Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (22 page)

‘They’re going to do something awful to her. I know it. She doesn’t mean any harm, she’s just not well . . . will you help her?’

‘They’re not going to do anything . . .
awful
. . . I think . . .
they
think she needs some help or something. I mean, she’s hardly the full . . .’ I glanced back down the hall for some sign of Patricia. She was good at talking to old people, I’d seen her in action. I just felt like hitting them with a mallet. I’d no patience. Never had. ‘But don’t worry,’ I said, ‘she’ll be fine.’

‘You don’t understand! They’re going to kill her! They always get their way!’ She jumped up with a sprightliness that belied her advanced years. ‘I just want your help!’ she cried. ‘Will you help me? They’re going to kill my little girl!’

Notwithstanding the fact that her little girl could never in all the world have been described as little, there was no mistaking the raw emotion in her voice. Tears appeared at her eyes and began to dribble down her face, mixing easily with the raindrops.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ Patricia said from the doorway.

She calmed down a little. I stood in the kitchen with my arms folded while Patricia soothed her. She was very good at it. Trish came in for a refill, said, ‘Poor woman,’ and went back in again. You can only stare at cupboards for so long, so I moved to the doorway and watched them talk. I was hardly listening.

Her face reminded me of someone, and it took me a while to work it out. Her daughter,
of course
, but also someone else. Then it came to me: Marilyn Monroe.

Years ago I’d seen a picture in a cheap biography, an illicit shot of her in the morgue, laid out on a marble slab, her hair dank, face sagged, not a sex symbol at all, and it had haunted me. And that was how this woman looked in her anorak, as if, once, one solitary, wonderful day, many years before, she had looked ravishing, had spent her whole life building to that day, but when it had come nothing much had happened. She’d stayed in, listened to the radio, done her hair, gazed at herself in the mirror, imagining a life off the island and had gone to bed promising herself a change, but next morning she was older, she’d passed her peak, her twenty-year struggle to beauty had yielded one uneventful night at the summit and now it was all downhill.

Sometimes I think utter bollocks.

Patricia was saying something to me. I said, ‘What?’

‘She wants you to go and speak to them. She says they respect you. Ask them not to harm her little girl.’

‘They’re not going to listen to me. And they’re not going to harm her. Father Flynn’s not going to let . . .’

‘They’ve already decided! It’s all over the village!’ Mrs Reilly shouted.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes! So please. At least try. No one else is going to help her. She has no one.’

‘Why can’t you . . .?’

‘They’re not going to listen to me. They hate me as much as they hate her!’

‘Why?’

‘Because we don’t believe in all that shite!’

I cleared my throat. You rarely hear old people cursing. It’s not right.

Patricia put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Maybe you should, Dan.’

I twisted round. ‘But what can I do? What can I say?’

‘Dan, put a spanner in the works. You usually do.’

I tutted. ‘Thanks.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Will you do it for me, son?’ She was right in front of me then, clasping my hand. Her touch was surprisingly gentle for a gorgon.

I sighed.

Mary Reilly was a medium who was a large who was a potential murderer. Anywhere else I wouldn’t have spoken up for her. But the rights and wrongs of the situation were obvious even to an old cynic like me. Everyone deserves a fair trial, and, Messiah or not, letting a four-year-old girl decide verdict and punishment doesn’t amount to a fair trial.

Patricia squeezed my shoulder again.

Mother Reilly rocked back and forth on her heels, eyes pleading, anorak still dripping.

There was one important question that needed answering before I volunteered my services.

‘Mrs Reilly,’ I asked, ‘you wouldn’t happen to know where I could track down some alcohol on the island, would you?’

27

My suspicions about Mrs Reilly were confirmed by her speedy acquiescence. She had the baggy jowls of someone who enjoyed a pint or twelve of Guinness. She couldn’t come up with the drink there and then, but she said she’d see what she could do about locating some. I promised to see what I could do about having a word on her daughter’s behalf. As she sopped back out into the storm she gave me a benign grin which suggested that she wasn’t too bothered about the trade-off. Patricia was, though. She thought I was pretty pathetic, bargaining over Mary Reilly’s future. I gave this due consideration, and then told her to shut up. I meant it jocularly enough but it didn’t come across that way, so she punched me in the eye.

Later, in bed, I tried to explain myself, but I didn’t stand up to close examination and we spent a long night as far apart as we could without falling onto the floor.

By morning the rain had stopped. The fog was gone. The ferry was waiting. But I had to intercede on behalf of Orca, Killer Whale. I rose early, did a press-up, then readied myself for the journey into town. From the bathroom I shouted: ‘Why didn’t you tell me I had black ink on the end of my nose?’

‘I thought you knew,’ Patricia replied.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Showered, shaved, I returned to the bedroom and put on a pair of black jeans, a black jumper, my fading light-blue denim jacket and a pair of black Oxfords. Patricia nodded approvingly from the bed as I dressed. I’d already wormed my way back into her affections by making her a cup of tea, which was no mean feat. Little Stevie gurgled. I’d made him a bottle. There’s nothing like a bit of glass-blowing first thing in the morning to put some colour in your cheeks.

According to parish law, I should have loaded up the satellite dish and the television in the boot of the car and taken them down with me to Constable Murtagh. But Patricia simply said no, they weren’t getting the TV, and that was good enough for me. Although Little Stevie seemed in perfect health, she was still nervous about being left in the cottage with no means of communicating with the outside world if he did take another turn, so she wanted to hold onto the car as well. The closest thing we had to passing traffic was a not very dependable hedgehog. Had we a dog, a Lassie, he might have been able to race into the town in minutes and bark out precise instructions to Dr Finlay, but a hedgehog
would take days to cover the same territory and only pass on a serious case of fleas.

So I set to walking, fixing my face in suitably martyrish fashion before kissing Patricia and the baby goodbye.

‘Good luck,’ she said, and then added, ‘Don’t do anything silly.’

‘As if,’ I said.

It was a pleasant enough walk, damp but not cold, and by the time I reached the edge of town I felt invigorated, which was a novel experience. I looked at my watch. Jesus. 7.30 a.m. The last time I’d been up and about at that hour I’d been meandering home from a bar.

As I passed the harbour I saw in the distance Charlie McManus leaning over the side of the
Fitzpatrick
. He seemed to be looking in my direction, but when I waved there was no response. When I reached the T-junction at the foot of the hill I paused for a moment and looked up towards the church, sitting dark and cold. Then I carried straight on along the front towards Constable Murtagh’s house. It was a whitewashed mid-terrace, two up, two down, distinguished from its neighbours only by the iron bars on the upstairs windows. It was about a hundred yards along the row, and the only interesting things between me and it were the two men who loitered outside it with shotguns hung loosely over their shoulders.

As I approached they pushed themselves off the wall, blocking my passage in the process.

‘Morning,’ I said and nodded at the guns. ‘What’s up?’

One, a short, balding guy in a Barbour jacket, dropped the gun casually from his shoulder until it pointed at my stomach. ‘You tell us,’ he said.

The other, with much the same build but plenty of hair and an ancient duffel coat, said: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘I’ve to see the Constable.’

‘What about?’

‘My satellite dish. It’s been confiscated.’

The balding guy stepped closer. The gun moved with him, into my stomach. He peered into my face. His breath was stale and he had sleepywogs in his eyes. ‘You’re that writer fella, aren’t you?’

‘Aye.’

He turned to his companion. ‘You know, the one saved Christine?’ Abruptly he pulled the gun away. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘no offence. We’re all very grateful to you.’

The other smiled broadly and stuck his hand out. I shook it. It was cold and damp. ‘Well done,’ he said.

I shrugged. ‘Youse look like you’ve been here all night.’

They nodded. ‘Aye,’ said Duffel Coat, ‘wettest night in years and here we are. Great fun.’

‘What’s the story, then? What’s with the guns? You look like a couple of vigilantes.’

The baldy one smiled sheepishly. ‘Ach, nothing really. Father White asked us to keep an eye on the cop shop, in case that witch tried to do a runner.’

‘Don’t you trust the Constable?’

‘Aye. Of course we do. But you never can tell. She has the Devil in her, y’know.’

I nodded. ‘Of course. You’re quite right.’ I stepped between them. ‘I’d better get on through here and get this sorted out. I’m sure it’s the last thing he wants to hear about with the trial coming up, but the law’s the law, isn’t it?’

‘Sure enough.’

They parted. I passed.

‘Well done again,’ Duffel Coat called after me, ‘and watch out for her, she’s an evil bitch.’

I waved back.

Constable Murtagh answered on the third knock. The door was still on its chain and his ruddy face peered out through a six-inch gap. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he snapped.

‘I see you’ve been saved too,’ I said.

His hair, short, grey, stuck up at mad angles. He had his green police shirt and trousers on, no shoes. A revolver in his hand. He looked like he’d been up most of the night as well.

‘Listen, Smart Alec, I’m busy. What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to have a word with Mary Reilly, if I can. Her mum has asked me to speak up on her behalf at the trial.’

Murtagh looked me up and down. ‘I thought you were the witness for the prosecution.’

‘I am.’

‘So?’

‘I also think it would be a bit fairer to try her on the mainland.’

Murtagh nodded slowly. ‘Aye,’ he said, then unhooked the chain. ‘Come on in then.’ He opened the door wider. As I passed he looked out behind me at the vigilantes and shook his head disdainfully.

I walked down a dark hallway into a back room which had been converted into an office. There was a desk, two chairs, a small filing cabinet. Posters warning about rabies, drugs and terrorism adorned the walls. There was also a large crucifix.

From behind he said: ‘Hands up.’

I started to turn, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me.

‘As you are,’ he said. He knelt behind me and his hand shot up my leg. Then it crossed my lower back round to my stomach, up the chest, along my back, along both arms and finished on the other leg. Then he checked the contents of my pockets. Thirty-eight pence and a Barney Eastwood betting slip.

‘All clear,’ he said finally and brushed past me to sit behind the desk. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, ‘but you can’t be too careful. Used to be all you had to worry about was someone coming at you with a fish knife or a big stick. Nowadays you turn your back for five seconds and some bastard whacks you with the Gospel According to Luke. Have a seat.’

He placed his gun in a drawer to his left, but kept it open. He was trying not to look nervous, but he was.

‘It must be difficult,’ I said, pulling back a chair, ‘living with this lot.’

‘Impossible,’ he said, ‘and getting worse. You saw them ’uns outside? Bleep and fucking Booster.’

‘They don’t seem to believe she’s very secure here.’

‘Oh, she’s secure enough. Don’t worry yourself on that score. It’s getting her to the church without that lot stringing her up that worries me.’

‘So you are going ahead with it. The trial.’

He watched me for a moment. ‘Of course.’

I shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

He blew some air out of his nose. ‘You’re thinking, if he’s so pissed off with the McCooeys, why go along with the trial?’

I shrugged.

‘Well, put it this way,’ he said. ‘I am actually a believer.’

‘You said “fuck” a while back.’

‘I did.’

‘You said they were getting worse.’

‘They are.’

‘So . . .’

‘There are believers, and there are believers. I believe. Just maybe not in the same way as the others. I believe in Christine. Really. I’m just not very good at it yet. Sometimes I still say “fuck”. Sometimes I still covet my neighbour’s chickens. I believe in her, but I don’t think she’s up to sentencing someone just yet.’

‘You’re a McCooey, but you’re not quite a McCooey.’

‘If you like.’

‘You’re the Provisional wing of the McCooeys.’

‘If you want to stretch a point.’

‘So what’re you going to do?’

‘Take her to trial. There’s nothing else for it. I’ve no way of getting her off the island.’

‘The ferry might be one way.’

‘Charlie McManus has taken the ferry out of service. There
is
no way off the island.’

‘Can he do that?’

‘It’s his ferry.’

‘Like it’s my ball and no one else is playing with it.’

‘Something like that. He says it needs a refit or something. But I detect another hand at work.’

‘Father White,’ I said.

Murtagh looked at me, a hint of a smile appeared, just for a moment, then was chased away. ‘Well, that’s not for me to say. Whatever his reasons, he has the right. It’s his boat. And it’s not like I can summon help. Someone smashed my radio. While I was out, they were in. Stupid, really. I didn’t lock the door. And me a copper.’