Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (21 page)

Flynn darted a look at me, then back to White. ‘And what if, by some stretch of the imagination, she pronounces the word crucifixion, what then . . . are we going to
crucify
the poor woman?’

‘She isn’t a
poor woman
. She tried to
murder
Christine. If Christine says crucify, then who are we to go against her?’

‘This is ridiculous. Father, this is the Second Coming, it’s about love and a new beginning, it’s not about . . .’

‘You can’t say that! We don’t
know
what it’s about.
You
brought Christine to us, Father.
We
believe. We cannot pick and choose the good bits. This time we might get a vengeful God, Frank, it’s happened before.’

‘So . . . so . . .’ He was starting to get a little flustered. He could see the argument running away from him. ‘So . . . you would . . . go along with a child’s tantrum, you would say this was God’s word?’

‘Has Christine
ever
thrown a tantrum?’

‘No. She hasn’t. I just fee—’

‘She is the daughter of God. Would you deny her right to pronounce judgment?’

Flynn’s eyes circled the table again. He saw a lot of serious faces looking at him. He avoided mine. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. There was a look of stifled desperation in his eyes. ‘Father, all of you, I know Christine better than most of you. I know her ways. She is good and kind and pure, we should not ask her to do this. Please leave it to Constable Murtagh. Let him deal with it. I propose . . .’

Father White rapped on the table again. ‘And I propose we ask Christine to decide! We put it to a vote, we do it now.’

Flynn leant forward to speak, then sat back again and sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘we’ll put it to a vote . . . I only trust that common sense will prevail. All those in favour of letting Christine decide, raise your hands.’

Father White’s hand went straight up. The others were slower to follow, everyone watching each other, looking for a lead. A bald man opposite me, whose name I’d forgotten, was the first to raise his; then there was another, and another until most of those around the table had theirs in the air. Fifteen seconds later only Father Flynn, Carl Christie, Michael Savage the curly-haired note-taker and Jack McGettigan the ex-publican had failed to raise their hands.

‘The ayes have it then,’ Father White announced, beaming.

‘They do,’ Father Flynn said simply.

‘Shall we fetch Christine?’ White asked.

Flynn shook his head. ‘Not now. I will speak to Moira. If she doesn’t agree then it doesn’t happen.’

‘But we vote . . .’ Father White protested.

‘Christine isn’t some sort of puppet to be wheeled out every time we need something done, we don’t
own
her . . . I will communicate the vote to Moira, and we’ll take it from there.’

‘Perhaps I should be with you when you tell her, Father, just to ensure that . . .’

Flynn cracked his hand down on the table. It was so
unexpected that half of them jumped in their seats. ‘Are you suggesting . . .!’

Father White, surprised himself, blurted out, ‘No, of course not,’ too quickly, and knew immediately that he had lost ground he was not going to recover. Flynn took full advantage, snapping to his feet and sweeping out of the meeting. As he reached the door he glanced back and said, ‘We will reconvene tomorrow, gentlemen.’

Then he pulled open the door and was gone.

I waited behind as the Parish Council filed solemnly out of the hall until there was just me and Constable Murtagh left.

‘As a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary,’ I said, ‘where do you stand on a defendant being sentenced by a four-year-old Messiah?’

‘Have that satellite dish down here by first thing tomorrow, son,’ he replied, ‘or
I’ll
have
you
crucified, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I said.

26

Rain drummed against the windows. I knelt on the arm of the chair and stared out into the drizzled darkness and reflected on how I had managed once again to get myself involved with loonies.

Before, in Belfast, in New York, it had been individual loonies, a magic mushroomed comedian or a detective who snipped fingers off with rose-clippers, but this was a different kind of loony altogether. It was a collective looniness. The council of loons.

Patricia could see that I was troubled. She hovered about me. Little Stevie slept. ‘I’d make you a cup of tea,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but you’d only tell me to stick it up my hole.’

I smiled. I shrugged. I looked at the rain again.

‘And I only brought the one bottle of wine, so there’s no answer there.’

She put her arm about my shoulders. I rested my head against her for a moment. She felt warm. Smelt nice. I put my arm round her waist.

‘I’m sorry I can’t help,’ she said.

‘There’s nothing wrong.’

I dropped my hand onto her rear and it sparked off a thought. I looked up at her hopefully. A way to forget my troubles.

She moved slightly away, then squeezed my shoulder and looked at the ground. ‘I’m having trouble with thrush,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper, shy even after all these years.

I dropped my hand. ‘You shouldn’t put so much bread out.’

She laughed and slapped the back of my head, then turned quickly on her heel. ‘Well, I’m going to make a cup of tea.’

I stared into the blackness for a little longer. It would be easy just to pack up our belongings and get on that ferry in the morning. To forget about all the nonsense. I already had enough evidence for the Cardinal to send in the ecclesiastical stormtroopers. I’d earned the money, was maybe owed some more for the bicycle injuries. I’d never even thought to ask about whether I was covered by any kind of insurance, whether Patricia would gain anything if a spoke entered my eyeball or a plague of locusts took a sudden interest in me. Third party fire and pestilence.

I followed her into the kitchen. I took a can of Diet Pepsi from the fridge and sat at the table. ‘The way things are
going,’ I said, ‘they’ll probably outlaw this too, and then I’ll really be stuck.’

‘Dan, you’ll never be stuck.’

‘We should go home,’ I said. ‘These people are nuts.’

She shook her head. ‘Dan, you won’t go home till you see this through. You know that.’

‘Jesus was thirty-odd when they got round to crucifying him. You want to be here that long?’

‘And what’s Jesus got to do with it?’

I grinned. She was right. ‘Good point.’

‘Besides, girls grow up so much quicker than boys.’

I tutted. ‘Are you being sucked into all of this?’

‘No more than you, sweetie.’

Her evening had been better fun. The ladies of Wrathlin seemed a nice bunch. What they lacked in sophistication they made up for with old-fashioned charm and a contagious homeliness. The social evening was nothing more than a chin-wagging session, with Patricia the centre of attraction. I’d given her her instructions, of course, but by the time she’d talked through her life and times the evening was drawing to a close and she very nearly failed to steer the chat round. She’d been worried about how to introduce the subject of the Messiah in the first place, and had hoped that it would come round naturally, but nobody mentioned it all night. Finally she just plunged in and hoped for the best. She tapped the knee of the woman sitting next to her and whispered, ‘What about this Christine then? What’s the gen on her?’

The woman smiled at her. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? Our wee Christine – such a star!’ And that had set the whole lot of them off.

Patricia poured her tea. I drummed my nails on the side of the can.

‘It was like Christine had won a bonny baby competition or a talent show or something. They just seemed genuinely proud of her. Local girl does good.’

‘Loonies,’ I said.

‘Maybe they’re just right to treat it like that, love.’

‘Aye. Drink your tea.’

‘But . . .’

‘Trish, if you’d seen my lot . . .’

‘Well, maybe if there were any women on that Council, this might be a better place to live.’

‘I can’t imagine Wrathlin
ever
being a better place to live. Unless they reopened the pub.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Anyway, I’m not rising to the bait, Trish.’

‘What bait?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I haven’t a notion what you’re talking about.’

‘You know rightly. All that feminist crap.’

‘What feminist crap?’

‘About women ruling the world and . . .’

‘I never mentioned women ruling the world!’

‘You were getting there . . .’

‘I . . .’

‘Just finish your tea and do the dishes, love,’ I said. Then I ran into the front room laughing.

‘Bastard!’ she shouted.

But it was okay. She was laughing too.

My idea was to write a big epic novel about the history of Ireland. It had been done before, but never properly. None of them had ever been funny, and the history of Ireland was nothing if not a laugh. Before, I’d had the thoughts, but never the time to write them down; now I had the time but the thoughts were driven from my mind by visions of the Messiah.

Patricia went to bed. I sat in the corner of the spare bedroom I was using as a makeshift study and passed ten minutes staring into nothingness and sniffing at a thick black felt pen. It smelt pretty good. After a while I started to feel a bit light-headed and set it down. Then I switched on the computer and started writing a report for Cardinal Tomas Daley. I tried to keep it objective and concise. The word loony only crept up twice. It took me about half an hour. Then I sat and pondered a while on how to get it to him. I had an Internet connection and a speedy modem, but no phone line. I could post it, but I had some doubt about how wise it was to let it out of my hands. No, I needed to get on the ferry, phone or fax him the report from Ballycastle. Hell, while I was there I might be forced into an off-licence. I spent a few minutes trying to work out how many cans of Harp I could squeeze into the car (a) without anybody on the ferry noticing, and (b) without sinking the ferry. I
reckoned about two hundred in the boot. And a crate of Diet Pepsi in the passenger seat to throw the alcohol police off the trail.

After I printed out the report I folded and sealed it in an envelope and put it in my jacket pocket. I didn’t address it. It contained no reference to the Cardinal.

I got another can of Diet Pepsi, then sat in the lounge for a while, back before the window. I watched the rain again. It was quite soothing. A mental massage. I started picking out raindrop patterns against the glass. It obviously hadn’t been cleaned on the outside for a while, and the dirt encouraged the rain into various shapes: a map of America, a strutting peacock, an old woman’s fleshy face.

The old woman’s fleshy face smiled suddenly and then a fist banged on the window.

I shot backwards, toppling off the arm of the settee. ‘Jesus Christ!’ I shouted, but it was more like the Wicked Witch of the North West.

I lay on the floor, heart pounding. The face moved away. After a few moments there was a rapid knocking on the front door.

I took several deep breaths and cautiously raised myself. I was getting on in years now and my diet didn’t allow me too many sudden shocks.

I steadied myself against the living-room door. Patricia’s head appeared at the end of the hall. ‘Who is it?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t bloody know yet,’ I snapped.

‘
Sorry
,’ she snapped herself and ducked back into the room.

I opened the door.

The old fleshy face blinked at me in the light. Then the body it topped shook itself like a Labrador and while I was distracted by the spray she stepped into the hall.

‘Come in,’ I said.

‘Sorry, love, did I give you a fright?’ the woman said, her voice cigarette-craggy. ‘I thought I’d take a wee look and see if anyone was up before I knocked. It’s late on.’

‘It is. And, no, you didn’t.’

She nodded. ‘I wanted a wee word.’

‘Have several,’ I said, ‘it looks like murder out there.’

Behind me, down the hall, Patricia’s face poked out again. ‘What does she want?’

‘I don’t know!’ I turned back to her. ‘What do you . . .’

But she’d taken advantage of the distraction to walk past me into the lounge. She was sitting on the edge of the settee, a damp stain of rain already spreading out behind her.

‘Have a seat,’ I said.

She wore a purple anorak that fell as far as her knees. Her face bulged red out of its hood. Raindrops ran to and fro in the gullies between the wrinkles on her forehead like irrigation. Her wellington boots were caked in mud. Her hands were pudgy. There was something familiar about her face.

The woman leant forward. ‘You’re the one saved the wee girl.’

‘Christine?’

‘Aye.’

‘I suppose so. What of it?’

‘I want you to do the same. I want you to save another wee girl.’

‘I’m really not sure what . . .’

‘You did it once,’ she snapped suddenly, her top lip curling up unpleasantly, ‘do it again.’

There was no need for the nastiness. If I’d been drinking I might have picked her up by the ears and thrown her into the garden. And kicked her while she was down for good measure. I have never believed that old age is an excuse for bad manners. Or for anything besides incontinence. But I hadn’t been drinking, so I counted to ten and said as placidly as I could: ‘You’d better tell me what you’re on about, Missis, because I haven’t a notion.’

This time her bottom lip curled down in distaste. She had a remarkably mobile mouth. ‘Are you not listening to me?’ she hissed.

‘Yes. I’m listening.’

‘You saved that wee girl.’

‘Yes. We’ve established that.’

‘Now I want you to save mine.’

‘And what’s her problem?’

‘They want to kill her.’

‘Who do?’

‘They do. The Council.’

‘And why would they want to do that?’

‘Because of what she did. On her bike.’

Ah.

The penny dropped. Mary Reilly. Mary Reilly’s mother.