Turbulent Priests Part 40

The priest cradled the pistol in his hand for a moment then stepped forward and stood above the unconscious young teacher. He straddled the body, raised the gun, mouthed an almost silent prayer, then shot him. Twice.

40.

Blood, pumping like that, has its effect.

The gunmen, the councillors, the priest they were loyal to, had all been involved in murder before, but murder of a different kind. I could tell that from their hang-jawed faces: the government man, Mary and Murtagh, the young priest, the pair we would never identify, had all been killed in the murky dark of a Wrathlin night, in the panic of a drunken argument, in the leaping shadows of a wild-grown field. This was different: the shuddering body of a man they all knew, his life force spraying out of a butchered head, lying in a churchyard on a crisp autumnal day. They stood stock-still. Stared. No one objected when I reached into my pocket and produced a knot of kitchen roll and dragged it across my b.l.o.o.d.y face.

Father White, gun still in hand, administered the last rites. If anything represented the madness that had overtaken Wrathlin, it was this. And no one else seemed to think it strange.

Then he stood and looked at me. It could only have been for a few seconds, but it was enough time for me to cram through my mind what I needed to: my farewells. The bodies we had discovered in Mulrooney's field had been real enough, but long dead, and thus also a little unreal. Duncan's blood on my lips was the ultimate reality, the flavour of death.

If I was ever considered important enough to warrant an obituary in my local paper I hoped that this was what they would say: that he was a good man. That he was born with a bone deficiency: very few serious ones. That he laughed and drank and enjoyed himself because that was what life was for. That he regretted any hards.h.i.+p or pain or death that he had caused and hoped that It would forgive him. That he'd had a wonderful life and he wanted to thank James Stewart and Humphrey Bogart, Zulu, The Clash and Sugar Ray Leonard for all the good times, for the beat of Charles Bukowski and Dr Feelgood, for the taste of Harp, Tennent's, Rolling Rock and other absent friends. That he loved his wife. And that he loved his child.

I took a deep gulp of the wind, salt-ridden, biting, beautiful wind, and stared resolutely back at Father White.

*Good shot,' I said.

Beside me, Father Flynn was flying through a hundred whispered prayers, eyes shut tightly.

Death stepped behind me. Cool metal pressed hard against my skull. In those last moments I sought perfect composure.

Goodbye Patricia.

Goodbye my love.

Jesus, that's a Glitter Band song. I can't have that as my last . . . Bang.

But not bang a honk.

Horn.

Honk.

Horn.

Hesitation. A relaxation of the metal.

Honk. Honk. Honk. Roar of heavy engine.

I opened my eyes. Turned, as everyone else looked behind me.

And over the brow of the hill came a tractor.

The tractor pulled a two-wheeled trailer.

And behind the trailer came people. Lots of them.

Father White stepped away from me, the gun hanging loose at his side. He looked back at the councillors, caught them swapping confused glances. With radon-inspired ch.o.r.eography they stepped down into the yard as one.

The tractor and trailer heaved through the gates. I could see now that it was driven by Dr Finlay. He was thumping his hand up and down on the horn. Beside him in the cab stood Moira and Christine and Patricia. Behind the trailer came the ladies of the parish, half of them in aerobic tracksuits. And behind them, stretched out way back down the hill, others, dozens upon dozens of ordinary people, the fishermen, the shopkeepers, the housewives, the kids. There was something about them, a look, a provocative tenseness that suggested that they were drawn to the churchyard by something more than their allegiance to Christine. It became clear what it was when Finlay wheeled the tractor round until it faced back out of the yard; he flipped a switch which disconnected the trailer. It rolled back a couple of yards and then flipped up onto its wheels, disgorging the rotting remains of six familiar corpses.

Finlay cut the engine and clambered unsteadily from the vehicle. He leant back against it. His lips were poteen moist, but his eyes were bright, thrilled, proud. Moira, jumping down from the cab on the other side, pointed at the bodies, then at Father White.

*This is what he has done!' she shouted as the crowd began to swell about her.

*Moira, please . . .' the priest began, half disdainfully. But half not.

*He's murdered all of these people!'

They'd been lured by the tractor's procession through the town, a mechanised Pied Piper, a Palm Sunday for the Millennium. Now they huddled forward to examine the stinking ma.s.s properly.

White spread his arms, wide and welcoming. Unaware still of the incongruity of the gun clamped in his left hand. *You don't understand, Moira . . .'

Father Flynn struggled to his feet. *Duncan, Moira, poor Duncan,' he cried, the emotion breaking in his voice. *Look what they've done to the poor boy.'

Moira noticed the body for the first time. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle . . . something . . . Her eyes blazed. She ran forward. Knelt by the body. *You've killed him as well?'

*Moira, now . . .'

*G.o.d help you!' She stepped forward and punched White hard on the nose. He stumbled back into the protection of his own men, dropping his gun in the process. They gathered about him, now facing on all sides the growing crowd. Maybe two hundred strong. Or weak. Or easily swayed. Or out for justice.

I got up too. My knees clicked. *Nice punch,' I said and picked up his gun.

White's lip curled up towards a threat, but Moira stopped it. She pointed at Duncan. *How could you do that?' she demanded.

*He was a p.o.r.nographer and a . . .'

*He was Christine's father!'

*He was a . . .'

*He was her daddy!'

*Only physically, Moira. The spirit of the . . .'

She hit him again.

His protectors weren't very protective. They held him up. Kept him in the firing line.

White, rattled, nose bleeding, turned on them. *Get them back!' he bellowed, waving his arms at the encroaching crowd. *Get them out! This is G.o.d's house! It's no place for a rabble like this!'

Holding their guns out in front of them, they began to push out, slowly widening the circle. One shot into the air.

Screams came from those who couldn't see; there were some backward steps. But no panic.

A woman, a blue scarf tied about her throat, pushed through the throng and up to the man who'd fired. *Jimmy, put that gun down and come on home with me, now.'

Jimmy looked at her. It wasn't a request.

*Stay where you are!' barked Father White.

Jimmy shook his head. He gave the priest an apologetic shrug and dropped his gun. *Okay, love,' he said, and slipped into the crowd.

Patricia pushed through to me. Slipped her hand into mine. Squeezed. *Are you okay?' she whispered.

*Fine,' I said.

I did love her. I would tell her later.

Moira still faced Father White. Blood dripped off his lip, off the end of his chin. She stuck a finger out at him. *You've been making decisions on Christine's behalf for too long, Father!' she bellowed.

*I've been protecting her.'

*You've been murdering in her name. You think she wants people killed in her name?'

*They were dangerous.'

*To who? You?'

*To Christine.'

*There's no need for murder!' somebody shouted.

*No need to kill them!' a woman hissed.

*Duncan was a good boy.'

*Duncan was my cousin.'

*My nephew.'

*My cousin.'

*My uncle, and you killed him!'

*Look at him! He has no head!'

*What gives you the right?' Moira demanded.

*The Council decided.'

The Council suddenly didn't look so decided. Heads went together. Some of them cracked.

*Father,' said Jack McGettigan, *perhaps we should reconvene.'

*We've made our decisions,' White boomed.

*But, Father . . .'

The crowd began to press forward again. The gunmen withdrew slowly. They cast anxious glances at White. The priest looked desperately about him. *Bring Christine to me,' he shouted. *Let her speak.'

*Do you want to kill her too?' someone yelled.

*Please, bring her here, let her speak . . .'

*She's only a child!' Moira yelled. *She's scared.'

*She's . . .'

*Just a kid.'

*G.o.d bless her,' a woman called.

*G.o.d bless her soul,' echoed another.

*Keep him away from her.'

A roar of approval. The crowd pressed further in.

*Stop there!' White shouted. *Stop this instant! I'll order them to shoot! I'm warning you. Go on home. We'll sort this out. In the name of Christine, go home.'

It had gone too far. They weren't for stopping.

*I'm warning you.' White turned and poked one of his men in the shoulder. *You! Shoot one of them. Any one of them.'

The man raised his rifle. Lowered his rifle. Looked at his comrades. Shook his head. *I'm sorry, Father, I can't.'

*I am the law. Shoot someone.'

*I'm sorry. Half my family's here. I didn't join to . . .'

*I don't care!'

White pushed the next man. *Shoot. Anyone. Now. I'm telling you. Do it now!'

The second gunman shook his head. *I can't,' he said. *They're family.'

*Murtagh was family. Mary Reilly was family.'

*That was different, Father.'