Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (10 page)

‘Aw.’

It moved. Just a little. Weakly. ‘Life in the wee bugger yet,’ I said and leant down to pick him up. I got spiked for my trouble. ‘Aaow,’ I said.

I ran back into the house and returned with the old sheet I’d used to protect the satellite dish on its journey across to the island. I wrapped it round my hands. Then I gently lifted the hedgehog out of the poisonous water and set it on the ground.

‘Aw,’ said Patricia.

‘We should just leave it be. Let it make its own way.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Patricia, ‘it’s too weak. I’ll go and get it some bread and milk. That’s what they eat.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘It is. Honestly, Dan. Bread and milk . . .’

‘Aye. That’s it, that’s their natural food . . . they stay up all hours of the day and night baking wee loaves for themselves.’

‘No need to be sarcastic, I’m only trying to help the wee thing.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ I looked at the critter again. ‘They’re meateaters, love. It needs . . . dog food or cat food or something. Will I bring some back from church?’

She looked at me, her face fallen. ‘Does that mean I’m not going?’

‘You said you’d nothing churchy.’

‘I know, but . . .’

‘Well, make up your mind. It’s nearly time to go.’

Her face fell a little further. Much more and it’d be in amongst the daisies. ‘I’ll stay then,’ she said sadly. It was an old ploy. The I’ll-be-the-martyr ploy. Apt, really, for where I was going.

‘Look, I’ll wait. But you’ll need to hurry.’

‘No, you haven’t time.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘No.’

‘I’ll wait!’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be okay.’

‘Jesus!’

I went back into the house and had a wash and shave. The water was cold. When I emerged from the bathroom Patricia was standing in the hall, beautifully attired. A summer dress. Flowery, but not overly so. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

‘You look lovely,’ I said.

‘I changed my mind.’

‘Good. You’ve broken the land speed record.’

‘We can if we try. We just don’t try very often.’

‘Is that the third secret of Fatima?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘Maybe I will. I’ll ask Christine.’

‘She won’t tell,’ Patricia said, shaking her head slowly. ‘Don’t forget, Dan, she’s one of us.’

And it stopped me for a few seconds, that.

Patricia was right.

Christine was. One of
them
.

A little involuntary shudder ran through me.

12

I stopped the car at the foot of the hill. I had the window down and my sunglasses on. A nice breeze was blowing in off the sea. In my own mind I looked pretty cool.

‘What the hell are you at now?’ Patricia demanded, snapping me out of the moment. She pointed up towards the church.

‘I know where it is. I’m just . . .’

‘I’m not carrying Steven all the way up there, I’ll tell you that for nothing. I’m still weak.’

‘I just wanted to take a look at Furley Cottage.’ I nodded over her shoulder. ‘The stable, as it were.’

She gave me the steady look, perfected over a century of marriage. ‘Aye, away in a manger, Sherlock,’ she said, then shook her head malevolently. ‘Let’s get the church over with first, eh? Do your nosing in your own time, okay?’ She tutted. ‘Some people have no consideration.’

I tutted myself. She had already shouted at me for driving too quickly. And then for driving too slowly. Sarcastic driving, she called it. I knew to expect mood swings after the birth of a baby. I’d read a book. But Patricia had spent our whole married life practising for them.

The former Furley Cottage was at the end of a long whitewashed terrace. It seemed unremarkable. Small. A sturdy wooden door with the number 14 on it. A Mickey Mouse fluffy toy propped up against the main window. I hadn’t known what to expect, but I was disappointed to see Mickey there. He was a fantasy figure bringing a touch of reality to what promised to be a bizarre story. Still. Maybe there had been an equivalent propped up in Mary and Joseph’s front window way back when. Mickey of Arimathea. Or a Happy Herod.

I started the car again and moved it slowly up the hill. All the shops were closed. Of course, it was Sunday, but there was
always
one that stayed open. For milk. Bacon. Papers. Headache tablets. But nothing. We parked without problem in the churchyard. There were only three or four other cars and a couple of unsecured bicycles. Wrathlin village was small enough for most everyone to walk.

We were late. I opened the church door as quietly as I could, and we slipped in. The hymn singing mostly covered us. But there was nowhere to sit. Not a single space was free. People lined the back of the church and sat cross-legged the length of the aisle. A few heads turned as we entered. One of them was Duncan’s. He nodded at me. He smiled at
Patricia, then indicated that she and Little Stevie should have his seat. She shook her head. He waved her on. She looked at me. I nodded. She went down the three rows and took his place. He came and stood beside me. I nodded again.

‘Full house,’ I whispered.

He nodded.

‘Sorry about the other day,’ I whispered. ‘Hangover.’

He nodded.

Father Flynn’s voice was the dominant one. Booming, but tuneful with it. As the hymn drew to a close he smiled at the congregation. A movement to his left caught my eye. Another man, another priest, was climbing easily up into the pulpit. Small. Well-built. Elderly. Wispy-bald.

‘Who he?’ I whispered.

‘Father White.’

‘Visiting?’

‘I wish.’ He said it with just enough of a cynical glint in his eye to suggest that I might have judged him too quickly.

Patricia looked back at me. I nodded. She waved Little Stevie’s left hand at me. I winked.

‘So here we are again,’ the priest said, scanning the congregation, his voice thick, as if his nose was clogged. ‘How long is it now, since we broke the news?’

The congregation was silent. Not subdued, exactly; not wary, either; maybe a little lost. A boy near the front, hair cropped, said, ‘Six weeks, Father,’ and the congregation visibly relaxed. A few giggled.

‘Six weeks indeed – and look at you. You’re all still here.
Father Flynn and I thought you’d have given up on us by now.’

There was a little light laughter. I tried not to bust a gut. That was Trisha’s job. There wasn’t even a grin from Duncan.

‘We are touched by your faith.’

‘Thank the Lord,’ someone said.

‘Amen,’ said another.

‘AMEN,’ said everyone.

It seemed a little spontaneous for the Catholic Church. But then I thought, maybe it wasn’t the Catholic Church any more. The transubstantiation wouldn’t seem so important if you had the actual Messiah in your midst. You could just ask him about it. Or her.

‘But it’s not really your faith in us, is it?’

Silence.

‘It’s your faith in the one among us.’

Murmurings. Positive murmurings.

‘It’s your faith in the one among us!’

‘Yes!’ shouted someone.

‘YES!’ said the congregation. A couple near the front stood up and clapped.

‘Let us remind ourselves,’ said the priest, waving a calming hand. ‘Sean, now,’ he said, pointing at the boy who’d shouted out, ‘what was the first miracle?’

Sean stood up. ‘Father?’

‘Yes, Seanie, what did Christine do first . . . what incredible thing did Christine do first?’

‘The bull, Father.’

‘Yes, the bull, Seanie. What did she do with the bull?’

‘She was in the field by herself, Father, and the bull charged at her.’

‘And what would the bull have done to little Christine, Seanie?’

‘It would have trampled her, Father.’

‘But what happened when it reached her, son?’

‘She put her hand out to it, and it lay down.’

‘And what do we call that, Sean?’

‘A mirkle.’

Soft laughter and
aws
, a couple of amens.

I leant across to Duncan and whispered. ‘True?’

He nodded.

‘And what little boy or girl will tell me about the second mirkle?’

A little more laughter. Three or four hands went up. The priest pointed: another boy, same cropped hair: ‘Her bloody feet, Father.’

Some more laughter and
aws
.

‘Yes, Brian, what happened to her feet?’

‘They were all covered in blood.’

‘Yes. Good boy. Now what is the significance of that?’

Brian looked confused. He dropped his arm for the first time, then looked round at his mother, who gave him an encouraging smile.

‘What did her bloody feet remind us of?’ asked the priest.

He looked at his mum again. She raised her hand to scratch her nose, and said something under cover of it.

‘Jesus on the cross, Father!’ Brian yelled triumphantly.

‘Good boy!’

The congregation burst into applause. Brian giggled and sat down. His mother gave him a hug.

‘Now, boys and girls, you’re all at school with Christine, aren’t you?’

Scattered yeses.

‘And haven’t you all promised to remember that although she’s a very special little girl, a very special little girl indeed, she’s there for the same reason you all are – to learn.’ Nodding heads. ‘She isn’t there to perform little mirkles for you. She isn’t there to help you with your homework. She isn’t there to fill your orange bottle up after you knock it over. And she certainly isn’t there to put a spell on anyone who annoys you, is she, Martin Maguire?’

Four rows down a small boy ducked out of sight.

The priest leant down on the pulpit. The smile slipped from his face. His eyes, colder now, scanned the congregation again. ‘And it isn’t only Martin Maguire. He is a child and knows no better. There are some parents here today who might do well to remember the lesson too. Christine is a child, and while she is a child it is our duty to look after her, to protect her, to help educate her in the ways of man, not to exploit her or seek favour from her. Her day will come.’ He waved a finger. ‘You may look upon our little island as the new heaven on earth. As the new Garden of Eden. But remember, as beautiful as the garden was, there was always the serpent lurking nearby, ready to pounce, to
sin, to destroy. It is our duty to God and to Christine to be good, and true, and kind, and watchful. Only one person is important, that is Christine. So have faith! Be proud! Show love! But be on your guard!’

He stepped down from the pulpit to warm applause.

Father Flynn took centre stage again. ‘Thank you, Mark,’ he said quietly. He turned to the congregation and nodded slowly. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘to thank God for this.’

‘Thanks be to God,’ said the congregation.

‘And now for some general announcements. There will be no playgroup on Monday because Mrs McCleavor is down with a nasty flu bug. There will be a meeting of the parents’ committee . . .’

I waited with Patricia in the churchyard while the congregation filed out of the church. Duncan stood with us. I shook a lot of hands. Little Stevie was cooed over. Shiny happy people.

‘What do you make of all that stuff about miracles, Duncan?’ Patricia asked. ‘About the bull.’

He gave a little shrug. ‘It’s what happened. Or so I’m told. I didn’t see it myself.’

‘Who did?’ I asked.

‘Most everyone. A church picnic. The other side of the island. I wasn’t there that day.’

‘What about the bloody feet?’ asked Patricia. ‘What are they trying to say, that the blood is like . . . from a wound?’ She looked at me. ‘What am I trying to say?’

‘I don’t bloody know.’

She tutted. ‘What’s the word I’m looking for, Duncan?’

‘Like she’s a stigmatic,’ Duncan said.

‘That’s the one. Like she’s been nailed to the cross. Stigmatic. Is that what it was like, Duncan?’

‘So I’m told. She just appeared in church like that one day. I wasn’t there.’

‘Who was?’

‘Most of the church.’

‘The same most?’ I asked. ‘Or a different most?’ I nudged him. ‘The most with the Host, in fact.’ I smiled. He didn’t. It seemed unlikely that we would ever spend a lot of time cracking jokes together.

I had no idea what Christine looked like, but I was pretty sure I would have noticed her leaving the church. Talk would stop. People would stare at her halo. But everyone stood around chatting. So normal. So normal it was abnormal. When the church was empty I said to Duncan, ‘So where’s the Messiah?’

‘Christine,’ he said bluntly, ‘is probably in the back room. She usually waits in there with her mum until everyone’s gone home. She doesn’t enjoy all the attention. She gets upset.’

‘Imagine the Messiah having a tantrum,’ said Patricia. ‘You’d think the earth would spin off its axis.’

‘Out of control into the universe,’ I added.

‘I’m only thinking out loud,’ Patricia snapped.

Duncan looked embarrassed. ‘I’d better get on,’ he said.

The congregation was dispersing, making its way out of
the churchyard and down the hill. Brightly coloured hats flapped in the wind. Snatches of the last hymn, hummed, blew back towards us.

‘They’re really sucked in by all this, aren’t they?’ I said.

‘Dan . . .’ started Patricia.

‘Well, I . . .’

‘Well, nothing, you should respect what . . .’

‘I’d better get on,’ Duncan repeated.

‘I was hoping you might take us backstage and introduce us,’ I said.

‘To Christine?’

‘Aye.’

‘You make it sound like showbusiness,’ said Patricia, ‘backstage at a gig.’

I shrugged.

‘Could you?’ Patricia asked, hoisting Little Stevie up onto her shoulder. ‘Father Flynn did invite us, didn’t he, Dan?’

I nodded.

‘I wouldn’t like to,’ said Duncan.

‘Ach, go on,’ said Patricia.

‘No, no, thank you. I really can’t. I’m late as it is. I’ll really have to go. Listen, go back yourselves.’ He turned suddenly, thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, and began walking towards the churchyard gates. ‘I’ll see youse around,’ he called back.

‘Can we give you a lift?’ Patricia shouted after him.

‘No. No, thanks,’ he shouted back, and gave her a little wave.