Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (15 page)

I stopped for a moment and desperately tried to catch my breath. I looked back. The beams seemed further away now. Behind them, and therefore useless to me, was the town, then the southern leg of the island, with the second lighthouse in the far distance at Rue Point. I turned to my left. The third light, the West Light, winked into the darkness. It was the only way to go. The west of the island offered the greatest stretch of land for me to outrun them; eventually, of course, I would come to the sea again, but somewhere between there and now I would have to find help or a way of doubling back on them and seeking salvation in the town.

I took a deep breath and started to run again, keeping my head as low as I could.

I’d been moving for about five minutes when I chanced another look back.

The lights were gone.

My heart would have skipped a beat if it hadn’t been too busy racing itself to death.

I stood gulping in the freezing air, trying to work out what was going on. I allowed myself a brief flurry of hope before settling into a more familiar mode of black pessimism. I made a quick calculation of the possibilities. 1) They’d given up. 2) They’d decided the torchlights were giving me too much of an advantage and had switched them off. 3) Their batteries had run out. On the whole, I thought number two was the most likely. But the only way to be absolutely sure was to wait and find out, and I didn’t think that would be very healthy.

I pressed on.

Another fifteen minutes and there was still no indication of anything behind me. I had slowed down, and not just from extreme tiredness, but also because the absence of lights had somehow lessened the horror of being chased by men with guns.
What you can’t see can’t hurt you
. Was that the expression? If it was, it deserved pride of place in the
Big Book of Stupid Fucking Expressions
. I had just reduced my pace to a hurried stroll and was focusing my attention on reaching the West Light when there came a sudden fit of coughing off to my right, barely a dozen yards away. I turned, panicked, lost my footing and before I could right myself I was tumbling down a small hill. In a matter of moments I went from fleet-footed escapologist to sad drunk entangled in gorse.

And then there was a torch beam blinding me.

The voice, English, said, ‘What on earth are you doing down there?’

Instinctively I said, ‘Hunting for blackberries.’

There was a pause, and then, ‘You won’t find any blackberries down there, old son, not this time of year.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Only joking. ‘Fraid I got lost.’

A hand, thick and hairy, warm, reached down to me and dragged me screaming from the thorny gorse. My rescuer, or cunning executioner, shone the torch in my face, then in his own. He was wearing a big green parka with a fur-lined hood. His face was bearded and round and he had bottle-thick glasses and an eagle smile. There was a pair of binoculars around his neck. No sign of a gun.

‘Look at you,’ he said, ‘you’re freezing. Come on down to the caravan for a cuppa.’

He turned his back on me and started walking. ‘Thanks,’ I said, after him, and followed. I looked warily about me, waiting for the surprise attack, which would therefore, of course, not be a surprise. The ambush, then. But there was nothing, just the wind and the whispering grass and this rotund furball with the endearing smile and the kind invitation. I said, ‘I know you, don’t I?’

He shrugged, without turning. ‘The caravan’s just down here.’

‘Where do I know you from?’

He shrugged again. ‘I’m the warden. Maybe you visited the platform.’

‘What platform?’

He stopped, looking at me oddly as I caught up. ‘The birds.’

‘What birds?’

He sighed. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘You’re just a drunk, then.’

‘What?’

‘Just over here.’ He pointed, and started off again. There was a small caravan, a two-berth at most, sitting rusty and neglected on a steep incline about twenty yards back from the edge of a large concrete platform. There was a y-framed metallic clothes line spinning at a hundred miles an hour in the wind beside the caravan. Three sets of bulky binoculars were set into the platform wall, with coin slots beneath them, giving a kind of Edwardian-looking pay-per-view over the cliffs and wild sea beyond. Only as we drew close could I hear the sound of thousands of seabirds over the roar of the wind.

‘Bird observation platform,’ I shouted.

He nodded. The wheels of the caravan were anchored into place by several breezeblocks. He yanked open the door and ushered me in. The inside smelt of burnt toast. There were piles of clothes lying everywhere. He had a flask of tea already made. He poured me a cup and even though I never drink the stuff, I was so cold I supped it eagerly just for the heat.

He had pulled his hood back now and I got a better look at his face. He was in his mid-fifties, probably, but his red cheeks and blond eyebrows gave him a boyish look.

‘You’re lucky I found you,’ he said. ‘I take a walk around the platform about this time every night. Just in case. Usually don’t go over where you were, but I was having a pee-pee.
Bucket gets full up in here, makes the place a bit whiffy. Anyway, welcome to my humble abode.’

‘You’re the warden?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Bill.’ He reached his hand out to me and we shook. ‘During the summer I have a couple of assistants, but the winter I’m here alone. We’re not officially open, but I never turn anyone away if they make the effort. You’re not a twitcher, then?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Ornithologist. Bird watcher.’

There were answers to that, but they would take me into
Carry On
territory and I wasn’t in the mood. I shook my head.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

I had a fair idea, actually. Lots of birds.

‘Finest breeding colonies in Ireland,’ he continued. ‘Do you know anything about birds?’

I shrugged.

‘What would your favourite be?’

‘Sparrow. Blackbird. My wife has a lot of experience with thrush.’

If he got it, there was no reaction. ‘Kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, fulmars and puffins . . . oh, it’s a sight, it’s a sight indeed. Tens of thousands of them, beautiful . . . not so many places like this any more . . .’ Bill looked dreamily out of the window. Then abruptly snapped out of it. ‘Still, no concern of yours, eh . . . what was it, wandered off from the pub?’

‘
What
pub?’

His brow furrowed. ‘Jack’s . . . Jack McGettigan’s . . .’

I cleared my throat. ‘The pub’s been closed for months. Drink has been outlawed.’

‘Out . . .?’ Bill looked at me for several moments as if I was mad. Then he shook his head and said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear. They really went ahead and did it, did they? Oh my.’

Now that I was a little more settled, I could see that every available space in the little caravan was stacked with cans of food and bottles of mineral water. ‘You mustn’t get into town much,’ I observed.

‘No,’ Bill said, ‘nothing much there for me. Used to go for a beer, occasionally, bit of a sing-song, but they stopped that. And then no one seemed to drink any more. I only went for the company, didn’t seem much point after that. No, I keep to myself up here, right through to summer. No family, see? Not any more, any rate. I suppose I do get a little out of touch.’

‘But you’ll know about Christine. The Messiah?’

He laughed. ‘Oh yes. All that bloody nonsense. No time for that, have I? Anyway, I thought it would have all blown over by now, but if they’ve closed the pub I guess it hasn’t.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t see anyone now, really, not till summer. There’s a radio down in the storeroom, chat with headquarters sometimes, keeps me in touch with the football results on a Saturday, but that’s about it.’

I looked at my watch. It was a little after 9 p.m. I’d been on the run for less than an hour, although it seemed like
seven. I’d not given Patricia any particular time for my return, but with no pub on the island to distract me she would probably be concerned by my failure to return. I didn’t mind that. What I did mind was her going to Moira’s looking for me and Moira letting something slip. Or Christine. I shivered.

‘What you need,’ the warden was saying, ‘is a hot whiskey.’

I looked up, smiling.

‘It’s a pity I don’t . . .’ At that moment the caravan moved. Just slightly. ‘. . . have any.’

We looked at each other. I could tell by the surprise on his face that it wasn’t a regular occurrence.

‘Wind must get pretty wild round here,’ I said.

The caravan moved again.

‘You must have it pretty securely anchored,’ I said, ‘with that strong a wind.’

He was nodding, but it was not a confident nod. His hands were gripping the table. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘the wind’s blowing in the other direction.’

There were voices outside. Then the caravan gave a massive shift forward, throwing us both out of our seats.

Then we were moving downhill at speed. Somewhere in the background I heard excited yells. And somewhere ahead of us, and getting closer, there was a very tall cliff, an angry sea and some very sharp rocks.

19

As we trundled towards the edge of the cliff and the three-hundred-foot drop to death, I had one of those moments of frightening clarity with which I was becoming increasingly familiar. I looked at Bill beside me, helpless on the grimy birdshit-spattered floor of the caravan, and said, ‘You used to be in
The Goodies
. You’re Bill Oddie.’

‘This isn’t the time!’

‘I know, I’ve seen the repeats.’

For the second time in a couple of minutes he looked at me like I was mad. I could have explained to him about defence mechanisms and the trouble they’d gotten me into, but he was right, this wasn’t the time. He had been a television comedy star in a previous incarnation, but now he was just a bird warden scrabbling along the floor in a desperate attempt to get to the door of a caravan moving at speed towards disaster. Every time
we hit a rock it threw the front of the caravan up in the air, and him back towards me. I tried myself, with no better results.

And then it was too late.

We struck something solid, we were tossed forward and then the whole caravan was over the edge and falling. We both smacked into the glass at the front with five hundred cans of food for company.

Remarkably, the glass held.

Big deal as we . . .

Then there was a sudden jolt and we stopped dead in the air . . .

No, not dead . . .

Swinging.

Back and forwards, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

Bill was clutching the back of his head where he’d cracked it on the glass. He groaned and moaned, ‘What’s . . . what’re we . . .’

I stared at the water barking and biting far below. It was almost hypnotic. ‘The answer, my friend,’ I said slowly, ‘is blowing in the wind.’

He eased himself up into a sitting position. Tin cans rolled off him and cracked into the glass. Still it held. I love glass now. Some people say it’s a pain, but it saved our lives. For the moment.

Bill said, understanding dawning, ‘The gas canisters . . .’

I rolled my eyes. ‘You mean we’re going to
explode
as well as . . .’

‘No! The caravan . . . connected to half a dozen gas canisters . . . they’re hidden in bushes so the tourists don’t see them . . . but they’re in a metal cage so no one’ll steal them . . . they’re keeping us up!’

But for how long?

What if whoever had pushed us over knew about them?

How long before they cut the line?

‘We have to get out of here,’ I said, a statement of such overwhelming obviousness that Bill didn’t even acknowledge it.

We began to pull ourselves cautiously up the caravan. The hundreds of cans didn’t help. Swinging from side to side didn’t help. But the thought of never seeing my wife and child again did. I loved them both dearly and would never be unfaithful again. I would go to church more regularly, though not necessarily on Wrathlin. I would cut down on the drink. I would do good deeds. I said, ‘Did you ever see
The Lost World
?’ as we moved inch by inch. Bill shook his head. ‘The sequel to
Jurassic Park
?’

‘Will you just
shut up
?’

‘Sorry. But there’s a scene just like this. Caravan over the edge of a cliff, hanging on by a thread.’

Bill cursed as a tin of Heinz Spaghetti and Sausages shot off a shelf and whacked into the back of his head.

‘Okay . . .
okay
. . .! What happens?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘God!’

‘Sorry . . . sorry . . .’ I was moving up behind him. He
had reached the door now and was carefully opening it . . . then the wind caught it and ripped it off. It slapped back against the side of the caravan and then disappeared. The whole vehicle shivered, shifted, then dropped several feet. We both let out involuntary shouts and held on for dear life.

It steadied again. ‘Tell you what,’ I gasped, ‘if we get out of this, we’ll rent it out, see what happened.’

Bill was shaking his head. He pulled himself back into the doorway, then peered out. For several moments he crouched there, contemplating, then looked back in at me. ‘I don’t have a bloody video player.’

‘That’s okay,’ I said, ‘you can borrow mine.’

He nodded. Then slowly raised himself to his feet. He reached out of the door and began to feel for something to grip on the outside of the caravan. He didn’t need to tell me what he was doing. He had to get onto what
was
the side, but was now the top of the caravan. Once up there he could shimmy up the gas line to the top of the cliff. Easy-peasy. As he continued to feel for a grip a bird, a guillemot, a razorbill,
something
, squawked momentarily through the open doorway at me then flew off.

Bill found what he was looking for. He took a deep breath then started to pull himself up. As his legs disappeared I reached the door and peered out and up. The wind was terrifying, and wasn’t made any friendlier by the excited calls of the seabirds flapping round us in the dark.