Chapter 5 - The Translator

Endless paperwork, layers of approval hierarchies, and vetted lists thwarted my efforts to find a translator. But what if our man spoke a language not listed? Would we let him wander Ireland, lost and misunderstood?

A strange feeling of pity nudged at my heart, mixing with a deep sense of loneliness and empathy. The taste of burnt coffee lingered as I gulped it down, trying to shake off the fog that clouded my mind. My eyes scanned the list of volunteers once more, and I dialled the station’s interpreter line. The duty ahead loomed, pulling me out of my groggy daze.

“Translation Services, how can I help?” The voice was calm and measured, exuding an aura of reassurance. I choked on my coffee, apologised, then launched into my explanation of the situation: “Male, early thirties, dialect I can’t place. I’ve tried Google Translate.”

The interpreter chuckled between my words, a confident interruption that emphasised his expertise. “There’s still work for us, you know. AI can’t replace our intuition and understanding. Not yet.”

I could almost hear a smile over the line. “I could come, talk to him,” he added, reinforcing his role as a crucial gatekeeper. “Is he here?”

“Still in the hospital. Released next week,” I replied, recognising the hierarchy at play and the power in his assurance.

A sigh. “We’re swamped,” came the tired admission, the weight of bureaucracy made tangible by the pressure of twelve pending translation requests stacked like an insurmountable wall. “I think it might be some obscure Slavic dialect,” I said.

“It very well might be. With tourists arriving in troves, you’re familiar with most speeches.”

“Except Catalonian. Or Portuguese.”

“Oh, there are others.”

“Could you come with me? Or send someone?”

Another exhale. “We’re quite busy, so if you could just—”

“It would help. Doctors can’t diagnose without communication.”

“Perhaps he’s a mental patient?”

“He’s not.” His hopeful eyes flashed in memory. The consequences of misunderstanding his potential condition could be severe—what if he had a serious medical condition that went undiagnosed because of the language barrier, or if a miscommunication led to a policy violation regarding patient care? The risks were too grave to ignore. “The physician confirmed no brain injury. When can I expect someone?”

“Was your request approved?”

“Yes.” My patience ran thin.

Keyboard clicks. “I could send someone tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. Hadn’t you received my approval?” Such lapses had become part of my routine, unwelcome companions often casting shadows over my efficiency.

More clicking. “Yes, we have received it and will file the request.”

“Thank you.” I forced a neutral tone, though disappointment tightened my chest. A long sigh escaped me. The wait until tomorrow to discover the stranger’s mysterious provenance felt unbearable.

The rest of the day blurred as my mind circled the mystery waiting to be solved.

Impatience prickled as I drove the twisting lane from home to the office to switch cars. My irritation throbbed with every turn, fuelled by thoughts of another day away from administrative bickering.

Poor Bailey! One benefit of growing in my trade: unpleasant tasks fell to him.

Yet, when I delegated the presentation for today’s meeting to him, his eyes shone. He glanced at his notepad, promising to take more notes.

A win-win. Relief tinged my impatience.

The next day, while I drove, emerald hills stretched to the horizon. The sun pierced the clouds, pushing them towards the unseen sea. Whenever I looked somewhere, I knew it slept far away—restless, expecting. My relationship with it was strange: part fear, part awe. Under the low sun, where sky melded with water, it became the land of gods. I could imagine Manannan mac Lir rising from its depths. No wonder our ancestors told tall stories.

I arrived at the station, parked, switched cars, and showed my face—I’d been a ghost to my admin for three days—then scanned emails, mandatory trainings, and new procedures. By mid-morning, I finished the most urgent tasks.

After brewing a cuppa, filling my thermos, I left for the hospital.

By eleven thirty, I stood at the hospital entrance waiting for the translator. While checking my phone—Mary had posted about a black kitten—a middle-aged man in a dark overcoat and grandfather’s hat approached. As he neared, he adjusted his round glasses, his thin fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, which revealed a hint of meticulousness or perhaps nervousness. He scanned the corridors with a focused gaze that caught the details of his surroundings. Two grey eyes fixed on me with uncanny interest.

“Yes?”

“Are you Sergeant O'Reilly?” His soft voice contrasted with the schoolmaster exterior. I nodded.

“And you are?”

“Dr Szubnik. Translator service.” I smiled and shook his firm hand." “Thank you for coming. This way.”

We walked in silence. I hoped my patient was in the same room. I hadn’t checked earlier—nearsightedness at its finest.

Luck held. As I approached, the hallway was silent except for the soft, steady beep of a heart monitor from within. Anxiety fluttered in my chest; every sound felt amplified in the stillness. I bit my lip in anticipation, my knuckles rapping on the door before pushing it open.

He lay on the bed with a thick book, his intense blue eyes fixed on us.

I plastered on a fake smile. “Hello!”

A scowl.

Something twisted inside me. He wasn’t a child, of course. Yet I felt a strange connection, a vulnerability he hid—or I imagined. Innocense, purity.

Or, perhaps, some new flavour of loneliness made the smallest crack in my heart ache.

Better to keep the walls. That’s why I had no friends. But he needed assistance.

His posture remained careful and rigid, his movements precise, like someone trained to survey and manage his environment in permanence, a life lived on the edge. Guarded alertness, his fitness and probing gaze suggested a trade where those were necessary. A soldier? Or maybe a spy?

I touched the book on the bedsheets, checking the book cover. A picture dictionary. English.

I guffawed. Someone had fished it from some antique place, to help the poor man. He looked at the pictures, his lips moving as if he spoke in his head. Memorising words?

I turned to the translator. “Would you approach?”

He obeyed.

“Your turn,” I told the translator.

“Zdrastvuite,” he said.

No reaction whatsoever.

"Dobar den?" the translator tried again.

Nothing. Then the man spoke—quick, light, smooth, and unfortunately incomprehensible.

“Your opinion?” I turn towards my companion.

“I don’t believe it’s Slavic,” the translator said. “Some similarities, but not a major language I could identify.”

“A dialect perhaps?”

He shook his head. “No, but I’ll record a portion, then I'll do in-depth research.”

“Yes, please." I paused before asking, "Could it be a speech impairment? Backwards speaking?” My voice sounded small, unsure.

He pondered. “No, the rhythm is too regular.”

So it was an actual language.

I touched the man’s hand lightly and mimicked speaking. “Could you talk a little more?”

The translator activated the record option.

Another trill of a smooth baritone spilt into the room. The stranger's face opened, luminous. He even smiled.

I observed him, wondering if he presented a danger to us - a decoy, a carefully constructed appearance?

Somehow it didn’t fit. He had honest eyes.

None of it made sense.

“I’m done,” the translator said. “Please keep me posted.” He left.

The foreigner remained human, whatever his provenance. Imagine being dropped where no one understands you.

Would it have been a drunken prank? A deep sleeper abandoned by friends? Men did stranger things to their mates, especially when drunk.

But dragging fifteen stones of muscle to Uisneach made no sense.

The man who called himself "Lugh" observed me, a thin smile tugging at his lips. Wasn’t he ashamed of being found nude? Did he remember? Perhaps not.

I sighed. While musing, I sat on the bed’s fringe and grasped his hand while my heart asked me to console him for our inability to help.

When I realised what I did, I jumped back, my cheeks burning.

Thank you, ADHD, he's not a lost child!

“Sorry,” I mumbled and fled the room.

While I rushed to my car, the same thought ran in circles: What in God’s name was he trying to tell us? The translator’s recording remained untouched, promising future answers. Would the truth unravel more than it solved? The mystery lingered, drawing me back as if it owned a piece of me, tugging at my mind, gnawing at my peace of mind.

What secrets lay in that pleasant voice no one understood, waiting for ears to listen and untangle?