Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (27 page)

‘No. Definitely not. I mean, there may have been one across for a weekend or something, but Flynn and White have been pretty nervous about anyone in their trade getting in on the secret. They haven’t given much away.’

Ignored for too long, Little Stevie suddenly let out a wail. It seemed to shake Duncan’s confident flow. He set the bottle
down at his feet as Patricia leant over to see to the child. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve been running off at the mouth a bit.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Patricia, lifting the child from the cot, ‘you’ve just been getting a bit off your mind, and opening our eyes a wee bit. It’s what we needed.’

‘Thank you. But I don’t want to give you the . . . y’know, the wrong impression about our wee group. I mean, we’re not really a . . .
rebels
or anything. It’s mostly hot air. The sum total of what we’ve done is daub a slogan on a church wall. We wouldn’t harm a hair on Christine’s head, y’know? We just enjoy a drink.’

‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Patricia said.

‘But things are getting more serious,’ I pointed out.

‘Aye. I know.’

‘And sooner or later someone might have to do something in the way of standing up for what’s right.’

Duncan nodded. He looked at his watch. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘school in the morning.’ He stood up, crossed to the door and slipped his coat off the hook. ‘Thank you,’ he said, suddenly awkward again. ‘It was a lovely meal.’

‘Our pleasure,’ said Trish.

‘Come again,’ I said.

We followed him up the hall. He lingered by the door. ‘Ahm,’ he said, his gaze falling between us, ‘I’d appreciate if you kept what I’ve said under your hat. I mean, not for my own sake, but for the others. We’re, uh, just a bit of a joke really. Except no one has much of a sense of humour any more.’

I patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, mate, we won’t breathe a word. Besides, who would believe a name like the Alcoholic Front?’

He smiled grimly. ‘Aye, I know. Stupid, eh?’

Patricia gave him a little hug. I stood by, without hitting him. Then I walked him to the Land-Rover. Patricia turned back in with Little Stevie.

‘You okay to drive?’

‘Who knows? It’s a fairly straight road, but for the bends.’

I nodded. We shook hands. When I went back in Patricia was sitting in front of the fire with Little Stevie on her knee. ‘Gone?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘Odd big lump, isn’t he?’ she said.

‘I suppose. Yeah.’

‘You know what the gossip is down in the church?’

‘I don’t particularly care.’

‘That he’s Christine’s dad.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.

‘And Joseph,’ added Patricia as I checked to see if there was anything left in Duncan’s bottle.

33

During the night an intruder broke into the cottage. He made his way to our bedroom, curled back the quilt, then sliced off the top of my head and filled my skull with quick-setting cement. Then he stuck barbed wire up my nose and nailed my head, naturally enough, to the headboard. Patricia slept through it all.

The morning was one of the brightest and loudest since the creation of the universe. Even with the curtains closed.

Patricia stood at the foot of the bed, hair sleep-tousled, eyes dark, skin grey. Her dressing gown hung open. Little Stevie guzzled at a bottle. She kicked the bed’s wooden frame. Earthquake. ‘You never learn, do you?’ she screamed quietly.

‘Uuuuugh.’

‘You only have yourself to blame.’

My head was revolving at 72 rpm, an unfashionable speed. ‘Thanks,’ I croaked, ‘I need to hear that.’

‘You
knew
how strong it was.’

‘I can cope.’

‘Aye, you look like it.’

I hid back under the quilt. ‘Am I complaining?’ I whined, from the safety of the cocoon. Staying up to finish the bottle had been a mistake. Like the Bay of Pigs.

I peeked out. She had that mock sympathetic look. ‘Do you want a hair of the dog?’
Evil
smile. ‘Do you want me to see if there’s any left in the bottle?’

‘There’s none left.’

‘Do you want something to eat, then?’

‘No.’

‘A fried egg sandwich?’

‘Patricia. This isn’t funny. Please go away.’

And she did. She rumbled about the house for a twenty-minute eternity and then shouted something about going down to the church for another social. She asked me to do the dishes from the night before. I gave an inconclusive grunt. The door slammed. The cottage seemed to vibrate and I tensed, ready for the ceiling to come down on my head. It didn’t.

When I was sick for the fourth time that morning I made the promise. I was never drinking again.

It had worked well in the past.

Some time around four in the afternoon I began to get some feeling back in my legs.

I raised myself cautiously from the bed, then tested my feet out on the floor. I managed a few Bambi steps, then sat again. Then a few more. A seat. Then some more. In ten minutes I was back to the svelte fighting machine of the night before. After that, and holding my nose, I bent and lifted the basin from the side of the bed. I took it into the bathroom and washed it out. Yum. Then to the kitchen and a can of Diet Pepsi. And a chocolate digestive.

After letting that lot settle I pulled on my tracksuit again and took a dander round the accessible parts of the garden, breathing deeply of the fresh sea air all the time. Refreshing. Dizzy-making, but refreshing. I looked in on the hedgehog, but with all the dead leaves in the box it was difficult to determine if he was at home.

I was just turning back into the cottage when a Land-Rover eased its way down the lane and pulled up. The driver’s door opened, banged shut, but for a moment, with the undergrowth/overgrowth, I couldn’t see who it was; I heard a smoker’s ragged cough, the flick-flick-flick of a cigarette lighter in a strong breeze, and then Dr Finlay’s head appeared at the front gate. The rest of him too.

‘Ah,’ I said, which wasn’t one of my better opening lines but the best I could do with a numb tongue.

‘Starkey,’ he said, ‘I hoped you might be here.’ He pushed the gate open and walked slowly up the path, shaking and flicking the lighter the whole way. When he drew level with me he gave a big tut and thrust it back into his pocket. ‘Bloody waste of money,’ he said. ‘Do you have a light?’

‘You didn’t come all this way for a light, Doctor?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he said gruffly, stopping before me and holding his cigarette up expectantly. It was a self-rolled job, untidily done.

I nodded back to the house. ‘If you can work out how to turn the cooker on without burning the place down, you’re welcome to a light.’

He followed me into the kitchen and fiddled with a ring. I hadn’t touched a cooker in fifteen years and I wasn’t about to start now. I worshipped at the altar of Pot Noodle and Microwave. And with Patricia I’d no choice.

It only took a few moments for him to get his cigarette lit; he straightened slowly, took a deep suck, held it, then puffed out contentedly.

‘So, what’s up, Doc?’ I asked. He looked as if he hadn’t heard the line before. Which was strange, considering the number of rabbits about. I tapped my skull. ‘The head’s all healed, if that’s what you’re here for. And the baby’s away to town with the wife. And doin’ fine.’

‘No, no,’ he said, ‘it’s not your health that concerns me. Or the family’s.’

‘And if you’re here to recruit me for the Alcoholic Front for the Liberation of Wrathlin, I’m afraid you’re too late. I’m going to sign on with the Pioneers just as soon as I get rid of the shakes enough to write my name.’

He blew a cloud in my direction. I waved it away with my hand.

‘Aye,’ he said, ‘Duncan told me he’d told you about that
foolishness. Pay no heed to him, Starkey, it’s just a joke that got out of hand.’

‘I know. You’re just drinking buddies.’

‘That’s the sum of it.’

‘Prone to a bit of vandalism.’

‘That wasn’t my idea.’

‘I didn’t think it was. So to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I have a letter for you.’ He reached inside his anorak and withdrew an envelope. ‘It’s from Mary Reilly’s mother.’

I took it from him. I shook my head. I knew instinctively what it was. She was backing out of our deal now that Mary was dead. I couldn’t be of any more use to her, so the bargain was off. I tried hard not to feel too despondent. It wasn’t as if I was ever going to drink again anyway. ‘The old cow didn’t have the guts to come and tell me herself.’

‘The old cow hung herself last night.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh. Indeed.’

I looked at the envelope. It suddenly felt cold in my hand. It was a suffocation-blue airmail envelope. Most of my name was written on the front in pencil: DAN STARKY.

‘Hung herself?’

‘Aye. A woman who looks in on her from time to time found her this morning. She’d been dead for quite a while. A day, anyway. Hanging from a wooden beam in the kitchen. She used a pair of tights. Brown ones. From a different era. There wasn’t even a run in them.’

‘God.’

‘Aye. Well. What can you say? Her only daughter dead. Ostracised by most of the people here. Nothing to live for. And all she left was a letter for you.’

I turned it over in my hand. ‘Shouldn’t you give it to someone else? The police or something?’

‘There are no police.’

‘The law, then. Father Flynn.’

Dr Finlay shook his head mournfully. ‘There’s no law, either, son.’

I waved the envelope in front of him. ‘Won’t people be wondering what . . .?’

‘If they knew about it, I dare say. We’d most of the Council round to see the corpse. But I thought it better to keep the letter to myself.’

‘The woman who found it didn’t . . .?’

‘Never noticed it. Too shaken up by the body.’

‘So,’ I said, and looked at the envelope again.

‘Up to you now, son,’ said Dr Finlay. He tapped his cigarette and a spray of ash flittered to the floor. We both watched it. He didn’t apologise.

I tore the envelope and withdrew a folded single sheet of wispy-thin airmail notepaper. I unfolded it. The handwriting was spidery, starting flush with the top left-hand corner but descending in a rough diagonal across the page.

‘You’ll want to read it to me,’ the doctor said.

‘Of course.’

There wasn’t much to it. But there was enough, after a
suitable period of respectful mourning, to brighten my day and change my priorities.

Dear Mr Starky, – so this is the end, and at the end of it all, all I have to do is finish my half of our agreement. Go to Mulrooney’s field. Fresh dug bit in the corner on the coast side. Buried there. Thank you for agreeing to speak up for Mary, I know it would have helped. It was very good of you.

I looked up at Dr Finlay. ‘To the point,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘What’s this agreement?’

‘She promised to track down some drink for me if I spoke up on behalf of her daughter.’

‘That was a bit mercenary.’

‘I was a bit thirsty. It isn’t the whole story, Doctor. Ask my wife. Sometimes I’ve to hide my own good nature under the guise of a commercial transaction.’ The doctor nodded doubtfully. ‘Besides, I thought you’d sympathise – particularly if you’re drinking that muck Duncan was hiking around last night. It’s lethal.’

‘Yes. Well. It’s an acquired taste.’

‘Arsenic is an acquired taste too.’ I held up the sheet. ‘But this, this is a treasure map. Buried in a field, Jack McGettigan’s horde of booze. Jesus, there must be tonnes of it.’

Finlay wasn’t so sure. He took the letter from me and quickly ran his eyes over it. ‘Why go to the trouble of burying drink?’ he asked. ‘You’d be better pouring it down the drain.’

‘Unless you weren’t quite certain about the future and
needed something to fall back on. I’m sure Jesus did the odd bit of joinery when the alms collection didn’t come up to scratch.’

He sucked in. His eyes closed slightly, letting out only a cool, appraising light. He blew smoke down his nose. ‘You’re very flippant about things, Starkey, aren’t you?’

I shrugged. ‘What can I say? I had the impression first time we met that you were less than devoted to the McCooeys. I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘I’m not devoted to the McCooeys. That doesn’t mean I’m not devoted to Christine.’

‘Of course.’ It was becoming a familiar excuse, or defence.

We were both silent for a while. He puffed again. He was thinking. He looked at the letter again, then handed it back to me.

‘She was a daft old bird,’ he said.

‘A blue bird now.’

‘Aye.’

‘And she enjoyed a drink. You could tell that from looking at her.’

‘I suppose she did.’

‘But she wasn’t a member of your wee group?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘It was a men’s group.’

‘But she knew where the booze was hidden, and youse didn’t.’

‘Well, that remains to be seen.’

‘True. And there’s only one way to find out.’ I waited for him to say something, but he just kept a steady, thoughtful
gaze upon me. I said it for him. ‘We should go take a look. Are you game?’

He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘The way things are now it would be madness,’ he said. ‘Father White and his crowd are all riled up. We get caught with a load of booze there’s no telling what they’ll do to us. Look what they tried on Mary Reilly.’

‘I asked you if you were game.’

He sniffed up. Took another drag on his cigarette, the last, then threw the butt into the sink where it hissed in a soaking cereal bowl. We locked eyes for a long moment, then a tongue darted unconsciously out and licked his lips. His own tongue, of course. It was The Sign. He was hooked.

34

‘I think youse are mad,’ Patricia said from the doorway.

The four of us had shovels. Me, Dr Finlay, Duncan Cairns, Willie Nutt. I hadn’t met Willie Nutt before. He was small and squat, his hair was close-cropped and he had the jangly eyes of a man who enjoyed living up to his own name. Both names, in fact. He had been responsible for the graffiti at the church. He kept a bottle of the AFLR’s poison in his pocket and from time to time took a long slug. It didn’t seem to affect him at all. We all refused when he offered it round.