Turbulent Priests Part 25

Rain drummed against the windows. I knelt on the arm of the chair and stared out into the drizzled darkness and reflected on how I had managed once again to get myself involved with loonies.

Before, in Belfast, in New York, it had been individual loonies, a magic mushroomed comedian or a detective who snipped fingers off with rose-clippers, but this was a different kind of loony altogether. It was a collective looniness. The council of loons.

Patricia could see that I was troubled. She hovered about me. Little Stevie slept. *I'd make you a cup of tea,' she said sympathetically, *but you'd only tell me to stick it up my hole.'

I smiled. I shrugged. I looked at the rain again.

*And I only brought the one bottle of wine, so there's no answer there.'

She put her arm about my shoulders. I rested my head against her for a moment. She felt warm. Smelt nice. I put my arm round her waist.

*I'm sorry I can't help,' she said.

*There's nothing wrong.'

I dropped my hand onto her rear and it sparked off a thought. I looked up at her hopefully. A way to forget my troubles.

She moved slightly away, then squeezed my shoulder and looked at the ground. *I'm having trouble with thrush,' she said, her voice barely a whisper, shy even after all these years.

I dropped my hand. *You shouldn't put so much bread out.'

She laughed and slapped the back of my head, then turned quickly on her heel. *Well, I'm going to make a cup of tea.'

I stared into the blackness for a little longer. It would be easy just to pack up our belongings and get on that ferry in the morning. To forget about all the nonsense. I already had enough evidence for the Cardinal to send in the ecclesiastical stormtroopers. I'd earned the money, was maybe owed some more for the bicycle injuries. I'd never even thought to ask about whether I was covered by any kind of insurance, whether Patricia would gain anything if a spoke entered my eyeball or a plague of locusts took a sudden interest in me. Third party fire and pestilence.

I followed her into the kitchen. I took a can of Diet Pepsi from the fridge and sat at the table. *The way things are going,' I said, *they'll probably outlaw this too, and then I'll really be stuck.'

*Dan, you'll never be stuck.'

*We should go home,' I said. *These people are nuts.'

She shook her head. *Dan, you won't go home till you see this through. You know that.'

*Jesus was thirty-odd when they got round to crucifying him. You want to be here that long?'

*And what's Jesus got to do with it?'

I grinned. She was right. *Good point.'

*Besides, girls grow up so much quicker than boys.'

I tutted. *Are you being sucked into all of this?'

*No more than you, sweetie.'

Her evening had been better fun. The ladies of Wrathlin seemed a nice bunch. What they lacked in sophistication they made up for with old-fashioned charm and a contagious homeliness. The social evening was nothing more than a chin-wagging session, with Patricia the centre of attraction. I'd given her her instructions, of course, but by the time she'd talked through her life and times the evening was drawing to a close and she very nearly failed to steer the chat round. She'd been worried about how to introduce the subject of the Messiah in the first place, and had hoped that it would come round naturally, but n.o.body mentioned it all night. Finally she just plunged in and hoped for the best. She tapped the knee of the woman sitting next to her and whispered, *What about this Christine then? What's the gen on her?'

The woman smiled at her. *It's great, isn't it? Our wee Christine a such a star!' And that had set the whole lot of them off.

Patricia poured her tea. I drummed my nails on the side of the can.

*It was like Christine had won a bonny baby compet.i.tion or a talent show or something. They just seemed genuinely proud of her. Local girl does good.'

*Loonies,' I said.

*Maybe they're just right to treat it like that, love.'

*Aye. Drink your tea.'

*But . . .'

*Trish, if you'd seen my lot . . .'

*Well, maybe if there were any women on that Council, this might be a better place to live.'

*I can't imagine Wrathlin ever being a better place to live. Unless they reopened the pub.'

*You know what I mean.'

*Anyway, I'm not rising to the bait, Trish.'

*What bait?'

*You know what I mean.'

*I haven't a notion what you're talking about.'

*You know rightly. All that feminist c.r.a.p.'

*What feminist c.r.a.p?'

*About women ruling the world and . . .'

*I never mentioned women ruling the world!'

*You were getting there . . .'

*I . . .'

*Just finish your tea and do the dishes, love,' I said. Then I ran into the front room laughing.

*b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' she shouted.

But it was okay. She was laughing too.

My idea was to write a big epic novel about the history of Ireland. It had been done before, but never properly. None of them had ever been funny, and the history of Ireland was nothing if not a laugh. Before, I'd had the thoughts, but never the time to write them down; now I had the time but the thoughts were driven from my mind by visions of the Messiah.

Patricia went to bed. I sat in the corner of the spare bedroom I was using as a makeshift study and pa.s.sed ten minutes staring into nothingness and sniffing at a thick black felt pen. It smelt pretty good. After a while I started to feel a bit light-headed and set it down. Then I switched on the computer and started writing a report for Cardinal Tomas Daley. I tried to keep it objective and concise. The word loony only crept up twice. It took me about half an hour. Then I sat and pondered a while on how to get it to him. I had an Internet connection and a speedy modem, but no phone line. I could post it, but I had some doubt about how wise it was to let it out of my hands. No, I needed to get on the ferry, phone or fax him the report from Ballycastle. h.e.l.l, while I was there I might be forced into an off-licence. I spent a few minutes trying to work out how many cans of Harp I could squeeze into the car (a) without anybody on the ferry noticing, and (b) without sinking the ferry. I reckoned about two hundred in the boot. And a crate of Diet Pepsi in the pa.s.senger seat to throw the alcohol police off the trail.

After I printed out the report I folded and sealed it in an envelope and put it in my jacket pocket. I didn't address it. It contained no reference to the Cardinal.

I got another can of Diet Pepsi, then sat in the lounge for a while, back before the window. I watched the rain again. It was quite soothing. A mental ma.s.sage. I started picking out raindrop patterns against the gla.s.s. It obviously hadn't been cleaned on the outside for a while, and the dirt encouraged the rain into various shapes: a map of America, a strutting peac.o.c.k, an old woman's fleshy face.

The old woman's fleshy face smiled suddenly and then a fist banged on the window.

I shot backwards, toppling off the arm of the settee. *Jesus Christ!' I shouted, but it was more like the Wicked Witch of the North West.

I lay on the floor, heart pounding. The face moved away. After a few moments there was a rapid knocking on the front door.

I took several deep breaths and cautiously raised myself. I was getting on in years now and my diet didn't allow me too many sudden shocks.

I steadied myself against the living-room door. Patricia's head appeared at the end of the hall. *Who is it?' she whispered.

*I don't b.l.o.o.d.y know yet,' I snapped.

*Sorry,' she snapped herself and ducked back into the room.

I opened the door.

The old fleshy face blinked at me in the light. Then the body it topped shook itself like a Labrador and while I was distracted by the spray she stepped into the hall.

*Come in,' I said.

*Sorry, love, did I give you a fright?' the woman said, her voice cigarette-craggy. *I thought I'd take a wee look and see if anyone was up before I knocked. It's late on.'

*It is. And, no, you didn't.'

She nodded. *I wanted a wee word.'

*Have several,' I said, *it looks like murder out there.'

Behind me, down the hall, Patricia's face poked out again. *What does she want?'

*I don't know!' I turned back to her. *What do you . . .'

But she'd taken advantage of the distraction to walk past me into the lounge. She was sitting on the edge of the settee, a damp stain of rain already spreading out behind her.

*Have a seat,' I said.

She wore a purple anorak that fell as far as her knees. Her face bulged red out of its hood. Raindrops ran to and fro in the gullies between the wrinkles on her forehead like irrigation. Her wellington boots were caked in mud. Her hands were pudgy. There was something familiar about her face.

The woman leant forward. *You're the one saved the wee girl.'

*Christine?'

*Aye.'

*I suppose so. What of it?'

*I want you to do the same. I want you to save another wee girl.'

*I'm really not sure what . . .'

*You did it once,' she snapped suddenly, her top lip curling up unpleasantly, *do it again.'

There was no need for the nastiness. If I'd been drinking I might have picked her up by the ears and thrown her into the garden. And kicked her while she was down for good measure. I have never believed that old age is an excuse for bad manners. Or for anything besides incontinence. But I hadn't been drinking, so I counted to ten and said as placidly as I could: *You'd better tell me what you're on about, Missis, because I haven't a notion.'

This time her bottom lip curled down in distaste. She had a remarkably mobile mouth. *Are you not listening to me?' she hissed.

*Yes. I'm listening.'

*You saved that wee girl.'

*Yes. We've established that.'

*Now I want you to save mine.'

*And what's her problem?'

*They want to kill her.'

*Who do?'

*They do. The Council.'

*And why would they want to do that?'

*Because of what she did. On her bike.'

Ah.

The penny dropped. Mary Reilly. Mary Reilly's mother.

*They're going to do something awful to her. I know it. She doesn't mean any harm, she's just not well . . . will you help her?'

*They're not going to do anything . . . awful . . . I think . . . they think she needs some help or something. I mean, she's hardly the full . . .' I glanced back down the hall for some sign of Patricia. She was good at talking to old people, I'd seen her in action. I just felt like hitting them with a mallet. I'd no patience. Never had. *But don't worry,' I said, *she'll be fine.'

*You don't understand! They're going to kill her! They always get their way!' She jumped up with a sprightliness that belied her advanced years. *I just want your help!' she cried. *Will you help me? They're going to kill my little girl!'

Notwithstanding the fact that her little girl could never in all the world have been described as little, there was no mistaking the raw emotion in her voice. Tears appeared at her eyes and began to dribble down her face, mixing easily with the raindrops.

*I'll make you a cup of tea,' Patricia said from the doorway.

She calmed down a little. I stood in the kitchen with my arms folded while Patricia soothed her. She was very good at it. Trish came in for a refill, said, *Poor woman,' and went back in again. You can only stare at cupboards for so long, so I moved to the doorway and watched them talk. I was hardly listening.

Her face reminded me of someone, and it took me a while to work it out. Her daughter, of course, but also someone else. Then it came to me: Marilyn Monroe.

Years ago I'd seen a picture in a cheap biography, an illicit shot of her in the morgue, laid out on a marble slab, her hair dank, face sagged, not a s.e.x symbol at all, and it had haunted me. And that was how this woman looked in her anorak, as if, once, one solitary, wonderful day, many years before, she had looked ravishing, had spent her whole life building to that day, but when it had come nothing much had happened. She'd stayed in, listened to the radio, done her hair, gazed at herself in the mirror, imagining a life off the island and had gone to bed promising herself a change, but next morning she was older, she'd pa.s.sed her peak, her twenty-year struggle to beauty had yielded one uneventful night at the summit and now it was all downhill.