Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (12 page)

‘On the contrary. I’d love one.’

A memory stirred in me suddenly. The enormous woman. Her screaming face. The rush of the wind through the spokes of her bike. The squeal of pain that came from one of us. Or both of us. ‘I think I was run over.’

He gave a throaty laugh. ‘You were. By a whale on a bicycle.’

He turned. He had a small bottle in his hands. A pill bottle.

‘About that drink . . .’ I said.

‘What drink?’

‘The whiskey.’

‘What whiskey?’

‘You offered me . . .’

‘I was only checking if you were concussed. But you seem quite capable of reasoned conversation. You’re fine. You’ll have a sore head. But I’ll give you some of these. They’ll do you rightly. Then you’re free to leave.’

‘So there’s no drink?’

‘No. Only medicine.’

‘Not even for medicinal purposes?’

‘Especially for medicinal purposes. We’d never get anything done if I started dashing out wee drams to every poor sod who came in here feeling under the weather. It is illegal, you know.’

‘I know.’

He nodded. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘But . . .’ I began. He plainly wasn’t aware that his own breath carried the stale whiff of the distillery. ‘You can write me a prescription for it.’

‘Can. Won’t.’

‘You’re saying you have none?’

‘I’m not saying anything. Or, if anything, I’m saying
you
have none. You know, alcohol isn’t the answer to everything.’

‘Are you sure?’

We regarded each other silently for a few moments. If anything stood testament to the evils of alcohol, it was his face. But it didn’t seem the time to say so. If he had a precious
supply of alcohol and was a drinker himself, he couldn’t go dishing it out to all and sundry. I could understand that. But there was no need to preach about its evils. Less of the Hippocratic, more of the hypocritical.

I touched my head for the first time. A bump. Big one. Sore too. ‘You examined this, then, when I was out.’

He nodded. ‘You’re okay.’

‘I don’t feel okay.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘My head feels . . . broken.’

‘It will. For a while. But you’ll be fine.’

‘You don’t need to scan it or anything.’

‘I did scan it.’ He held up his hands. ‘With these. Still the best in the business.’

I tried to give him an appreciative smile, but my lips were too sore. His hands were nicotine-stained. The entire hands. Not just the fingers. I’d once, briefly, known a woman with nicotine-stained hair. But these hands were virtually golden. Physician heal thyself. I was glad that there’d been no cause for an internal examination. As far as I knew.

I had a sudden vision of a whale on a bicycle. ‘What about the . . . Christine? The wee girl . . .’

‘She’s fine. She was waiting outside for ages. With her mum. But they had to go on. They wanted to stay. But Father White insisted. I told them you’d be okay. They were very grateful for what you did. Protected Christine like that. Saved her life, they said.’

I shrugged. If I had, it had been an accident. I must have tripped, or fainted. I wasn’t a hero. There were dozens of people who could testify to that, some of them dead. ‘What about the woman on the bike?’

‘Oh, she’s fine. She bounced. On you, actually. They brought her here too. Then Constable Murtagh took her away. Ran the gauntlet, rather. Someone hit her with a rock. She’s fine. Under lock and key.’

I took a deep breath, yawned and stretched. I ached. ‘What’ll happen to her?’ I asked, drearily.

Dr Finlay tipped a handful of small white pills into his hand, then dropped them into mine. ‘I don’t know. Depends what the charge is. What would you call it? Careless driving or attempted murder? Careless attempted murder, perhaps. I hear there’s a crowd out at Murtagh’s place wants to string her up. She’s not a popular woman.’

‘Why would she want to . . . I mean, what did she say? What was her excuse?’

‘She babbled a bit. But then she’s always been a bit of a babbler. Mary Reilly. You hadn’t met her before?’

I shook my head, which was a bad idea. I told him that I’d spoken to her briefly at the church and that she’d seemed perfectly normal.

‘Well, she would. That’s what happens, one moment she’s normal, next she’s away. If we’d a home for the mentally deranged out here she’d be a permanent fixture, but we haven’t. I recommended her removal to the mainland years ago, but people were reluctant. Up until now she’s been
pretty harmless.’ He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to go on. ‘She’s a medium, you know.’

‘Strikes me as more of a large,’ I said.

‘You know what I mean. Spirits, and all that. People used to laugh at her on the one hand, then sneak off to see her on the other. That was before all
this
started, of course.’ He gave me the kind of conspiratorial wink that suggested he wasn’t altogether convinced by it either.

I pushed myself gently round on the sofa and placed my feet gingerly on the carpet. I felt a little dizzy. ‘So was it the spirits that told her to try and kill Christine?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘That’s not for me to say.’ He turned and placed the bottle of pills back in the cupboard.

‘Do you believe Christine is the Messiah, doctor?’

‘Of course.’ He kept his back to me, busied his hands twisting a few medicine bottles round until their labels faced in the right direction.

I stood. The dizziness washed over me and then, abruptly, was gone. I smiled. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that feels okay.’

Dr Finlay turned from his cupboard. He looked me up and down. ‘Fit as a fiddle, what did I tell you?’

I gave him a little nod and then thanked him.

‘Can I order a taxi from here?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Oh.’

‘Insofar as there are none. Island this size? Sure a strapping young lad like you could walk home in no time. It’s only a couple of miles, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve just been in an accident.’

‘The walk’ll do you the world of good. I’m a doctor, believe me.’

‘Aye. Right.’

He opened the surgery door for me. A mother and child sat in a sparsely furnished waiting room. They smiled at me. I smiled back. ‘Thanks again, doctor,’ I said.

‘No problem. Sure I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon. You’ve a young child out at the cottage, haven’t you?’

I nodded.

‘I’ll be needing to call out then, won’t I, check everything’s okay?’

‘Of course.’
And I hope you’ll be fucking walking
, I nearly added.

He followed me out of the surgery and stood before his patients. As I crossed to the door on the other side he barked, ‘What the hell’s the matter now?’ at the mother, but as he lifted the child into his arms I saw that a look of bright concern had enveloped his ragged face.

15

It took me an hour. It had got a bit chilly. My bones were sore. I’d been in a serious accident and I was being made to walk home. My head hurt. The seagulls calling way up there sounded like they were laughing. Maybe they’d seen me being flattened by a big woman on a bike. Maybe they knew I was getting myself involved in something rather strange. Maybe they were just chatting about the price of fish.

I lingered for a few minutes by the shuttered pub. I leant against the wall. I tried to seep in some of its alcoholic energy, but all I could manage was some essence of cold brick and my legs felt heavier. I might have saved the life of the Messiah, but I couldn’t buy myself a drink. I tried to cheer myself up by taking the long view: that maybe one day people would speak my name in the same awed manner in which they spoke of John the Baptist and Moses the
Lawgiver – Dan the Accidental Hero – and preach earnestly of my suffering.

There were blessed few people around. I walked along the edge of the harbour, looked at the fishing boats gently bobbing in the greeny water. At Charlie McManus’s ferry. No sign of him. There wasn’t even an ice-cream man. Or a child running or a parent shouting at him not to go too close to the water. There was a dead calm. It was odd. Or normal. I didn’t know.

I trudged the trudge of the lonely trudger out to Snow Cottage. It might as well have been ten miles as two. I was miserable.

I stopped at the end of the lane. There was a light in the window, welcoming – yes, but odd too, different. Instead of knocking on the door I peered through the window. Patricia. Rocking gently in a chair before a coal fire. A lamp on a table – oil or paraffin – throwing out a weak, gentle light. A table set. A baby asleep on a cushion on the floor. And suddenly I had a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye because it all just looked so bloody beautiful. Time-warped and soft. Shortbread tin and Oirishy both, but beautiful.

I tapped lightly on the door. Patricia answered it quickly. She was wearing a long skirt. A brown shirt, slightly frilly. No make-up to speak of, but a smile that made the need of it superfluous.

‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman,’ I said. I held her by the arms. ‘Or Lorna Doone?’

Her smile widened. She reached up and kissed me. Then touched my forehead. ‘Are you okay?’ she said.

I nodded. ‘Fine.’

‘They said you were fine.’

‘Who did?’

‘The priests came by to tell me about your . . . bravery.’

I shrugged.

‘When I saw them, the two of them, coming to the door, I knew something had happened. And the way they started, all grave and gloomy, I thought they were going to tell me that you’d been killed in an accident. That I’d left you to make your own way home and you’d been knocked down by a car or a cow or struck by lightning or fallen down a hole and drowned. And I just thought instantly about how much I loved you and how much I would miss you and about how awful I’ve been to you. And then they told me you were okay and I just burst into tears. And now I’m going to do it again.’

And she did. She threw her arms round me and we hugged for a long time.

She pulled away. ‘I made you some dinner,’ she said proudly, ‘it’s in the oven.’

‘No microwave?’

‘No microwave.’

‘I forgot the cat food. For the hedgehog.’

‘It doesn’t matter. He’s in a box in the yard. I made a little house for him. I tried a little of your dinner out on him first. He gobbled it up. He seems to be thriving, so it can’t be too
poisonous. Have a seat.’ She pulled the chair out for me. I sat. She opened the oven door. Lifted a steaming casserole across to the table.

‘Looks delicious,’ I said. ‘Smells divine.’

‘Wait till you try it.’

‘I can’t wait.’

She started to serve it up. Then abruptly she set the ladle down again and turned to a cupboard. She reached up. ‘I forgot this,’ she said, beaming.

I had to look twice.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.

A bottle of wine.

‘Where on earth did you get that?’

‘I brought it with me. From home.’

‘But . . .’

‘But I wasn’t going to drink it until we had something to celebrate. And now there isn’t anything better to celebrate than the two of us.’ Little Stevie stirred on his cushion. ‘The three of us,’ she corrected. Patricia put her hand out to me and I took it and together we looked down at him stretching.

‘Do you think you could love him?’

I nodded.

‘Really?’

I nodded.

‘I think you could too. If you give him a chance.’

I nodded.

She took my other hand.

‘Dan?’

‘Mmmmm?’

‘I’ve been practising my pelvic floor exercises.’

‘We don’t have a pelvic floor. It’s wooden, I think.’

‘Dan . . .’

‘I’m sorry . . . I . . .?’

‘Dan . . . you know what I mean. It’s time.’

‘Time for what?’

‘Time to make love again.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘We’ll do that too.’

I squeezed her hand. I felt elated. But mildly panicked. ‘Are you sure it’s okay?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re all healed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Dan.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘I’m okay . . .’

‘It just looked so . . . painful. Having Little Stevie.’

‘Steven. It was. But I’m better now.’

‘It’s very soon.’

‘Dan . . .’

‘I know, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . all the blood, the . . . mess . . .’

‘Dan . . .’

‘It was like a mortar bomb had scored a direct hit on an abattoir.’

She squeezed my hands firmly. Then pressed her lips to mine. ‘I want you, sunshine,’ she hissed. ‘Now eat your dinner. Drink your drink. Then take me to bed.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

We made love in the still of the night, the quilt thrown back, the baby oblivious. Gentle. Slow. Gentle. Slow. As sweet and tender as the first time, but with the assured touch of familiarity.

We’d saved a glass of wine for the after-love. We clinked in the dark and whispered sweet everythings.

Patricia could be quite passionate with her words, and I basked in it.

‘I love you more than all the grains of sand on all the beaches on all the planets in the universe,’ she whispered breathily.

‘Aw.’

‘I love you more than all the waves in the sea, all the seas in the world.’

‘Aw.’

‘I love you more and more with each passing day, from here to eternity, to an eternity of eternities.’

She nestled under my arm. Stroked my stomach. ‘How much do you love me?’ she asked quietly, after a while.

‘Lots,’ I said.

16

The next morning, armed with a tape recorder and a swagger which comes with the love of a good woman, I set out for Moira’s cottage. I didn’t take the car. There was a cold breeze, but I was all man, plus a big fluffy coat with gloves. Along the way several people said hello to me, one person thanked me and a woman scrubbing her doorstep offered me a boiled egg. I was a made man. A hero, and I had bicycle spoke lacerations to prove it. I gave Moira’s door a confident rap and stood back expectantly.

She answered with a snapped, ‘Do you smell vomit?’

I shook my head. It was one of her less memorable lines. It probably wouldn’t make it into Bible II. She was wearing a pink housecoat and had a can of pine-fresh Haze in her hand.