Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (18 page)

‘He’s hot,’ I said.

‘Very hot?’

‘I don’t know. Hot.’

Patricia tutted and got out of bed. She took him from me, cradling him with one arm, feeling his head with her free hand.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Would you get me the thermometer?’

She gave me directions, but it still took me five minutes hoking through the Mafeking supplies to locate it. She snatched it from me, wiped it clean, shook it and slipped it into Little Stevie’s rear end.

‘That’s the last time I put that in my mouth,’ I said. I giggled. She didn’t appreciate it. The look she gave me reminded me of the words thunder and funeral. ‘Sorry,’ I said. Then added needlessly: ‘It’s just a temperature.’

‘A lot you would know about it.’

‘I mean it’s probably—’

‘Who do you think you are,’ she snapped, ‘Mr Spock?’

‘I think you mean Dr Sp—’

‘Will you just shut the fuck up and go and get me some cold water and a flannel?’

My own temperature was starting to rise. I bit it back. She
was right to be concerned, I was wrong to be flippant. It was my nature, but it was a bad time for it to blossom. I knew a baby’s health was a finely poised thing for its first few months. Of course I knew it. ‘Maybe he was too close to the fire. The heat built up in him and . . .’

‘Dan. Get them. Now.’

I padded off to the kitchen. I’d read a couple of baby books. Patricia’s baby books. When she wasn’t in. I knew what to expect.

I got a can of Diet Pepsi. I took a couple of rapid gulps. Better to be safe than sorry, they all said. Always better. I found a basin, then the baby’s flannel, soaked it in cold water and brought it back to the room.

‘I’m worried,’ said Patricia.

Baby wailed again. She hugged him close.

I held up the basin, and for a second she seemed reluctant to set him down.

‘It’s okay, love,’ I said. I set the basin down on the bed and eased Little Stevie out of her arms.

‘I’m really worried.’ She knelt on the floor by the edge of the bed. She removed the thermometer. Stared at it. ‘This isn’t good,’ she said, ‘this really isn’t good.’ She squeezed out the flannel and bathed his face. He screamed some more. ‘We should call the doctor. This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be like this.’

‘Honey,’ I said, ‘give him a chance. You’re only trying to cool him now. Give his body a chance to react. Let it cool itself. Christine – Moira’s Christine, daughter of God, etc. etc. –
wasn’t well when I was there yesterday. Maybe there’s a bug, maybe I brought it home.’

She turned her head back sharply. ‘Did Christine have a rash?’

I shrugged. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Call the doctor, Dan. This isn’t right.’

I peered over her shoulder. ‘Maybe it’s nappy rash.’

‘On his chest? Jesus, Dan. Call the doctor.’

‘We haven’t got a phone.’

‘Go and get him then.’

‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘I don’t care if it’s fucking Christmas Eve! Go and get the fucking doctor.’

I made the mistake of tutting.

She leapt up and slapped me in the face. Hard.

I stepped back, shaken. By the time I raised my hand to fend off another blow blood was already streaming down my nose. I looked into her eyes. I saw anger, of course, but beside it, vying for supremacy, fear. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly, ‘of course.’

I pulled on my jeans. Zipped up my tracksuit top. Grabbed the keys. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I said.

One thing, I wasn’t going to get caught in a Wrathlin traffic jam. The only thing that moved between me and the doctor’s was a collie out sniffing and the odd spot of blood still escaping from my nose. I burnt rubber. Or as close to burning rubber as you can in a Ford Fiesta.

The doctor’s house was in complete darkness. I banged on
the door. For several minutes. Eventually there was a light, a single bolt was shot back and the big door opened a fraction. An elderly woman, blue dressing gown, hairnet, peered out.

‘Is your husband there?’

She shook her head vaguely. Stifled a yawn. Said, ‘I was asleep,’ through bunched fingers.

‘Where is he?’ I demanded.

‘He’s . . . up on the hill . . . but . . .?’

‘What hill?’

She shook her head again. ‘The hill. The cemetery.’

I let out a deep sigh. ‘What’s he doing there?’

‘I don’t understand . . .’

I tutted. I leant into the door. ‘I’m looking for the doctor.’

She shook her head, rubbed at her eyes. ‘Oh . . . yes . . . I’m sorry . . . you’re looking . . . I was asleep. Of course. The doctor. I thought you meant my husband . . . silly . . . he’s been up there these twenty . . . I’m sorry . . . the doctor . . .’

‘Yes. The doctor. Where is he?’

‘He went out. Earlier.’ She turned and, twisting her head, examined a grandfather clock in the hallway. ‘Much earlier. I’m sorry, I . . .’

‘Can you bleep him?’

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Page him. Can you page him?’

‘. . . page . . .?’

‘Jesus,’ I spat.

‘I’m sorry . . . I . . .’

‘Do you not even know where he went?’

She shook her head.

‘Is he seeing someone? Is he on call?’

‘I’m sorry, I . . .’

‘Is there anyone else?’ I snapped. ‘Is there another doctor? A nurse?’ She looked confused. ‘A fucking witch doctor?’

I turned on my heel. I got back in the car. I drove right up the hill and into the churchyard, then round the back. I banged on Father Flynn’s door. He answered in half a minute. He was in his bed gear. I explained my situation to him.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said earnestly. He beckoned me into the hallway as he searched about for his shoes. He found them, began to push his feet into them without untying the laces. ‘He does have a habit of disappearing off. And old Mrs McTeague’s no better . . . she’s really not
compos mentis
these days at all.’

‘There must be someone else.’

With a grimace he finally lodged his second foot into its shoe, smiled, then put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘There’s always someone, Dan. We’ll go down to the McCooeys’.’

‘Father, I don’t wish to seem ungrate . . .’

‘Dan, now calm down. We’ll drive down to Moira’s.’

I snapped my shoulder away from him. ‘I’ve no time for this shit, Father. The baby’s sick, I need a doctor. I don’t need the fucking Messiah right now. I’m sorry, but I don’t.’

‘Dan . . .’ He shook his head sympathetically. ‘Calm down
now. Moira McCooey’s a trained nurse. She only gave it up when she had Christine.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh indeed.’ He squeezed my shoulder again. ‘Trust me, Dan. Now let’s go.’

22

Patricia opened the door. Her face was white.

‘Oh Jesus,’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘He’s unconscious . . . I think he’s in a . . .’

Flynn came in after me. Then Moira. Behind her, still in her pyjamas, Christine.

Moira carried Dr Finlay’s bag. I’d briefly explained the symptoms to her and she’d insisted we call round by the surgery to see if it was there. The old woman at the door had given some fleeting resistance but the combined attack of Father Flynn and Moira McCooey had soon swept her protestations aside and after a little poking about we found it. Evidently the good doctor wasn’t out on call.

We followed Patricia into the bedroom. Little Stevie was on his back, naked, sprawled out, still.

Moira knelt to examine him. She touched his head. Pushed up an eyelid. ‘Did you take his temperature?’

Patricia nodded. ‘Hundred and four.’

Moira nodded. ‘Has he vomited?’

‘A little, a little while ago. Just a bit.’

Moira ran her fingers over his skin, tracing the rash. She opened the doctor’s bag, took out his stethoscope, looked back quickly at Patricia, then at me, a look that said,
I’m only a nurse
.

She listened.

We waited.

A watch ticked.

Christine scuffed her feet on the carpet and peered round her mother’s shoulder. ‘Is he sick?’ she asked.

‘Shhhh,’ said Moira.

She took the stethoscope off again.

‘How serious is it?’ Flynn asked.

Moira shook her head. ‘I’m out of practice. It could be . . . this . . . it could be . . . that . . .’

Patricia tutted. ‘Where’s the doctor?’ she snapped.

‘Missing, presumed drunk,’ I said.

Flynn gave me a look.

‘It’s just . . .’ Moira began, ‘most of the symptoms of measles are there . . . the fever, the rash . . . there’s nothing in the mouth, though . . . I think it’s measles . . . but . . . I mean . . . it’s so long since I . . . he shouldn’t be unconscious . . . there’s the outside chance that it could be meningitis as well, which is altogether more serious . . .’

‘Oh, my God,’ Patricia cried.

‘I’m not saying it is meningitis.’

‘Well, what are you saying?’ Patricia yelled.

‘I’m saying I think it’s serious!’ Moira yelled back. ‘I’m not a doctor!’

‘Well, that’s a fucking big help!’ Patricia looked desperately from Moira to me to Flynn and back. ‘Why don’t you do something? Give him something.’ Tears began to cascade down her face. ‘My baby’s dying.’

I put my arm round her. ‘He’s not going to . . .’

She pushed me away. ‘You brought him here!’ she screamed. ‘You brought him to this bloody hole!’

‘Trish, I . . .’

‘Do something!’

I shrugged helplessly.

‘Perhaps we should say a prayer,’ Flynn suggested. Patricia flew at him. ‘Get out!’ she screamed. She pushed him in the chest. Stunned, Flynn fell back.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ he began, but she shoved him again and he retreated ashen-faced into the hallway.

Patricia turned, her face a sorry mask of tears. ‘What can I do?’ she sobbed and lunged at the bed.

Moira intercepted her. Caught her by the wrists. Patricia stopped with a start. So to speak. Moira went eyeball to eyeball with her. ‘We can start by remaining calm,’ she said sternly. After a few moments of defiant straining, the fight seemed to go out of Patricia. She shook her head. Tears flew off.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Moira. ‘I’ll give him some drugs.
I’ll do my best. He’ll be okay if we all work together. I want Father Flynn and your husband and anyone else you can round up to track down the doctor wherever he is. He can’t be that far away. In the meantime we’re going to have to get a boat ready to take us over to the mainland just in case we need it. And raise Constable Murtagh, he might even be able to summon up a helicopter.’ She shook Patricia’s wrists. ‘Do you hear me?’

Patricia nodded.

‘Good. Now go and make a cup of tea or something. And while you’re there, say a prayer.’

Patricia stared down at Little Stevie. Looked briefly at Christine, standing mesmerised by the commotion.

‘Who to?’ asked Patricia.

‘Anyone that comes to mind,’ said Moira.

It was a scintillating run. Gerry, not normally noted as an athlete, had suddenly found Billy’s boots and beaten two players on the wing, cutting in towards the penalty box and then chipping over the on-rushing full back, leaving me clear just about dead on the penalty spot. I brought the ball down on my chest, let it fall onto my knee, bounced it up once. The left-footed volley gave the keeper no chance. Like a bullet into the back of the net. I turned, waved at Gerry, then saluted the crowd.

For a moment the surroundings failed to register.

I had been vaguely disturbed by this dream for some months. Normally, naturally, I dreamt of beautiful women,
of sexual exploits, and woke with an erection. But in recent months I had begun to dream of scoring in an important football match and woken with sore legs. Maybe it was age. Perhaps it was the knowledge that while I had every expectation of continuing to experience and enjoy sexual activity for many years to come, the likelihood of me scoring a vital goal in an important game of football was receding with every day that passed.

The kitchen: me in a chair. Sore back. Sore legs. An arm dead from sleeping on it. Cold in the grey light of dawn. A can of Diet Pepsi half-drunk on the table. I got up, stretched. I checked my watch. Eight a.m.

It had been a long night, a short sleep. Flynn and I had searched the island. The doctor couldn’t be found. We called on Duncan Cairns, apparently the doctor’s close friend, to see if he had any ideas. But the teacher wasn’t home either. We knocked up a dozy fisherman and got him to ready his trawler for a quick dash across the water, but we hemmed and hawed so long about the wisdom of it that, by the time we did decide, a thick fog had rolled in and scuppered the plan. The fog would have ruled out the helicopter as well, but that wasn’t even an option. Constable Murtagh said someone had broken into his office – the back room of his house, actually – and vandalised his radio. He was investigating. There was no other legitimate means of contacting the mainland, he said.

Patricia cursed me high and low. Cursed Moira high and low. Cursed Flynn low and high. She’d even started on
Christine, but I managed to calm her before she went too far. Just in case.

Little Stevie didn’t deteriorate. He slept. Hot. Fever. Rash. Laboured breath. But breath. Moira kept a close eye on him. Flynn finally got to say his prayer, though Patricia kept an eagle eye on him in case he attempted the last rites. At one point she broke down and seemed on the verge of having him christened, then she backed out, said what was the point, God didn’t exist.

About four, I left the room. Patricia was stretched out on the bed, dozing. Moira laboured with fluttering eyes to keep watch over the baby. Christine had dropped off to sleep on the floor. Flynn carried her into the lounge and pulled a rug over her. He sat in an armchair and began to study his Bible.

I stood in the garden for a while, breathing deeply. I felt odd. Little Stevie was so small and helpless, and I was so big and gormless.

I felt an arm snake round my waist and squeeze. I turned hopeful of Patricia with good news, but it was Moira. She felt me tense up, and removed her arm.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m . . . it’s just . . .’

‘It’s okay.’ She put a hand on my arm. ‘No comebacks, Dan. Have I said anything? It was good fun, wasn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘And if you’re not at my house for more sex by lunch tomorrow I’m going to tell your wife.’