Turbulent Priests Part 12

*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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 a 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d for this.'

*Thanks be to G.o.d,' 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 embarra.s.sed. *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. s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 s...o...b..siness,' 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.

When he was out of earshot Patricia said: *He's a moody one, isn't he?'

I watched him lope off down the hill, round shoulders bunched up. I shrugged.

Patricia furrowed up her brows, shook her head slightly. *Maybe he's got ME.'

*You mean that yuppie flu. Myalgic . . . whatever?'

*Nah,' she said, turning back to the church, *Messiah Envy.'

13.

The churchyard was finally empty, save for a big woman by the gate, sitting astride an old boneshaker, her face turned up to the sun. Patricia looked at her watch. *Do you think they'll be long?' she asked and looked anxiously first at the back door of the church, and then at Little Stevie. *He's due.'

*A couple of minutes won't make any difference,' I said.

*Try telling him that,' she replied, turning the baby towards me.

He didn't look too worried. Nevertheless, I put up a placatory hand. *I'd rather not,' I said. *Hold on, I'll check. See if it's worth waiting. You want to see her too, don't you?'

She nodded vaguely. I walked up to the back door. There came a murmur of voices from within. I knocked lightly. The murmuring stopped. A key was turned and a man stuck his curly head out.

*Oh. Sorry. I was looking for Father Flynn.'

*Aye. He's here.'

I moved forward. He didn't move back. I could just see past him that there were maybe a dozen people in the room, seated around a long table. *Sorry,' he said, pleasantly enough, but forceful with it, *we're having a meeting. We'll be finished in twenty minutes, if you want to wait.'

I shrugged. He nodded, then closed the door.

Patricia didn't want to wait. I did. I cited important research and journalistic curiosity. She cited warm milk and nappy. We agreed to differ. She would take the car and I would make my own way home with news of the Messiah. I kissed her goodbye. I shook Little Stevie's hand. He gurgled. He liked me. Then she drove out in a cloud of dust she would have chastised me for creating.

I kicked around in the yard for a while, enjoying the sun. I tried to eavesdrop on the meeting within, but there was nothing decipherable, only the dull throb of urgent voices. At the gate, the woman on the bike had produced a book from her saddlebag and was now earnestly studying it. I wandered across.

*Afternoon,' I said, a couple of yards off.

She looked up, startled, and for a second looked as if she might lose her foothold and tumble from the bike. She had a round, warm-looking face, a little flabby. Her eyes were large anyway, but were accentuated by st.u.r.dy black-framed gla.s.ses with thumb-thick lenses. *I didn't see you,' she spluttered.

*I'm sorry,' I said, falling naturally into the Ulsterman's misplaced acceptance of the blame. *I didn't mean to . . .'

She smiled. *Lovely day, isn't it?'

I nodded. *Did you enjoy the service?'

*Yes. Lovely.'

We looked away from each other for a few moments, our conversation already exhausted. Her eyes flitted briefly behind me, then back to her book. I squinted at it. The New Testament.

*He dies in the end,' I said. *Then he comes back.'

She looked at me. Dead straight. *I know.'

I kicked my feet in the dust. Behind me the back door opened and people began to emerge. *Excuse me,' I said quickly and turned back.

I stood to one side of the church while a line of serious-faced men walked slowly past. Several nodded. A couple said h.e.l.lo. Then came Father White. He didn't speak, but his eyes ran over me like a car. It gave me the oddest feeling. Then Father Flynn was in the doorway. *Dan!' he said enthusiastically, and reached out to me. I stepped forward and shook his hand. *I thought it was you. Come on in.'

He ushered me through the door. At the far end of the room, at the head of the table, sat a woman; on her knee sat a child.

Flynn took my elbow and led me across. I don't know what it says about my att.i.tude to life, but I looked at the woman first. Then the possible Messiah. She, the cat's mother, looked to be about thirty-five. She had dirty blond hair, cut short. Eyes blue. Nose just a little turned up, but not unpleasantly so. She was smoking. A cigarette. I was shocked. Genuinely. It seemed incredible that the instrument through whom G.o.d had chosen to recreate his image on earth should also feel the need to sh.e.l.l out money on twenty Benson & Hedges. Bad enough that alcohol was banned in the name of religion a the very same alcohol which Jesus himself, a drinker if ever there was one, had gone to the trouble of creating through a mirkle to satisfy his thirst a without promoting cigarettes. B&H would have a field day if ever they got hold of a photo of the mother of G.o.d as I saw her then, a stream of smoke shooting out of her nostrils. Caught in the sun, the smoke had an almost mystical sheen, a lethal kind of mystical which, if inhaled pa.s.sively, could still line your lungs with poison and allow you to die a horrible, pain-racked death completely free of charge several years down the line.

I reached out and shook the woman's proffered hand and reminded myself that she was not the mother of G.o.d. And that the girl on her knee wasn't the daughter of said supreme being.

The child was blonde as well. Blue-eyed. Perfectly Aryan. A smiler, too.

*Hiya,' she said.

*Hiya,' I replied.

*Dan Starkey,' said Flynn, *Moira McCooey and, of course, Christine.'

*h.e.l.lo,' said the mother, stroking Christine's hair.

*Dan's agreed to write the book about all this, Moira. He's a brilliant writer.'

I hadn't, but I was. Modest, too.

I nodded anyway. *I'll give it my best shot.'

Moira held her gaze steady on me. *I hope you won't be crucified by the critics,' she said lazily, her voice drawled out, tobacco-husky. She smiled up at me. *Relax,' she said, *we don't bite.'

I gave a nervous laugh. *I'll be needing to have a few chats with you, if you don't mind.'