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maker noo. So wan word frae you an’ yer arse will bounce aff the edge o’ every
step on the way doon! Comprendez, pal?’ Father McCabe turned away, busying himself in performing his magic once again, presumably in case Con had managed to squeeze in a silent response to
her jibe on his way out.
    Then the doctor arrived to certify Con dead as well as saved. ‘He’s gone,’ he announced solemnly. A pleasant enough young man she thought, though she didn’t know him. He
was probably whichever anonymous name on the health centre notice board had been available, or else some equally anonymous locum. These days it was hard to tell; you saw them once then never again.
She wondered if it was a defensive ploy in case something went wrong; in these more writ-conscious days it would be harder to apportion blame if it was shared out among so many instantly
forgettable faces. If she had to pick this young man out of a police line-up, could she, she wondered. She looked at Con, now visibly stiffening, his face an ashen grey. ‘Ye’re
sure?’ she asked him, sarcastically.
    ‘I’m terribly sorry, dear, but yes, I’m afraid he has,’ the young man replied with quiet sympathy.
    ‘
Ah’m obviously an auld biddy
,’ she thought, ‘
bein’ called “dear” by a wean like him
.’ ‘What Ah’m askin’
ye,’ she replied coolly, ‘is to be certain. Can ye no’ hold a mirror under his nose tae be sure, like? Ah don’t want ye raisin’ ma hopes.’ She immediately
regretted it. The lad was doing his best. He knew nothing about her, the family or even his patient, except that he was dead and the daughter was a bit odd; he was probably putting it down to her
time of life and making allowances.
    ‘You are the next of kin?’ he asked. ‘Mrs…?’
    ‘Kathy Kelly, originally spinster o’ this parish, but against ma will. An’ aye, Ah’m his daughter, son,’ she replied. ‘Ah’ve tried a’ roads tae
find a way oota that wan, but Ah’m sad tae say Ah canny. Ah’m thinkin’ o’ applyin’ tae the European Court for a definition of “Father” that doesnae just
depend oan a quick fumble under the blankets, but Ah don’t hold oot much hope, dae you?’
    The young doctor looked pained.
    ‘It’s a’ right, son,’ she smiled, ‘just sign the certificate an’ ye can go.’
    He smiled tightly, in a vain attempt to persuade her that he wasn’t offended by her manner, or confused at being dismissed. ‘Will it be cremation or burial?’ he asked, in a
determinedly businesslike tone.
    ‘Oh, definitely cremation!’ she smiled. ‘No’ that Ah doubt yer word or anythin’, but knowin’ ma faither there’s still an outside chance he’s
fakin’ it. He spent his life playin’ the martyr for a bitta attention, an’ noo that Ah seem tae have the whip hand, Ah don’t want tae gie him a way back! Though Ah think we
should warn the crematorium. Wi’ a’ the booze he’s soaked up doon the years it might be a case o’ lightin’ the blue touch paper an’ standin’ well back,
wi’ the fire brigade in attendance, just in case.’
    ‘In that case you’ll need another doctor to see the body and give a second signature,’ the young doctor replied diplomatically, obviously deciding to do what had to be done
without risking entering into lingering family conflicts by offering more sympathy. ‘I’ll arrange for someone else to call as soon as possible.’ He spoke on his mobile phone and
within fifteen minutes another doctor, possibly even younger than the first, arrived and confirmed that Cornelius Patrick Kelly had died from the complications of a long-standing condition of the
nervous system. No mention was made of the part booze had played in compromising his nervous system, but it hung in the air anyhow.
    Old Con, as everyone knew, had spent a lifetime literally pickling his nerves in alcohol, and for the five years leading up to his death he had been paralysed from the waist down. She had been