Turbulent Priests Part 15

*Dan . . . you know what I mean. It's time.'

*Time for what?'

*Time to make love again.'

*I'll drink to that.'

*We'll do that too.'

I squeezed her hand. I felt elated. But mildly panicked. *Are you sure it's okay?'

*Yes.'

*You're all healed?'

*Yes.'

*Are you sure?'

*Yes, Dan.'

*I don't want to hurt you.'

*I'm okay . . .'

*It just looked so . . . painful. Having Little Stevie.'

*Steven. It was. But I'm better now.'

*It's very soon.'

*Dan . . .'

*I know, I'm sorry. It's just . . . all the blood, the . . . mess . . .'

*Dan . . .'

*It was like a mortar bomb had scored a direct hit on an abattoir.'

She squeezed my hands firmly. Then pressed her lips to mine. *I want you, suns.h.i.+ne,' she hissed. *Now eat your dinner. Drink your drink. Then take me to bed.'

*Okay,' I said.

We made love in the still of the night, the quilt thrown back, the baby oblivious. Gentle. Slow. Gentle. Slow. As sweet and tender as the first time, but with the a.s.sured touch of familiarity.

We'd saved a gla.s.s of wine for the after-love. We clinked in the dark and whispered sweet everythings.

Patricia could be quite pa.s.sionate with her words, and I basked in it.

*I love you more than all the grains of sand on all the beaches on all the planets in the universe,' she whispered breathily.

*Aw.'

*I love you more than all the waves in the sea, all the seas in the world.'

*Aw.'

*I love you more and more with each pa.s.sing day, from here to eternity, to an eternity of eternities.'

She nestled under my arm. Stroked my stomach. *How much do you love me?' she asked quietly, after a while.

*Lots,' I said.

16.

The next morning, armed with a tape recorder and a swagger which comes with the love of a good woman, I set out for Moira's cottage. I didn't take the car. There was a cold breeze, but I was all man, plus a big fluffy coat with gloves. Along the way several people said h.e.l.lo to me, one person thanked me and a woman scrubbing her doorstep offered me a boiled egg. I was a made man. A hero, and I had bicycle spoke lacerations to prove it. I gave Moira's door a confident rap and stood back expectantly.

She answered with a snapped, *Do you smell vomit?'

I shook my head. It was one of her less memorable lines. It probably wouldn't make it into Bible II. She was wearing a pink housecoat and had a can of pine-fresh Haze in her hand.

*Somebody sick?' I enquired, stupidly.

*Christine,' Moira said, and turned on her heel. I followed her into the kitchen. *Just a bug, but you never can get rid of the smell, can you?'

*I don't smell anything.'

*That's very kind of you, but I know there's a stink of boke.'

*No, honestly, I don't . . .'

*Don't contradict me, Dan, I'm the mother of G.o.d.'

*Sorry.'

She paused and rolled her eyes. *I'm only raking.'

*You mean you're not the . . .'

*No . . . I mean you can contradict me.' She tutted. *This is the problem. People don't know how to take me. I'm perfectly normal.' She thumbed upstairs. *She's the odd one.'

I asked why she was pointing upstairs, seeing as how it was a cottage. She said the roof s.p.a.ce had been converted, and did I want to see. I said why not and she took me up. It was all pretty mundane stuff. I don't know what I expected. Heavenly choirs and shafts of G.o.dlight, not posters of Cliff Richard and a smell of vomit.

Christine was lying in bed, flicking through a book of nursery rhymes. There was a blue plastic basin beside her bed. It was empty. *How're you doing?' I asked.

*Bokey,' Christine said.

She looked a little pale, but hardly at death's door. Moira said, *There's a bug going around.' She felt Christine's brow. *Normal,' she said. *Christine. Do you remember Dan? This is the man who jumped in front of the bike? Remember the woman who nearly crashed into you?'

Christine nodded.

*What do you say?'

Christine shrugged.

*How about thank you?'

*Thank you.'

*No problem,' I said.

As we were going back down the stairs I said, *I'm a little concerned.'

*She's fine.'

*No,' I said, *about the Cliff Richard posters.'

Moira giggled. It was a nice giggle. *You're not a fan?'

*Sue Barker's made better records. Though she hasn't.' She paused, mid-step. *I'm sorry, you've lost me.'

I cleared my throat. *It's a joke lost in the mists of time.'

*Please explain it to me. Who's Sue Barker?'

*It doesn't matter.' I smiled. *There's nothing worse than explaining a joke. Especially a weak one.'

We continued on through to the kitchen. It was a little after 10 a.m. Ten seven, to be precise. I remember the time because it has historical significance. It was the time that Moira opened the fridge and said, *Do you fancy a beer?'

I was staring through the door. There was a crate of Tennent's, with only three or four missing from the torn plastic wrap. I was mesmerised. It's not that I'm an alcoholic, you understand. It was just the surprise of it. *I thought . . .'

Moira smiled. *Do you think any of them have the b.a.l.l.s to stop me?'

I shook my head.

*As far as I'm aware,' Moira said, removing two cans from the wrapper, *these are the last on the island.'

*I feel very privileged.'

She was just handing one to me when she stopped and a mischievous grin crossed her face. *So who's Sue Barker?' she asked, then tilted the can temptingly towards me, then away again.

*It's no secret,' I said.

*Tell.'

I gave her a nervous smile. *Now she's a television sports presenter. But way back she was a tennis player, reasonably good in a British way, hopeless on the world stage. She was close friends with Cliff Richard. All the tabloids claimed they were having an affair, but they both denied it. Still do a but as far as the greater public is concerned, it's the closest he's ever come to having s.e.x.'

Moira nodded, handed me the can, then sat at the kitchen table and popped her Tennent's. I sat opposite her, and popped mine. *Cheers,' I said.

*Cheers.' She gave me a quizzical little look. *Do you know,' she said, *that Cliff Richard is Christine's father?'

I spluttered some.

She laughed and took a drink. *Thought that would get you going.'

*Cliff . . .'

*Not physically . . .'

*Oh . . .' I nodded, and looked for the emergency exit.

*I mean . . . the night she was born, I went to see his gig in Belfast. He shook my hand. There was something pa.s.sed between us . . . a warmth . . . a feeling . . . something . . . and later that night I gave birth. I've always felt that he was in some way responsible, that a little bit of him was . . .' She trailed off into a shrug. *You know what I mean.' I nodded, although I had no idea. *He's so spiritual . . . I mean, he's been like the stopgap between Jesus and Christine . . .'

*And he's been crucified too,' I contributed, *although only by the critics. But then he does keep coming back . . .' I smiled.

*You're taking the p.i.s.s.'

I shook my head vehemently, then smiled again. *Partly,' I admitted. I looked about the kitchen. It was modern, new; there was an Aga, a dishwasher, a was.h.i.+ng machine, a microwave with grill facility. They were looking after her. She was watching me. I put down the can and produced the tape recorder from my pocket. *Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?' She shook her head.

I don't know why it surprised me, but Moira had her head screwed on pretty tight. I mean, clearly she was deranged, thinking that about her daughter, but that aside, she was pretty well clued in. She knew what she wanted to do, where she was going, and how best to protect herself. *The way I figure it,' she said, *it's all a matter of keeping control. It's like the Spice Girls times a million. The reason they were so big, they had a good manager, they kept control, they had a piece of everything . . .'

*We're talking girl power?'

*After a fas.h.i.+on. Dan, life isn't a charity a or it isn't yet.'

I sat back and smiled. *Now there's a frightening thought a the world being run by Combat Cancer and Dr Barnardo's and everyone having to wear little pink ribbons on f.u.c.king Aids Day. They don't even call it Dr Barnardo's any more because it doesn't fit in with some f.u.c.king marketing . . .'

*Dan . . . you're interviewing me.'

*Of course. Where were we . . .?'

*I . . . don't know.' She laughed. She got me another can, and one for herself. She sat, thought for a moment. *Back in Jesus Christ's day,' she began again, *it took literally decades, maybe hundreds of years for his message to spread . . . but now, y'know, with television and satellite and the Internet, I mean, once we let this out everyone's going to know about it in a matter of, like, minutes. There's going to be pandemonium.'

*I thought the idea was to keep it secret?'

*It is a until she's old enough. Doesn't mean things can't be set up in advance. Deals and things.'

*Deals . . .?'

*I can't just stick her on a soap box and say, "Here's the Messiah." She'll be swamped. Or destroyed. She'll need to be protected. Represented. We'll need someone who knows television rights, someone who's promoted rock festivals a y'know, Woodstock or Glas...o...b..ry or something . . . we need to do it big, and we need to do it right.'