all costs however. Her voice grew increasingly fragile as she stared up at her Creator, and Saviour. Together.

"I thought....this day would never come. I didn't think it'd be today, but you have to roll with the dice as I always point out to Michael here. Would you mind though if I just went back and got some bits from the house first?"

Father and Son looked at each other, perplexed. You could tell, even through that warm glow. Miracles just work like that. 

"Bits, my child? What are these bits you speak of?"

"Molly, for fu--"

Hissing, like a serpent. Quieter, but deadlier. You never argue with a woman, even when the Lord and Savior himself is standing right before you.

"Michael! Mind your language around God!"

Father and son looked even more perplexed by now. Paddy glared at them, his eyes gleaming like daggers. His mother still went on though, wanting to be heard by all but nobody listening. Because it simply didn't matter what she needed, bigger things were happening. She came forward a step or two, trembling but trying her all to grin and bear it.

"I just want to say it's lovely having you here. But when I said bits, I just meant the usual, you know yourself. Toothbrushes, spare clothes, some sucky sweets for the trip. What'll it be like up there, do you know?"

Son spoke, Father remaining silent. He held out his hand, motioning for Molly to come all the way forward. Paddy admired the man for the little things like that, the grace and the elegance. It was something he hoped, had hoped, to achieve but never got around to it. Love doesn't always mean saying it, as Son enclosed Molly's hand in a warm, gentle grasp.

"Molly, you need not be afraid, for the time has not yet come. I can grant you visions of the life which exists beyond this one..."

"I bloody knew it..." muttered Michael under his breath, but nobody noticed or cared. How could you under these circumstances. Son continued, that unbreakably calm, relaxing monotone seeming to fill up the room with every sentence.

"...and it is a beautiful one, let me assure you. Pleasure, peace and love like you have never known before. Golden walls with unreachable heights. Vistas of unbroken cloud and glory. Our angels greeting the new arrivals, second by second. But those do not matter as of now."

"Oh...?" squeaked the little woman, timidly.

"They matter not because that is not what we must do now. Your "bits" may remain where you left them. All will be revealed in due time."

Son broke his grasp and turned his attentioned towards the Father, who was resolute and stoic, looking like a moving, breathing, talking oil painting. Not one stretchmark or blemish, the skin appearing like smooth alabaster. Father stroked his mighty beard and peered at Paddy, who floated looking at his parents.

"My son has spoken well. But we have come here to discuss yours. Perhaps later on we may grant a visage of what you seek, but there is news to share. He is the one who brought us to you, in order that reason may be seen."

The doctor stood up then, smoothing out the rumples in his white coat and smoothing back his hair. Father and Son looked at him in a different way than the others. As though he were someone who they had known before, or known very well. The elderly gentleman finished styling his hair into an acceptable look before clearing his throat. 

"Good sirs, that is the problem right there. Reason is not the operative word of this family, indeed, as I may know myself. Men like me, we only try to help, but even in some cases we falter. And falter I have, because before your arrival we had been calmly discussing--"

"CALMLY?! DON'T ACT THE IDIOT, MISTER!" Michael shot up in a sudden burst of uncontrolled rage. Pointing the accusing finger, he tore into the good doctor as the room was stunned into silence. "You were talking about putting him away for good! MY SON! LIKE YOU OWNED HIM!"

"MICHAEL, PLEASE!"

Fantastic. Just perfect. All I do is try to bring a little sense to them all and they're right back at it like the five year olds they all are. I wonder how much of this sort of thing these two have to watch all the time, wondering how to stop it but knowing they can't until somebody prays for them to. Which they never do.

Michael and the doctor were rolling around on the floor, locked in a confusing mess of weak grapples and even weaker punches. Father and Son began to look at them with intent. Molly was alternating between crying and gawping in awe at the theological event just beside her. Paddy just wished he was somewhere, anywhere else, away from all the madness.

"YOU INCOMPETENT BUFFOON!"

"PENCIL-PUSHING USELESS F****R!"

The good doctor managed to gather enough strength in those old bones of his to push himself upwards, knocking Michael off his balance just long enough for him to be caught totally off guard by the older man's surprisingly well-placed punch, catching him square in the face.

DAD!

"MICHAEL! OH MICHAEL LOVEY!"

"ENOUGH!"

Father and Son said it once, at the same time. This was a massive sound that felt like it could have been heard all over the country, if not the entire world. So loud was it in volume that the Earth almost split in two. God only knew what the rest of the hospital's patients and staff thought, as they lay dying or slumped half-asleep at the reception, trying in vain to make sense of the Irish healthcare system. Michael lay unconscious across the floor as the doctor got to his feet and started yelling at the top of his lungs, his larynx proving no match for the voice of divines.

"SOME PEOPLE DON'T DESERVE IT! THEY NEVER DO AND NEVER WILL!"

Like a raving prophet, he stood there, his white coat torn at the bottom and his shirt rumpled. Stamping his feet in fury, one heard the unmistakeable crunch of glasses breaking. True blind anger in its best form. 

"YOU! DON'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! DON'T YOU---"

Pausing, the doctor exploded into a fit of coughing, his voice warbling and scratching like a broken vinyl as it tried to recover, him pushing it along the way as best it could. Father and Son were trying their best to calm him down, speaking directly to him and their eyes, impressively, never losing that loving sparkle. It was like they were programmed to not hate nor judge no matter what. 

Cleared at last, the doctor's voice returned and he began pacing around the room, one hand clutching at his throat, which was raw and sore. Finding a comfortable piece of linoleum, he lowered himself and sat down, cross-legged like an Indian. 

"You have done the impossible. It is rare that the carer becomes the patient, but I simply cannot accept anything that has happened here today."

Father and Son broke the ice, the two of them moving themselves away from the bed and over to where the doctor was seated.

"Faithlessness is the greatest sin of all, my friend. I urge you to seek our love."

"My Son is right. All shall be fixed with the teachings of scripture and servitude. It has healed many before you, and shall heal many after you. But always remember to take it as granted, no more, no less."

The elderly man had found his broken glasses and was studying them. His eyes looked worn and weathered, his hair frizzed out at the ends like he had been exposed to electro-shock therapy. The warm glow reflected the creases in his face, making him appear brittle next to the Father. He dropped the glasses with a feeble hand and began to sob quietly. Molly glowered as she crouched over Michael, watching him slowly come to.

"My child, this violence is meaningless, for it has brought us nowhere, the journey's end of barbarians and madmen. Are you one of them? Or can this being think for himself?"

Dr. O' Dwyer looked down at his namebadge, a feeble laugh coming out.

"This says it all, wouldn't you say?"

"Meaningless. Utterly meaningless attire. But our love and warmth can..."

"Can what? Help me? Cure me? Make me see something I hadn't before?"

He began pounding his fists against his chest, the frustration working its way back up through his body at an incredible pace. 

"This is not real! YOU are not real! EVERYTHING IS A LIE, AND WE ALL DAMN WELL KNOW IT!"

"This anger...unlike anything else we have seen...where does this anger root?" 

"Your pretentiousness knows no bounds! I AM A MAN OF SCIENCE AND MEDICINE! I BELIEVE IN DATA! COLD, HARD DATA!"

Michael awoke fully from his brief slumber and rose his head up, groggily, whilst Molly squealed in delight.

"Oh lovey! There you are!"

No answer, but he nodded in approval as she leaned down and began covering him in a shower of kisses, the sounds like bubble wrap popping. Father and Son looked at each other, and smiled, Dr. O' Dwyer too wrapped up in his ramblings, and too uncaring, to bother noticing. He thought he had something deeper to pry into.

"What kind of data do you possess? What great kernels of knowledge can be attained from you? Religion is the safe haven of the dying and the hopeless, the comfort zone which cannot be breached because our society, this sick society of ours, has accepted it for so long. But myself, no longer."

Pointing towards the door, his features flushed with mistaken self-confidence, thinking he had the situation entirely under control. Triumphantly, he stood proud in his ruined uniform and a smug smile, like an ugly worm, stretched across his features.

"This nonsense shall stop, right now. There is no place in this establishment for anything other than what can be studied, felt, heard and seen, none of which apply to you."

Molly and Michael came over, both of them their arms around each other, but their features were what struck Paddy more than anything else.

They look happy. Even after the f****r's been tossed about like a ragdoll, he's smiling like he's just found solid gold. And maybe he has.

The couple looked and shared a kiss.

I know he has.

Despite the love so clearly in the air, the good doctor was still rabbiting away quite annoyingly, much to the chagrin of Father and Son. 

"There is nothing more I can say here about this event other than it stretches into the realm of the impossible. A man of science and medicine, as I am, cannot accept your presence, be as it might, on simple faith. Faith is a lier and a deceiver. Now, leave! Leave before I call security and set them on you two charlatans!"

Harsh words, but what took it to the next step was what was about to come next; the most unapologetically horrendous thing the good doctor, or indeed anyone, could have done. Walking quickly over to where Father and Son floated, he opened his mouth and spit on them both. Then, spying a nearby bedpan, he proceeded to grab it up and toss its contents right towards the deities. 

"There! That is what I think of faith!"

Silence.

"NOW LEAVE, GODDAMN YOU, AND NEVER COME BACK!"

Fixing his hair and readjusting the labcoat, he began to stride pompously towards the door, his eyes wild and blazing, in the grand old tradition of the crackpot scientist who believes he has done good, but then his monster gets loose and terrorizes the village. The monster this man had unleashed had very much been seen many a time before, but Father and Son's response was the stuff of legend.

"STOP!" bellowed Father.

The good doctor turned, seemingly unimpressed by the power on display. No blaming him there, this afternoon had been the most eventful in the history of the entire hospital, even more so than the birth of five sets of quadruplets in a single day back in the 50s. But the 50s were the last thing on his mind as he suddenly felt his body tingling and lifting slowly off the floor, a wave of numbness overcoming him. Father was speaking then, his voice like a cold, stern principal interrogating his pupil. Such was the case here too, as in all religion; the pupil answers to his masters, but the master rarely replies. When he does, however, the most amazing of things can begin to happen. 

Listen to him there now, setting him straight. What a great f*****g man. Sorry for the language, but that's just the way it is. Mam and Dad knew better than to interfere, their entire lives too. 

Continuing the tirade, it all rolled out like a carpet unfurling.

"We have tried to reason, but you refused. We have tried to be fair and just, but you abused. We have done our best to make you see the error of your ways, but you continued. This is unacceptable, and no longer shall we tolerate it. No longer."

The good doctor's body stopped tingling, now about three feet off the ground. But once the tingling stopped, a new feeling commenced. Burning, rapid burning spreading up his body like an uncontrollable fire. He began to realize his mistakes far too late; spontaneous combustion was the stuff of legend, consigned to urban myth forever. But here it was, here, now. Father continued, smiling as he watched the subject burn. 

"You struggle, because you realize. But like those before you and those to come, you realize far too late. Now who will help you? Now who can you turn to? Pledging your life to pursuits of knowledge that are unhealthy, trying to discover our great secrets."

The fat duck image sprung back into Paddy's mind as he watched, both horrified and intrigued by the situation, knowing this was something he would probably never see ever again. Not in a million lifetimes, just this once. The fat duck opened his mouth again, his voice breaking under pressure. His tongue was like a drowning swimmer trying to fight the ocean, the words came through in gasps and short gulps.

"This...this...THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS! I DEMAND TO BE LET DOWN AT ONCE!"

"SILENCE! ENOUGH OF YOUR OUTPOURINGS, WE SHALL NOT LISTEN!"

The burning continued and the flames began to grow, licking his pants legs first and then engulfing his shoes, the Italian leather bubbling under the tremendous heat. He was sweating too, buckets and buckets, a pool of perspiration forming on the shining linoleum beneath his dangling feet. Molly and Michael watched, awestruck, both of them constantly crossing themselves, out of fear the same thing should happen to them. But it was nothing to worry about, for they were the believers, and the good doctor was the denier. Father and Son knew best, after all. Father had finished speaking for now, so Son took over.

"We meet those like you every waking second of every single day from the habitat which was created for you. Those who cannot accept the truth, who choose to lead lives ignorant of the higher powers. You all have made the exact same mistake by underestimating us. We can move mountains, we can bend rivers, WE CAN DESTROY AND RECREATE WORLDS!"

The good doctor had no reply, but then again, the flames now consuming his legs and lower torso weren't helping matters much. He was trying to scream, but the lungs would make no sound. Shock had overtaken him faster than fire, and with much better effect, by silencing the larynx of the ignorant idiot who called himself a man of science. His pleading, terrified eyes drifted over to Paddy, who could only shake his head and let out a smug little grin.

Now where have all your fancy words gotten you, boyo? All your f*****g charts and figures? Explanations for everything? Well look at you now! Enjoy what comes next!

By now the upper torso was going too. The strangest thing about this fire, as all those there would recall for time to come, was that it gave off no odour. No smoke either. Indeed, it seemed that it was borne from something magical, straight from the realm where there was no understanding, only seeing and believing. The good doctor was headed there now, Paddy hoped he would enjoy the trip.

"WE HAVE SMITED THEE! BURN, BURN FOR ALL ETERNITY YOU DEVIL!"

Tell him I said hi too. Not a bad one now, but he tends to get a little grumpy sometimes. Probably all the fire and brimstone. How normal it is.

When the raging heat covered the good doctor's head, and he was nothing more than a bonfire, Paddy watched the flesh melt slowly. It blackened like burnt roast beef and began falling off in chunks, which never hit the floor but vanished into thin air. Father and Son were absolutely delighted now, the golden glow stronger than ever, the entire room ablaze with light. If only those outside in the halls would walk in here and see this now...

"BURN! LET YOUR HATE DISAPPEAR INTO THE NETHER, WHERE THE DEMONS SHALL AWAIT TO CLUTCH AT YOUR PATHETIC SOUL!"

With one final flicker, the good doctors body crackled and sizzled for a few seconds longer, before coming entirely apart like dry clay, the chunks sizeable and going faster than the eye could register them. The air shimmered and a queer hum arose from somewhere, before the golden light flashed once, twice, three times and all was returned to normal. Like hardened war veterans, Molly and Michael crouched shaking and quivering like plates of jelly, still making the signs of the cross. Father and Son looked over at them, their good manners restored.

"Children, you may stop now. All has been vanquished."

They kept going. Son spoke up.

"Everything is as it should be. You have shown faith. Therefore we spare you."

It took another few seconds, but they stopped, leaving only the deafening void of quiet open for contemplation and reflection of what they had just seen. Molly got up and went over to the bed, where she sat down at Paddy's still feet. Her knuckles gripping the handbag were whiter than the sheets. Michael rolled his eyes and spoke to Father and Son.

"Now that's a nasty way to go. I reckon he deserved it. Tell us though, is that true? The part about demons and the nether and all that jazz?"

"Do you believe it to be true?"

"Well...."

Molly frantically nodded, her head rocketing back and forth so hard that Paddy was half sure it would go flying off any second. But it didn't. Instead Michael took the hint and swallowed his pride.

"It all makes more sense now, is what I'm saying."

Father and Son smiled, before the former decided to take up the floor.

"Good, child, good. But now we have another problem to solve."

"Oh?"

"Yes, yes indeed. Your son. He is with us now, as you are aware."

"Oh." Michael uttered again, this one different. He and Molly were aware of what he meant by it, it simply didn't have to be said. Even though Doctor Denier was long gone, their son was with him somewhere too. For their knowledge, nothing more could be done apart from prepare to do the worst, make their final goodbyes and go about setting up the funeral.

"Aware you are, we can sense. I wish we could say you need not worry, but the trouble appears to be that we cannot make our decision until you make yours. Yours is the only one which can overrule."

"Overrule?"

"By love. Pure, simple love is what governs all in our world. And in yours too, but you do not realize it. Your kind rarely does."

"Wait..."

Molly had ditched the handbag and was clutching onto the bedposts, her knuckles positively ready to burst open at this stage, they were so taut. She looked on the edge of a breakdown, the wrinkles clearer than ever, and her eyes grown pained. The others waited for her to make her point.

"Are you asking us if we love our son? Is that really what it's come to?"

Son looked to Father, who looked to Son. A tense second went by, before Son replied.

"Yes. You must make a choice, whether he can be brought back, or if he shall come with us. We are your creators, but you are his. Hence why we, in this instance, come to you instead."

Molly froze, still as a statue. Her mind flashed with all the things she held most; her and Michael's overjoy at their newborn son, leading him through childhood onto the teenage years, watching as their beautiful effort grew and evolved to become a full-fledged member of society. Tears began swimming in her vision as she thought of her little Paddy on his first day of school, all trussed up and ready to go, wanting to leave the house like mad, then never letting go of her at the school gates. 

I remember that too, Mam. Always have, always will. Little did I know that just beyond those walls were the best times of my life. I remember the weight in my bag, I even remember the lunch too; soggy tomato sandwiches and a smushed pack of Taytos. Oh I never minded before, but you always did. You never had to though.

Molly's tears went into overflow then, as she hunched back on the bed, bawling her eyes out. Michael went to comfort her, but could only stare blankly at the wall. His headspace was racing too, further and faster than he could possibly comprehend. He was thinking of the same things Molly did too, but something different along the way came too. He remembered back in the better days, when Paddy still hung around, before they left. When he lived at home, whiling away the hours with them that felt unimportant at the time, but which had become precious now. Paddy's 18th birthday, the day when boy becomes man. They'd gone to their local.

Not Sicky McGee's, thankfully, but a much nicer version of it. 

Michael and Paddy walked through those doors as men on a mission, one man to introduce the other to adulthood, the other to experience it with somebody he loved. Michael remembered everything about it; the smell of the pub, the cracking of the leather stools as they sat down, the look of pride in his face as the barman placed that fresh pint before his son. Best of all, that knowing look the two of them exchanged with each other. When Michael looked at Paddy, dressed in his usual attire of the time; worn runners, jeans, shirt and hoody, he was amazed how quickly they grow. It felt like only yesterday the f****r'd been born, and here he was sharing a pint with him. 

"Cheers to your health, son." he said as he raised the Guinness to face level.

"And to yours Dad," the voice wracked with puberty softly spoke back. "Let's make it worthwhile."

And we did, didn't we? Despite never seeing each other, the screaming arguments, the threats and bullshit back and forth. But it always passed. Always. We never did get back to that pub in the end, and after the recent history I've had with them, I'm not sure I'd want to. But for you, with you, a thousand times yes. 

That did it. Michael and Molly curled up close together, softly crying into each other's shoulders. Father and Son watched them, wondering why they always wept when they knew it had to be so. Their rules made it so that saying the goodbyes would be easier, but it never was. Even they knew that sometimes it's just not that hard to let go. Particularly if it's forever. Father came to the head of the bed.

"I know it is hard, but you must make your decision quickly. We shall be needed again soon."

Molly tore herself away from her husband a moment, staring Father right in the face. Beneath those calm, loving eyes lay a man who knew their pain, but who also knew that little could be done to assuage it. 

"Please, please can we not have some time to make it?"

"My deepest sorrows and prayers to you, child, but it does not work that way. If there is time to make it, then that time is now."

"But we're not ready for f**k's sake! It's a lot to take in!"

Michael thundered, shooting up from his wife with that fierce look on his face, scrunched up into a picture of the man on the edge, ready to blow over at any given opportunity.

"I will not sit here and make a snap decision if it's about my Paddy! He deserves better than that! We deserve better than that, least of all from you two!"

Son reached out to his Father.

"They speak of truth there. Everyone must be treated as equal, for it is the core of our philosophy. If there is no time left, then we must make more!"

But he wasn't having any of it. This was now or never, and everyone was acting irrationally. More than that, the very man they were discussing had not even been given his input, nor the proper consideration.

I can't f*****g believe it. This isn't going down the shop or deciding on the next drink, this is me! Your own son! Your flesh and blood! And now you're deciding that I'm not even allowed any say in whether I live or die?!!

Father was like a stone, try anything you want and you couldn't move him. 

"Time cannot be made more of. It must be made from what one is given. And it is my considered observation that this young man has already squandered too much of it. It is now or never, to you, children."

Michael and Molly had to look at each other. But without a second thought, they realized the answer was staring them right in the face. All they had to do was look at it. There were a lot of broken bridges to repair, a lot of bad memories to throw out and a lot of terrible influences to stamp out. But it would be worth it. They turned to look at the empty bed, wanting their son to reappear. So badly it hurt, hurt more than all the years behind them, and the thought of the ones that lay ahead.

"Children? The time has come."

Michael and Molly spoke in unison, their voices shrill and pleading.

"BRING HIM BACK!"

And so it happened. Father and Son looked at each other, and began to slowly fade away into thin air, before completely evaporating like a snowdrop hitting the ground. The golden glow lingered a little longer, but that too faded into obscurity afterwards, leaving the couple sitting alone on the bed. Then, Father's voice spoke.

"A miracle is bestowed."

"What's going on?"

They knew that voice better than they knew themselves. Molly and Michael glanced over their shoulders and gasped, their hearts giving an almighty leap. Sitting up, scratching his head and looking completely dazed, was their Paddy. He looked like he'd been through hell and back again, with his moppy hair, scraggly stubble and deadened eyes. Molly and Michael rushed to him.

"Lovey!

"The man himself!"

Paddy tried to get the words out, but was overtaken in a flurry of love, a frenzy of kisses and hugs, new promises being made every second. Molly was a bag of emotion, running wild and words shooting off like a machinegun, more and more every single second without fail.

"Oh by God, I thought we'd lost you!"

"Did you?"

Michael, beaming, shrugged his shoulders.

"Son, I've no idea what sort of day it's been, but that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that you're alive! Alive and well!"

Paddy nodded and exploded into a gigantic cough, his body brittle as a thin sheet of glass as his fists gripped the sheets tightly, the material bunching up like nobody's business. Michael swallowed his fear, and kept it down. Molly was too, although in that usual motherly way was already rabbiting on about everything they had to do.

"...first thing we're doing is getting you of this godawful clinic. I've no idea why they brought you here of all places, sure isn't it where Sally O' Riordan spent three weeks waiting for someone to check her fever? Or where your dad's friend Jim stayed overnight with a broken arm? Didn't even get breakfast in the morning too---"

"Molly..."

She looked at Michael.

"Enough's enough. He's only just awake." 

Nodding, without argument, she turned back to Paddy.

"How'd all of this happen anyway? What were you doing in that house of yours?"

"Ma, I wasn't doing---"

"The drugs? The booze? The letters all over the shop? It looked like you were living in a skip!" Michael asked, softly though, not wanting to jump into the deep end right away. There'd be plenty of time later for that. Plenty. They'd make it first. Paddy kept looking between the two of them, his eyes searching them up and down, growing watery. Michael cursed himself in his head, as he placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder.

"I'm sorry Pat, d'you know what, let's just forget it for now. Sure you've learned your lesson anyway, it looks like."

His son's eyebrows rose, in a curious little way.

"I suppose you could say that."

Suppose you could say a lot of other things too. Like the glass box. Like the organs. Like dying. But who f*****g cares?

Molly looked at her son, inspecting his face, searching for any of the old tell-tale signs of Paddy Mulligan's trickery. But for the first time in a long time, there was nothing. Nothing to suggest his prior deviousness or misadventure, just the same boy she'd birthed, raised and now had to help grow up. 

"Anything else you could say?"

I know the answer to this one. This is easier than CSPE.

With his parents standing before him as he lay on that rickety little hospital bed, right in the heart of Dublin on not a Monday, but Tuesday morning, Paddy found his voice again and spoke the one beautiful word that he had never once said in his entire life, at least never to his parents or loved ones.

"I'm sorry."

THE END

Author's Note

1) Is the comedy funny?
2) Is the plot traceable or messy?
3) Is the character of Paddy likeable enough to follow on his journey?