The Miracle Man by James Skivington Page B

stood before his desk grinning like he was about to be pronounced sane.
    “It’s very good of you to see us at such short notice, Doctor,” the priest said. “This is the man I was telling you about – Mr McGhee.”
    The odour that wafted across the desk caught the doctorunawares and he drew his head back sharply, leaving Limpy under the misapprehension that the doctor was mightily impressed by him.
    “How’re ye, Doc?” Limpy said. “I’ve never had the pleasure of being unfortunate enough to need yer services. Thank God,” he added, for Father Burke’s sake. Limpy judged that his new status demanded a more formal manner of speech. After all, he wasn’t just anybody now.
    Doctor Walsh regarded him with a distaste that would have been obvious to anyone but Limpy.
    “You said something about – a leg – Father?” The doctor looked down at Limpy’s lower limbs as if they harboured a virulent plague, something that was not outside the bounds of possibility.
    “Yes, Doctor. Mr McGhee appears to have undergone – shall we say an instantaneous recovery from a lifelong affliction. A severe limp.”
    Limpy held himself a little straighter and beamed.
    “And how long have you had this limp, Mr McGhee?”
    “I inherited it from me father. He had one the dead spit of it.”
    “You – inherited it.” The doctor sighed, saying under his breath, “Dear God.” Aloud he said, “I see. And now its completely gone?”
    “Devil the sign of it. In fact, I would venture my opinion, Doc,” Limpy wound himself up to it, ready to deliver the phrase so lovingly fashioned and burnished in his mind, “that it was nothing less than what you might call – a celestial transplant, thanks be to God.” He slapped his restored leg and said, “She’s as good as new.” And then with his little choking laugh said, “In fact, better than new!”
    Doctor Walsh gave a pained look to Father Burke, who did not reciprocate. A strange light gleamed in the eyes of the young priest.
    “A celestial transplant,” the doctor said through clenched teeth. If he had had that shotgun, it wouldn’t be the pigeons he would be aiming it at now.
    “I’d like you to examine him, Doctor, if you would. To verify that the leg is in perfect working order.”
    Doctor Burke’s gaze slowly descended from Limpy’s matted grey hair to the toes of his battered boots.
    “A visual examination, I think.”
    There was a riverful of fish waiting to be caught and he had to be stuck with these two fools. He waved a hand.
    “Just – walk up and down there a bit Mr McGhee, will you?”
    Limpy promptly complied, with an enthusiasm born of novelty, and almost goose-stepped back and forth across the small room, whirling round at each end by means of a fancy three-step routine that seemed to have come naturally to him, as it had been entirely unpractised.
    “Amazing,” Father Burke murmured. “Amazing.”
    “Mr McGhee,” Doctor Walsh barked, “I didn’t ask for the Highland Fling. Just walk up and down in what passes for a normal manner.”
    When Limpy had done so, the doctor asked him to get onto the low examination table and slip down his trousers. This revealed two skinny and hairless legs and a pair of tattered underpants, all of which were covered in a grey patina of dirt. Limpy looked down at his legs as though he had just made their acquaintance.
    “It’s this one, Doc. I swear to God it could run a mile on it’s own.”
    Doctor Walsh regarded the miraculous leg.
    “Now that would be a miracle.” He took a pencil from his desk and poked the flesh around the hip joint. “Judging by the colour of this limb, Mr McGhee, it would appear that your so-called “celestial transplant” was from a donor of somewhatmore Asian origins than yourself. Tell me – and I hesitate to use a profanity in front of a man of the cloth – but, do you have such a thing as a bath in your house?”
    “Ah, you obviously don’t know his house, Doctor,” the