Turbulent Priests Part 3

*It doesn't matter.'

I took her hand. *Are you very sore?'

*Someone ripped my bits open with a scalpel.'

*It's sore, then.'

She nodded.

*Tony hasn't come then?'

She shook.

*Do you want me to give him a ring?'

*Leave it, Dan.'

We fell to silence for a little while. I looked at the woman in the next bed. They'd taken her baby away and she now lay flat on her back, snoring gently. At peace with the world.

*This morning I had a private audience with the Primate of All Ireland,' I said, as if it were a regular occurrence.

*What?'

*Aye. Cardinal Daley.'

*Dan?'

*Just thought you'd like to know.'

*You interviewed him for the paper, you mean?'

*Nope, he interviewed me.'

*Dan?'

I clasped her hand in both of mine. *Darlin',' I said, *you know all I've ever wanted to do is write my book. Get away somewhere and write my book. You know that's been my dream.'

Patricia nodded hesitantly.

*And you know I've applied for every grant under the sun, but they've always turned me down.'

She nodded again.

*Well, Cardinal Daley administers an award on behalf of Cooperation North . . . you remember them?'

*Of course, yes . . .'

*It's for writers, new writers, it allows them to go away . . . and the thing is . . . he's offered it to me. At last someone thinks my writing is worth something . . .'

*Dan, that's wonderful . . . I really mean it . . . but we've just had . . .'

I squeezed her hands a little tighter. *But don't you see . . . you can come with me, love. So can the little one. That's the beauty of it. For as long as we want . . . away from Belfast . . . our own little cottage, money to live on, peace and tranquillity . . . the perfect environment to bring up ba . . .'

She dropped her head into her hands. *Dan . . . it's so soon . . .'

*We've a couple of months yet. Trust me, Trish.' I gave her the smile of the century. *Have I ever let you down?'

4.

The house felt empty.

It was, of course. Even with me in it.

As soon as I got home I opened a can of beer. Harp. I was collecting the ring-pulls. For every seventy-five you collected you could send away for a World Cup football. I had three hundred and eighty-seven but I was too lazy to post them. I put on some music. For once the guitar intro to The Clash's *Complete Control' sounded too raucous and I switched it off. I went upstairs and stood in the baby's room with the can cradled against my chest.

Patricia had painted the room blue without any help from me. She'd had a hunch it would be a boy. We'd seen early scans, just enough to know the baby was healthy. The agreement was I would paint the room pink if she turned out to be wrong. Against one wall there was an old wooden cot which her father had presented to us. There were teeth marks on it. Hardy toys from her past were piled in one corner. In another, presents which we'd bought ourselves. Patricia had specialised in big cuddly toys. I'd provided the inappropriate contraptions with batteries. Mickey Mouse was stencilled onto every wall.

I felt alone; I felt as one, where I should have felt as three. I felt guilty for being a selfish son of a b.i.t.c.h. I have often tried not to be a selfish son of a b.i.t.c.h, but at the end of the day you are what you are and people love you for it or hate you for it. Occasionally there is a little mixing of the two emotions.

I should have been more understanding. I could see the pain and the hurt in her eyes, as if I had laddered the tights of her soul. I should have shown more interest in the baby. I should not have mentioned the hair. You could probably grow to love ginger hair.

But I didn't feel guilty at all for being economical with the truth about the Cardinal.

I hadn't lied. He had offered me a cottage. There was a writer's grant he administered. There is a saying that the camera never lies, but it does if you doctor the negative.

Sometimes wives don't need to know everything. They don't need to know about afternoon drinks. They don't need to know about night s.h.i.+fts spent watching football. They don't need to know about masturbation a when, where or how often, although they can probably guess.

She didn't even need to know about Father Flynn because I'd no great intention of spending my time on the island investigating him. What I observed in the course of living there could be relayed back to the Cardinal one way or the other, but I wasn't about to make it a priority. He was looking at my writing a book as useful cover for observing the renegade priest; I was looking at it as the princ.i.p.al purpose of my presence on Wrathlin.

Ah, yes. Wrathlin. That news still had to be broken.

She was probably thinking: scenic Donegal.

Or: boating on the Fermanagh lakes.

Or: when will I see Tony?

I went back downstairs and lifted Patricia's personal directory from beside the phone and ran my finger along the alphabet. When I found the number I took a deep breath and punched it in.

Fourth ring, a woman's voice, a solidly Belfast mouth fulla marlies.

*Hi. Is Tony there?'

*Yes, Anthony is here. Who shall I say is calling?'

*Uh, w.i.l.l.y. w.i.l.l.y from work.'

*Okay, just a second.'

She called out. William from your office. Too refined to shout. I heard hurried footsteps on bare floorboards. They would be French polished. There'd be lots of expensive antiques and tea in china cups. I sipped my beer.

*Who is this?'

*It's Dan Starkey.'

His voice dropped. *Oh. h.e.l.lo,' he said flatly, then followed it quickly with a chirpy, *William. Yes. Indeed. What's up?'

*Patricia had a baby boy last night.'

He gulped. *Mmm-hmm, yes, I phoned the hospital,' he whispered, then hurriedly added, louder: *Yes, I know the file. Is it okay?'

*It was touch and go for a while, but I think he's okay now.'

*Good!' he boomed. *I was hoping to get a good look at it earlier, but I've been tied up.'

*I think Patricia was expecting a visit today.'

*Mmmm. Yes. Indeed. Like I say. I've been exceptionally busy.'

*Listen. The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d's half yours, now get off your a.r.s.e and go and see him.'

*It's been difficult to get away,' Tony hissed. *I am married.'

*Yes, I know you're f.u.c.king married. So was I.'

*I didn't like to intrude.'

*If you hadn't intruded in her f.u.c.king v.a.g.i.n.a in the first place you wouldn't be in this situation, would you?'

Tony began some serious coughing. I held the receiver away from my ear for half a minute.

*Well,' he said eventually, loud again, *I understood the file was closed. Obviously there are some loose ends that need tidying up.'

*You're a smarmy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you?'

*Obviously.'

*You owe her. You said all along you wanted to look after the child. You have a funny way of showing it.'

*Yes. Like I say, I've been tied up with those other files. But I'll certainly give that one my full attention tomorrow. It's good of you to take the trouble to call me at home. Yes. Indeed. See you soon then, William.'

*Aye,' I said and put the phone down.

I went to get another beer. Three, in fact. I needed another football.

Wrathlin sits about thirty miles off the north-west coast. It has a population of about a thousand, or had the last time I'd done any research on it: that was for a primary school composition. It's famous for two things, Robert the Bruce's cave, where he had an encounter with a spider, and the fact that Marconi, or at least some of his henchmen, carried out some of their earliest wireless experiments there. Oh yeah a and I remembered something fairly recently about Virgin boss Richard Branson doing one of his famous balloon crash landings there a few years back and the locals bartering a new community centre or something out of him in return for their invaluable help.

Not much.

Next morning, a Sat.u.r.day, I wandered into the News Letter and sought out Mark Gale. Mark and I had trained together as reporters way back in the mists of time before the Pistols broke up.

He saw me crossing the newsroom. He sat back from his computer and stretched. He scratched idly at his paunch. Then he smiled at me.

*Dan, just the man. Perhaps you could answer a question for me.'

*Sure.'

*Who was Sam Andreas and why was it his fault?'

*I have no idea.'

*I thought not.'

I placed my thumbs on the edge of his desk and bent in over his computer. *In that case,' I said, *perhaps you could tell me who Sam Quinton was and why they hated every inch of him?'

*I have no idea.'

*I thought not.'

He reached for his cigarettes. Berkeley Mild. A healthier death. *Maybe we could settle this by you telling me who Sam Francisco was and why they were going to him?'

I shook my head. He shook his.

*Busy?' I asked.

*Nah, you joking?' He offered me a cigarette. I refused. He lit one up. *Ever since that b.l.o.o.d.y truce there's been nothing doing. The sooner they get back to blowing each other up the better. If you're looking for a s.h.i.+ft you better give the Provos a call and demand a resumption of the campaign.'

I sat on the edge of his desk. The computer system the News Letter had recently installed was supposed to have created a paper-free environment and thus help conservation. Mark hated conservation. He liked things made with real trees. Rare ones, preferably. His desk had enough paper piled on it to reconst.i.tute a small forest.

*Not interested in work, Mark. Just wanted to pick your brains. Do you fancy a pint?'

He shook his head mournfully. *Off it for Lent.'

*Seriously? I thought Lent finished . . .'

*The wife insists.'

*Jesus. How the mighty have fallen.'

*Tell me all about it,' he said miserably. *So. Pick away.'