Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (13 page)

‘Somebody sick?’ I enquired, stupidly.

‘Christine,’ Moira said, and turned on her heel. I followed
her into the kitchen. ‘Just a bug, but you never can get rid of the smell, can you?’

‘I don’t smell anything.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I know there’s a stink of boke.’

‘No, honestly, I don’t . . .’

‘Don’t contradict me, Dan, I’m the mother of God.’

‘Sorry.’

She paused and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m only raking.’

‘You mean you’re not the . . .’

‘No . . . I mean you can contradict me.’ She tutted. ‘This is the problem. People don’t know how to take me.
I’m
perfectly normal.’ She thumbed upstairs. ‘
She’s
the odd one.’

I asked why she was pointing upstairs, seeing as how it was a cottage. She said the roof space had been converted, and did I want to see. I said why not and she took me up. It was all pretty mundane stuff. I don’t know what I expected. Heavenly choirs and shafts of Godlight, not posters of Cliff Richard and a smell of vomit.

Christine was lying in bed, flicking through a book of nursery rhymes. There was a blue plastic basin beside her bed. It was empty. ‘How’re you doing?’ I asked.

‘Bokey,’ Christine said.

She looked a little pale, but hardly at death’s door. Moira said, ‘There’s a bug going around.’ She felt Christine’s brow. ‘Normal,’ she said. ‘Christine. Do you remember Dan? This is the man who jumped in front of the bike? Remember the woman who nearly crashed into you?’

Christine nodded.

‘What do you say?’

Christine shrugged.

‘How about thank you?’

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ I said.

As we were going back down the stairs I said, ‘I’m a little concerned.’

‘She’s fine.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘about the Cliff Richard posters.’

Moira giggled. It was a nice giggle. ‘You’re not a fan?’

‘Sue Barker’s made better records. Though she hasn’t.’ She paused, mid-step. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.’

I cleared my throat. ‘It’s a joke lost in the mists of time.’

‘Please explain it to me. Who’s Sue Barker?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I smiled. ‘There’s nothing worse than explaining a joke. Especially a weak one.’

We continued on through to the kitchen. It was a little after 10 a.m. Ten seven, to be precise. I remember the time because it has historical significance. It was the time that Moira opened the fridge and said, ‘Do you fancy a beer?’

I was staring through the door. There was a crate of Tennent’s, with only three or four missing from the torn plastic wrap. I was mesmerised. It’s not that I’m an alcoholic, you understand. It was just the surprise of it. ‘I thought . . .’

Moira smiled. ‘Do you think any of
them
have the balls to stop me?’

I shook my head.

‘As far as I’m aware,’ Moira said, removing two cans from the wrapper, ‘these are the last on the island.’

‘I feel very privileged.’

She was just handing one to me when she stopped and a mischievous grin crossed her face. ‘So who’s Sue Barker?’ she asked, then tilted the can temptingly towards me, then away again.

‘It’s no secret,’ I said.

‘Tell.’

I gave her a nervous smile. ‘
Now
she’s a television sports presenter. But way back she was a tennis player, reasonably good in a British way, hopeless on the world stage. She was close friends with Cliff Richard. All the tabloids claimed they were having an affair, but they both denied it. Still do – but as far as the greater public is concerned, it’s the closest he’s ever come to having sex.’

Moira nodded, handed me the can, then sat at the kitchen table and popped her Tennent’s. I sat opposite her, and popped mine. ‘Cheers,’ I said.

‘Cheers.’ She gave me a quizzical little look. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘that Cliff Richard is Christine’s father?’

I spluttered some.

She laughed and took a drink. ‘Thought that would get you going.’

‘Cliff . . .’

‘Not
physically
. . .’

‘Oh . . .’ I nodded, and looked for the emergency exit.

‘I mean . . . the night she was born, I went to see his gig
in Belfast. He shook my hand. There was something passed between us . . . a
warmth . . . a feeling . . . something
. . . and later that night I gave birth. I’ve always felt that he was in some way responsible, that a little bit of him was . . .’ She trailed off into a shrug. ‘You know what I mean.’ I nodded, although I had no idea. ‘He’s so
spiritual
. . . I mean, he’s been like the stopgap between Jesus and Christine . . .’

‘And he’s been crucified too,’ I contributed, ‘although only by the critics. But then he does keep coming back . . .’ I smiled.

‘You’re taking the piss.’

I shook my head vehemently, then smiled again. ‘Partly,’ I admitted. I looked about the kitchen. It was modern, new; there was an Aga, a dishwasher, a washing machine, a microwave with grill facility. They were looking after her. She was watching me. I put down the can and produced the tape recorder from my pocket. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’ She shook her head.

I don’t know why it surprised me, but Moira had her head screwed on pretty tight. I mean, clearly she was deranged, thinking
that
about her daughter, but
that
aside, she was pretty well clued in. She knew what she wanted to do, where she was going, and how best to protect herself. ‘The way I figure it,’ she said, ‘it’s all a matter of keeping control. It’s like the Spice Girls times a million. The reason they were so big, they had a good manager, they kept control, they had a piece of everything . . .’

‘We’re talking
girl power
?’

‘After a fashion. Dan, life isn’t a charity – or it isn’t yet.’

I sat back and smiled. ‘Now there’s a frightening thought – the world being run by Combat Cancer and Dr Barnardo’s and everyone having to wear little pink ribbons on fucking Aids Day. They don’t even call it Dr Barnardo’s any more because it doesn’t fit in with some fucking marketing . . .’

‘Dan . . .
you’re
interviewing
me
.’

‘Of course. Where were we . . .?’

‘I . . . don’t know.’ She laughed. She got me another can, and one for herself. She sat, thought for a moment. ‘Back in Jesus Christ’s day,’ she began again, ‘it took literally decades, maybe hundreds of years for his message to spread . . . but now, y’know, with television and satellite and the Internet, I mean, once we let this out
everyone
’s going to know about it in a matter of, like,
minutes
. There’s going to be pandemonium.’

‘I thought the idea was to keep it secret?’

‘It is – until she’s old enough. Doesn’t mean things can’t be set up in advance. Deals and things.’

‘
Deals
. . .?’

‘I can’t just stick her on a soap box and say, “Here’s the Messiah.” She’ll be swamped. Or destroyed. She’ll need to be protected. Represented. We’ll need someone who knows television rights, someone who’s promoted rock festivals – y’know, Woodstock or Glastonbury or something . . . we need to do it
big
, and we need to do it
right
.’

I opened can five. ‘Excuse me . . . but you’re not in this for, y’know . . . the money, by any chance?’

‘Of
course
not. I don’t mean it to sound that way. You think I’d choose to live
here
even if my daughter wasn’t the Messiah, if I was interested in money? I’d have a decent job in Belfast or somewhere . . .’ She sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if the possibility of ever going to Belfast to get a proper job existed now only in her dreams. Then she opened them again, took another swig of her Tennent’s and burped. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, then tutted. ‘I hate to keep bringing this back to pop music, but youngsters can be destroyed by too much exposure; think how much worse it’s going to be for Christine.’

‘But she’s the
Messiah
. . . surely she can . . .’

‘We don’t know that!’ Moira cut in. ‘How do any of us know what she can do? All
I
know is she’s my wee girl, or nine tenths my wee girl and the other tenth is His . . .
I
don’t know whether she’s going to do party tricks or destroy the world, all I can do is provide the best possible environment for her: for now it’s Wrathlin; by the time she’s up a bit and wants to get her message across, she’s going to need
deals
to enable her to do that. Do you understand?’

I nodded. In a strange way, I did. I was probably the only person on Wrathlin who would understand. Besides Patricia. ‘I take it you haven’t discussed all this with Father Flynn. Or his gloomy sidekick.’

‘Father White?’ She shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t get it. Flynn . . . could probably be persuaded. He’s a nice guy . . .’

‘His heart’s in the right place.’

‘Stop it. But I think the concept of a world stage is a bit
beyond him. I don’t think he can imagine much more than a revival meeting on the Ormeau Road. White . . . he’s just creepy.’

‘He reminds me of Telly Savalas.’

‘Who?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Dan . . .?’

‘He was Sue Barker’s doubles partner. But no, I think you’re right. I don’t think either of them are equipped to take this onto a world stage. You need a mover and shaker. Like a Richard Branson or a Bill Gates.’ We nodded together for a while, imagining. ‘Come to that, you don’t need me to write the book, you need a Shakespeare.’

‘No, I need it to be understood by the man in the street.’

‘Shakespeare was the people’s . . .’

‘Pish, I haven’t a notion what he was rattling on about, and I’m not stupid.’

I would have argued, but she had a point. ‘Fair enough. So you’d be going more for Tom Clancy than Salman Rushdie.’

‘No, I’d be going for you.’

‘Flattered as I am, why me?’

‘Because Flynn recommends you. And you seem like a nice bloke. And you’re sitting here having a can with me instead of slabbering round me or kissing my arse like the rest of them. I reckon you’d get the message across okay, whatever it turns out to be.’

I shrugged. It was quite a compliment, under the circumstances.

I opened another can and said, ‘There’s so much I have to ask you about all of this.’

She smiled. Warmly. ‘Ask whatever you want, Dan. But, first, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘Do you want to fuck?’

17

There are some questions a lady should not ask a gentleman. But then it was suddenly obvious that Moira was no lady and I’d never been accused of being a gentleman. I was red-faced, spluttering, and Moira was grinning widely.

‘That was a bit out of the blue,’ I managed.

‘I haven’t had sex in such a long time,’ she said wistfully.

I nodded. She handed me another can. She wasn’t much under five seven, standing; she’d a nice, trim figure and a sarcastic charm that was quite alluring. She’d long removed the pink housecoat. Beneath it were black ski pants, gutties, and a fading blue T-shirt with
Bahamas Yacht Club
written across her breasts, which were neither mountains nor molehills. Somewhere in between. Drumlins. Her skin was pale and she wore little make-up. Her nose was short but sharp.
Her teeth were white and her smile keen. She said, ‘Are you sizing me up?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Do I frighten you?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think I’m drunk?’

‘No.’

‘So give me one good reason why we shouldn’t go to bed.’

‘I’m married. I love my wife. Your daughter is sick upstairs. You’re the mother of God.’

‘That’s four reasons.’

‘Although I wouldn’t want to jump to any hasty decisions. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day.’

She smiled. ‘You’ve been unfaithful to your wife before.’

‘Did Christine tell you that?’

‘No. Father Flynn.’

I nodded.

‘And she to you.’

‘It was a while back. We’re better now.’

‘That’s not your son, is it?’

I shook my head.

‘I don’t see anything of him in you.’

I shrugged. I shifted in my seat. I glugged. It
is possible
to have sex with someone without being unfaithful to your partner. If it is just an opportunistic physical act which will have no consequences for those involved or connected to those involved. Just a moment or two of pleasure stolen from a difficult life. It can be a giving experience: helping
somebody sad and lonely or in pain to get through their moment of crisis; you don’t necessarily have to enjoy it yourself. And it beats the hell out of masturbation.

‘If you sit there long enough,’ Moira said, ‘you’ll analyse yourself out of it. Why not just come upstairs and fuck?’

‘Because I don’t delude myself that I’m that attractive. There . . .’

‘. . . must be an ulterior motive? Dan, believe me, the ulterior motive is having sex with someone nice and there being no strings attached. You’ll go back to your wife, and soon enough you’ll pack up and go home, and if I’m lucky, if you’re lucky, it’ll be a nice wee memory for both of us. I don’t see the problem.’ We looked at each other across the table. After a little bit she said, ‘Why is your knee drumming against the table?’

‘Nerves.’

She pushed her chair back and stood. She reached across and took my hand. ‘I can cure nerves,’ she said. I stood. She led me out of the kitchen towards the stairs.

Halfway up I said, ‘What are you going to tell Christine?’

‘I’m not.’

Three quarters of the way up I said, ‘What about birth control?’

‘What about it?’

‘To have one Messiah is understandable, but two would be plain careless.’

She squeezed my hand and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m covered.’

‘You make it sound like an insurance policy.’

‘Well, isn’t it?’

‘Third party fire and conception.’

At the top of the stairs she stopped and looked into my eyes. ‘Are you sure about this?’