SCENE: Monday morning. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

Liam, Donal, Avril, Shamie, and Paul are standing in the dining room, regarding the wall. Camera on them, we cannot see the wall. Liam and Donal look impressed. Avril looks disturbed. Shamie looks skeptical in an amused way. Paul looks enthusiastic.

Donal nods decisively: I think it looks grand.

Paul agrees energetically: It's just what this place needs.

Avril, uncomfortably: I feel like he's watching me.
She begins to slowly walk back and forth, keeping her eyes on the wall.

CUT TO: Wall.

There is a large photographic bust portrait of Brian Quigley, arms folded, grinning proudly, hanging on one wall of the restaurant.

CUT BACK TO: Dining room.

Shamie: I think you're going to put the diners off their lunch.

Donal, reprimandingly: That's no way to speak of the dead.

Shamie, matter-of-factly: I'm not speaking of the dead; I'm speaking of our customers.

Avril rejoins the group, shivers, announces unhappily: I don't think I'll be able to concentrate with his eyes following me around like that.

Paul looks over at Avril, seriously: If he were still with us, he'd be keeping an eye on you, too.

Liam nudges Donal and winks at him.

Paul opens his arms wide and gestures around the room: It's a tribute to the founder of this great establishment.
He looks at the assembled employees: Keeps his spirit alive. You can almost feel his presence, can't you?
He looks back up at the portrait, a wicked gleam in his eye.

Donal realizes what Liam meant and snickers. Everybody else silently regards the portrait.

CUT TO: Portrait.

Hold shot.

ROLL TITLES

SCENE: Tuesday noon. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

Brendan is sitting alone at a table, eating lunch. There are no other customers.

Avril approaches, sits down in an empty seat at Brendan's table so that she is facing the wall with the portrait of Brian, looks up at the portrait, in hushed tones: Spooky, isn't it?

Brendan stops eating, turns around (he is sitting with his back to the portrait) and glances at the portrait, then turns back to Avril, nods in agreement: It is a bit.
He pauses, then, indicating the empty dining room, half-joking: Is that what's keeping the other customers away?

CUT TO: Doorway to kitchen.

Shamie is standing in the open doorway, leaning against the door frame, arms folded, proudly: Sure and it's not my cooking.

CUT BACK TO: Dining room.

Brendan and Avril look over to Shamie. Brendan laughs shortly: Certainly not.
He indicates his plate: This beats Assumpta's stir-about any day of the week.
He winks at Avril: But don't let her know I said it.

Avril, curiously: Is that why you keep coming back? For the food?

Brendan, innocently: Of course. Why else?

CUT TO: Doorway to kitchen.

Shamie smirks to himself, turns, and goes back into the kitchen.

SCENE: Tuesday afternoon. Overcast. Church garden in Cilldargan exterior.

A local church-run fete is underway. There are various carnival stands decorated with balloons and a stage set up. Peter, with several boys from the county youth services center, stands at the gate to the entrance. The boys start to run off in different directions.

Peter reaches out to grab one of them, calls to the rest: Hey, hey, synchronize watches!
The boys stop in their tracks. Peter lets go of the boy he had grabbed and looks at his watch: It's now four o'clock. I want to see you all back here at half five.

Most of the boys jostle each other and look at their watches.

One boy whines petulantly: But sir, I haven't got a watch.

Peter, patiently: Then make sure you pair up with someone who does.
He looks around at the rest of the boys, raises his eyebrows, warns: That goes for all of you. No wandering off alone. I don't want a repeat of what happened at the lake that time, right, Harry?
He points at Harry.

Harry, truculently: No, sir.

Another boy punches Harry lightly on the upper arm and chuckles.

Peter claps his hands together, energetically: OK, off you go then.

The boys dash off in all directions, except for one 11-year-old, who stands alone and forlorn, looking at Peter.

Peter steps over to him, looks down at him, kindly: Rhys, what do you need?

Rhys, sadly: I haven't got anyone to walk around with.

Peter: Well, neither have I. That works out pretty well, doesn't it?
He puts his arm around Rhys's shoulders, looks out at the stands: Come on, I smell sausages.
They start to walk toward the stands.

SCENE: Somewhat later. Church fete.

Closeup of poster showing Baltinglass Abbey Resort Hotel. Pan back to show poster hanging inside a stand at the fete. There are various prizes on display as well, including some books, small toys, and sports fan paraphenalia. There is a sign over the stand that reads "RAFFLE FOR BENEFIT OF ST. MARY'S." A portly, red-faced, middle-aged woman is busy at the cash box. Peter is standing alone in front of the stand.

Peter greets the woman: Hey, Margaret.

Margaret looks up and smiles: Oh, hello, Peter. Care to buy a ticket?

Peter reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, goodnaturedly: If it's for St. Mary's.
He pulls out his wallet and opens it, pulls out some notes: I'll take ten.

Margaret takes his money, places it carefully in a metal cash drawer.

Peter nods toward the sports equipment: I'm sure the boys wouldn't mind getting their hands on some of those sports souvenirs.
He replaces his wallet in his back pocket.

Margaret turns and looks at the sports paraphenalia: Mrs. Dodson donated them.
She turns back to Peter, explains solemnly: After her husband died, she didn't know what to do with it all.
She picks up a booklet of tickets and hands it to Peter, smiles: Good luck. The drawing's this evening during the concert.

Peter: Thanks, but I won't be able to stay. I'll tell you what, will you let me know if we win the souvenirs?
He holds the tickets out to Margaret.

Margaret takes the tickets back with a kindly smile: Sure thing. Let me just write your name on them so I keep it straight.
She puts the booklet down on the shelf in front of her, pulls a pen out from behind her ear, and writes on the booklet. Then she looks up at Peter: If you do win a prize, I'll bring it over to the youth center tomorrow.

Peter laughs shortly, indicates the books on display behind her: Thanks, but if it's one of those cookbooks, you can keep it.

Margaret jokes: You reckon the boys won't be keen on baking a mince pie?

Peter deadpans: If it can't be cooked in sixty seconds in the microwave, it's not in their repertoire.

SCENE: Wednesday morning. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

Closeup of photographic portrait of Liam and Donal, in similar pose as Brian was in his photograph, arms folded, grinning proudly. Pan back to show photograph of Liam and Donal hanging on the wall where the photograph of Brian used to be.

CUT TO: Dining room.

Liam, Donal, Avril, and Shamie are standing in front of the wall, looking up at the picture. Liam reaches up and adjusts the photograph so that it hangs straight. He steps back to admire it.

Donal nods decisively: I think it looks grand.

Liam agrees, enthusiastically: Now THAT'S what this place needed.

Shamie says to Avril: Now they can watch you even when they aren't here.

Avril makes a sarcastic face at Shamie that says, "That's very funny".

Shamie leans around Avril to ask Donal and Liam: What do you reckon Mr. Quigley'll think of you taking down his picture in favor of yourselves?

Liam, flippantly: I don't reckon we'll be hearing any complaints.

Shamie, doubtfully: I don't know. My grandmother swears my grandfather grumbles all night if she ever forgets to set a place for him at the table. And he's been dead for seventeen years.

Liam: Would that be your Chinese grandmother or your Irish one?

Shamie, insulted: What difference does that make?

Liam, condescendingly: Because this here's Ireland. We can't be bothered with Chinese ghosts.

Donal, insistently: No, he's right, Liam. My Nana told me to respect the spirits, too.
He has second thoughts: Maybe we should put Mr. Quigley's picture back up.

Liam, dismissively: Naah.
He gestures up at the photograph of them, smiles proudly: This is much better. Mr. Quigley may have started the restaurant, but we've made it what it is today.

Avril and Shamie exchange a skeptical look.

SCENE: Wednesday afternoon. County youth services room interior.

Peter and the boys are gathered around a large conference table covered with newspaper, working on building models. Peter is leaning over two boys, helping them glue something. A knock sounds at the door. All turn to look at the door.

CUT TO: Doorway.

Margaret is standing there, waving an envelope and beaming: Hi, everybody. I hope I'm not disturbing?

CUT TO: Room interior.

Peter straightens up, hopefully: No, Margaret, not at all. Did we actually win something useful?

Margaret steps into the room, looks around at the boys, apologetically: Well, I don't know how useful you all will find it, but I wouldn't feel right keeping it for myself.
She holds out the envelope to Peter.

Peter frowns, intrigued, and takes the envelope.

The boys crowd around him and try to look at the envelope: What is it? What is it?

Peter opens the envelope, pulls out a colorful brochure and a couple of pieces of paper, glances at them, turns them over, confused: I'm not sure.
He looks at Margaret: What is it?

Margaret: You won the star prize!

SCENE: Wednesday evening. Fitzgerald's interior.

Brendan and Peter are sitting at a table by themselves with beers and plates of food in front of them.

Brendan, impressed: A weekend for two?

Peter, curious: Do you know the Baltinglass Abbey?
He hands him the brochure that came in the envelope.

Brendan takes the brochure, flips through it, expounds: Sure, it was a medieval monastery that fell into disrepair, but it was bought up by some development company in the seventies and rebuilt into a luxury hotel. I've never been there, I couldn't afford it, but it's supposed to be beautiful.

Assumpta comes up to their table: What's beautiful?

Peter looks up at her, smiles, takes her hand: You are.

Brendan looks down, smiles to himself.

Assumpta, pleased: If you're hoping for another free drink, you'll have to do better than that.
She sees the brochure in Brendan's hand, gestures at it, curious: What's this?

Brendan holds the brochure out to Assumpta and appears about to explain, but Peter grabs the brochure and interrupts him: I was thinking of taking the boys from the youth center on a field trip, but it looks like all traces of historical interest have been remodeled out of existence.

Assumpta loses interest, changes the subject, says to Brendan: You've been rather scarce around here. Been packing your lunch?

Brendan looks down: Erm...yeah, I've been eating with a friend.

Assumpta: Well, bring him around sometime.

Brendan nods, noncommittally: Right.

Assumpta looks around, briskly: Can I get you two anything else?

Brendan gestures at his nearly empty glass, glad for a change of subject: Another pint?

Peter raises his finger: For me, too.

Assumpta: Coming right up.
She turns and leaves.

Brendan watches her leave, then leans over across the table toward Peter, confused: Why didn't you want her to know about the Abbey? Aren't you going to take her for the weekend?

Peter protests: I can't go away with her for a romantic weekend where we aren't married! To say nothing of the fact that she's still officially married to Leo.

Brendan sits back, considers: Still, it seems a shame to waste the opportunity.
He picks up his glass and finishes it off, winks: If you can't find anyone else, I'll volunteer.

Peter reaches for his glass to finish it off, too, half smiles: I'll let you know.

SCENE: Wednesday night. Fitzgerald's interior.

The bar is closed. Dirty glasses and ashtrays are piled on the top of the bar. Oonagh and Assumpta are behind the bar, cleaning up.

Paul is leaning across the bar, says to Oonagh, impatiently: Can't you leave that until tomorrow?

Assumpta, annoyed: Nobody's forcing you stay.

Paul inclines his head toward Oonagh, says to Assumpta: She is. Wants a ride home.

Peter brings some glasses over to be cleaned, puts them on the bar, offers: Oonagh, you go on. I'll take over.

Oonagh protests: Oh, no, Peter, it won't take long.
She forces a smile at Paul: Paul will just have to wait five more minutes.

Peter goes around behind the bar, takes the towel out of Oonagh's hands: I insist.

Paul: You heard the man.
He straightens up and steps toward the door.

Oonagh: Are you sure?

Peter ushers Oonagh around the bar toward the door, with exaggerated patience: You're doing me a favor.

CUT TO: Door interior.

Paul stands at the door, holding Oonagh's coat, impatiently: Can't you see they want to be alone? Let's go.

Peter and Oonagh arrive at the door. Peter glares at Paul: Thanks, Paul.

Paul opens the door, grins: No problem.
He hands Oonagh her coat, doesn't help her into it. He steps out the door, doesn't hold it for Oonagh

Peter catches the door, holds it open for Oonagh. Oonagh turns back to Assumpta, cheerily: Good night, I'll be in early tomorrow to finish up.
She leaves.

CUT TO: Behind the bar.

Assumpta waves from behind the bar: Thanks, Oonagh. Good night.

CUT TO: Door.

Peter closes the door and bolts it, leans his back against it: I thought they'd never leave.

CUT TO: Behind the bar.

Assumpta, still washing up, warns Peter, half-joking: You'd better not have anything in mind other than these glasses.

Peter (voice off-camera): Heaven forbid.
He comes back around behind the bar, grabs Assumpta around the waist: I can't stay long anyway. I'll just help you finish up here, then I've got to get back to Cilldargan. Workday tomorrow.

Assumpta tosses the bar towel down behind her with a flourish, looks into Peter's eyes: All finished.

Peter regards the mess on the bar, deadpans: I think that spell would work better if you twitched your nose.

Assumpta walks past Peter, takes his hand, leads him toward the lounge.

CUT TO: Lounge.

Assumpta and Peter are sitting next to each other on a sofa. Peter's arm is around Assumpta's shoulders. She is leaning her head against his shoulder, has one hand on his leg.

Assumpta closes her eyes, happily: I can't wait until you move back to BallyK for good.

Peter gives her shoulder a squeeze: You and me both.

Assumpta: No more commuting back and forth to Cilldargan.
She pats his leg, satisfied: I'll have you right where I want you.

Peter clarifies: Well, I will still be commuting back and forth to Cilldargan, but not after midnight.

Assumpta frowns, turns her head toward him: What do you mean?

Peter turns his head toward her: I've a job. I don't plan on giving that up.

Assumpta: You mean at the youth center?
She stares off into the distance.

Peter: I've only just built up a rapport with them. I made a commitment that I can't just break. They've been disappointed enough in their lives.

Assumpta, troubled: I thought you'd help me run the bar.

Peter reassures her: I'll be here in the evenings. And don't tell me the extra income won't be welcome.

They are both silent for a moment, considering.

Assumpta turns her head back toward Peter: If you worked here full time, I'd save Oonagh's salary.

Peter rejoins: And put her out of work.
He rubs Assumpta's shoulder, says good-naturedly: You thought you were just going to get some slave labour out of this deal, didn't you?

Assumpta grins: What other reason could I have?

They are both silent for a moment, looking into the distance and enjoying each other's presence.

Peter, nonchalantly: So how long do you think it might be? Before I can move back here permanently, I mean?

Assumpta: If it were up to me, you could come back tomorrow. Tonight, even.

Peter starts to shake his head, but Assumpta interrupts him: I know, but it's better if we wait.
Resignedly: You're right.
She sighs: If I could make it go any faster, I would. Mr. Reynolds says it could be another six months.

Peter widens his eyes: Phhhh.

Assumpta, emphatically: I know. It's almost enough to make me believe in the Almighty.

Peter frowns: How do you mean?

Assumpta: When I think about all the obstacles that have been put in our way, it almost looks like someone up there is out to thwart us.

Peter, thoughtfully: You know, I kind of see it the other way.
He pauses to gather his thoughts, then says: I mean, look how far we've come despite all of your "obstacles". It seems to me that whenever something happens that ought to keep us apart, God, or, if you will, fate, intervenes to put us back on the right path.

Assumpta challenges Peter: So was it fate or was it God?

Peter: What's the difference? You might feel more comfortable calling it fate, since that doesn't force you to admit a belief in an all-powerful Creator. But to me it comes down to the same thing: a benevolent, loving force who is watching out for us and who has a plan for our lives.

Assumpta thinks about this, looks down.

Peter continues: I did a lot of praying while you were lying in a coma. And I wasn't the only one. There was Niamh, Brendan, Leo, everyone. Even Father Mac.

Assumpta, incredulous: Father Mac?

Peter nods, insists: Believe it or not. He doesn't wish you any harm. In fact, I think it hurts him personally that you feel such animosity toward him.

Assumpta pulls away from Peter, sits up straight to look at him, holds both hands up to stop him, accusatorily: Whoa, wait a minute. I don't know what nonsense dear old Father McAnally has been filling your head with. But don't make me out to be the evil-doer between us.
She points in the general direction of the church and waves her finger back and forth, starts to raise her voice: That animosity is a two-way street. He and I have a history that goes way back before you even thought about entering the priesthood.
She looks flushed.

Peter laughs shortly to break the tension: Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stir up old hostilities.
He looks down, holds Assumpta's hands in his, calmly: I just wanted to say, that your recovery, the fact that you didn't die, the fact that you are sitting here next to me, in full control of your physical and mental faculties, is a miracle that I personally ascribe to the power of God.
He looks her in the eyes, slowly and intently: You are a gift.

Assumpta, sarcastically: God's gift to mankind, eh?

Peter looks hurt, looks down, lifts one hand to squeeze his eyes, drops his hand again, says steadily: It's late. I think I'd better go now.
He stands up.

Assumpta stands up, too, puts one hand on her hip and one on her forehead, looks down: Look, Peter.
She takes her hand off her forehead, folds her arms across her chest and looks up at Peter: I'm under a lot of pressure and this whole God thing is a touchy subject for us at any time.

Peter reaches out and holds Assumpta's shoulders, looks at her, says gently: I love you, Assumpta. But I love God, too.
He leans over and kisses Assumpta lightly on the lips, whispers: Good night.
He turns and leaves.

Assumpta stands alone, looking like she might cry.

Sound of door being unbolted, opening, and closing.

SCENE: Thursday morning. Prawn Cracker restaurant exterior.

Liam, Donal, and Shamie are unloading a van in front of the restaurant. Shamie is holding a heavy box in both hands, standing by the door, waiting for someone to open it.

CUT TO: Door interior.

Through the glass of the door we can see Donal and Shamie standing outside. Donal unlocks the door and pushes it open. Both he and Shamie try to walk through the door at the same time.

Shamie stops, gives Donal a cold smile, inclines his head toward the restaurant interior: After you.

Donal shrugs: OK.
He walks in, lets the door fall shut behind him. He walks into the dining room.

Through the glass door we see Shamie still standing outside, holding the box. Liam comes over, opens the door for Shamie, and lets him go in first.

Shamie enters the restaurant, calls over to Donal: Thanks, Donal.
He walks into the dining room also.

Liam enters the restaurant also, carrying a shopping bag in one hand.

CUT TO: Dining room.

The dining room is still dark, but light comes from the front window and door. Donal is standing in front of the wall with the photograph, staring at it blankly.

Shamie passes by with the box on his way to the kitchen, doesn't even glance at the photograph: How's it looking, Narcissus?

Donal does not respond, keeps staring at the photograph.

Liam approaches, says to Donal: Come on, there's more to be unloaded.
He walks past toward the kitchen.

Donal, not taking his eyes from the photograph, frowns, rests his right elbow against his left fist, and places his right fist against his mouth. He remains so for a few seconds.

Liam returns, pokes Donal: You can admire the picture later. Let's get the rest of the stuff.
He glances up at the photograph in passing, is about to continue to the door, does a double take, and stops dead in his tracks, stares at the photograph. He comes over to stand next to Donal. He scratches his head.

Donal breaks the silence: Do you see what I see?

Liam pauses, then: Yeah, I reckon so.

Donal, hopefully: You didn't replace it, did you?

Liam slowly shakes his head: Nope.

Donal and Liam think really hard for a moment, brows furrowed, then simultaneously turn to each other and smile. Both say together, relieved: Shamie!

Shamie (voice off-camera): Yo?

Liam calls over to the kitchen, good-naturedly: Shamie, you should have discussed it with us before you replaced Mr. Quigley's picture.

Shamie (voice off-camera): What?

Donal, to Liam: Maybe we should just leave it.

CUT TO: Shot of the photograph on the wall. Brian's photograph is back in place.

SCENE: Thursday morning. Fitzgerald's door interior.

A shadow appears against the glass: someone is at the door. Sound of someone trying to open the door, but it is still bolted. The person knocks at the door.

Oonagh (voice muffled): Assumpta? It's me.

Pause, then Oonagh knocks again.

Sound of uneven footsteps approaching. Assumpta, looking sleepy and unkempt, arrives at the door, unbolts it, and opens it: Oonagh, sorry, I forgot you were coming in early.
She steps back from the door to let Oonagh enter, walks back toward the kitchen.

Oonagh enters, closes the door behind her, looks around the pub: Good thing, too.
She tries to suppress a smile: Looks like you didn't get much work done last night after we left.
She takes off her coat and hangs it on the rack, follows Assumpta into the kitchen.

CUT TO: Fitzgerald's kitchen interior.

Assumpta sits down at the table. There is a cup already on the table in front of her.

Oonagh enters the kitchen, looks more carefully at Assumpta, slightly surprised, meaningfully: Looks like you didn't get much sleep, either.
She goes to the cupboard and gets herself a cup, puts it on the table.

Assumpta leans her elbows on the table, holds her head: It's not what you think. After Peter left, I had a couple of drinks.

Oonagh goes to the stove and picks up the kettle, brings it to the table and pours herself some tea. She holds the kettle over Assumpta's cup, offers: Top you up?

Assumpta slowly shakes her head, points into her cup: It's coffee.

Oonagh puts the kettle back on the stove, sits down opposite Assumpta at the table. They are both silent. Assumpta watches her cup. Oonagh watches Assumpta.

Oonagh, conversationally: If there's anything you want to talk about...

Assumpta straightens up, holds her cup with both hands, glances at Oonagh then looks back down at her cup, says unconvincingly: No...

Oonagh: Now that Niamh's moved away, I don't know if you have someone around here you can talk to.

Assumpta puts down her cup, looks at Oonagh curiously, challenges her: Are you going into the confession business?

Oonagh continues, mildly: Now I think you should know by now that I always keep my mouth closed about things that are no concern of mine.
She raises her eyebrows, cocks her head to one side, half smiles: Paul, on the other hand, is a fish of a different color.

Assumpta snorts in amusement.

Oonagh: Anyway, I'm here to listen if you need someone.

Assumpta smiles slightly: Thanks.

Oonagh picks up her tea cup, smiles: Now let's finish up here and get cracking on the bar.
She takes a sip.

Assumpta smiles back and takes a sip of her coffee.

SCENE: Thursday lunchtime. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

Brendan is sitting alone at his usual table. Frankie and Fr Vincent are at another table nearby, but in the background. There are a couple of other customers, too.

Avril brings a plate of food to Brendan's table, places it in front of him, smiles: There you go. Can I get you anything else?

Brendan looks at the plate, shakes his head: No, that's fine.
He half turns around toward the wall with the photograph: I see they've put Brian back up.
He looks back at Avril: Good choice. The thought of Liam and Donal breathing down my neck during lunch was nearly enough to send me back to Assumpta's, despite the otherwise considerable charms of this place.
He smiles at Avril.

Avril smiles back at Brendan, pleased. Then she leans over toward him, says in a stage whisper: Actually, nobody's owning up to putting Mr. Quigley's picture back up. Shamie swears he didn't do it.

Brendan raises his eyebrows, curiously: And you...?

Avril straightens up: I admit, given the two choices, I prefer this one...
She gestures with her thumb over her shoulder toward the picture: But if I'd taken Liam and Donal down, I certainly wouldn't have replaced them with him. Maybe a nice nature scene.
She looks doubtfully at the picture.

Brendan turns toward the picture, too, nods thoughtfully.

SCENE: Thursday afternoon. Fitzgerald's interior.

There are a couple of extras at a table. Assumpta is behind the bar. Oonagh is serving.

Assumpta leans against the back of the bar, folds her arms, looks around, sighs.

Oonagh comes behind the bar and joins her, looks at the lone pair of customers: It'll pick up when they get off work.

Assumpta glances at Oonagh, smiles slightly: Yeah, I know.

They are both silent for a moment, then Assumpta says: Have you ever had a disagreement with Paul? I don't mean an argument, I mean, a real fundamental difference in the way you see the world.

Oonagh looks off into the distance, considering, then turns to Assumpta and says, as if she has just made a realization: I think that pretty much says it all. Paul and I see the world completely differently.
She looks around, reaches out with one hand and makes a grasping motion: I think, to him, the whole world is like clay, just waiting for him to come along and shape it to his advantage. And that includes everybody in the world.
She lays her hand on her chest: I try to work with things as they are, which doesn't mean that I just go with the flow or that I won't take advantage of an opportunity when it arises, but I don't try to change people.
She folds her arms again: I don't try to change Paul, either. I can't. I love him and accept his differences. That was hard for me at first, because, believe me, there are times when he makes it just about impossible to live with him. But it was either accept him, or leave him.
She looks down, smiles, tenderly: And I didn't want to do that.
She looks back up at Assumpta: Is that what you meant?

Assumpta, thoughtfully: Yeah.
She gives Oonagh a small smile: Thanks.

SCENE: Thursday late afternoon. Cloudy. Baltinglass Abbey exterior.

Postcard shot of the hotel.

CUT TO: Hotel entrance interior.

The large, heavy door opens outward. Peter enters, looks around, impressed. He stops just inside the door, which closes behind him. He looks around and up at the gothic style architecture and furnishings. Despite the gothic style, the atmosphere is light and welcoming.

CUT TO: Hotel reception.

A young man is standing behind the reception desk. Peter approaches.

Man looks up, says expectantly: Good evening, sir.

Peter: Good evening, er...
He looks at the man's name tag: Michael.

Michael smiles politely at Peter, waits for him to state his business.

Peter smiles briefly, fumbles in his jacket pocket: I received this...
He pulls out a slightly crumpled paper, sheepishly: That is, I won this...
He looks down at the paper, tries to unfold it and straighten it at the same time: This certificate...
He slaps the paper down on the counter before Michael, who politely reaches over and turns it around so that he can see it properly.

Michael reads the paper over quickly, nods: Mm-hm. And you'd like to book your room now?

Peter, tentatively: Well, that's just it, I don't know if I'll be able to use it just yet.

Michael, regretfully: I'm awfully sorry, sir, but it won't be possible to cash it out.

Peter, slowly: No, I didn't reckon so. But I was wondering, is there an expiration date?

Michael studies the paper again: One year from date of issue.

Peter, relieved: Oh, really? Well, in that case, perhaps I shall be able to use it.
He picks the paper up and refolds it.

Michael: I would recommend that you book as early as possible. We're usually filled up in the high season.

Peter: Thanks, I'll get back to you as soon as my plans have firmed up.

Michael is about to turn his attention to other business, but Peter has an afterthought: Excuse me, but would it be all right if I had a look around the grounds?

Michael: Would you like a plan?
He reaches for a pile of brochures lying off to the side on the counter.

Peter smiles: No, thanks, I've got one already, actually.
He pats his jacket pocket.

SCENE: Thursday evening. Fitzgerald's interior.

The pub is fairly busy. Assumpta steps up to the phone, picks up the receiver, and dials a number. She holds the receiver to one hear and puts one finger into her other ear to block out the bar noise, waits for an answer on the other end, staring down.

CUT TO: Peter's room in Cilldargan interior.

The room is dark. Sound of phone ringing. Camera pan around the room to show it empty.

SCENE: Thursday evening. Baltinglass Abbey exterior.

The sun has just set, but there is some residual light. Peter is standing on a path outside the Abbey, in front of a narrow, unassuming door set in a tall stone wall. He consults the plan he is holding in his hand. He looks at a small plaque inset in the wall next to the door. He tentatively tries the door handle and, finding it unlocked, pulls the door open.

CUT TO: Chapel interior.

Camera angle from above, as if looking down from a balcony above the altar into the interior of the chapel, which is in a late medieval gothic style, with vaulted ceiling. The chapel is unlit, but the interior is just visible in the light filtering in through the stained-glass windows in arboreal and floral designs set high in the walls. It is quite a small chapel, with two rows of five long wooden pews. It is undecorated. The outer door toward the back of the chapel below opens, letting in a little more light. Peter steps into the chapel, holding the door open. He looks around and up. He walks all the way into the chapel, letting the outer door fall shut behind him. He stands there for a moment, then walks over to one of the back pews and sits down. He stares ahead toward the altar space, deep in thought.

SCENE: Thursday night. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

The restaurant is closed, lighting is dim. Liam is sitting alone at a table, going over receipts.

CUT TO: Door to kitchen.

The door to the kitchen is open.

Shamie leans out into the dining room: All done back here. Need anything else?

CUT TO: Dining room.

Liam looks around at Shamie: No, you go on.
He grins sheepishly, lifts several receipts: Can't get these to add up.
He scratches his head and drops the receipts on the table.

Shamie approaches, looks over his shoulder: How we doing?

Liam turns toward Shamie, smiles superficially, tries to unobtrusively cover the receipts with both hands: Fine, just fine.

Shamie walks toward the street door: See you tomorrow then.

Liam calls to him: Yeah, good night.

Sound of door opening and closing.

Liam leans back, looks toward the door. He waits a moment, then quickly shoves the receipts into an envelope on the table, picks the envelope up, gets up, walks to the door, opens it, looks out, looks up and down the street both ways, comes back in, closes the door and locks it. Then he turns off the light. He disappears through the kitchen door, then returns after a little while carrying a picture frame. He walks over to the wall where Brian's photo is hanging and sets down the picture he is carrying, leaning it carefully against the wall. Then he looks out through the front window of the restaurant, making sure that nobody sees him. He reaches up and takes down Brian's picture, sets it down, picks up the other picture and hangs it in its place. It is the photo of him and Donal. He adjusts the picture so that it is hanging straight, steps back to check it, then picks up Brian's picture and quickly exits through the kitchen.

CUT TO: Closeup of Liam and Donal's picture hanging on the wall.

SCENE: Friday morning. Foggy. Prawn Cracker restaurant exterior.

Liam, Donal, and Shamie are standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

Liam is unlocking the door. He looks slightly excited. Donal is peering into the restaurant through the front window. He looks worried. Shamie is hanging back, looking up and down the street. He looks bored.

Liam, to Donal, reassuringly: Everything's in best order, my friend.
He jiggles the key in the lock.

Donal, uncertainly: Looks all right.
He steps away from the window and comes to stand next to the door.

Liam opens the door, swings it open, smiles and waves one arm gallantly: After you, gentlemen.

Donal hesitates.

Shamie, impatiently: Oh for Chrissake.
He strides past Liam and Donal and into the restaurant.

Donal watches him from beside the doorway, cranes his neck around to stick his head through the doorway: Is he still there?

Shamie, coolly, from inside (voice off-camera): Yeah, like I said.

Donal looks relieved.

Liam looks confused: Mr. Quigley's still there?
He enters the restaurant.

CUT TO: Dining room interior.

Donal and Liam are staring up at the photo of Brian, which is hanging where Liam had put the one of himself and Donal the night before.

Donal claps Liam on the back, satisfied: No worries, eh?
He turns and walks toward the kitchen.

Liam watches Donal go, then turns back and looks at the picture with a disbelieving and bewildered air.

SCENE: Friday lunchtime. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

Fr Vincent and Frankie are sitting at a table having lunch. Brendan is at a nearby table. Avril is standing next to Brendan, chatting with him. There are a couple of extras, too. Liam and Donal are standing in the corner near the kitchen.

Donal, looking over at the diners, to Liam: Go on, you ask them.

Liam makes a face and looks at Donal: You're the one who thinks Mr. Quigley's ghost is haunting the place.

Donal squirms: But I don't want anyone to think I think there's a ghost.

Liam, half amused: But it's all right for them to think I think there's a ghost.

Donal blinks blankly at Liam: Why would they think that?

Liam rolls his eyes, walks toward the diners. Donal remains cowered near the door to the kitchen.

CUT TO: Fr Vincent and Frankie's table.

Liam approaches the table, touches his cap, awkwardly: Afternoon, Father. Gard Sullivan.

Fr Vincent looks up from his meal, pleasantly: Liam, how are you?

Frankie smiles at Liam.

Liam: Fine, thanks, Father. How's everything?
He nods toward the food on the table.

Fr Vincent nods agreeably: Just fine.

Frankie: Very nice.

Liam, smiles, nods: Good, good.
He looks at them and smiles.

Everybody smiles at each other. There is an awkward silence.

Finally, Fr Vincent asks: Is there anything else, Liam?

Liam: Oh, no, Father, just wanted to make sure our customers are satisfied.

Fr Vincent: Well, we are.

Frankie: Thanks for checking.

Liam: No problem.
He pauses, then: Guess I'll be going then.

Fr Vincent: OK.

Liam: OK.
He turns and looks at Donal, shrugs desperately.

CUT TO: Back of dining room.

Donal and Liam meet up again at the back of the dining room.

Donal, irritated: Why didn't you ask them?

Liam, defensively: The conversation didn't move in that direction.

Donal presses his lips together, exhales sharply, steels himself, sets his sights on Fr Vincent and Frankie, and marches off. Liam looks around self-consciously.

CUT TO: Fr Vincent and Frankie's table.

Donal marches up to the table, pulls out a chair, and sits down. He folds his arms, leans his elbows on the table, and stares intently from Fr Vincent to Frankie and back again.

Fr Vincent and Frankie exchange a quizzical, amused look.

Fr Vincent laughs shortly: Donal, would you care to join us?

Frankie, a smile playing on her lips: I don't suppose you're here to ask how our meal is?

Donal, confused: Why would I do that?

Frankie sighs: No reason.

Donal asks Fr Vincent, straightforward: I want you to perform an exorcism.

Fr Vincent stares at Donal, dumbfounded. Frankie looks at Fr Vincent, curious to see what he will say.

Fr Vincent, apologetically: Um, we don't really do that anymore, Donal.
He wonders, curiously: Who do you think needs exorcising?
He glances over at Liam, who is trying to pretend that he doesn't see them. Frankie turns halfway around to look at Liam, too.

Donal sees their gaze, grunts: Yeah, he's been behaving pretty strangely lately, but I don't mean him.

Fr Vincent and Frankie turn back to Donal, look at him questioningly.

CUT TO: Somewhat later.

Liam, Donal, Frankie and Fr Vincent are all seated around the table. The dishes have been cleared away. The other diners have left.

Fr Vincent: So you believe this is due to a ghost?

Frankie, solemnly: Sounds more like someone's having their fun with you.

Fr Vincent: I'd agree.

Liam: I don't think much of the ghost theory, either, but I can't explain it any other way.

Frankie protests: But it could be anyone. What about one of the other employees?

Donal: Yeah, we thought it was Shamie at first, too, but he swears it's not.

Fr Vincent: I'm glad you have such faith in Mr. Chung's veracity.

Liam, reassuringly: It don't matter none to us where his parents come from.

Donal nods vehemently in agreement: We're all for ingratiation.

Frankie and Fr Vincent wrinkle up their faces in confusion.

Frankie shakes her head, continues: But we all know that a person's words and his actions are often at odds.

Liam thinks about this, then shakes his head, apologetically: Sorry, you've lost me.

Fr Vincent: Maybe he's lying, chaps. Pulling your leg.

Liam laughs: Oh, no. Not Shamie. He wouldn't lie to us.
He turns to Donal for verification: Would he now.

Donal laughs, too, shakes his head, echoes Liam: Surely not.

Frankie acquiesces: OK. We'll set that one aside for the time being. Is there anyone else who has access to the restaurant after hours? How about Avril?

Liam: She doesn't have a key.

Frankie raises her eyebrows, looks from Liam to Donal: Anyone else?

Liam and Donal look blankly at each other, shrug.

Fr Vincent sits back in his chair: I don't really see how I can help you.
He turns to Frankie, gestures towards her: This sounds more like a case for the garda.

Frankie shrugs: And I'm not sure how I can help you, either.
She puts her hands on the table: Really, no harm's been done, has there? I mean, nothing broken or missing?

Liam, indignantly: Sure, our portrait. We spent a pretty penny having that blown up and framed.

Frankie, reluctantly: I suppose you could come over to the station and swear out a complaint on that.

SCENE: Friday late afternoon. Rainy. Youth Center exterior.

Peter exits the youth center. He pulls his jacket up around his ears and hurries toward the car park. He sees Rhys, huddled against the side of the building under the eaves with his jacket over his head, trying to stay dry.

Peter stops next to Rhys, crowds himself in under the eaves also: Hey, Rhys, what are you still doing here?

Rhys, shivering: Waiting for the rain to stop, sir.

Peter looks up at the sky doubtfully: It doesn't look like it's planning on letting up any time soon. Where do you need to go?

Rhys, teeth chattering: Home, sir.

Peter: No bus?

Rhys shrugs: I was going to walk.

Peter: I see.
He gestures for Rhys to follow him: Come on, I'll give you a lift.

SCENE: Friday evening. Fitzgerald's interior.

Oonagh is behind the bar. Assumpta is serving. Padraig and Paul are sitting at the end of the bar. The door opens, Brendan backs into the bar, shaking off his umbrella outside. He stomps his feet to shake off excess water, comes all the way in and closes the door.

Brendan looks around: It's not fit out there for man nor beast.
He drops his umbrella into the umbrella stand and starts gingerly taking off his dripping coat.

Padraig: And what's your excuse?

Brendan: Just seeking a little warmth and humanity. Maybe I should try my luck elsewhere.
He starts to shrug back into his coat.

Assumpta passes by: Ah, come on Brendan, where else will you find Oonagh's special Heart-n-Cockle-Warmer?

Brendan registers interest: What's that?
He starts taking his coat off again.

Paul raises his mug toward Brendan, appreciatively: You've got to try it.

Oonagh, from behind the bar, modestly: Just a little something I whipped up this afternoon.

CUT TO: A little later.

Brendan is sitting at the bar next to Padraig and Paul, in much better spirits. He has both hands around a steaming mug in front of him.

Padraig, incredulously: Brian's ghost?

Brendan laughs: I know. Have you ever heard anything more outlandish?

Paul: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dream't of in your philosophy.

Brendan looks at Paul in surprise: Don't tell me you go in for that sort of thing.

Oonagh passes by, mysteriously: Oh, Paul's just full of surprises.

CUT TO: Fitzgerald's kitchen interior.

Assumpta is standing in the kitchen, dialing her cell phone. She pushes the send button and holds the receiver to her ear. While waiting for an answer, she steps over to the oven and pulls the oven door open slightly, looks inside to check on what she has baking, then bangs the door closed.

She frowns, takes the phone away from her ear, pushes the off button vehemently, stomps back into the pub.

SCENE: Friday evening. Rainy. Residential street in Cilldargan.

Peter's car is parked in front of a row of dilapidated houses. The car's interior light is on and the windows are fogged up. Two figures are visible inside.

CUT TO: Peter's car interior.

Peter is sitting in the driver's seat, Rhys is in the front passenger's seat. They are eating take-away hamburgers and chips. They seem to be enjoying themselves.

Rhys: When did you know you wanted to be a priest?

Peter: I didn't really know for sure until I'd completed the seminary. I'd thought about it a lot before, of course. I guess I really thought about it seriously from the time I finished school.

Rhys grins: I think it'd be cool to be a priest.

Peter smiles back: It is kind of cool. If that's something you're interested in, I can tell you about it, but you've got quite a few years before you'll be making that kind of decision.

Rhys, seriously: I know.
He takes a bite of hamburger, chews and swallows, then asks: When did you know you didn't want to be a priest anymore?

Peter: About a year ago. But you have to understand, it's not so much that I didn't want to as that I couldn't. If I could have kept on being a priest, I would have.

Rhys: So why couldn't you?

Peter: Well, it's hard to explain. But I wanted to get married, and priests aren't allowed to get married.

Rhys: Was that the lady we saw you with that time?

Peter: I'm not sure exactly what time you mean, but probably, yes.

Rhys: So why do you want to get married?

Peter, somewhat surprised: I guess because I'm in love with her.

Rhys nods, mentions: My dad never married my mum.

Peter, carefully: That doesn't mean they don't love each other. Or you.
He leans forward, rubs at the window with his hand to clear the condensation, and looks out: Hey, I think I see someone coming.

SCENE: Friday night. Fitzgerald's interior.

The bar is busy. Brendan and Padraig are still at the near end of the bar. Assumpta is furiously wiping up the bar counter near them.

Brendan, cheerily: Hey, Assumpta, where's Peter? Haven't seen him around in a couple of days.

Assumpta scowls: Yeah, well, if you see him, give him my regards. No, on second thought, don't.
She whips the towel over her shoulder and whirls away toward the other end of the bar.

Brendan looks at Padraig in surprise: Wonder what got into her.

Padraig shrugs: Beats me.

Both turn their heads to look after Assumpta thoughtfully.

CUT TO: Fitzgerald's kitchen interior.

The door slams open, Assumpta enters. She pulls out her cell phone from the pocket of her bar apron, quickly dials a number, and punches the send button. She holds the receiver to her ear, waits impatiently for an answer, but none is forthcoming. She holds the phone in front of her, pokes at the off button, and mutters, irritated: Two can play at that game.

SCENE: Friday night. Rhys's house interior.

Peter, Rhys, and a tired-looking, thirtysomething woman are standing just inside the entry hall of a tiny row house. They are all still wearing their wet coats.

Rhys, ruefully: Sorry, Mum, I forgot my key.
He points toward the a key rack on the wall, where some keys are dangling.

Rhys's mother glances up at the keys, presses her lips together: Well that was pretty stupid. How did you think you were going to get in?
She fixes Rhys with an angry stare, starts unbuttoning her coat.

Rhys looks at his feet, mumbles: I'm sorry.

Rhys's mother eyes him judgmentally: Mm-hm.
She looks at Peter, deprecatory: I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Clifford. I don't know what he was thinking. No bus fare and no key.
She looks at Rhys again, frowns, insultingly: You're just as stupid as your father.

Rhys nods, continues looking at the floor.

Peter, soothing: Really, Mrs. O'Donovan, it was no problem. I didn't mind.

Rhys's mother looks at Peter, smiles pleasantly: Please call me Eveline.
She turns her back toward Peter and starts to shrug off her coat.

Peter nods shortly: Eveline. Here.
He reaches out and holds the shoulders of her coat for her.

Eveline pulls her arms out of her coat, turns back toward Peter, smiles: Thank you.

Peter smiles politely at Eveline, hands her her coat, puts his hand on Rhys's shoulder, friendly: We had a good time, didn't we, Rhys.

Rhys looks at the floor, subdued: Yes, sir.

Eveline, sharply: You can be sure it won't happen again. I'll make sure of it.
She grabs at Rhys's arm, snaps at him: What are you standing here for? Get upstairs and get ready for bed.

Rhys, timidly: Yes, mum.
He glances up at Peter: Good night, sir.

Peter, warmly: Good night, Rhys. See you next week.

Rhys scoots up the stairs.

Peter, gently: Please don't be too hard on him. We all make mistakes. I'm just glad I was there to help.

Eveline gestures toward the adjacent parlor, hopefully: Would you like to come in?
She reaches up to smooth her hair: I know it's kind of late...

Peter: Thank you, but I've got to be going.
He puts his hand on the doorknob: Rhys is a good boy.

Eveline, slightly disappointed: Thank you for your trouble.

Peter, firmly: No trouble.
He opens the door, politely: Good bye.

Eveline puts one hand on the door, smiles: Good bye.

SCENE: Friday night. Fitzgerald's interior.

Business is in full swing. Camera on the phone. The phone rings several times. Finally, Oonagh passes by the phone carrying a full tray of empties. She slides the tray onto the bar, turns around and picks up the receiver, pushing stray strands of hair out of her face.

Oonagh, into phone: Fitzgerald's....Oh, hello Peter...Very busy!...Yeah, let me just see if I can catch her.
She puts her hand over the mouthpiece, shouts across the room: Assumpta!
She waves her hand with the receiver in it above her head to catch Assumpta's attention, calls: Assumpta! Phone!

Assumpta approaches, flushed, reaches out for the receiver: Who is it?

Oonagh smiles, holds the receiver out to her: Peter.

Assumpta snatches her hand back, haughtily: Tell him I haven't got time.
She walks behind the bar, says over her shoulder: I've got better things to do than sit by the phone waiting for his call.

Oonagh frowns, puts the receiver back to her ear: Peter? Sorry, she can't come to the phone right now. Can I give her a message?
Oonagh listens for a moment, then smiles and nods: I'll tell her. Good night.
She hangs the phone up, picks up the tray of empty dishes and glasses and walks toward Assumpta behind the bar.

CUT TO: Behind the bar.

Assumpta is preparing drinks and putting them on a serving tray. Oonagh steps up next to her, puts down her tray and starts emptying it.

Oonagh: He said to tell you he got held up with one of the boys from the youth center, but he'd try to make it down tomorrow.

Assumpta, grumpily: Well he can spare himself the trip. I haven't got anything to say to him.

Oonagh, amused: I bet you'll think of something when you see him.

Assumpta scowls, picks up her tray and flounces away. Oonagh watches her and smiles to herself.

SCENE: Saturday morning. Cloudy and windy. Baltinglass Abbey exterior.

Brendan and Peter are walking on a path around the outside of the Abbey. Brendan has his hands thrust deep into his pockets to keep them warm.

Peter, appreciatively: Thanks for coming along.

Brendan looks around, peevishly: Yeah, well, you could have picked a nicer day.

Peter, optimistically: At least it's not pouring like yesterday.

Brendan, sulkily: Do you always have to be such a Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm?

CUT TO: Baltinglass chapel interior.

It is dim inside. Brendan and Peter enter from outside.

Peter looks around, excited: Isn't it fantastic?

Brendan rubs his hands and blows on them, grumbles: Didn't they have central heating back in the 14th century?

Peter ignores Brendan, walks into the middle aisle: I mean, it's obviously been modernized.
He points up at the stained-glass windows: Look at the windows. Completely redone.
He squints up at the ceiling: I think those are electric lights up there.

Brendan starts looking around, grudgingly: It's fairly non-denominational.
He turns completely around in a circle, notes with surprise: In fact, it looks like it's been scrubbed of any Christian symbolism whatsoever.

Peter: I know. That's what got me to thinking. Wouldn't it be perfect for our wedding?

Brendan bats his eyes at Peter, demurely: Why Peter, this is all so sudden.

Peter gives Brendan a look that says, "Very funny." Then he explains: You know how Assumpta feels about religion.
He gestures around with both arms: I thought this would be a good compromise. We can have the ceremony here, in a church-like setting, without all the religious trappings.

Brendan, curiously: Are you meaning to have a non-denominational ceremony?

Peter walks toward the front of the chapel, thoughtfully: I would like to have a priest perform the ceremony. Maybe Father Sheahan. He seems open-minded enough.

Brendan follows Peter, inquires carefully: Are you sure Assumpta would agree to being married by a priest, even if it is Father Sheahan, even if it does take place in a "non-denominational" setting?

Peter stops, turns to Brendan, admits: I haven't exactly discussed it with her yet.

Brendan raises his eyebrows, puts his hands back in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his feet, looks up at the windows: I think you should, before you go shopping around for wedding venues. Is this what's put her into such a foul temper?

Peter frowns, confused: What do you mean?

Brendan, tactfully: Well, you've been rather scarce the past couple of days, and she's been biting the head off of anybody who so much as looks at her sideways. I thought you two might have had a falling out.

Peter considers, then answers: If we did, it wasn't about the wedding.
He admits: We've never actually discussed marriage. I was waiting until her divorce became final before officially proposing.

Brendan's eyes pop open, his jaw drops, dumbfounded: You haven't-- How do you know she even wants to get married?

Peter, dryly: Thanks for the vote of confidence, Brendan.

Brendan looks down at his feet: I didn't mean you specifically, but maybe she's had enough of the entire institution of marriage.

Peter, uncertainly: Well, we've talked about living together, about waiting for...you know...WAITING...

Brendan raises his eyebrows, looks at Peter: You mean you two haven't...
He twirls his finger around vaguely in the air.

Peter, vehemently: Certainly not as long as she's still married to Leo, we have discussed that, and I just assumed that she also wanted to wait until we were married.

Brendan gropes for confirmation: But you've never actually spelled it out.

Peter admits: Not in so many words.

Brendan reaches over and claps his hand on Peter's shoulder: My friend, you have a lot to learn about women. Or at least about one woman in particular. Despite her name, you can never make assumptions where Assumpta Fitzgerald is concerned.

SCENE: Saturday afternoon. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

The dining room is empty. Paul enters the restaurant, looks around. He looks up at the photo of Brian on the wall, grins, winks at it.

Paul puts his hands in his pockets, looks around toward the kitchen, calls: Hello?
He walks slowly around the dining room, adjusting chairs and inspecting items.

Finally the kitchen door swings open and Shamie looks out, holds the door open with one hand, friendly: Oh, hi, Paul. I thought I heard someone out here.

Paul looks up, smiles: Shamie. Either of your employers around?

Shamie grins, shakes his head: You can't shake hands with one without tripping over the other.
He points his chin toward the street: They went out to pick up supplies. Be back soon.
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder: I'm getting set up for dinner. Come on back.

CUT TO: Prawn Cracker kitchen interior.

Shamie stands at a counter, chopping vegetables faster than the eye can follow. Paul watches him appreciatively.

Paul considers: Maybe we should set you up behind a bar in the dining room where people can watch you prepare the food. You know, like in those Japanese steak houses.

Shamie, self-deprecatory: I haven't got the face for it.

Paul grins: Maybe not.
He watches Shamie silently. Then he says, offhandedly: There was some talk over at Assumpta's place of Brian Quigley's ghost haunting the restaurant. What's your take on it?

Shamie shakes his head, keeps his head down over his vegetables, amused: Donal's going completely bonkers. Asked Father Sheahan to perform an exorcism.

Paul laughs shortly: And did he agree?

Shamie: Sure, the Catholic church doesn't do that kind of thing anymore.

Paul: Still, it's not a bad idea.
He cocks his head to one side and purses his lips, watching Shamie's fingers fly, thoughtfully: Not a bad idea at all.

SCENE: Saturday evening. Fitzgerald's interior.

Dr. Ryan, Brendan, and Padraig are at the end of the bar. Oonagh is behind the bar, Assumpta is serving.

Brendan: What about you, Doc? Do you believe in ghosts?

Dr. Ryan shakes his head: Not like you mean.

Brendan frowns: How's that?

Dr. Ryan looks down: Well, I do believe that a person's spirit lives on after their physical body dies.
He looks from Brendan to Padraig: But not that they hang around haunting the earth.

Padraig leans over toward Dr. Ryan: Where do they go, then?

Dr. Ryan blinks at his glass: That's a question you'd have to pose to a priest.
He lifts his glass, takes a sip.

The door from outside opens. Peter enters, looks around expectantly. The three men at the bar turn to greet him.

Dr. Ryan raises his hand: Peter.

Peter nods and smiles at them. He closes the door behind him.

Padraig: Speak of the devil.

Brendan corrects him: Ex-devil.

Peter walks over to the end of the bar, still looking around.

Oonagh comes over to the end of the bar: She's over there.
She points over the heads toward the far end of the pub.

CUT TO: Far side of pub.

Shot of Assumpta standing next to a loud table full of extras, picking up empty glasses and taking fresh orders.

CUT TO: Near end of bar.

Peter nods to Oonagh in acknowledgement: Thanks.
He sits down on a stool next to Padraig, greets him and the other men.

Oonagh: What can I get you?

Brendan leans across Padraig: Ask for her Heart-n-Cockle Warmer. It's a real treat.

Peter agrees: It's early enough.
He slaps the bar top: I'll have one of those.

Assumpta comes over and stands next to Peter, ignores him, puts her tray of empty glasses on the bar top, says to Oonagh: Three dark stouts, two lagers, a light, and a whiskey, neat.

Oonagh sets about preparing the drinks. She sneaks a glance at Peter, catches his eye, inclines her head slightly toward Assumpta.

Peter clears his throat: Erm, hello.

Assumpta turns her head toward Peter, coolly: Oh, I didn't see you there.
She turns back to watch Oonagh work.

Peter turns to the three men next to him, gives them a quizzical look. Padraig and Dr. Ryan shrug their shoulders. Brendan gives him a look that says, "See, what did I tell you?"

Peter turns back to Assumpta, lays his hand on her arm, gently: Assumpta, did something happen that I don't know about?

Assumpta looks at his hand on her arm, swallows hard, pauses, tosses her head, stares straight ahead, forces herself to be cool: That's right, how would you know what's been going on here? You haven't been around in days.

Peter laughs shortly: Assumpta, I've had things to do.

Assumpta, petulantly: Well so have I.

Peter inquires: Did I miss something important?

Assumpta pouts, grudgingly: No.

Peter, satisfied: All right then.
He cranes his head around to try to get into her line of sight: Assumpta. Look at me.

Assumpta turns impatiently to Peter, avoids looking him in the eye.

Peter reaches over and touches her chin: Assumpta.

Assumpta raises her eyes to look at Peter. She tries hard to maintain a tough countenance.

Peter: I understand you've been having a rough time of it the past couple of days. I'm sorry I haven't been here for you. But I'm here now. If there's something you need me to do, or if you have something to tell me, I'm here for you now.

Assumpta clears her throat, looks down at the tray which Oonagh has in the mean time silently filled with drinks ready to be served.

Peter looks at the tray, too, then looks over at Oonagh, who in turn is watching Assumpta and Peter with baited breath. Peter pats Assumpta's arm: You're busy. I'll just wait in the kitchen. Whenever you're ready.

Assumpta looks down, puts both hands on the bar.

Oonagh comes out of her reverie with a start: I'll bring your drink in, Peter.

Peter: Thanks, Oonagh.
He steps off his stool, walks around behind Assumpta, gives her a squeeze on the shoulder, heads for the kitchen.

Assumpta exhales, picks up her tray, looks around, notices Dr. Ryan, Brendan, and Padraig staring at her, snaps: What are you lot gawking at? Never seen a barmaid serving up drinks before?

Dr. Ryan, Brendan, and Padraig look quickly down and at each other, pretend to be extremely interested in their drinks.

CUT TO: Fitzgerald's kitchen.

Peter is sitting alone at the table. Oonagh enters from the pub, holding a mug in her hand.

Peter looks up: Ah, thanks.
He reaches out his hand for the mug.

Oonagh smiles: Just a minute.
She steps over to the microwave oven: Heart and cockle's already in there, just needs warming.
She puts the mug in the microwave, pushes a button, and faces Peter, putting her hand on her hip, sincerely: That was a nice speech.

Peter: Do you know what's been going on with her? Brendan said she was giving everyone a tongue-lashing, but that's pretty much par for the course.

Oonagh shakes her head: I'm not privy to her thoughts. But she does seem to have been preoccupied the past couple of days.
The microwave beeps. Oonagh removes Peter's mug and places it on the table in front of him: Enjoy.
She goes back into the pub.

Peter calls after her: Thanks. Smells delicious.
He picks up the mug and sniffs at the contents, lifts the mug to his lips, blows on it, and takes a sip. His face registers approval.

SCENE: Saturday night. Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

Paul, Dermot and Grainne have just finished their dinner. Donal and Liam are also sitting at their table, leaning over toward Paul.

Liam, to Paul, dubiously: A seance?
He glances over at Donal: What would be the point of that?

Donal frowns and looks like he's thinking hard.

Paul: Let Brian know who's in charge now. You can't let yourselves be intimidated by him anymore. He's got to move on, make way for the living.

Liam laughs shortly, skeptically: Yeah, but who's saying it's his ghost that's been messing around in here?

Donal shakes his head slowly: There's no other explanation.
He looks at Liam, decisively: I say let's do it.

Paul: It can't hurt.

Liam mutters: Only our bottom line.
He asks Paul, resignedly: I take it there'll be another consulting fee for making all the arrangements?

Paul smiles modestly: Just a nominal amount to cover expenses.

SCENE: Saturday night. Fitzgerald's kitchen interior.

Peter is sitting alone at the table, mug in hand. The door from the pub swings open, letting in a swell of sound and Assumpta.

Peter looks up, puts his mug down, stands, reaches out his hand to her, concerned: Assumpta. What's going on?

Assumpta comes all the way into the kitchen, lets the door swing shut behind her. She leans back against the stove, braces both hands against the stovetop, looks off to the side: I don't know. I have the feeling that I'm going to feel pretty stupid in a minute.

Peter: And what am I going to do that will make you feel stupid?

Assumpta: You're going to tell me why I haven't been able to reach you the past three days.
She looks at Peter expectantly.

Peter, surprised: Is that what this is all about?

Assumpta looks down at the floor, subdued: When you left here the other night, it wasn't under the best of circumstances, and I thought you were so angry with me that you didn't want to see me.
She looks up at Peter without raising her head, more of a statement than a question: But that wasn't it, was it.

Peter steps over to Assumpta, puts his hands on her shoulders: No, of course not! How could you even think such a thing?

Assumpta, glumly: Well, I was pretty insensitive.

Peter slides his hands down Assumpta's arms, pulls her in closer: Yeah, but that was just your mouth talking before checking with your brain.

Assumpta looks at Peter and cracks a smile, puts her arms around his waist.

Peter reassures her: You were right, it wasn't the right time or place to have that discussion. It was late, we were both tired. That's why I went home. And the next day, I went to Baltinglass Abbey after work and ended up staying there longer than I had planned. It's really quite impressive. Then I figured it was too late to drive down here. And yesterday, Rhys locked himself out of his house and I had to stay with him until his mother got home, which again wasn't until late.
He reminds her: I did try to call you.

Assumpta: I know, and I botched it.

Peter: Feeling stupid yet?

Assumpta, abashed: A little.

Peter nods toward the pub: Look, I know you're busy out there tonight. Why don't we go give Oonagh a hand. I'll stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning we can have some time just to ourselves.

Assumpta, slyly: Aren't you worried about tongues wagging if both of us sleep under the same roof?

Peter offers: I'll stay at Brendan's if it will make you feel better.

Assumpta, meaningfully: That's not what would make me feel better, but it might be more prudent.

Peter grins: Since when have you been the prudent one?

Assumpta, mock indignantly: Well, SOMEbody's got to worry about our reputation.

SCENE: Sunday morning. Misty. By the River Angel.

Peter and Assumpta are walking hand in hand.

Assumpta, seriously: I didn't mean to belittle your faith. I know it's a big part of your life.

Peter looks down at the path: It was an even bigger part until six or eight months ago.

Assumpta looks down, too: I know what you've given up for me.

Peter glances over at her: For us.

They walk on in silence for a minute, looking at the scenery.

Peter, offhandedly: Where do you see us in a year? Or in five years?

Assumpta looks around, quips: Right here, I hope.

Peter smiles: Me too.
He swings her hand: I mean more along the lines of...you know...career...kids...marriage?

Assumpta, emphatically: Well I hope not in that order.

Peter laughs: No, probably not.
Then he asks nonchalantly: But you also want to get married, have a family...?

Assumpta, lightly: Yeah, eventually.

Peter, almost insistently: But not right away?

Assumpta stops walking, turns to Peter, exasperated: For God's sake, Peter, I'm still recovering from a life-threatening accident.
She drops Peter's hand, gestures broadly around: My whole world's been turned upside down, half of my closest associates have either died or left town.
Half amused: I'm just getting used to the fact that we can eat British beef again. Don't ask me to plan out my entire future right now.

Peter nods: I recall having a similar conversation with Father Mac not all too long ago, aside from the part about British beef.

Assumpta calms down slightly: What do you mean?

Peter squints out at the river: Right after your accident, when we didn't know if you were going to live or die, I visited Father Mac in his office.
He looks down and takes Assumpta's hand again: I was grieving, extremely distraught and confused.
He becomes slightly bitter: But of course he didn't have any words of solace or offer me a shoulder to lean on. He simply wanted to know whether I'd be performing Kieran's christening, and, in a larger sense, whether I would continue in the office of Ballykissangel's curate.
He looks at Assumpta: I told him pretty much the same thing that you just told me. I think my exact words were, "I wouldn't trust my judgment over the time of the next bus and you want to know what I'm going to do with the rest of my life."

Assumpta, dryly: He's a real guardian angel.

Peter shrugs, apologetically: He's Father Mac. I don't think we need to get into that issue right now, although I would be interested to hear the whole story of you and him.
Assumpta looks about to launch into a monologue, but Peter holds up his hand and interrupts her: Another time. Another time. I have a point.

Assumpta, impatiently: And that would be?

Peter, understandingly: I know what it feels like to have the whole earth give way beneath your feet. I know the feeling of helplessness and of drifting from one disconnected moment to the next.
He picks up her other hand, faces her: You've done such a remarkable job of physical recovery and picking up where you left off that maybe your friends, myself included, have neglected your emotional and spiritual recovery.

Assumpta cocks her head to one side, half smiles: Here he is folks, counselor and priest all rolled into one.

Peter squeezes her hands in his: I'd like to be more than that to you.

Assumpta smiles, coquettish: I know. I want that, too.

Peter coaxes her: What exactly do you want?

Assumpta, abashed: You know.

Peter, honestly: No, I'm not sure that I do.

Assumpta: Wha-- Are you going to make me spell it out?

Peter exhales, looks out at the river, suggests: How about this. I'll tell you what I want, and you tell me if that's what you want, too.

Assumpta: Go on.

Peter lets go of Assumpta's hands, pauses to gather his thoughts, then says finally: I want to share your life. All of it. I want to share your work--

Assumpta, wholeheartedly: There's more than enough of that.

Peter looks at Assumpta, continues: --and your leisure time. I want to share your home...and your bed.

Assumpta looks at Peter, relieved: That's what I want too. But I thought we'd agreed to wait until my divorce becomes final.

Peter explains: Because I want to do it as your husband. I want to have a marriage, a family, children. With you.

Assumpta falls silent, looks out at the river.

Peter, carefully: What part of that makes you uncomfortable?

Assumpta hugs her arms close to her chest, squints out across the water: I don't know. I mean, I rushed blindly into a marriage with Leo because I was feeling abandoned and alone.
She looks down: I was looking for comfort and love. I wanted to feel wanted.
She shakes her head: But it all ended up in a bloody mess.
She looks out across the river again: I don't want to jump into another marriage just now when I'm still feeling disoriented.
She reaches out her hand and touches Peter's arm, looks at him, with feeling: I know I was in love you before my accident, and I feel a great attraction and emotional attachment to you now, but I need to be sure that it isn't just because you're the only constant in my life. I don't want to end up five years from now, worn out, disillusioned, with a dissatisfied husband and a couple of babies still needing a decade or more of my energy.

Peter: Well when you put it that way...

Assumpta folds her arms again: I'm not saying that's how it has to be. But look at Niamh. She wanted more than anything to be married. I think she was more in love with the idea of being married than she was in love with Ambrose. Now what is it, barely three years later, and they're separated, on their way to a divorce. And what about Kieran? Where does that leave him?

Peter nods: I know what you mean. But don't you think our situation is different than theirs?

Assumpta: That's something of a gross understatement.

Peter looks for confirmation: So you want to be sure that your feelings are going to last, that it isn't just a flash in the pan.

Assumpta: I guess so.

Peter looks around, pedantically: Assumpta, I don't think love comes with a money-back guarantee. I've seen it happen, too, often enough, promising couple, best prospects, ending with apathy, deception, and destruction. I can't promise a happily ever after. Nobody could.

Assumpta: And what about you? No offense meant, but you aren't exactly the most cosmopolitan man I know. Maybe once you get a taste of life beyond the church walls, you'll find life in the province unsatisfactory, too.

Peter looks down, quietly: You mean like Leo?

Assumpta, softly: Yeah.

Peter looks at Assumpta: Again, no offense meant, but I don't think Leo left because he was dissatisfied with Ballykissangel's nightlife. And you forget that I come from Manchester. I know it's not exactly Metropolis, but it isn't Smallville either. I had a life before I entered the seminary, and even afterwards.

Assumpta raises her eyebrows in surprise.

Peter admits with a half smile: A little bit.
He points to emphasize his argument: And I've been living as Clark Kent for over a half-year now. I've got a feel for it. I know what I'm doing. I know what I want. But I can't do it alone.
He steps close to Assumpta, puts his arms around her waist, looks into her eyes: Maybe I'll need to compromise. When you're ready, when you know what you want, talk to me and let's see if we can work it out. Together.

Assumpta: And in the meantime? Are you going to make yourself scarce again?

Peter: Only if you want me to, if you need the space. But I'd rather keep on seeing you. I don't want to have a repeat of what happened that time I went on retreat.

Assumpta laughs shortly: No chance of that. I've heard the courts frown on bigamy.

SCENE: Sunday evening. Fitzgerald's interior.

Dr. Ryan, Brendan, Padraig, and Peter are at the bar. Oonagh and Assumpta are behind the bar, both standing near the four men.

Assumpta challenges the assembled round: So which of you are daft enough to join in on this seance tonight?

Dr. Ryan shakes his head, decisively: Not me.

Brendan, nonchalantly: I was thinking of dropping by. I'm all for a good show.

Assumpta: Ah, Brendan, you disappoint me. How about you, Padraig?

Padraig looks at the faces around him, trying to judge what their reactions will be.

Brendan pleads with the others: Come on, don't make me enter the lion's den alone.

Peter pats Brendan on the back, as if making a great personal sacrifice: I'll join you.

Brendan, satisfied: Good man. What about you, Oonagh? After all, your husband's the one staging this monstrosity.

Oonagh smiles: Unfortunately, he only wants participants who actually knew Brian Quigley. I never had the pleasure.

Assumpta poses a question to the air: Was it a pleasure?

Padraig rejoins: Not if you had any loose change jingling in your pocket, it wasn't.

General chuckles of appreciation.

Brendan reminisces: The man could catch the scent of money halfway across the county.

Padraig: I thought it wasn't until it got into his hands that it started to smell funny.

Peter, reasonably: Now, now, I don't believe he ever actually did anything illegal.

Assumpta, sharply: Not with his son-in-law being the chief of police he didn't.

SCENE: Sunday night. Prawn Cracker restaurant exterior.

Close-up of front door. A hand-written sign is taped to the glass: "Closed for Privat Party" (sic)

CUT TO: Prawn Cracker restaurant interior.

The dining room is dimly lit from an obscure source. All the tables and chairs have been cleared away, except for one circular table in the middle of the room. Around it are seated, in order, Paul, Donal, Peter, Assumpta, Padraig, Brendan, Shamie, Liam, and the medium, a woman of indiscernible age and provenance, adorned with energy-channeling crystals. Brian's hat is in the middle of the table.

The medium addresses the group, speaking in an obscure accent: Friends, we are assembled here tonight for the purpose of contacting the lately departed Brian Quigley. It is of the utmost importance that we concentrate all of our energy on this purpose. For this reason, I have procured this memento of the departed...
She touches the hat in the middle of the table: ...for us to focus on.

Donal leans over to Peter, whispers: Shouldn't there be a crystal ball?

Peter gives Donal a small smile, shrugs. The medium fixes Donal with a sharp gaze, intently: Please, we cannot have any distractions from our purpose.

Donal hunches his shoulders up and looks around the circle, embarrassed. He closes his eyes tightly.

Medium: Good. Let us begin.
She holds her hands out to either side for Paul and Liam to hold, indicates that everybody else should do the same. All join hands.

Liam: Um, should we close our eyes?

Medium, trying hard to remain patient: If it helps you concentrate. Otherwise, focus on the hat.
She glances at the hat and inclines her head toward it. Liam stares hard at the hat. Paul smiles greedily and looks around, then looks at the hat. Donal keeps his eyes shut tight. Peter and Assumpta give each other a knowing look, then turn their attention seriously to the hat. Padraig looks around to see what everybody else is doing, then looks at the hat. Brendan looks at the hat with an amused expression. Shamie rolls his eyes, looks put upon, leans back in his chair, and looks briefly at the hat, then lets his attention wander.

The medium looks around to make sure that everybody is with her, then closes her eyes and continues, somewhat louder: We are calling on the spirit of Brian Quigley, late of Ballykissangel in Ireland. We are gathered here in this place which Brian Quigley had a great attachment to, the Prawn Cracker restaurant. We understand, Brian, that you are still here and have made your presence known to your friends recently. Brian, we are all assembled now to hear what you want to tell us.
She pauses and waits expectantly.

Assumpta looks like she is fighting back the giggles, but no sound escapes her. She keeps her gaze fixed on the hat. Peter glances at her sideways, nudges her with his elbow. Shamie looks at Assumpta and grins.

Medium continues: Brian, Brian Quigley, we want to know what you want. What do you want to tell your friends?
She pauses again, waits.

Donal opens his eyes tentatively, looks around, clears his throat: Ahem, erm...
Everybody shifts their attention to Donal. He looks at the medium questioningly.

The medium opens her eyes and is about to glare at him again. Donal asks, meekly: Could I try?

The medium seems to deflate slightly, nods wearily.

Donal looks around toward the ceiling: Um, Mr. Quigley? This is Donal. Donal Docherty. I used to work for you, remember?
He looks down, pauses, then looks up again toward the ceiling: Yeah, anyway, me and Liam are trying really hard to continue where you left off. I think you'd be pretty pleased with how we've done.
He looks over at Liam: Right, Liam?

Liam nods, proudly: Right.

Donal looks up at the ceiling again: But the thing is, Mr. Quigley, people are getting kind of put off by the whole thing with your picture. So if it's OK with you, we'd like to just put things back the way they were, the way you had it in the first place, with no picture at all, and then maybe we can go back to just running the restaurant. If that's OK with you.
He looks around expectantly, waiting for an answer. He looks at the medium. Then he squeezes his eyes shut again.

The others look kindly at Donal, then expectantly at the medium. The medium closes her eyes again, continues, serenely: Brian, that is the message your friends have for you. We hope you have heard us and take it to heart. Go now in peace. Your business on this earth is finished.

The medium waits a minute, then opens her eyes and beams at the group, lets go of Paul's and Liam's hands: Well. That ought to do it.
The others let go of each other's hands as well, look around at each other, slightly dazed.

Paul beams back at the medium, stands up, reaches over to shake her hand vigorously: Thank you, Mrs. Drozdy, I'm sure that's a big relief for all of us.

Donal opens his eyes wide, surprised: Is that it?

Peter pats Donal on the back, reassuringly: Donal, that was a lovely speech. I'm sure that wherever Brian is, he heard you and knows what a good job you're doing.
He stands up, steps behind Assumpta's chair to pull it out for her.

Donal nods dumbly.

Padraig stands up, says to Brendan: I expected a little more mumbo-jumbo. You know, tables shaking, chains rattling, that sort of thing.
Brendan pushes his chair back, prepares to stand up.

Shamie leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head: Maybe that went out with Vatican II, too.

Donal looks around, worried: I just wish we knew whether Mr. Quigley heard us. You know, some sort of sign.

Liam: I think you'll have to settle for--

CUT TO: Wall.

Just then, Brian's picture falls from the wall and lands on the floor with a loud thump. Close-up of the picture face-up on the floor, the frame cracked.

ROLL CREDITS