Turbulent Priests Part 16

I opened can five. *Excuse me . . . but you're not in this for, y'know . . . the money, by any chance?'

*Of course not. I don't mean it to sound that way. You think I'd choose to live here even if my daughter wasn't the Messiah, if I was interested in money? I'd have a decent job in Belfast or somewhere . . .' She sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if the possibility of ever going to Belfast to get a proper job existed now only in her dreams. Then she opened them again, took another swig of her Tennent's and burped. *Excuse me,' she said, then tutted. *I hate to keep bringing this back to pop music, but youngsters can be destroyed by too much exposure; think how much worse it's going to be for Christine.'

*But she's the Messiah . . . surely she can . . .'

*We don't know that!' Moira cut in. *How do any of us know what she can do? All I know is she's my wee girl, or nine tenths my wee girl and the other tenth is His . . . I don't know whether she's going to do party tricks or destroy the world, all I can do is provide the best possible environment for her: for now it's Wrathlin; by the time she's up a bit and wants to get her message across, she's going to need deals to enable her to do that. Do you understand?'

I nodded. In a strange way, I did. I was probably the only person on Wrathlin who would understand. Besides Patricia. *I take it you haven't discussed all this with Father Flynn. Or his gloomy sidekick.'

*Father White?' She shook her head. *They wouldn't get it. Flynn . . . could probably be persuaded. He's a nice guy . . .'

*His heart's in the right place.'

*Stop it. But I think the concept of a world stage is a bit beyond him. I don't think he can imagine much more than a revival meeting on the Ormeau Road. White . . . he's just creepy.'

*He reminds me of Telly Savalas.'

*Who?'

*Doesn't matter.'

*Dan . . .?'

*He was Sue Barker's doubles partner. But no, I think you're right. I don't think either of them are equipped to take this onto a world stage. You need a mover and shaker. Like a Richard Branson or a Bill Gates.' We nodded together for a while, imagining. *Come to that, you don't need me to write the book, you need a Shakespeare.'

*No, I need it to be understood by the man in the street.'

*Shakespeare was the people's . . .'

*Pish, I haven't a notion what he was rattling on about, and I'm not stupid.'

I would have argued, but she had a point. *Fair enough. So you'd be going more for Tom Clancy than Salman Rushdie.'

*No, I'd be going for you.'

*Flattered as I am, why me?'

*Because Flynn recommends you. And you seem like a nice bloke. And you're sitting here having a can with me instead of slabbering round me or kissing my a.r.s.e like the rest of them. I reckon you'd get the message across okay, whatever it turns out to be.'

I shrugged. It was quite a compliment, under the circ.u.mstances.

I opened another can and said, *There's so much I have to ask you about all of this.'

She smiled. Warmly. *Ask whatever you want, Dan. But, first, can I ask you something?'

*Sure.'

*Do you want to f.u.c.k?'

17.

There are some questions a lady should not ask a gentleman. But then it was suddenly obvious that Moira was no lady and I'd never been accused of being a gentleman. I was red-faced, spluttering, and Moira was grinning widely.

*That was a bit out of the blue,' I managed.

*I haven't had s.e.x in such a long time,' she said wistfully.

I nodded. She handed me another can. She wasn't much under five seven, standing; she'd a nice, trim figure and a sarcastic charm that was quite alluring. She'd long removed the pink housecoat. Beneath it were black ski pants, gutties, and a fading blue T-s.h.i.+rt with Bahamas Yacht Club written across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which were neither mountains nor molehills. Somewhere in between. Drumlins. Her skin was pale and she wore little make-up. Her nose was short but sharp. Her teeth were white and her smile keen. She said, *Are you sizing me up?'

*Yes,' I said.

*Do I frighten you?'

*No.'

*Do you think I'm drunk?'

*No.'

*So give me one good reason why we shouldn't go to bed.'

*I'm married. I love my wife. Your daughter is sick upstairs. You're the mother of G.o.d.'

*That's four reasons.'

*Although I wouldn't want to jump to any hasty decisions. Opportunities like this don't come along every day.'

She smiled. *You've been unfaithful to your wife before.'

*Did Christine tell you that?'

*No. Father Flynn.'

I nodded.

*And she to you.'

*It was a while back. We're better now.'

*That's not your son, is it?'

I shook my head.

*I don't see anything of him in you.'

I shrugged. I s.h.i.+fted in my seat. I glugged. It is possible to have s.e.x with someone without being unfaithful to your partner. If it is just an opportunistic physical act which will have no consequences for those involved or connected to those involved. Just a moment or two of pleasure stolen from a difficult life. It can be a giving experience: helping somebody sad and lonely or in pain to get through their moment of crisis; you don't necessarily have to enjoy it yourself. And it beats the h.e.l.l out of masturbation.

*If you sit there long enough,' Moira said, *you'll a.n.a.lyse yourself out of it. Why not just come upstairs and f.u.c.k?'

*Because I don't delude myself that I'm that attractive. There . . .'

*. . . must be an ulterior motive? Dan, believe me, the ulterior motive is having s.e.x with someone nice and there being no strings attached. You'll go back to your wife, and soon enough you'll pack up and go home, and if I'm lucky, if you're lucky, it'll be a nice wee memory for both of us. I don't see the problem.' We looked at each other across the table. After a little bit she said, *Why is your knee drumming against the table?'

*Nerves.'

She pushed her chair back and stood. She reached across and took my hand. *I can cure nerves,' she said. I stood. She led me out of the kitchen towards the stairs.

Halfway up I said, *What are you going to tell Christine?'

*I'm not.'

Three quarters of the way up I said, *What about birth control?'

*What about it?'

*To have one Messiah is understandable, but two would be plain careless.'

She squeezed my hand and said, *Don't worry, I'm covered.'

*You make it sound like an insurance policy.'

*Well, isn't it?'

*Third party fire and conception.'

At the top of the stairs she stopped and looked into my eyes. *Are you sure about this?'

I nodded.

There was a knock on the door.

Moira hissed a frustrated *f.u.c.k!' and then put a finger to her lips. We stood at the top of the stairs while the door was knocked on again. *They'll go away,' Moira whispered.

Then the bedroom door opened and Christine shouted: *Mummy! There's someone at the door!'

*f.u.c.k!' Moira hissed, followed by, *Hussssssh darlin' . . .'

*Mummy! There's someone at the door!'

And then we both dissolved into giggles. Moira peered around the corner of the stairs in time to see the letter box flap inwards. She tugged Christine back from the top step, but it was too late. A slightly hoa.r.s.e but still familiar voice called up towards us: *Christine! Where's your mummy?!'

Moira kicked her heel against the wall, cursed again, then stepped out onto the landing. *Down in a minute!' she called. She glanced back at me. *It's Father White. Shadow me down the stairs so he doesn't see you, then get into the kitchen and tidy up those cans. Stick the empties out the back door or something. Spray some of that Haze. I'll stall him.'

We began to move down the stairs, Christine first, then Moira, then me hiding behind. *I thought you said they couldn't stop you drinking . . .'

*They can't. I just don't want to flaunt it.'

*Chicken,' I said.

There was another knock on the door. *Hold on!' Moira shouted, then added, *Impatient son of a b.i.t.c.h,' under her breath. At the foot of the stairs I slipped past her into the kitchen and rapidly emptied the dregs into the sink and washed them away, then put the empty cans, and there were lots of them, into a plastic bag and placed them outside the back door. I sprayed some Haze, then sat at the table just in time for the kitchen door to open. Moira entered, followed by Father White, with Christine in his arms. *I'm very sorry,' Moira was saying, *I was having a s.h.i.+te.'

Father White cleared his throat, then stopped and his brow furrowed as he saw me smiling up at him, quite at home.

He stayed long enough to drink three cups of tea and scoff two fifths of a Battenburg cake. While Moira moved about the kitchen his eyes followed her, except when Christine was moving about at the same time. White was concerned about her ill health, and somewhat more concerned that he hadn't been told. The Messiah only stayed long enough to say h.e.l.lo and then Moira packed her back off to bed.

While Moira took Christine upstairs Father White shook my hand and thanked me effusively for saving her life, although such effusive thanks somehow seemed less than truly effusive. It was a new word for me and I was determined to wring the life out of it. I asked him what was going to happen to Mary Reilly and he stirred his tea for several long moments before looking up and saying that it was up to the Council. *Not the police?' I queried and he mumbled a less than convincing *Of course.'

Moira hurried back in, gave me a half-embarra.s.sed smile, and sat at the table. She cut herself a slice of cake, took a bite, then asked, *So, to what do we owe the pleasure?' spitting crumbs at the elderly priest in the process.

He seemed awkward in my presence, and I was unsettled by him. I was hardly listening to what he was saying because it seemed to me that there were secretive glances pa.s.sing between them, that I was being excluded. It even crossed my mind, though only fleetingly, that if Moira was such a hornball, I mightn't be the only person she'd asked to bed in the recent past. What if Father White had called on the off-chance . . .

s.h.i.+t. I'd known her five minutes and I was already thinking jealous thoughts.

I cut myself a slice of cake. There were only glances between them because they knew things about the McCooeys, about Christine, about the island, that I didn't, that they didn't want to share with me yet. That was understandable. I was only a journalist, I wasn't a mover and shaker. Nor, for long, would White be. Moira had told me that much. I smiled at her. She was an actress, then, and quite good at it.

After a while I got the impression that he was waiting for me to leave, but I stayed where I was, sure that Moira would make it clear one way or the other whether she wanted me to go. She said nothing, just flashed me a nice smile once in a while, so eventually it was the priest who stood and sighed after Moira said, *We have to finish our interview.'

He looked at me, nodded and turned for the door. He paused with his thick white hand on the handle and looked at me. *You know,' he said, *it's Father Flynn who's in favour of this record being kept, not me.'

I shrugged. He left. Moira came back in. She opened the fridge and took out two cans of beer. There weren't very many left. She gave me one and popped open one for herself. *So,' she said, *where were we?'

It was dark when I left Moira's cottage. I hated myself deeply. I walked along the weakly lit Main Street and shuddered against the freezing wind blowing in off the sea. It was only when I reached the end of the street and was heading back out into the country that I realised I'd left my gloves behind. I tutted and walked on. Too awkward. We had hardly exchanged more than half a dozen words since we'd left her bedroom.

At the door she'd said, *Was it that bad?'

And I'd hugged her and said, *Moira, it was fantastic.'

*Then . . .'

*Don't ask.'

I kissed her and called goodbye to Christine, but there was no response. We'd kept things quiet, although I'd never been one for shouting. Whispering sweet nothings had always seemed a bit effusive to me.

Patricia, I . . .

Was drunk.

Was h.o.r.n.y.

Will never know.