Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (9 page)

‘It wasn’t Van Morrison then.’

‘No. Not Van Morrison. God.’

‘And then?’

‘And then I woke up.’

‘A bit of an anti-climax that.’

‘No. Not at all. The next night the same thing happened. Almost before my head hit the pillow I was back in the castle, in that room, with Him. He sat me down and we talked and talked and talked.’

‘What was he like? I mean, as a person?’

‘What can I say? Omnipresent. Omnipotent.’

The only other word I knew starting like that was omnivore. I chewed that thought over for a moment, then said, ‘Then he told you about the Messiah.’

Flynn nodded, ‘He told me mankind had had two thousand years to improve itself since it crucified His son. That it was to be tested once again. That the Messiah was to be born, and that He was entrusting the Messiah into my hands.’

‘And then you woke up.’

‘And then He told me when and where.’

‘When, then?’

‘June thirteenth.’

‘This year?’

‘Four years ago.’

‘Four years ago – before you came back here.’

Flynn nodded. ‘Aye. The address was Furley Cottage.’

‘He gave you an
actual
address?’

Flynn gave me a half-smile. ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’

‘Incredible,’ I agreed.

We had come to a dip in the path that had formed itself into a small but murky-looking pond. Flynn interrupted his story long enough to wade through it in his boots then reach out from the other side and help me across. His grip was strong. I thanked him and stood for several moments catching my breath again. ‘So,’ I said, as we resumed his leisurely and my arduous walk, ‘first thing in the morning you were straight round to Furley Cottage to hail the new Messiah.’

Flynn smiled. ‘There is no Furley Cottage. I checked next day.’

‘Bummer,’ I said.

‘So I went to bed that night to ask Him was He sure – yes, I know it sounds ridiculous – but I just had a normal night’s sleep. Same the next night and ever since. I convinced myself I was just having crazy dreams. Until one day I was busying myself about the church and old Mary Mateer came in. She does most days. She’s about ninety. Husband died ten years ago. Electrocuted himself trying to fit an electric shower. The shock knocked him out and he drowned in the bath. What do you say to someone widowed under those circumstances? Anyway, she’s our oldest resident, so I said to her, “Did you ever hear of a Furley Cottage, Mary?” and she said she
fancied one of the old cottages on Main Street was called that when she was a girl, but had been changed years and years ago, for whatever reason. I checked it out in the parish records and she was right. Furley Cottage, sure enough. Somewhere along the way it just lost its name.’

‘What you’re saying, Father, is that God is working from an old street directory.’

‘I didn’t say I could explain any of it, Dan, I’m just telling you what happened.’

I shrugged. ‘Fair enough. So what happened? You went round . . .’

‘I felt incredible. Euphoric. Scared. Nervous. Elated. Almost too scared to go . . . but I had to, of course. I walked down the hill, along the front. I stood outside the cottage for ten minutes. I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand I was dying with excitement, on the other hand desperately embarrassed. I mean, how do you walk up to a house and enquire if the Messiah is at home? Has the Messiah finished his homework yet?’

‘I can see where there might be a little awkwardness about it.’

‘Indeed.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I prayed, I took a deep breath, then I walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and waited to see what happened.’

‘And?’

‘Well, nothing happened. The bell wasn’t working. A bit of an anti-climax really. I knocked on the door, but there
was still no response. So I went round the back way, came up the garden path. There was a woman washing dishes in the sink. I half recognised her from church. She saw me. I stopped. We watched each other for a few moments. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Then she peeled off these rubber gloves and opened the back door. She said: ‘You’ve come about my daughter, haven’t you?’

10

Patricia and I lay in each other’s arms, listening to the rain. Storm clouds had gathered during the evening, dithering for hours as if waiting for us to go to bed so that they could cause the maximum annoyance by unleashing their venom just as we were dropping off. Great crashing rolls of thunder chased the sleep through our brains and out of our ears.

But we weren’t intimidated. We snuggled up on fantasy island. It was nice.

After a while the thunder moved on, leaving behind a wind-scattered rain which wasn’t steady enough to encourage drowsiness. Our tiredness had moved on as well. We lay with the covers thrown back. Little Stevie had gurgled happily in his sleep through the storm. He was giving every indication of being a trouble-free child. There was time yet, of course. I’d never recovered from teething. But then there
wasn’t any reason why he should have anything in common with me. The only thing we shared was Patricia.

It seemed like a good time to talk. In fact, it seemed like a good time for sex, but Patricia was still on the mend.

‘I’ll let you know,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’

‘It could be weeks.’

‘But not months.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Could be years.’

‘You won’t be able to resist me that long. I’m banking on days.’

She snorted, which wasn’t very encouraging, let alone pleasant. I changed the subject. I told her about the remote possibility that the daughter of God was living half a mile down the road.

It took me ten minutes to convince her that it wasn’t a wind-up. That Flynn, deranged or not, was perfectly serious.

‘He seems so normal,’ she said eventually.

‘I know,’ I said, stroking her brow. ‘Generally they’re the ones you have to watch. The question is, has he really been entrusted by God to look after His daughter, or has his head been invaded by little pink marshmallows? Your immediate reaction is what?’

‘You knew about it before you came here.’

‘I did not. Next reaction?’

‘You’re lying.’

I tutted. ‘Exactly what sort of a man do you think I am?’

‘I don’t think. I know. You’re devious.’ She gave me a friendly poke in the ribs. ‘You knew about this.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Admit it. I can tell by the colour of your face.’

‘We’re in the dark, if you haven’t noticed.’

‘I know we are. But you’re glowing.’

She knew me well. ‘Okay. So I was vaguely aware of it. But that isn’t why I came. I came to write. You know that. It’s all I’ve talked about for ten years.’

‘Yeah. Talked about.’

‘Look, I don’t prepare my lies that far in advance. Anyway, I’m hardly going to uproot you and a new-born baby, transport youse across the sea to a backward hole like this purely on the off-chance of making a few quid on the back of a ridiculous claim by a religious crackpot, now, am I?’

‘Dan, nothing would surprise me. I note you’ve thrown yourself into writing your novel with your customary sloth-like enthusiasm.’

‘Will you give me a chance? Jesus, we’re only here forty-eight hours. Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

‘But the earth was created in seven.’

‘And it hasn’t moved for you in months.’

‘You can always twist things back to sex, can’t you?’

‘I try.’

‘Well, enjoy talking about it. It’s all you’ll be doing.’

‘I might get lucky with someone else, if you’re not more accommodating.’

‘Aye, with a rabbit, if he’ll have you.’

‘The girls might fancy a bit of strange. I’m sure it gets a bit incestuous in places like this.’

‘What is it they say, keep incest in the family?’

‘You should know.’

She started giggling. Then we kissed. She broke off to say, ‘God, wouldn’t it be amazing if it really was true. The Messiah, here on Wrathlin. And a girl.’

‘I’m not sure which bit worries me more – the Messiah coming back, being born in Ireland or being a girl. Actually, they all worry me about the same.’

‘It would be . . . wonderful.’

‘You think so?’

‘Well,
different
. I mean, the world’s so different now . . . I mean, I can’t imagine Jesus on the Internet, or using a mobile phone.’

‘I can’t imagine
me
on the Internet or using a . . .’

‘You know what I mean. A girl. A woman. I mean, the closest we’ve come to a woman of power before was Margaret Thatcher.’

‘Not that far removed. A Messiah to some, Antichrist to others.’

Little Stevie woke up. While Patricia heated milk in the kitchen I cradled him in my arms. When she reappeared with the bottle she stood in the doorway for a moment watching us. A loving smile. Then she came across and took him from me.

‘Did Father Flynn ask you not to write anything about
the Messiah?’ she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Is that why he came to see you?’

She said ‘Messiah’ so easily, as if there was a possibility. I lay back, my arms folded behind my head. ‘On the contrary. He wants me to write it all down.’

Patricia nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, that’s good. Even if he is nuts, you’ll make some money from it.’

‘It’s not quite as simple as that. He wants me to write it all down, and keep writing it down, not for a newspaper, to make a complete record of anything and everything that happens to Christine . . .’

‘Christine?’

‘That’s her name. A bit of a coincidence, I thought.’

‘Or divine inspiration.’

‘Yup, there’s that. But he wants me to be, if you will, the official chronicler of everything pertaining to the life and times of Christine.’

‘You mean he wants you to write the sequel to the Bible.’

‘He didn’t say so in so many words, but yes, I guess that’s what he’s getting at. One of the better commissions, I’d say.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘What do you think? I enquired about royalties.’

‘No, seriously.’

‘I did. I thought it was important to keep everything on a vaguely humorous level. At least until the straitjacket arrives.’

‘And what did he say to you about you saying to him?’

‘He just sort of smiled.’

‘And what did that mean?’

‘I don’t know. He asked me to go to church in the morning. To meet Christine. He seemed to think that might convince me.’

‘And you’re going?’

‘I am. You were going anyway, weren’t you?’

‘I thought I was.’

‘You mean you’re not?’

‘I mean I’ve nothing to wear.’

I tutted. ‘Why is that always a woman’s first reaction?’

‘Well, I haven’t. It’s a fact.’

‘What the hell did you bring in all those cases then?’

‘I’ve nothing churchy, Dan.’

‘Does it really matter? You’re not going to be refused entry to heaven because you haven’t anything churchy. Jesus.’

‘But what if I have to meet the Messiah?’

‘She’s not long out of nappies, for Christ’s sake. She’s not going to strike you dead for dressing down.’

Patricia shook her head wearily. ‘Sometimes I get really tired of you, y’know?’

11

Sunday was another fine day. Skies blue. Sea calm. Patricia stormy.

She screamed.

I was still in the land of Nod, that small kingdom between sleep and going to work. She’d gotten up early to do some more cleaning.

‘Daniel!’ she screamed again and I pulled myself up to a sitting position. She only uses the full Daniel when there’s an emergency or I’ve done something wrong, which is generally one and the same thing.

‘What?’

A herd of elephants in the hall. Then she was in the doorway. ‘There’s a rat in the bath,’ she said.

‘Is he enjoying it?’ I asked blearily.

‘Daniel, there’s a rat in the bath.’

‘Jesus,’ I mumbled.

‘There’s a bloody great rat in the bath!’

I tried to shake the sleep from my head. I climbed out of the bed and tottered for a second while I got my land legs.

‘There’s a rat in the bath,’ Patricia shouted, ‘there’s a rat in the bath! Get rid of the rat in the bath!’

She was white. She held Little Stevie to her. ‘Rats eat babies’ eyes,’ she said. She stepped aside.

I walked down the hall and cautiously put my head round the bathroom door. There were some dark hairs in the bath. I turned back to Patricia. ‘He’s gone,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘although he seems to be going bald.’

Patricia put her head warily out of the bedroom doorway. ‘Not that bath. The one in the front garden.’

I rolled my eyes at her. She rolled them back. ‘You can’t have rats around children,’ she said.

‘Might do us all a favour,’ I replied under my breath, but not under enough.

‘What was that?’

‘I said, do us a favour and try and find something heavy for me to blatter it with, while I pull my trousers on. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said sullenly. ‘But don’t let it in the door. Make sure you close it properly. I hate rats.’

I got into my trousers. Pulled on a T-shirt. Patricia gave me a mean-looking hammer. I opened the front door and blinked for a few moments in the sun. Then I advanced on the bath with hammer raised, feeling vaguely ridiculous. I trod softly across the grass; the element of surprise would
be important, and also I was afeared that any sudden activity might cause the satellite dish to fall off the wall and kill me.

The bath was tilted to one side and was maybe a quarter full of stagnant water. It stank. And there was an animal in it, but it wasn’t a rat. Not even a drowned rat. A hedgehog.

Patricia, disregarding her own advice, had advanced to the door. ‘Bash it,’ she said. ‘Bash its brains out.’

I turned. ‘What school did you go to? It’s a bloody hedgehog.’

‘Aw,’ she said, and hurried across, apparently not dizzy at all from her 360-degree turnabout.

She peered in over my shoulder. ‘What’s it doing in the bath?’

‘Hold on, I’ll ask it.’

‘Ach – is it drowned?’

‘I presume so . . .’ I leant in further. It was breathing. Vaguely, like it was undecided about clinging to life. I pointed to the side of the bath. ‘It’s fallen in and not been able to get out. Look at all the scratches on the enamel. Poor wee thing.’