Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (20 page)

I put up my hand modestly. ‘Please,’ I said.

The clapping got louder.

‘Well done, that man,’ said someone.

I did what I do best in difficult situations. I shrugged.

After a century or two it died down. They sat. As they did, I noted that the police officer had not stood at all.

‘Please, Dan,’ said Father Flynn, ‘take a chair.’ He indicated one at his side. ‘We’re all indebted to you.’

Flynn quickly ran down their names and professions for my benefit: butcher, baker, candlestick maker. I wasn’t really taking it in. I wasn’t used to being the centre of attention. I nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled.

One, Carl Christie, bearded, solemn-faced, reached laboriously across the table and shook my hand. ‘Is the baby all well again then?’ he enquired sombrely. He ran the Credit Union.

‘Seems fine,’ I said.

‘And the doctor’s seen him?’

‘He has. Says he’s fine.’

‘And would he be agreeing it’s a miracle?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘What
did
he say?’

‘Just that he couldn’t find any trace of anything wrong.’

‘But he didn’t think it was a miracle?’

‘He didn’t say.’

He turned to the rest of the table and shook his head slowly. Several others shook too. The curly-haired man, Michael Savage, wrote something in a spiral-bound notebook.

Father Flynn raised his hands. ‘Before we begin, we’ll say a prayer.’

Heads bowed. He began. I watched. Father White watched me. He was the only one with his eyes open. I held his gaze. It wasn’t malevolent, exactly, just kind of stern. As they came to the end of the prayer he finally closed his eyes and repeated
amen
with the rest of them.

Then they launched into half an hour of discussing items on a curiously mundane agenda. A parish fete. Secretary’s report. Honorary treasurer’s report. Minister’s report. Births: none. Marriages: none. Deaths: one.

‘Constable Murtagh,’ Flynn said, ‘would you care to address us on this subject? A tragedy, I’m sure we all agree.’

There were nods all around the table. If any of them were feeling guilty it didn’t show. Murtagh rose slowly to his feet. ‘My investigations,’ he said lugubriously, ‘are continuing.’ He paused, and for a moment it looked like that was all we were getting. ‘But at the moment everything points to an accidental death.’

‘Was he drunk?’ Father White asked.

‘Not according to Dr Finlay. It does look as if his caravan broke loose from its, uhm, moorings and toppled over the
side. However, I will make my report to my superiors and it will be up to them to decide if it warrants any further investigation. There will also have to be a full post-mortem on the mainland. We will get the body across as soon as we can.’

There were murmurs from around the table, but nobody spoke. Murtagh took his seat again and Flynn stood. ‘And now,’ Flynn asked, ‘is there any other business?’

Several hands went up. Flynn pointed first to Michael Fogerty, the butcher. Rotund, bull-like, he nodded in my direction. ‘We obviously owe a lot to Mr Starkey, but I was wondering about the dish?’

I furrowed.

So did Flynn. ‘The . . .?’

‘The satellite dish.’

‘Ah. Of course. Your dish, Dan. Noticed it myself.’

‘What of it?’

‘I’m afraid it’ll have to go.’

I looked quickly round their nodding heads. ‘For why?’

‘It’s against the law,’ said Carl Christie.

‘What law?’

‘Parish law,’ said Flynn.

I cleared my throat. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know.’ I looked around the table, rather sheepishly. ‘And, would that, like, stand up in, y’know . . .
court
?’ I tried not to make it sound too obstreperous.

‘Very well, actually.’ Flynn laughed. ‘In our court. And ours is the only one that matters here. With all due respect
to Constable Murtagh.’ He nodded across at the policeman, who sat impassively. ‘The simple thing is, Dan, we’re trying to create as near perfect an environment as we can for Christine to grow up in, and we believe that your satellite dish might threaten that environment.’

‘Might I ask how?’

‘Pollution, Dan. Pollution. It’s all around us already, but we don’t need to invite any more in. We know about satellite TV, Dan, we know what kind of channels it contains.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t wish to cause a fuss, but it’s not much different to ordinary television.’

‘We’ve outlawed ordinary television as well.’

‘Oh.’

‘Dan . . .’ Flynn began.

‘But what else is there to do?’ I asked. I was flailing about, hopelessly.

‘Oh Dan,’ Flynn said with a rueful shake of his head. ‘You do live such an empty life. You don’t need television to enjoy yourself. You don’t need alcohol to have a good time.’

‘Who mentioned alcohol?’

‘You’ve been asking questions, Dan. We don’t
need
any of those things. We have everything we need’ – he clasped his hand to his chest – ‘right here in our hearts. All you have to do is open your heart and all the answers you seek will be forthcoming.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Y’know, Dan, there are momentous events coming, we all need to be ready.’

The next momentous event on my calendar was the world heavyweight clash between Tyson and Lewis. They didn’t
know that my satellite dish was useless in its present state, but now they seemed intent on robbing me of the chance to see even the edited highlights on terrestrial television.

I tried to smile back, to show them I was taking it in jocular fashion, but it wouldn’t quite come. All they saw was a hint of a snarl and all they heard was a mediocre whine. ‘But surely television isn’t so . . .’

‘It’s dangerous, Dan. Poisonous. We don’t need it here.’

I tutted. ‘Okay . . . you know, I respect your beliefs here, Father, everyone, I understand where you’re coming from . . . I don’t want to upset anyone, but can we just, ahm . . .
discuss
this for a moment? Just widen it out a little . . . I mean . . . if you think about it . . . y’know . . . even
shoes
are dangerous, Father, in the wrong hands. Or feet for that matter. I mean, a good kicking with a pair of Doc Martens can kill you, but you don’t outlaw shoes. If you see my point.’

‘I see your point, Dan. But let’s just say that we’re not in a
discussive
situation here. The law
has been
passed. It’s
the law
.’ He smiled at me again. ‘We love you, Dan. You’ve already made a massive contribution to our lives here. But the law is the law and must be obeyed by everyone. It may seem dictatorial to you. But everybody voted for it, so it’s democratic as well.’

Yes. Indeed. Everyone gets equally fucked.

I shrugged. Not one of my more convincing shrugs, but a shrug all the same. ‘Well, okay,’ I said, ‘if that’s the way youse feel, who am I to argue? You’ve God on your side.’

‘We have,’ said Flynn.

Father White knocked suddenly on the table. ‘Might I suggest that Mr Starkey bring his satellite dish and television into town as soon as he can? Just to put temptation out of his way. Constable Murtagh can look after them until he leaves the island. Agreed?’

I opened my mouth to say something about good faith being a fundamental tenet of Christianity, although I had no idea if it was, but before I could say anything there was a sudden rush of
ayes
and Father White’s proposal passed. I slumped down in my chair.

25

I knew from my long years of reporting council meetings that anything and everything could crop up under the Any Other Business heading. It sat misleadingly at the tag end of an agenda, like an afterthought, but invariably became the longest and most emotive part of any meeting, and those were meetings where the most important item for discussion was usually the collection of garbage, Sunday opening of shops or the amount of dogshit to be found on the local pavements. This one, on (one would be tempted to say
godforsaken
if it wasn’t a trifle inappropriate) Wrathlin, was no exception, save that it dealt with less mundane subjects like the attempted murder of the Messiah, divine retribution and crucifixion.

I was still monumentally pissed off. I could survive a murder attempt, but how was I going to get by without drink
AND
TV? And what would Patricia say? At least I could write my novel. What was she going to do all day with just Little Stevie to look after? Sew?

Sew my feet together, then lop off my head with an axe.

My head was still getting to grips with their simple lunacy, when they moved quickly on to a much grander form. Flynn asked if there was any further any other business, a mouthful in itself, and in response Father White stood and looked gravely about him.

Until that moment I hadn’t thought to ask why there were
two
priests on such a small island. There had been bigger questions. White was much older than Flynn, but still well short of doddery. There was a feeling of power about him which Flynn lacked, although he made up for it with a certain kind of restrained charisma. Flynn was the more senior of the two as far as the running of the church and, indeed, the island was concerned. They had a common goal, but I suspected two different approaches to it. White was old school, Flynn was new. White was the rhythm method and Flynn was strumming guitars around the campfire.

I had thought at first that Father White might be the priest that the Primate had dispatched to the island to investigate the Messiah, who had been converted, but something about him made me doubt that.

Flynn looked a little pained as White waited for complete silence around the table, then tried to hurry him along with an abrupt, ‘Yes?’

‘The small matter of the attempt on Christine’s life, Father Flynn.’

‘I thought that had been resolved.’ He nodded towards Constable Murtagh. ‘She’s still in your top room, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, Father, till this bloody fog lifts and we can get her across to the mainland. Her ’n’ the bird warden.’

‘And it’s a watertight case, isn’t it?’

Murtagh rubbed at his chin for a moment. ‘That’s not quite so straightforward, Father. Legally, she should have had access to a solicitor by now. We don’t have any, of course, but since the radio went down we can’t even speak to one on the mainland. It could cause problems later.’

I turned to the man beside me and whispered, ‘Aren’t there
any
phones on the island?’

He shook his head. ‘We passed a law,’ he whispered.

‘Figures,’ I said.

Father White knocked on the desk again. Flynn looked round sharply. ‘Father?’

‘I was thinking, do we really want this to go to court at all?’

‘She is a danger to Christine, I think it’s best that she . . .’

‘But we don’t want a trial on the mainland, do we? There’s no telling what might come out. I mean, about Christine. We don’t want that yet, do we?’ He was very fond of the
do we
’s. He glanced at me. I held his gaze until he looked away.

Father Flynn sighed. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That we find an alternative solution.’

‘Well . . . suggest one.
Anyone
?’

There was some uncomfortable shifting in seats. It seemed
obvious, at least to me, that Father White had already thought of an alternative, but was holding off until he saw what the competition was.

There was movement to my left. Carl Christie swung back on his chair, two legs of it off the ground. ‘You mentioned an airtight case a moment ago, Father,’ he said.

‘Watertight.’

‘Well, I have one at home we could lock her in. Then take her out and toss her in the sea.’

It sat in the air for a moment while everyone looked at him. Then the low rumble of laughter began to make its way ponderously around the table, only stopping when it reached Father Flynn, who looked at Christie blankly and said, ‘Thank you, Carl, for that contribution.’

Jack McGettigan, the elderly publican who had done most thus far to upset my stay on the island, stood up, leant on his knuckles on the table. ‘I don’t think we need to bother about a trial, Father. Just get her off the island. Ship her out. She didn’t actually harm Christine . . . I don’t know if Mr Starkey intends to press charges . . .?’

I shook my head. I hadn’t even thought about it.

Flynn nodded for a moment, then turned again to Constable Murtagh. ‘Legally, Bob . . .?’

‘If she was in a parish house, sure, we could evict her, but then there’s her mother could take her. But as far as I know she owns that shack of hers outright. Getting her to court, that’s the best bet. I can’t keep her in the back bedroom much longer, either.’

‘I think we’re overlooking the obvious solution,’ said Father White.

‘Crucifixion,’ I muttered, not quite as under my breath as I had intended, for Flynn flashed me a look of annoyance, then sighed again and returned his attention to Father White. ‘Which is, Father?’ he asked, somewhat testily.

‘We ask Christine.’

I snorted. I couldn’t help it. I made a show of looking for a tissue in my pocket, and then blew my nose properly. Half masked by the tissue, I looked round the table to see if anyone else was trying to stifle their laughter, but I was the only one. They weren’t jumping up and down like madmen, but the very fact that they proceeded to discuss it made it abundantly clear that these guys were two psalms short of a book of psalms.

‘It makes sense,’ said Father White.

‘She’s too young,’ said Father Flynn.

‘She’s the Messiah.’

‘She’s a child.’

‘She’s still the Messiah.’

‘When she’s a child, she speaks as a child, Father.’

‘She’s still the Messiah.’

‘I take your point,’ Flynn snapped. He blew air out of his red cheeks and his eyes darted about the table, looking for but not finding any encouragement. ‘So, for example,’ he began, ‘if she pulls some ridiculous punishment out of the air, say, say . . . this woman has to do the community centre dishes for the next year, then that’s all she gets?’

‘That’s all she gets.’