Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (31 page)

White glowered after him, then turned, his triumphant grin soured. ‘He’s corrupting our children, Frank! Dirt and filth, Frank, dirt and filth!’

‘He’s not. He’s . . .
Duncan
. . .’

I could see it in his eyes: reality bites.

Flynn had been building his own little dream world, banishing the things he didn’t like, but now someone else was muscling in on his utopia and he didn’t like it. He had
seen corpses and a bleeding schoolteacher and burning books and he couldn’t cope with it.

Duncan swayed about on weak legs. ‘I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .’ he mumbled.

White nodded up the steps to the school where two of the men who’d been amongst the most enthusiastic members of the hunting party stood watching the altercation, their guns hanging lazily by their sides. They moved down the steps and took up positions on either side of Father Flynn.

The look of surprise on the priest’s face was, well, surprising. In a second it was usurped by indignation as they each took hold of one of his arms. Duncan sank back to his knees. ‘What
on earth
do you think you’re doing?’ Father Flynn demanded, pulling away from them quite easily. The gunmen hesitated, looking back at Father White for guidance. Flynn bent once again to Duncan.

White snapped his fingers. ‘Take Duncan up to the church. Now. Frank as well.’

One of the men swung his gun down off his shoulder and poked it into Flynn’s back. The other pulled Duncan roughly to his feet. Patricia slipped her free hand into mine and squeezed. Little Stevie seemed mesmerised by the fire. Christine had already run off into the schoolroom. Moira, with a concerned glance at Duncan, gave pursuit.

Flynn straightened, turned, shook his head disdainfully, then pushed the gun out of the way. He glared at the gunman. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Please, Frank,’ said White, his voice a little softer, ‘go up
to the church. Once we’re done here I’ll come up and explain everything to you.’

Flynn stuck out an accusing finger. ‘You mean you’ll explain about the bodies in Mulrooney’s field?’

If he expected it to have dramatic impact, his expectations were sadly misplaced. It barely registered on the priest, and not at all upon the gunmen.

‘If you wish,’ White said matter-of-factly, as if he had been explaining a fine point of scripture to an intending communicant.

The gunmen began nudging the priest and the teacher towards the school gates. Flynn resisted for another few moments, then threw up his hands with an exaggerated sigh of resignation. ‘Very well,’ he cried. ‘Have it your way. You just call the Council together, and we’ll see about this. It’s madness!’

As they passed, Dr Finlay stepped forward to take a closer look at Duncan’s injury, but the gunman between them blocked his way; the prisoners continued their march to the church. The doctor shook his head helplessly.

Then it was White’s turn to point. ‘Go on home, Doctor,’ he growled, ‘you’re not needed here.’

‘He needs treatment.’

‘No, Doctor, he doesn’t,’ White said firmly. ‘Perhaps it’s you that needs the treatment. Why don’t you go back to that little surgery of yours and fix yourself a little drink? Or organise another devastating attack by the Alcoholic Front for the Liberation of Wrathlin?’ Finlay glanced after Duncan,
but the teacher was already out of earshot. ‘Pathetic!’ jeered the priest. ‘Go on home, Doctor. You might care to get rid of your supplies of alcohol before we come visiting, eh?’

Finlay held the priest’s gaze for several moments. Then he nodded to himself, and started walking towards the gate. He didn’t look at me as he passed.

Patricia, at my side, leant forward and caught Christine as she marched towards the fire with an armful of books. Two of the books fell to the ground.

Father White turned at the same time. ‘Ah! That’s my girl.’

Moira appeared behind her daughter. ‘She’s not your girl.’

‘She knows what’s right, Moira. Just look at her.’

‘She’s a kid,’ Moira spat, ‘she likes burning things.’

Patricia retrieved the books from the grass. Christine threw five others onto the fire. Then she clapped her hands and ran back into the schoolhouse. It was a big fire, and the kids were still trooping in and out. Duncan had a lot of books.

My wife rolled her eyes as she showed me the covers.

‘So what exactly is your complaint about these, Father?’ I asked.

‘Filth,’ he said.

‘The Lord of the Rings?’

‘Filth,’ he repeated.

‘It’s one of the great classics, Father. A story of good versus evil, in which good triumphs. How can you object to that?’

He grabbed the book from my hand and threw it onto the fire. ‘Pagan filth,’ he said.

I tutted. ‘Someone famous once said that when you start burning books, there’s no hope for civilisation.’

‘Someone got it wrong. We’re about saving civilisation, and saving souls. We’ve invested all our hopes in Christine – and it is our duty to protect her from things just like
The Lord of the Rings
. Devil’s stuff, and you know it.’ His hand shot out and he grabbed the other book from Patricia. ‘Or how about this?
Kane and Abel
?’ He brandished the thick volume above his head. ‘What should we make of this? A misspelt study of the Biblical story, is it, with valuable lessons for mankind?’

I shook my head.

‘No, it’s more filth! Do you object to me burning this as well?’

‘No, actually, you can chuck that on. But that’s just the literary critic in me coming out.’

White ignored me. Patricia giggled nervously. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. She squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. The book burned.

For a few minutes we stood and watched the bonfire. Then, as the children began finally to run out of books, they gathered round as well.

Father White, all smiles again, clapped his hands together. ‘A marvellous job, children!’ he proclaimed. ‘Well done!’ They let out a cheer. ‘Now, as a special treat for all your hard work, I’m going to give you the rest of the day off school. What do you think of that?’

Another cheer went up.

‘Away on home with you now. Tell your mums what good boys and girls you’ve been – but don’t forget to come back tomorrow.’

Yelling and screaming and laughing, the kids charged out of the gate. Christine returned to her mother’s side. ‘Can I go and play?’ she asked.

Moira, though I could tell by the look on her that she was seething, patted her daughter’s head gently and spoke softly. ‘Of course you can, love. Will you walk me down home first?’

Christine screwed up her face. Mock. Then nodded and smiled. She took her mother’s hand.

Father White put a hand on Moira’s shoulder. She shrugged it off.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he said.

‘I’ll be as I like.’

‘I’ll come down and see you later. Explain everything. It’s all quite straightforward.’

‘Don’t bother. I know what I saw out there.’

She spun on her heel and set off across the yard, pulling Christine with her.

With a slight shake of his head, Father White said, ‘She’ll come around,’ to nobody in particular.

Patricia disengaged. ‘I’ll go after her,’ she said. ‘See if she’s okay.’

‘She’s okay,’ I said.

She tutted. ‘Dan. You’re a man.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Work it out for yourself.’

She started after Moira. Little Stevie, up on her shoulder, looked back at me. I gave him a little wave.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I called.

‘No,’ she shouted back.

I had some difficulty with this. It was a nice gesture, of course, going to the aid of a friend who’d just stormed off. Genuine concern. But it was an odd type of concern, because it didn’t seem to extend as far as me, her loving husband, whom she’d just left alone in the company of a mass murderer and his henchmen without even the courtesy of a goodbye kiss.

Father White, at my side, shook his head. ‘Strange breed, women,’ he said.

It was the most human thing I’d heard from him since I’d arrived on the island, but coming from a man who’d most probably only ever had sex with his left hand it was also based on a complete lack of direct experience. ‘Tell me all about it,’ I said, nevertheless, and turned back to the fire. The four remaining gunmen warmed themselves by it, awaiting instructions.

White turned as well. He rubbed his hands together. The six of us stood in a circle. I should have been scared. These were evil men. My protector, Father Flynn, had been marched away. But I didn’t feel scared. Not much, anyway. The barely disguised hysteria of the book burning seemed to have evaporated with the last of the books.

After a little, I said: ‘You didn’t seem unduly fazed by our discovery of those bodies.’

‘I wasn’t. I was surprised it took so long.’

‘Youse shot Constable Murtagh and Mary Reilly.’

‘We did. We’d no alternative.’

‘Of course. And a priest.’

‘We’d no alternative.’

‘And a government inspector.’

‘Him too. Same reason.’

‘He was here long before Christine was even born.’

‘True.’

‘So why . . .?’

‘I’m not going to go through this twice. Come up to the church with me. I owe Frank Flynn an explanation before I owe you one. But I’ve no objection to you sitting in on it. You are the official historian, after all.’

‘You want this written down?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Of course I do. It’s important.’

He had me confused. Wrathlin had me confused, but Father White had me particularly confused.

‘You’re not concerned that history might portray you as a madman intent on murder?’

He stretched his lips into a half smile. ‘An historian not in possession of all the facts might portray me that way. On the other hand, an historian able to take the long view, once he has listened to all the facts with an open mind, who is able to put them into perspective, might record something completely different.’

‘But what if he doesn’t or can’t or won’t?’

‘Well, then he might end up in a shallow grave as well.
It’s quite straightforward. Do you have an open mind, Mr Starkey?’

He had a way of saying
Miste
r which rolled off his tongue like a wave of nausea.

‘Gaping,’ I said.

38

Before we entered we could hear Flynn’s hollow pacing along the floorboards. He wheeled round as the door opened. The short wait for our arrival had done nothing to cool his temper. His face was flushed. A dry white tongue flicked at his upper lip, his arms were clenched stiffly to his sides.

‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ he spat immediately.

I shrugged, an involuntary reaction based on long experience. White ignored him. He turned and closed the door firmly, then stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Thin lines of sweat had dried on his head like vague river traces in an African landscape.

‘Well?’ Flynn demanded.

‘Frank,’ White answered softly, ‘if we’re going to get anywhere, you’re going to have to calm down.’

Flynn’s hands snapped away from his side. ‘How can I calm down? You’ve turned this from heaven to hell! You’ve ruined it all!’

White shook his head. ‘No, Frank, I haven’t. You don’t understand.’ Flynn opened his mouth to speak, but White raised his hand quickly, then stepped forward. ‘Have a seat, Frank. Let’s talk about this rationally.’

‘Rationally!’

It was not a word much used on Wrathlin, and there it was twice in as many seconds.

‘Where’s Duncan?’ I asked.

‘They took him away,’ said Flynn. ‘Why don’t you listen out for the gunshot?’

White shook his head. He stepped behind the Council table and pulled a chair out. Intentionally or not, he ignored the Council leader’s seat. Then he looked expectantly up at Flynn.

Flynn wavered. I touched his arm. He looked round quickly, as if he hadn’t been aware of my presence. ‘It can’t do any harm, Father,’ I said.

‘Are you in this with him?’

‘No. Of course not. Don’t be daft. I’m the original impartial reporter.’

He looked doubtful. ‘So you’re not on my side either.’

‘Father, hear what the man has to say. What harm can it do? He’s calling the shots anyway. Literally.’

‘Thank you,’ White snapped, ‘we can do without your contributions.’

I pulled out a chair for myself at the end of the table. Flynn looked from me to White and back. Then he rounded the table and for a moment I thought he was going to thump his usurper, but he stopped behind the leader’s chair. His eyes betrayed a flicker of hesitation, then he drew back the seat next to it, so that they sat on either side of it. ‘Very well,’ Flynn said, sitting rigidly, ‘I’ll listen. I’ll be fascinated to hear whatever explanation you can come up with. Fascinated to know how a man of God can justify the murder of six people.’

A face appeared at the window at the end of the hall. Bearded. A gun barrel over one shoulder. He peered in, nodded, turned away.

White hunched forward. He rubbed his hands together slowly. Looked at the ground. Flynn’s eyes bored into the top of his head. White was searching for the right words. Finally he looked up. ‘Frank,’ he said quietly, his diplomatic hat finally in place, ‘I must apologise, I . . .’

‘An apology isn’t going to bring . . .’

Firmer voice: ‘I must apologise for keeping you in the dark. We thought . . . the Council thought it best, with your fragile heart . . .’

‘There’s nothing fragile about it!’ Flynn boomed.

White raised calming hands. ‘Frank! Please! Just listen to me. We knew you wouldn’t go along with what we planned to do. But we thought we were right. We know we
are
right. Now listen to me.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Right. Right.’ White rubbed his hands together again. ‘Just give me a chance. I’ve already explained about Murtagh and Mary.’

‘You’ve admitted killing them. You’ve
explained
nothing.’

‘I did explain. To protect the island. To protect Christine.’

‘That’s neither explanation or justification.’

White tutted. ‘Bear with me, Frank, will you? Let me tell you about the one that really matters. The government man.’