Jane screamed, ‘Shutupshutupshutupshutupyoufuckenbitchshutyourmouth.’

‘Why is Daddy mixed in with … well, with female patients?’ Claire asked loudly of Molly upon her return, holding out a kidney dish in front of her. Claire was getting flustered now at the screaming Jane, and darted her eyes around the Ward as though looking for an escape route, or another person to dump blame on. ‘Look here, it’s obvious we need a private room, in fact we deserve one, we’ve got private insurance, premium plan, and, really, if the Minister for Health could see this, you know, he’s very good friends with Daddy, despite, you know … being rivals.’

‘Opposition,’ Hegs said.

‘Yes, opposites. And we have …’ she said, ‘contacts.’ She waved a folded Sunday Independent at Moran as if this were the contact, or as though it would pay heed to Hegs and his shared doom/dorm. Claire Hegarty had an interesting, if naive, faith that highlighting the lack of facilities in the shoddy unhealthy service was going to do Hegs favours.

‘And my God,’ she said, ‘but surely there’s some sort of protocol?’

‘Protocol?’ Moran said, eyeing the paper.

‘Oh, anything could happen to him on this mixed ward. That’s why we don’t mix boys and girls at school. It’s very dangerous … and really,’ she lowered her voice, ‘he’s a government official, he’s doing his duty to – and for – the public sector. Bode you all well to remember that.’

Hegs was a county councillor in a political party that was failing badly since it had destroyed itself and the country’s finances during a hedonistic (for some) Celtic Tiger. Defending himself, he wanted it known that starting out as a young politician there were not many alternatives in Ireland after the foundation of the state. It was really a frustratingly bi-partisan-imperial-theocratic-male-option, and he followed in his father’s footsteps. Centre or right of centre. But Hegs wasn’t awfully keen on us interjecting in his political monologues and countered it with a, where would you move to, love? (Love, ugh.) It’s not the done thing, he explained, just to party hop because the country was up shit creek, sure he hadn’t even been to the Galway Races, don’t mind ever indulged in a bottle of champagne or even a helicopter ride, and he had most definitely never received a brown envelope of any kind, but he had an allegiance to the party, because it was tradition amongst his people, and he was a popular choice in the local council elections, out west, past Galway city towards Connemara, further than Beyond Barna and just shy of Ellis Island. And what was I looking for? Surely not gender quotas. He was wary giving exact geographic coordinates. The Ireland apparently saved from colonisation. He cheered softly. Giving us all a fat thumbs-up, as though the colonisation were last week. And saved from Cromwell. Both thumbs up again. That part of west that was full of rocks and full up with sadness in the little sacks grown men develop under their eyes, the accumulation of tears they don’t cry as they walk along, shut down, like an out-of-season seaside café.