Chapter 2 - Lost Questions

Two hours later, as I prepared to leave for the hospital to see the “divine” quack with my own eyes, another sudden gust of wind hit the window, bringing a new wave of rain that washed the fallen leaves from the sad branches. After pouring the lukewarm tea into the pot of the tropical tree in the corner, another “gift” from the superintendent, I unfolded from the chair with a huff, preparing for the task ahead. I almost considered asking the tree if it wanted a cup too—hardly anyone watered it, and it deserved some attention.

Bailey was right about one thing - our stranger broke the monotony of petty thefts, break-ins, and drunken brawls. He presented a mystery bordering on the extraordinary. Found naked, he raised questions about his mental state. We had to identify him quickly to see if he was a foreign national, which made it urgent. If he were from another country, we needed to avoid diplomatic friction.

I should have stayed in the relative comfort of the station. As soon as I cracked open the door, a cascade of water spilt over me. I expected it, but still shuddered. Living in Ireland meant enduring rain from the earliest age and worshipping the sun whenever it appeared.

Worse than usual, today brought a torrential downpour that drenched me. My so-called raincoat, more show than shelter, clung to my body. “Fashion is overrated when it’s leaking.” Why had I let Mary convince me to choose style over practicality?

Resting for a heartbeat beneath the awning, I exhaled and prepared for the short walk to the unmarked police car. Charcoal clouds blanketed the sky, their shadows twisted on the ground. The keen northern wind hunted the last leaves clinging to branches. My cheeks burned from the cold. If not for the rain, I’d have no problem with fall.

Huffing with displeasure and extra pounds from skipped gym sessions, I fumbled with the key. At last, I slid inside, only to have a sheet of rain follow and soak my pants. At least he wasn’t just another guy stealing a tractor. Small mercies.

My mood only worsened. Everything clung to my skin. Being wet, while only my underpants stayed dry, I hated the rain so much. Turning up the heat, I listened as rhythmic wipers calmed me. How pathetically out of breath I felt after only three hundred yards. Shit! With the annual fitness test approaching, and I hadn’t even started training!

I slapped myself back to my task. Right, to the hospital. I knew almost every twist and turn of the road by heart. My mind wandered again. How many times, as a bobby on the street, had I brought pitiful drunkards or pseudo-UFC fighters to the ER, often cocky lads, sometimes gals too.

Overall, I cannot complain. The countryside lacked big-city excitement, but I did not regret it. Larry and Rex consumed my energy after hours, so I never wanted more. I needed rest. Desk work filled the hours until I returned to my actual job: being a spouse and dog mom.

And now we’ve got this quack, sleeping nude in the cairns! Well, I guess a little excitement never killed anybody.

I reminded myself the man might be a victim—someone trapped by circumstances I couldn’t yet grasp. Only time would tell his story, but I needed to see him myself.

While my mind drifted in this flow space where you’re focused without being so, I thought about the man, trying to picture him. Bailey had blurted out about luminous skin and blushed. Since when had he become so poetic? Maybe Bailey was attracted to men but hid it in the force to avoid judgement. I wondered if that’s why he sounded so dreamy, or if I was reading too much into it. The force still wasn’t the easiest place for change.

An atheist but raised Catholic, I pictured the man as the picture of Jesus that used to hang over Granny’s bed—blond curls and blue eyes, beatifically smiling at any observer while his hand lifted in a silent blessing.

The usual radio chatter filled the car, and I half-listened to the exchanges between different units and the dispatcher while mulling over chores I had to finish. Larry’s parents threatened to visit, and although I didn’t hate them, the effort exhausted me in advance. I’d have to stop at the grocery before heading home. As I tried to picture my fridge’s contents, static snapped my attention back. The radio crackled with a new message, bringing me back to focus as my boss’s voice sliced through the mental fog.

“Where are you? Have you sent the logistics proposal?” His impatience simmered through the connection.

“Almost finished,” I replied. “You’ll have it by the end of the week. I’m on a follow-up call right now.”

“Very well. I’ll expect your work by then.” A click.

Another thing to think about. I inhaled with new sharpness.

As I turned my attention back to the drive, I mapped out how to wrap up the tedious proposal my chief demanded. Management would likely scrap it, anyway.

I envisioned what to include in the PowerPoint slides.

Outside, the world bled in muted hues, broken into an abstract picture under the rain.

Traffic increased as I neared the hospital, and I had to search for parking. My heart did strange flips. Nervous? Eager? I’d never felt that before. Why now? Was I unsettled about meeting Jesus?

Or, was it something deeper, the uncertainty of his true nature - a victim, threat, or something impossible? Unbeliever, I wanted to believe.

Everything was possible in some contexts, and I was heading to meet the stranger.

I corrected myself.

Meeting Lugh.

The ridiculousness of it made me smirk. “If he asked for a harp and a chariot next, I wouldn’t have blinked.” I giggled.

When I arrived, I had to circle only twice before spotting an empty place. Civilians wrongly believe that police can park wherever they choose. Only a couple of spots are dedicated to police, and those are only for emergencies.

The rain relented, and pale rays broke through the grey sky. Everything gleamed. Mud splashed off my boots as if the earth pushed me forward. Buildings, cars, and walkways glistened. To my surprise, the drive had dried my clothes. I checked the mirror, smoothed my hair, and hurried to the hospital. Another downpour was only a matter of time.

Inside, familiar sounds and smells hit me: grunts and whimpers of patients, the coppery scent of blood intermixed with harsh antiseptics. Focused ahead, I neared the nurses’ station. Several overworked women in scrubs watched me with wariness.

“I’m here to see the unnamed man Gardai brought earlier today. Here’s the incident report number.” I flashed credentials.

The older, plumper nurse with tired eyes waved a hand in the direction. “Room 12B.”

I nodded. “Thank you. Any news?”

“You should speak with the doctor. I cannot say whether we have the results yet.”

Blood thudded in my ears. My heart pounded. I tensed and drummed my fingers on my damp leg while I walked, eyes darting down the empty hallway.

Approaching, my heart lurched. Again, I wondered what made me react this way. The reason may be more down-to-earth: Had I eaten lunch? My stomach answered with a growl. Lunch could wait. Gourmet options never featured at hospitals, and healthy food made me gag, anyway.

I followed the directions, but didn’t need to go far. The right door stood cracked open. I hesitated, mocked my nerves, and, resolute, pushed it wider. A broad silhouette lay on the bed. His sleep let me observe him, though unease prickled at the back of my head.

The stranger shattered my preconceived image. Objectively, the man was striking. Unlike Granny’s Jesus, sunlight and hope shimmered in his locks. Described as blond, his hair gleamed with copper, silver, and pale gold. It looked soft as silk. His features dismissed any likeness to the Son of God: wide jaw with stubble, high-flushed cheeks, straight blond brows, and a delicate nose trembling with each breath like a fine-bred horse.

A pink, well-formed mouth.

Yet, he was definitely human. His skin, ivory pale with no visible blemishes, tattoos, or piercings at first glance, almost shone under the diffused hospital lights. Bailey’s blunder wasn’t without foundation.

I furrowed my brow, still puzzled. Was it his beauty that bothered me, or did something else feel off about this encounter? I tried to pinpoint my discomfort.

Awkward and uneasy, I shook my head, hoping the stranger wouldn’t wake and see me gawking. It was my job, but still. Luckily, he was asleep.

As if sensing my arrival, his lashes trembled, and then two piercing blue eyes, pure as a summer sky, stared at me. I read curiosity and hope in them, though I might be mistaken. I’m no mind reader, just a policewoman.

After I glanced at my watch, I sighed, feeling the prick of time’s pressure. The shift’s end loomed closer, and I wished for nothing more than rest.

But the mystery he represented pulled me more.

“Good day,” I said. “I’m Sergeant O’Reilly with the Gardai. How do you feel?”

The stunning man lifted his brows, his gaze blank with incomprehension. He mumbled something under his breath.

“Say that again?” I prompted, focusing on his words, trying to identify the language. If he genuinely didn’t speak English, we’d need a translator—once we figured out which kind.

A deep, velvety baritone filled the room. The man spoke too fast. Words tumbled out. For a second, I almost recognised the language, then the impression flickered away.

No, I could not figure it out. It wasn’t Italian, Spanish, German, or French.

I was fairly sure it wasn’t Slavic either.

Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t European. Some countries had many dialects, and some were so different from the primary one that they sounded like distinct languages.

But in 2025, we had another tool up our sleeve: the magic of Google. You speak to a smartphone for it to identify and translate the language.

I activated the mic and held it to his face. The stranger flinched back and stared at the device as if he had never seen one before.

After seeing his reaction, I spoke into the mic, then reached out to him. An understanding flashed in his eyes, even if the wariness remained.

Another string of sounds escaped his lips, and I approached the phone with anticipation. The translation remained blank. A nurse passed by, casting a curious glance into the room. Did I imagine the brief flicker of amusement in her glance, or was it recognition?

I shook my head. A trick of the light or just my overactive imagination?

Undeterred, I repeated the procedure, this time choosing the AI option and asking it to identify the speech.

The response surprised me.

Instead of a single sentence about the country of provenance, several long paragraphs and references appeared on the screen. AI could not identify the language, but the closest it found was Irish. Still, it warned that it was not Gaelige in any version nor Old Irish. A flash of doubt crept in. If machines couldn’t decode him, were they reliable enough? Relying on technology had its limits, but it raised the stakes for me, forcing me to search for a solution.

This man spoke an unknown language. Either he had lost his mind, or he pretended not to understand.

Or AI had limitations and couldn’t identify the dialect's provenance.

Perhaps a powerful shot of drugs had scrambled his brain.

Or he was crazy and had invented a language, believing it real. I heard that brain lesions could cause similar effects.

Time to speak with the doctor.

Yet curious, I tried one last time. I touched my chest. “O’Reilly. You?” I touched his.

A luminous smile stretched across his expressive mouth. “Lugh.”

Yes, to the doctor. Perhaps the psychiatrist, too.

I will do everything in my power to prevent another unfortunate incident, as the one about the man who was assaulted the year prior.