Turbulent Priests Part 19

Push.

f.u.c.k! Something ripped into my cheek.

Then my neck. They were tearing my hair out. Ripping my fingers.

Keep those hands on the rope!

Eyes closed!

Push! Pull! Push! Pull!

I was at the outcrop.

There was wind, but it was drowned out by the cries of the razorbills. I heaved myself up, cracked my head on the outcrop, nearly dropped, swung for a few moments, wings lashed into my face, there was blood trickling down my brow. I started to move again. Slowly, slowly, push, pull, push, pull . . .

I was on the outcrop.

Whack, something hit me on the back of the head.

f.u.c.k, they were throwing stones at me!

I heaved, I pulled. C'mon Dan, c'mon! Drink! s.e.x!

C'mon!

The attacks were easing off. I opened my eyes, half opened them; they were sticky with blood and I couldn't spare a hand to wipe them. No nests here, no birds, must be . . . I looked up. Jesus Christ, only a few more yards!

I'm going to make it!

What if they're waiting at the top?

The guys with the guns and the over-developed sense of fun.

What if they throw me straight back over?

No alternative . . . no alternative!

I pulled, I pushed, twice more, and then I was up and over and lying flat out on the sandy ground at the top of the cliff. I forced myself onto my knees and crawled forward several metres just to be sure the ground didn't suddenly give way on me or a gust of wind blow me back over.

I rolled over onto my back and stared at the stars. I gasped, *Throw me back over if you want. Right now I don't give a flying f.u.c.k.'

And then I closed my eyes and waited, but there was no response. Just the wind, and fading cries of angry birds.

20.

There's only so long you can spend lying on top of a cliff, feeling like death, before you start to feel stupid. Before you realise you're not going to suddenly wake up in bed. n.o.body's going to rescue you. You're not mortally injured, you're just tired and a little bit battered. You know you've a long walk home. Once there you'll try a lame, *Guess what happened to me,' and no matter how good you are at telling stories, you know that no one is ever going to quite understand. You were on top of a caravan? Over the edge of a cliff? It was really windy? He fell off? Oh-ma-G.o.d, you poor thing, and pa.s.s the salt, would you?

It had clouded over. It was starting to spit. Bill was dead. I had no idea if he really was Bill Oddie. Not that it mattered. He could have been Gunga Din or Adolf Eichmann. n.o.body deserved to die like that, except of course Adolf Eichmann. I was covered in birds.h.i.t and blood. I was frozen and everything that could ache, did.

I thought about taking the circuitous route home, for safety's sake, but I was beyond caring, I was too miserable to continue playing commandos. There was a road leading from the bird observatory back towards town and I stuck to it. I tramped, head down, too tired to think, but thinking nevertheless. I had to go to the police, tell them what had happened. The mainland would be the best bet, but I'd get the ball rolling with the cop stationed here on the island first. But not yet. It was late and there was one thing I needed first: a hug. Someone to pat my head and tell me everything was all right. Patricia. She mightn't really believe my story, but she could provide a big pot of sympathy. Then a sleep. Then I'd be okay. We could be packed up in a couple of hours and off the island. f.u.c.k it, forget the packing, just get on the first ferry then send for the stuff. The Cardinal had asked me to investigate a child who claimed to be the Messiah, not to get involved in murder.

Murder. A small, close-knit community.

Who was to say that I hadn't thrown Bill over the edge?

I had been down the road of being presumed guilty before.

My fingerprints all over the caravan. My footprints at the top of the cliff. My drunkenness on leaving Moira's. Even if she didn't finger me, Father White surely would.

s.h.i.t.

In took three quarters of an hour to walk home. It was a quarter to eleven as I struggled into the lane and saw Father Flynn's battered Land-Rover parked outside the cottage. I froze, even more.

Were they waiting for me? Were they in the bushes?

No. They would presume I was dead. So they've come for Patricia. Even now they're . . . no, what would be the point? What did she know? Come to that, what did I know?

The lounge curtains were closed, but there was a small bare side window. As I cautiously approached it there came a scuffling sound from behind me and I spun, ready to make a fight of it or at least beg for mercy, but it was only our friendly neighbourhood hedgehog out on patrol. I tutted and turned back to the window. I edged up to it and peered in: Patricia, cup of tea, baby asleep on sofa, Flynn, cup of tea, animated mouths, but smiles not scowls. Small talk and wee buns.

I knocked on the front door. Patricia opened it. Her first words were, *Where the f.u.c.k were . . .?' but then she trailed off as I stepped into the light and she saw the state of me. *Jesus Christ, Dan . . . what happened?'

She ran to me and hugged me and I winced. Her fingers traced the dried blood on my face. She stood back and held me at arm's length. *Dan . . .?'

I shook my head and shuffled past her. Father Flynn was standing in the lounge, cup and saucer in hand, an odd mix of concern and awkwardness on his face. *Dan . . .' he said, without any hope of completing the sentence.

Trish came in behind me and said, *Dan . . .'

So we'd established my name. I looked at Patricia and said, *Sorry.'

Her head moved a little to one side. *Dan . . .?'

I looked at Father Flynn. *Accidents will happen.'

*Oh dear . . .' he spluttered, *you had a . . .'

*Self-inflicted.'

*Self . . .?'

*I was coming home from Moira McCooey's. It started to rain. There's a dilap . . . dilapa . . . an empty farmhouse down the road a bit. I took shelter. I was nosing about waiting for it to go over. Found a couple of bottles of sherry hidden behind a broken old bookcase.' I took a deep breath. I sighed it out. *I drank them. I think they were past their drink by date. Next thing I knew I was throwing up. I tried to get home, but I blacked out. Must have fallen over a wall or something. Woke up in a gorse bush about half an hour ago. Sorry.'

*Oh love . . . are you okay?' It was said sympathetically enough, but I knew the tone, and I knew the look of barely concealed loathing in her eyes. If Father Flynn hadn't been there she would have beaten me to a pulp.

*Felt better,' I said. I nodded at Father Flynn. *I guess I was pretty stupid.'

*It's one of the reasons we outlawed the alcohol, Dan.'

I nodded. *I'm never drinking again,' I said.

*I came to thank you personally for saving Christine. It was a brave and selfless act.'

I shrugged.

*So we'll say nothing more about the alcohol.'

*Thank you.'

*Now I better run along.' He smiled across at Patricia, then handed me the cup and saucer. *We've had a great wee chat. She thought you were never coming home.'

*I always come home,' I said.

Patricia glared at me, then led Father Flynn to the door and bade him good night. She stood in the doorway until he'd started the engine, waved back at her, then driven off. The instant the door was closed . . .

*You stupid f.u.c.king . . .!'

*Shhhh!' I said, putting my finger to my lip, and hurrying to the curtains. I peered out after Flynn's disappearing vehicle.

*Don't you f.u.c.king shush me, you . . .'

*Trish!' I stuck a finger out at her, something she hates. *Stop it! Stop it now . . . I'm serious.'

*I'm f.u.c.king serious! What the h.e.l.l do you think you were . . .?'

I checked the road outside again, then pulled the curtain tight. *Pack up what you can. We're leaving.'

That stopped her. *What . . .?'

*We're leaving. First thing in the morning. Just the essentials. We'll never get all this s.h.i.te in the car by morning, so just what's easy. We're catching the first ferry.'

*Dan . . .?'

*There was no sherry, Trish. No dilapidated farmhouse. I got attacked on the way home from Moira's . . .'

*What . . .?'

*Attacked. Me. Attacked. Trish, I can handle out-of-date sherry. Look at the state of me, for f.u.c.k's sake.'

*Mugged on Wrathlin?'

*Not mugged. Attacked. Shot at. In the dark. Guys with torches. They've been chasing me all over the f.u.c.king island for the last two hours. They were trying to kill me.'

*Dan . . .?'

*I'm serious! Jesus! I knew this would happen!'

*It's not that I don't . . .'

*It's just that you don't. Trish, I'm serious.'

*Well, did you see who they were?'

*It was pitch dark.'

*You mean you were in Moira's all that time?'

*Yes.'

*Interviewing her from first thing this morning?'

*Yes.'

*You've never taken that long to interview anyone in your life.'

*She's the mother of the Messiah. I needed to go in-depth.'

*So where did you get the alcohol?'

*What alcoh . . .'

*Dan, I'm not a fool. You smell like a brewery.'

*Moira had a couple of cans in the fridge.'

*Uh-huh.'

*It was just a couple.'

*Enough to keep you there all day.'

*Trish, for f.u.c.k's sake, we're getting away from the point here.'

*Are we? You got drunk at Moira's, made an a.r.s.e of yourself, and some guys had to come and chase you away. Would that not be closer to the mark?'

*No!'

*Dan, tell me the truth.'

*I am telling you the truth!'

*Father Flynn said you were drunk at Moira's. So was Moira for that matter.'