Turbulent Priests Part 22

Patricia stared down at Little Stevie. Looked briefly at Christine, standing mesmerised by the commotion.

*Who to?' asked Patricia.

*Anyone that comes to mind,' said Moira.

It was a scintillating run. Gerry, not normally noted as an athlete, had suddenly found Billy's boots and beaten two players on the wing, cutting in towards the penalty box and then chipping over the on-rus.h.i.+ng full back, leaving me clear just about dead on the penalty spot. I brought the ball down on my chest, let it fall onto my knee, bounced it up once. The left-footed volley gave the keeper no chance. Like a bullet into the back of the net. I turned, waved at Gerry, then saluted the crowd.

For a moment the surroundings failed to register.

I had been vaguely disturbed by this dream for some months. Normally, naturally, I dreamt of beautiful women, of s.e.xual exploits, and woke with an erection. But in recent months I had begun to dream of scoring in an important football match and woken with sore legs. Maybe it was age. Perhaps it was the knowledge that while I had every expectation of continuing to experience and enjoy s.e.xual activity for many years to come, the likelihood of me scoring a vital goal in an important game of football was receding with every day that pa.s.sed.

The kitchen: me in a chair. Sore back. Sore legs. An arm dead from sleeping on it. Cold in the grey light of dawn. A can of Diet Pepsi half-drunk on the table. I got up, stretched. I checked my watch. Eight a.m.

It had been a long night, a short sleep. Flynn and I had searched the island. The doctor couldn't be found. We called on Duncan Cairns, apparently the doctor's close friend, to see if he had any ideas. But the teacher wasn't home either. We knocked up a dozy fisherman and got him to ready his trawler for a quick dash across the water, but we hemmed and hawed so long about the wisdom of it that, by the time we did decide, a thick fog had rolled in and scuppered the plan. The fog would have ruled out the helicopter as well, but that wasn't even an option. Constable Murtagh said someone had broken into his office a the back room of his house, actually a and vandalised his radio. He was investigating. There was no other legitimate means of contacting the mainland, he said.

Patricia cursed me high and low. Cursed Moira high and low. Cursed Flynn low and high. She'd even started on Christine, but I managed to calm her before she went too far. Just in case.

Little Stevie didn't deteriorate. He slept. Hot. Fever. Rash. Laboured breath. But breath. Moira kept a close eye on him. Flynn finally got to say his prayer, though Patricia kept an eagle eye on him in case he attempted the last rites. At one point she broke down and seemed on the verge of having him christened, then she backed out, said what was the point, G.o.d didn't exist.

About four, I left the room. Patricia was stretched out on the bed, dozing. Moira laboured with fluttering eyes to keep watch over the baby. Christine had dropped off to sleep on the floor. Flynn carried her into the lounge and pulled a rug over her. He sat in an armchair and began to study his Bible.

I stood in the garden for a while, breathing deeply. I felt odd. Little Stevie was so small and helpless, and I was so big and gormless.

I felt an arm snake round my waist and squeeze. I turned hopeful of Patricia with good news, but it was Moira. She felt me tense up, and removed her arm.

*Sorry,' I said, *I'm . . . it's just . . .'

*It's okay.' She put a hand on my arm. *No comebacks, Dan. Have I said anything? It was good fun, wasn't it?' I nodded. *And if you're not at my house for more s.e.x by lunch tomorrow I'm going to tell your wife.'

*Moira, for Jesus' . . .'

*Only joking. Keep your hair on.'

I sighed. *Sorry. I'm not . . .'

*It's okay.' She reached up and kissed my cheek. *But if you do happen to be pa.s.sing.' She winked and went back inside.

I dreamt of football and woke. I took a drink of the Diet Pepsi. It was flat, but it was Pepsi. Then I crossed my fingers and mouthed a silent prayer on Little Stevie's behalf. I walked up the hall and quietly opened the bedroom door. Patricia was still stretched out on the bed. Moira was in a crumpled heap on the floor. Someone had put a blanket over her.

Little Stevie was gone.

Biting back a surge of panic, I checked quickly on both sides of the bed in case he'd rolled off like an orange in his sleep. Nope. Then under the bed. Nothing. I stood and looked about the room. Although Patricia and Moira looked to be in pretty much the same positions as when I'd left them, it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that they'd moved the baby while I was asleep. I turned and walked quickly through the house, silently checking the rooms. I didn't want to take the chance of waking Patricia. If she didn't know where Stevie was, she'd freak out. If there was a simple explanation, then she wouldn't need to know that I'd nearly freaked out. Finally I approached the living room.

The door was ajar. I peered in. Flynn was slumped in the chair, the Bible open in his lap. Christine was gone too.

I shook Flynn awake.

*Whatsit . . .?' he murmured groggily and made a protect ive grab for the Bible as it slipped to the floor.

*Where is she?' I hissed.

*Whaaaa?'

I tutted. I upped the hiss factor. *Christine . . . where is she?'

He rubbed at his eyes. Shook himself awake. He jumped up, joints clicking, and crossed to the sofa. He pulled the blanket back, even though it was obvious she wasn't there. *Why she was . . .' He looked sharply back. *Is something wrong?'

*Youse didn't s.h.i.+ft Stevie while I was asleep?'

He shook his head.

*Someone did,' I said.

*What do you . . .?'

*He's gone. And you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out who took him.'

Flynn shook his head again. *She wouldn't do anything . . .'

*There's no accounting for kids, Father.' I turned for the hall. *I once buried my gerbils alive and dug them up six weeks later to see how they were getting on. We'd better find her.'

*You've checked the rest of the house?'

*There's not much to check.'

We went outside.

If anything, the fog had intensified. Usually I would have been inclined to slap anyone who would call it a real peasouper, but I let the priest away with it. I just cursed. They could be anywhere. Three metres or three hundred.

My baby.

My baby.

Yes, well. He had grown on me.

Flynn snagged my arm and pointed towards the upturned bath. He walked quickly and I followed. Slowly, through the fog, I began to see a figure, small and pale and damp-looking.

It was Christine. She was cradling something in her arms, something hidden in a bunch of blankets.

As we approached she looked up and smiled, at first, then quickly noted our demeanour and the smile faded into a worried grimace. She squashed the blankets into her chest.

*Oh . . . Christine!' Flynn cried.

As he stepped towards her she pulled the blankets protectively to one side. *Mine,' she said.

*Oh, Christine,' Flynn said, softer now, moving closer.

*I was looking after the little baby,' Christine said.

Flynn stopped. *But, Christine, he's not well, you have to be very careful.'

*I was.' He reached tentatively out, but Christine held the bundle close.

*The baby was sick . . .' she said, the smile edging back onto her face as she looked down into the blankets.

*But, Christine, if you could just let me . . .'

I put a hand on Flynn's arm. *Excuse me, Father, but b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.' I stepped up to Christine and wrenched the bundle from her grasp.

She let out a wail.

I unwrapped.

Little Stevie, cool, calm, collected, smiled up. I smiled back. I let out a sigh of relief. His brow felt normal. His skin was pink, a little flushed, but the rash had faded. No, not faded. Gone. Gone completely, as if it had never been there.

Flynn turned from consoling Christine. He peered over my shoulder. *Is he dead?' he asked matter-of-factly.

*Dead good,' I said.

The priest's jaw dropped as he saw the extent of the transformation. *My goodness,' he said.

*Aye,' I said.

He looked a little closer. *But he's . . .'

*Aye.'

He shook his head. *It's a miracle,' he said.

*Mirkle,' I said.

He grabbed my arm suddenly. *No. I mean it. It is. It's a miracle.'

*Father, I . . .'

*It is. It's a miracle! Christine's done another-'

*Father, the baby's better. It happens. It's not a m-'

*Dan, you don't understand,' he said excitedly. *It is a miracle!' He grabbed my shoulders. *Moira told me herself last night she didn't expect him to last the course. She was absolutely certain he had meningitis . . . thought he was a goner for sure. But now he's . . . it's wonderful!'

I shrugged him off. Little Stevie gurgled. *Okay. If you insist. It's a miracle.'

A broad grin split the priest's face. He threw his hands up in the air. Caught them, too. *A miracle!' he shouted. *Thank G.o.d!' He turned to Christine. He tousled her hair. She slipped off the bath, pulled at her nightdress where it was stuck damp to her legs. He knelt beside her. *What did you do to make the baby well, Christine?'

She ran the back of a hand across her face to remove the tears. Sniffed something back up her nose. *I took him out of the room, Father.'

*And why did you do that?'

She bit at a finger. Twisted her head left and right. *Because,' she said.

*You knew the baby was sick, didn't you? A very sick baby.'

She nodded.

*Then you brought him out here? What did you do?'

*Nothing. I sat on the bath.'

*What did you say to the baby?'

She shook her head.

*You said nothing at all?'

*I sang a song, Father.'

*What song did you sing, Christine? Was it a good song?'

She nodded. *"Jesus Loves You".'

Flynn gulped. It was a loud gulp. As loud a gulp as you're likely to hear this side of Gulpville, Indiana. When he turned back to me his eyes had filled with tears.

*It's a miracle!' he cried.

I nodded and turned for the house. It was time to bring the tidings of great joy to my wife.

23.

Dr Finlay arrived at Snow Cottage a little after noon. For the purposes of the day it might as well have been called Fog Cottage. Or the Wrathlin Convention Centre. The previous three hours had been spent entertaining with steadily diminis.h.i.+ng goodwill members of Flynn's congregation anxious to hear at first hand the miracle of the baby brought back from death's door by the infant Messiah.

Uhuh.

Patricia seemed to enjoy the attention.

*Out shooting,' was the doctor's explanation for his unavailability.

*We looked everywhere,' I said.

*Not everywhere,' he said.