Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (16 page)

Shit!

I hated climbing. You have an aptitude for some things,
and climbing wasn’t one of mine. I’d hated trees as a kid. Chop ’em down rather than climb up ’em. And this wasn’t even a tree. This was a caravan swinging in a gale two hundred feet above razor-sharp rocks.

Fuck!

If it had been an episode of the
X-Files
I could have whipped out my mobile phone and called for help. But it wasn’t and I’d never owned one. Instead I cursed again and hauled myself out of the door, feeling desperately for the grips Bill had found.

It was freezing. My legs were jelly. My arms were jelly.
Oh God . . . wake up . . . wake up!
But there was nothing but the wind and the horror.

‘There!
There
. . .!’

I looked up. Bill’s head was just visible around the curve of the caravan. He had made it safely onto the ‘new’ roof and was now pointing . . .

I reached hesitantly out. My fingers curled round something, something curved and metallic.

‘That’s it! Now come on!’

Fuck!

Just take a seat in the caravan. It’s relatively warm. There’s lots of nice tinned food. Make yourself some supper.

Fuck!

I pulled myself up. There was a narrow ridge around the top of the doorframe on which I could just about support myself on the tips of my toes.

Just about . . .

No!

One foot slipped . . . then the other . . .

Fuck!

I was swinging on my hand grip, my legs whipped out from under me by the wind. I was a flag. A flag of surrender.

My fingers were like ice.

Just let go . . . just let go . . . float . . . float on . . . float on . . .

Fuck! Who sang that?

Float on, float on . . .

It would have to be the fucking Floaters . . .

I had a big book of hits at home . . .

‘Take my hand!
Take my hand
!’

Bill was reaching down to me.

‘I can’t!’

‘You can! You have to!’

‘Fuck!’

I looked up again. Birds were swooping around his head. I’d no choice.

I let go with one hand and stretched,
stretched
. . . I caught his fingers, but he wasn’t interested. He inched on down to my wrist, then started to pull.

‘Let go! Let go with the other!’

‘But I’ll . . .!’

‘Let go!’

I let go and he heaved and he hauled me up those few feet to the top of the caravan.

The wind hit me and nearly blew me over. Bill held onto me. We hugged each other for several moments, then the
caravan shifted again and we grabbed desperately for the thin rubber pipe which was the only thing keeping us in the air.

We both looked up. It was about thirty feet to the top.

I looked doubtfully at him. ‘We toss for who goes first, then?’

He shook his head. ‘I have to go first. This is Royal Society property, I have to report it.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said.

A black and white bird swooped in at us. I felt its claws in my hair. I nearly lost my footing as I swiped at it.

‘Razorbills!’ Bill called. ‘They’re getting protective of their nests.’

‘Excellent!’ I shouted. ‘That’s all we need.’

‘It’ll be okay. There’s no young ones to protect this time of year. No eggs. We’ll be fine.’

That was okay. All we had to do was worry about the climb from hell.

I looked up again. The gas line was stretched tight. It went straight up for several yards, then curved around an outcrop. We couldn’t see beyond that; we could only hope that the line straightened itself out again for the run in to the edge of the cliff.

Bill put both hands around the gas line. He looked at me and gave a little shrug. ‘Why would anyone want to push my caravan over the edge?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘Vandals,’ he said glumly.

‘Good luck,’ I said, and he pulled himself up. His foot crunched into the side of the cliff for support, dislodging a shower of twigs and moss which was immediately whipped away by the wind. He grinned back at me, then went for it.

It was okay for him.

He probably spent his whole life in the open air. This wasn’t bad weather for him. It wasn’t even cold for him. He probably felt
warm
. He was an outdoors man. A rough, tough birdman trained to scale cliffs to rescue injured birds, to fight off international birds’-egg smugglers. Whereas I could type
really
fast.

Fuck!

I ducked down again as another razorbill dived in at me, then looked back up to Bill.

He was at the base of the outcrop now, the most difficult point of the climb. But he was distracted. The razorbills were swooping in on him as well, but in greater numbers. He was closer to their nests, I supposed. He raised one hand to protect his face, then threw it out at them. The wind was howling, but I was sure I could hear him shouting at them to get away. Spend half your life helping birds, then in your moment of need . . .

And I would have to go up there in a moment.

I peered out over the edge of the caravan at the sea churning below. The rocks were set in a rough semi-circle, a toothy smile with flecks of mad spume.

The only way is up.

Now who sang that?

This time there was a scream from above, no doubt about it.

Bill was enveloped by razorbills. He had one hand over his eyes, but something about the way he was clawing at the birds suggested that he had tried to protect his eyes too late, that one of the birds had flown straight into his face and started pecking. He was holding on with one hand, swinging helplessly in the wind. I couldn’t see his face, but I could almost feel his distress; he was beating, beating blindly at them. Then there was another flurry of wings and a wind-suckered shout and suddenly he let go of the rope.

He plummeted.

He was past me in an horrific instant. There wasn’t a sound. Just a bulky coat in the dark. No scream. No last shout for help. Just a blur. I screamed after him. But there was nothing. Not even a splash or a thud; the wind was so loud that Bill’s death was silent.

Jesus Christ.

Or Christine.

Alone on the roof of a caravan, swinging. Razorbills and an impossible climb above, certain death below.

I’m not afraid to cry. I’m not beyond rolling on the ground and begging for help. I would not stand up under torture because my legs would get tired.

Fuck!

I cursed everything there was to curse, and then looked up the gas line, at the outcrop and the birds, and tightened my hands on the rubber and started to pull myself up.
There was no alternative. I had to try. The alternative was suicide.

One hand above the other. Pull.

Foot in the cliff. Push.

Not that far really.

Already my fingers were numb on the rope.

Already the birds were swooping in.

Fuck!
Something thudded into me.

I kept my eyes closed and my head down.

Pull.

Push.

Pull.

Push.

Fuck!
Something ripped into my cheek.

Then my neck. They were tearing my hair out. Ripping my fingers.

Keep those hands on the rope!

Eyes closed!

Push! Pull! Push! Pull!

I was at the outcrop.

There was wind, but it was drowned out by the cries of the razorbills. I heaved myself up, cracked my head on the outcrop, nearly dropped, swung for a few moments, wings lashed into my face, there was blood trickling down my brow. I started to move again.
Slowly, slowly, push, pull, push, pull
. . .

I was
on
the outcrop.

Whack
, something hit me on the back of the head.

Fuck, they were throwing stones at me!

I heaved, I pulled.
C’mon Dan, c’mon! Drink! Sex!

C’mon!

The attacks were easing off. I opened my eyes, half opened them; they were sticky with blood and I couldn’t spare a hand to wipe them.
No nests here, no birds, must be
. . . I looked up.
Jesus Christ, only a few more yards!

I’m going to make it!

What if they’re waiting at the top?

The guys with the guns and the over-developed sense of fun.

What if they throw me straight back over?

No alternative . . . no alternative!

I pulled, I pushed, twice more, and then I was up and over and lying flat out on the sandy ground at the top of the cliff. I forced myself onto my knees and crawled forward several metres just to be sure the ground didn’t suddenly give way on me or a gust of wind blow me back over.

I rolled over onto my back and stared at the stars. I gasped, ‘Throw me back over if you want. Right now I don’t give a flying fuck.’

And then I closed my eyes and waited, but there was no response. Just the wind, and fading cries of angry birds.

20

There’s only so long you can spend lying on top of a cliff, feeling like death, before you start to feel stupid. Before you realise you’re not going to suddenly wake up in bed. Nobody’s going to rescue you. You’re not mortally injured, you’re just tired and a little bit battered. You know you’ve a long walk home. Once there you’ll try a lame, ‘Guess what happened to me,’ and no matter how good you are at telling stories, you know that no one is ever going to quite understand.
You were on top of a caravan? Over the edge of a cliff? It was really windy? He fell off? Oh-ma-God, you poor thing, and pass the salt, would you?

It had clouded over. It was starting to spit. Bill was dead. I had no idea if he really was Bill Oddie. Not that it mattered. He could have been Gunga Din or Adolf Eichmann. Nobody
deserved to die like that, except of course Adolf Eichmann. I was covered in birdshit and blood. I was frozen and everything that could ache, did.

I thought about taking the circuitous route home, for safety’s sake, but I was beyond caring, I was too miserable to continue playing commandos. There was a road leading from the bird observatory back towards town and I stuck to it. I tramped, head down, too tired to think, but thinking nevertheless. I had to go to the police, tell them what had happened. The mainland would be the best bet, but I’d get the ball rolling with the cop stationed here on the island first. But not yet. It was late and there was one thing I needed first: a hug. Someone to pat my head and tell me everything was all right. Patricia. She mightn’t really believe my story, but she could provide a big pot of sympathy. Then a sleep. Then I’d be okay. We could be packed up in a couple of hours and off the island. Fuck it, forget the packing, just get on the first ferry then send for the stuff. The Cardinal had asked me to investigate a child who claimed to be the Messiah, not to get involved in murder.

Murder. A small, close-knit community.

Who was to say that
I
hadn’t thrown Bill over the edge?

I had been down the road of being presumed guilty before.

My fingerprints all over the caravan. My footprints at the top of the cliff. My drunkenness on leaving Moira’s. Even if she didn’t finger me, Father White surely would.

Shit.

In took three quarters of an hour to walk home. It was a
quarter to eleven as I struggled into the lane and saw Father Flynn’s battered Land-Rover parked outside the cottage. I froze, even more.

Were
they
waiting for me? Were they in the bushes?

No
. They would presume I was dead.
So they’ve come for Patricia. Even now they’re
. . . no, what would be the point? What did she know? Come to that, what did
I
know?

The lounge curtains were closed, but there was a small bare side window. As I cautiously approached it there came a scuffling sound from behind me and I spun, ready to make a fight of it or at least beg for mercy, but it was only our friendly neighbourhood hedgehog out on patrol. I tutted and turned back to the window. I edged up to it and peered in: Patricia, cup of tea, baby asleep on sofa, Flynn, cup of tea, animated mouths, but smiles not scowls. Small talk and wee buns.

I knocked on the front door. Patricia opened it. Her first words were, ‘Where the fuck were . . .?’ but then she trailed off as I stepped into the light and she saw the state of me. ‘Jesus Christ, Dan . . . what happened?’

She ran to me and hugged me and I winced. Her fingers traced the dried blood on my face. She stood back and held me at arm’s length. ‘Dan . . .?’

I shook my head and shuffled past her. Father Flynn was standing in the lounge, cup and saucer in hand, an odd mix of concern and awkwardness on his face. ‘Dan . . .’ he said, without any hope of completing the sentence.

Trish came in behind me and said, ‘Dan . . .’

So we’d established my name. I looked at Patricia and said, ‘Sorry.’

Her head moved a little to one side. ‘Dan . . .?’

I looked at Father Flynn. ‘Accidents will happen.’

‘Oh dear . . .’ he spluttered, ‘you had a . . .’

‘Self-inflicted.’

‘Self . . .?’

‘I was coming home from Moira McCooey’s. It started to rain. There’s a dilap . . . dilapa . . . an empty farmhouse down the road a bit. I took shelter. I was nosing about waiting for it to go over. Found a couple of bottles of sherry hidden behind a broken old bookcase.’ I took a deep breath. I sighed it out. ‘I drank them. I think they were past their drink by date. Next thing I knew I was throwing up. I tried to get home, but I blacked out. Must have fallen over a wall or something. Woke up in a gorse bush about half an hour ago. Sorry.’

‘Oh love . . . are you okay?’ It was said sympathetically enough, but I knew the tone, and I knew the look of barely concealed loathing in her eyes. If Father Flynn hadn’t been there she would have beaten me to a pulp.