Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (36 page)

‘Not any more,’ White said simply. He moved forward, his gun tracing Moira’s shape as he stepped around her. ‘Christine!’ he called.

‘Please . . .’ Moira moaned, stretching out a hand to grab him, but he avoided her easily and moved on up the ferry.

Christine’s head ducked down behind the bonnet of Flynn’s Land-Rover, but her blond hair, whipped up in the wind, was clearly visible. As she peeked out one side, White grabbed her from the other. She let out a shrill little scream.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ White intoned, but his whisper was rough, anxious, not soothing at all. She wailed. He clutched her arm tightly and dragged her forward. She let loose with a kick, but her legs weren’t long enough. She turned a tear-streaked face towards her mother.

Our party moved cautiously up the boat. Father Flynn helped Moira to her feet. Patricia bowed her head and kissed Little Stevie on the brow as she walked.

Father White couldn’t go any further. The waves spat angrily like pogoing punks. The elderly priest turned towards us. Christine tried to dash away. He clawed her back. Then he raised her and held her tight against his chest.

‘This is the end of it all!’ he bellowed.

‘Please . . .!’ Moira cried.

‘In God’s name . . .’ muttered Flynn, edging forward.

I leant against the boot of the Fiesta. Patricia snuggled into me. ‘Please, Dan, do . . .’

‘I’m not bulletproof,’ I hissed.

White rubbed spray from his eyes with his gun hand. ‘You’ve taken everything from me, Frank!’ he yelled. ‘We were building heaven on earth, and you ruined it!’ He squeezed Christine, bent and kissed the top of her head while she tried again to squirm away. ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. That’s what we lived by. For two thousand years. And then he gave us his daughter. And you want to do the same again. Destroy, corrupt, sacrifice! It can’t happen, Frank! There’s only one thing to do. Take her back to her father. He needs her back.’

He looked quickly over at the sea. Opened his mouth. He seemed to bite at the waves. ‘We’re going overboard, Frank. We’re going into the sea. That’s where God first breathed life into us, and that’s where he’ll welcome us back into his bosom.’

I glanced at Patricia. She turned disappointed eyes away from me. ‘I want you to go up beside Moira,’ I whispered.

‘But . . .’

‘I want you to offer him Little Stevie. Ask him to take Little Stevie to heaven with them.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Please,’ I hissed, ‘I need the diversion.’

‘Bugger the div . . .’

‘Do it. Trust me. I can stop this.’

She bit something back.

‘Please, love, it’s the only way.’

‘This is my baby.’

‘It’s
our
baby. I wouldn’t harm a hair on his head. Please.’

I gave her a little nudge. She gave me a glance that carried a promise of bloody revenge, then moved reluctantly forward.

White had locked ranting eyes on Father Flynn.

I slipped a key into the lock, turned. I pulled the boot up a couple of feet and slipped my hand in. The gun was in there. Somewhere.

Patricia distracted White perfectly. She held Little Stevie out in front of her. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘take him with you.’

‘What?’

‘Patricia?’ said Moira.

Flynn reached out a beseeching hand. Patricia ignored it. She shook her head. ‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘This is no place for Christine. It’s no place for any child. Their place is with God. Please take him with you.’

Jesus, where did I put the bugger?

White had a child in one hand, a gun in the other. He looked confused for a moment. Unsure.

‘Let her go in Christine’s arms. It will be an honour.’ Patricia reached forward. Christine, calmed slightly by the presence of the child, reached out for Little Stevie. Patricia hesitated.

Jesus, where the . . .?

Christine took hold of Little Stevie. Patricia wouldn’t let go. Acting and fear would only take her so far. She wasn’t going to let go of our baby. Christine pulled. White growled, ‘Leave him then!’

Patricia glanced desperately back. ‘I have to say goodbye,’ she said.

Something sharp at my neck.

A low growl. ‘Lost something?’

I turned slightly. Charlie McManus. A blade. A fishknife. Something.

I gave the tiniest shrug.

He nodded into the boot. ‘Give me it. Now.’

The boat reared up. Father White stumbled forward; Patricia, better placed, put a hand out to stop him; she almost hugged him, and he took full advantage of it; he got hold of the baby, my baby,
our
baby, and shoved Patricia backwards. She fell, tumbling over ropes and loose crates. When she looked up White had Little Stevie and Christine tucked against his chest, his free hand still holding the gun tightly. A wave reached out to drench the three of them. Christine screamed. Little Stevie roared. Patricia raised her fingers to her lips, then thrust them into her mouth.

‘Carefully,’ said Charlie McManus.

I reached, carefully, into the cardboard box. I removed the hedgehog from the scrummage of leaves.

Charlie’s brow furrowed. The knife-prick relaxed. ‘I thought . . .’ he began.

With all my strength I thrust the animal upward. Charlie screamed and fell back, pawing as the sleeping creature instantly embedded itself a thousand times into his face. I plunged my hands into the boot again, frantically . . . I found the shoe. Inside it, the gun. I ran forward.

White was swaying back and forth, unsupported, mouthing a prayer, waiting for the next big wave to provide the imbalance required to topple him over the side into the grey waters with Christine and my son. He wasn’t brave enough to throw himself.

I raised the gun. ‘Let them down, Father,’ I shouted.

His eyes slowly focused on me. A tiny smile. A little shake. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he said.

As the bow rose, I shot him between the eyes.

He fell forward, the children toppling out of his arms. His head thumped of the deck.

Screams.

Patricia caught Little Stevie.

Christine rolled and surfaced, roaring.

I closed my eyes.

I took a deep breath.

I took another.

A hand on my arm. Father Flynn. ‘They’re okay,’ he said softly, ‘they’re okay.’ And then he let out a very deep breath himself and said, ‘That was a very brave thing.’

I opened my eyes. The deck was awash with blood and sea water.

‘How did you know he would fall forward?’ Flynn asked.

‘I didn’t.’

‘How did you ever manage a shot like that?’

‘Luck.’

He clasped his hands. ‘Truly God has watched over us,’ he said.

‘You bastard!’ Patricia screamed, coming up the deck at speed. Before I could respond she kicked me hard where it hurts. ‘You could have killed both of them!’

I collapsed.

But I wasn’t angry.

There was nothing to be angry about. I knew that it had been done with affection.

43

Cardinal Tomas Daley, Primate of All Ireland and still the hot favourite to be the first English-speaking pope since Robbie Coltrane, looked up from his desk. His face was the colour of crematorium ash. ‘Well,’ he said sombrely, ‘it certainly makes quite an impact, reading it in black and white.’

‘You should have been there, living it in colour.’

‘I’m sure it was dreadful for you. What can I say? I had no idea.’

I shrugged. It wasn’t a good idea. My head was playing host to a cement mixer. It had a little to do with the close, thundery weather and a lot to do with the two-day bender I’d just completed. It was in honour of Little Stevie and his christening. We’d gone to the Presbyterian Church round the corner from our house. It seemed so strange to be sitting in a pew and not be worried about having my head blown off.

‘How’s your wife . . . the baby?’

‘Fine. Although I won’t try to sell them another island holiday for a while.’

‘Well, that’s natural. And yourself?’

‘Fine. I’m thinking about entering the ministry. It’s a pretty exciting life.’

He held my gaze for a few moments. He lifted my report and tapped it gently against his desk. Then he stood up and crossed to the ornate fireplace that dominated the room. He looked gravely back at me, then threw the report onto the blazing fire.

We both watched it for several moments.

When, after several further moments it had still failed to catch light, I said, ‘I could have told you that was an imitation fire. It’s very life-like, isn’t it?’

The Cardinal was shaking his head. ‘I had no idea. I must confess I wondered when they never seemed to bring coal in.’ He bent into the hearth and lifted the report again. ‘I’ll have it shredded,’ he said, and walked back to his desk.

‘You can shred, but I can’t see how you can hope to cover up seven murders.’

‘We don’t wish to cover anything up, Dan. The . . .
radon
. . . is a very real threat and I’m sure there will be considerable media interest . . . but the murders . . . well, of course, they were a very terrible thing, but I don’t see that there’s anything to be gained by bringing them before the public. Nor this business about Christine being the Messiah. Exceptionally gifted, yes indeed, but no need to mention . . .’

‘Cardinal, it’s not that easy.’

‘Isn’t it? You know, Dan, I’m not without influence. The . . .
bodies
. . . have already been removed and disposed of.’

‘Just like that.’

‘Just like that. We’ve had lots of practice.’

‘You’ve . . .’

‘Don’t ask, please.’

‘But . . . anyway, I don’t see you’re going to shut eight hundred-odd people up. Odd being the word.’

‘Again, Dan . . . you’d be surprised. Oh, I’m sure something might leak out eventually . . . but do you think those people are one bit proud of what went on out there? They’re not only embarrassed, but they’re afraid of being implicated . . . and don’t underestimate the Catholic faith either . . . if it does one thing well, it makes you a little scared for your soul, do you understand?’

‘I’m starting to.’

‘Add in resettlement grants, employment grants, all the benefits the Mother Church can bestow on her flock . . . you
would be
surprised.’

‘Expensive, though.’

‘What isn’t, these days?’

‘Of course,’ I said, without any trace of subtlety, ‘I don’t need a resettlement grant.’

‘No.’

‘Or, indeed, a job.’

‘No, I presume not.’

‘And I’m about as Catholic as Cromwell.’

‘Are you trying to make a point, Dan?’

‘A small one. What with all the life-threatening situations I got into in my brave attempt to save the Catholic Church from universal embarrassment, I didn’t actually get started any of that novel I was supposed to be writing.’

‘You did rather get overtaken by events.’

‘I was thinking another writing grant mightn’t go amiss. Just to see me through the next few months. A year, tops.’

The Cardinal nodded slowly.

‘Of course I haven’t quite decided on the subject matter. My characters don’t have to be Catholic. Or live on an island. They wouldn’t have to go within a hundred miles of an island, any island. They could be practically housebound. I’ll put them in wheelchairs if you insist.’

‘Blackmail is such an ugly word, I think,’ said the Cardinal.

‘So is starvation, it’s much longer and worth a hell of a lot more in Scrabble.’ I had no idea if it was, but it had the desired effect. He was reaching for his chequebook.

A few weeks later I bumped into Father Flynn. At first I didn’t recognise him. He’d lost a lot of weight, his walk was stooped, his eyes hollow. He was looking in a Waterstone’s window on Royal Avenue. I walked past him once, then checked back when I realised who it was.

He was pleased to see me. His handshake was weak, but keen. ‘You haven’t seen Christine or Moira, have you?’ was his first post-formalities question.

‘I thought you were sorting them out?’

‘I was. I did. Then the Cardinal stepped in. He’s moved them on somewhere. He thinks it’s better that they have no contact with me. I suppose he’s right. But I’m dying to see them. You get attached, y’know?’

We talked on for a little while, but there wasn’t a great deal more to say. We exchanged telephone numbers. I took his on the back of a betting docket and lost it when I cashed it in the next day. A rare winner. I realised I was losing the number as I gave it in, but I let it go.

I hadn’t lied to him, exactly. I hadn’t seen Moira or Christine, and had no plans to. I’d been bad and would not stray again. Patricia had seen them, though. She’d been out for lunch with them a few times. They had a flat about half a mile from our house. Moira was back working as a nurse. Christine was in primary school, a year early and top of her class. Settling well, apparently.

One day, when Moira went to pick her up from school, she didn’t appear at the gate with the rest of the kids. Moira hung about, getting more and more anxious, then hurried into the classroom.

Christine was there okay, with a teacher, but she was barefoot. Her feet were bleeding.

Moira stood frozen.

It took a while for the teacher to convince her that it was just that Christine’s shoes were too small.

We laughed about that. And it’s nice, laughing together; it’s what we do best, that and fight. Sometime we even get to make love on the Magic Settee.

People tell you that once you have a child your life is never the same again. They’re right. You get marooned on a remote island and nearly murdered by a bunch of radiation-crazed religious maniacs.

We’d probably started out the wrong way with Little Stevie. We had enough problems to overcome with him not being mine, without subjecting the three of us to life on Wrathlin. The idea had seemed romantic, and it had stayed an idea. Often, romance is.

One night, when Little Stevie was just about six months, Patricia and I stood in his nursery, hand in hand in the half light, just watching him. He was beautiful. Even his hair. It looked like it might darken sufficiently for him to pass as an out-of-season strawberry blond.