Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (19 page)

‘Moira, for Jesus’ . . .’

‘Only joking. Keep your hair on.’

I sighed. ‘Sorry. I’m not . . .’

‘It’s okay.’ She reached up and kissed my cheek. ‘But if you do happen to be passing.’ She winked and went back inside.

I dreamt of football and woke. I took a drink of the Diet Pepsi. It was flat, but it was Pepsi. Then I crossed my fingers and mouthed a silent prayer on Little Stevie’s behalf. I walked up the hall and quietly opened the bedroom door. Patricia was still stretched out on the bed. Moira was in a crumpled heap on the floor. Someone had put a blanket over her.

Little Stevie was gone.

Biting back a surge of panic, I checked quickly on both sides of the bed in case he’d rolled off like an orange in his sleep. Nope. Then under the bed. Nothing. I stood and looked about the room. Although Patricia and Moira looked to be in pretty much the same positions as when I’d left them, it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that they’d moved the baby while I was asleep. I turned and walked quickly through the house, silently checking the rooms. I didn’t want to take the chance of waking Patricia. If she didn’t know where Stevie was, she’d freak out. If there was a simple explanation, then she wouldn’t need to know that I’d nearly freaked out. Finally I approached the living room.

The door was ajar. I peered in. Flynn was slumped in the chair, the Bible open in his lap. Christine was gone too.

I shook Flynn awake.

‘Whatsit . . .?’ he murmured groggily and made a protect ive grab for the Bible as it slipped to the floor.

‘Where is she?’ I hissed.

‘Whaaaa?’

I tutted. I upped the hiss factor. ‘Christine . . . where is she?’

He rubbed at his eyes. Shook himself awake. He jumped up, joints clicking, and crossed to the sofa. He pulled the blanket back, even though it was obvious she wasn’t there. ‘Why she was . . .’ He looked sharply back. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Youse didn’t shift Stevie while I was asleep?’

He shook his head.

‘Someone did,’ I said.

‘What do you . . .?’

‘He’s gone. And you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out who took him.’

Flynn shook his head again. ‘She wouldn’t do anything . . .’

‘There’s no accounting for kids, Father.’ I turned for the hall. ‘I once buried my gerbils alive and dug them up six weeks later to see how they were getting on. We’d better find her.’

‘You’ve checked the rest of the house?’

‘There’s not much to check.’

We went outside.

If anything, the fog had intensified. Usually I would have been inclined to slap anyone who would call it a real peasouper, but I let the priest away with it. I just cursed. They could be anywhere. Three metres or three hundred.

My baby.

My
baby.

Yes, well. He had grown on me.

Flynn snagged my arm and pointed towards the upturned bath. He walked quickly and I followed. Slowly, through the fog, I began to see a figure, small and pale and damp-looking.

It was Christine. She was cradling something in her arms, something hidden in a bunch of blankets.

As we approached she looked up and smiled, at first, then quickly noted our demeanour and the smile faded into a worried grimace. She squashed the blankets into her chest.

‘Oh . . . Christine!’ Flynn cried.

As he stepped towards her she pulled the blankets protectively to one side. ‘Mine,’ she said.

‘Oh, Christine,’ Flynn said, softer now, moving closer.

‘I was looking after the little baby,’ Christine said.

Flynn stopped. ‘But, Christine, he’s not well, you have to be very careful.’

‘I was.’ He reached tentatively out, but Christine held the bundle close.

‘The baby was sick . . .’ she said, the smile edging back onto her face as she looked down into the blankets.

‘But, Christine, if you could just let me . . .’

I put a hand on Flynn’s arm. ‘Excuse me, Father, but bollocks.’ I stepped up to Christine and wrenched the bundle from her grasp.

She let out a wail.

I unwrapped.

Little Stevie, cool, calm, collected, smiled up. I smiled back.
I let out a sigh of relief. His brow felt normal. His skin was pink, a little flushed, but the rash had faded. No, not faded. Gone. Gone completely, as if it had never been there.

Flynn turned from consoling Christine. He peered over my shoulder. ‘Is he dead?’ he asked matter-of-factly.

‘Dead good,’ I said.

The priest’s jaw dropped as he saw the extent of the transformation. ‘My goodness,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ I said.

He looked a little closer. ‘But he’s . . .’

‘Aye.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a miracle,’ he said.

‘Mirkle,’ I said.

He grabbed my arm suddenly. ‘No. I mean it. It is. It’s a miracle.’

‘Father, I . . .’

‘It is. It’s a miracle! Christine’s done another—’

‘Father, the baby’s better. It happens. It’s not a m—’

‘Dan, you don’t understand,’ he said excitedly. ‘It
is
a miracle!’ He grabbed my shoulders. ‘Moira told me herself last night she didn’t expect him to last the course. She was absolutely certain he had meningitis . . . thought he was a goner for sure. But now he’s . . . it’s wonderful!’

I shrugged him off. Little Stevie gurgled. ‘Okay. If you insist. It’s a miracle.’

A broad grin split the priest’s face. He threw his hands up in the air. Caught them, too. ‘A miracle!’ he shouted. ‘Thank God!’ He turned to Christine. He tousled her hair. She slipped
off the bath, pulled at her nightdress where it was stuck damp to her legs. He knelt beside her. ‘What did you do to make the baby well, Christine?’

She ran the back of a hand across her face to remove the tears. Sniffed something back up her nose. ‘I took him out of the room, Father.’

‘And why did you do that?’

She bit at a finger. Twisted her head left and right. ‘Because,’ she said.

‘You knew the baby was sick, didn’t you? A very sick baby.’

She nodded.

‘Then you brought him out here? What did you do?’

‘Nothing. I sat on the bath.’

‘What did you say to the baby?’

She shook her head.

‘You said nothing at all?’

‘I sang a song, Father.’

‘What song did you sing, Christine? Was it a good song?’

She nodded. ‘“Jesus Loves You”.’

Flynn gulped. It was a loud gulp. As loud a gulp as you’re likely to hear this side of Gulpville, Indiana. When he turned back to me his eyes had filled with tears.

‘It’s a miracle!’ he cried.

I nodded and turned for the house. It was time to bring the tidings of great joy to my wife.

23

Dr Finlay arrived at Snow Cottage a little after noon. For the purposes of the day it might as well have been called Fog Cottage. Or the Wrathlin Convention Centre. The previous three hours had been spent entertaining with steadily diminishing goodwill members of Flynn’s congregation anxious to hear at first hand the miracle of the baby brought back from death’s door by the infant Messiah.

Uhuh.

Patricia seemed to enjoy the attention.

‘Out shooting,’ was the doctor’s explanation for his unavailability.

‘We looked everywhere,’ I said.

‘Not everywhere,’ he said.

‘I mean . . .’

‘Rabbits,’ he said. ‘We’re coming down with the little
bastards, Dan. Just doing my bit to help. I’m surprised nobody realised.’

I wasn’t absolutely convinced by his story. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. There was a split shotgun in the back seat of his car and, sure, he had four bloody carcasses lying on some plastic sheeting in the boot, but I still had my doubts. I supposed great white rabbit hunters (that’s the hunters, not the rabbits)
could
go shooting at night-time, using their car lights to blind the rabbits or guide the shooting, but I had my doubts about how successful such an expedition would have been in the fog. Perhaps he’d managed to bag them before it descended.

I didn’t even know if they
were
rabbits.

But I suppose I was too happy about Little Stevie to split hares.

‘They’re such a bloody hardy lot,’ he said, bending back into the vehicle for his keys.

‘The rabbits?’

‘The people. They seldom have any use for me. I suppose I should have let Mrs McTeague know where I was going, but she’s such a dozy old biddy it seemed pretty pointless. Anyway,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject, ‘what about you, lad? Howse the head?’

‘Fine.’

‘Told you. Okay then, we’ll take a look at this kiddie, will we? Told me down home there’d been a bit of a miracle. What do you say?’

‘I really couldn’t say. I don’t see them that often.’

He gave me a thin smile. ‘Of course,’ he said, and walked ahead of me into the cottage. ‘Moira has my case, has she? Good on her.’

Father Flynn had fallen asleep in one of the armchairs. On the narrow settee Moira and Patricia were chatting animatedly, a pot of tea on a tray balanced precariously on a small stool before them. They both turned and looked at me and for a very brief moment I thought perhaps they’d been discussing me and my propensity for unfaithfulness, but then I realised that Moira’s head was still attached to her shoulders and not nailed to the wall, so she mustn’t have brought it up.

Christine was tickling Little Stevie on the floor.

‘Well!’ boomed the doctor, bending down and scooping the baby up. ‘Let’s see the wee man then.’

Flynn bounded suddenly from his chair. ‘Whoooooah!’ he shouted.

We stood in shock for a moment. Then the priest reddened up. ‘I’m sorry. I was asleep.’

We all nodded sympathetically at him. He sat down again. Dr Finlay took the baby into the bedroom to give him a thorough examination. Flynn tried to follow, but the doctor insisted on privacy. Patricia and Moira returned to their chat. I strolled out into the garden.

I walked round to the side of the cottage and found the box in which Patricia had placed the hedgehog. It was empty save for some leaves and a side plate.

Then Flynn was at my elbow. As I turned, he stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m not as fit as I used to be.’

‘You didn’t used to be fit. You had a heart transplant.’

‘You know what I mean.’

We looked at the garden for a while. The jungle. I shook my head at it. A jungle it would remain. I had once tried to weed a window box by spraying petrol on it from a soda siphon and setting fire to it. A neighbour had called the Fire Brigade. It wasn’t even my house. I was just passing by and trying to be helpful.

‘You know,’ Flynn said, ‘you’ve had quite an impact, and you’re only here a few days.’

‘Aye,’ I said.

‘First you save Christine’s life. Then she saves your son’s. I hope you’re writing all this down.’

I nodded. I would have to. Once I bought a quill.

‘We were hoping – the Parish Council, that is – we were hoping that you’d come along to our meeting tomorrow night.’

‘Oh aye, what’s up?’

‘Just our regular weekly meeting. But there’s been so much happening that we have to talk about. And there’s a lot would like to meet you properly, and thank you for what you’ve done. Would you come along?’

‘Love to,’ I said.

Patricia stood in the hall, cradling Little Stevie. It was the first time we’d been alone since he’d taken ill.

‘Happy?’ I asked.

She smiled at the baby. ‘Relieved.’

‘Do you think it was a miracle?’

‘I don’t care, Dan, as long as he’s alive.’

‘Fevers break,’ I said.

‘I know.’

‘Rashes disappear.’

‘I know.’

‘It happens.’

‘I know.’

‘But . . .’

‘I know it.’

24

Of course I was late. Patricia and I bickered the whole way. My driving too fast in the fog, which stubbornly refused to lift. My clothes. My lack of assistance with the little one. My attempts at assistance with the little one. The little one cried healthily throughout.

I wore black jeans and a black shirt and my black zip bomber jacket. My wife wore culottes. For fifteen years I thought a culotte was a badly pronounced idiot, but then you learn something new every day. She looked lovely.

I dropped Patricia and the baby halfway up the hill at the end of the narrow lane which led to the schoolhouse. She’d accepted an invitation to a gathering of the church mothers. I was surprised that she’d accepted so readily. Before, she’d have laughed heartily at the suggestion that she might get involved with the sort of women who spent
their time discussing the social history of linen or how to create flower arrangements depicting a five-point fall in the Dow Jones Index. Maybe giving birth changes you. Maybe having a six-pound ginger bap fighting his way sideways out of your birth canal for eight hours fucks up your mental faculties. I don’t know. Maybe men and women are just different.

She gave me a sarcastic smile and slammed the door. I blew her a sarcastic kiss then sped off in a cloud of ironic dust.
Yeah
.

The church loomed up out of the fog like a big churchy thing in a fog. It was cold and a little creepy. There were two other cars parked at the rear, and three bicycles were propped up against the wall. I locked the car, stepped up to the hall door and knocked. A bolt was pulled back and the same curly-haired man who’d opened the door to me before stuck his head out.

‘Yup?’

‘Dan Starkey. I was invited . . .’

He smiled. ‘Of course. Come on in.’

He stepped back, held the door open for me. Inside there were a dozen men grouped around a long table. All eyes were upon me. Flynn’s. Father White’s. Twenty others. Twenty-two, in fact, for beyond the table, in a single chair, set lower than the rest, sat Constable Murtagh. I hadn’t been formally introduced, so I ignored him.

I smiled. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I . . .’

Father Flynn, at the head of the table, stood up. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is Dan Starkey. The saviour of the saviour.’

The councillors stood immediately and turned eager faces towards me. I was enveloped by a spontaneous round of applause.