Turbulent Priests Part 9

I finished up, came out, shook hands. Patricia saw us to the door. Patted my b.u.m on the way past, which was a nice touch. Flynn cast an eye over the satellite dish as we left. It was firmly affixed to the wall. What's more, I could now get thirty-two different channels on my portable television. All of them static. Unless I met an expert, I would have to forgo the pleasures of world champions.h.i.+p boxing. Flynn didn't say anything about the dish.

*You don't mind a bit of a walk, do you?' he said. His cheeks were flushed pink. He wore a green windcheater and trouser ensemble, with matching green wellington boots. I wore black jeans, trainers and a bomber jacket.

*I'm game for anything,' I said. And I was. For the first time in a long time there wasn't even a hint of a hangover about me. Apart from my thumb, I felt on top of the world.

We turned right at the gate and continued on up the road for about a hundred yards, then he guided me off along a muddy lane which quickly began to dip towards the coast. Before we'd progressed very far the mud had oozed up over the edge of my trainers. Flynn appeared not to notice. He strode along confidently while I slipped along uncertainly behind him. I hadn't walked in mud since primary school.

We started out with the usual small talk, but after a while it trailed away and on the odd occasion when I managed to stay abreast of the priest I could see that his face was grimly set, his brow furrowed. He had something to say, and he was just working out how to do it.

Eventually the path ended in a thirty-foot drop to the sea. We stopped at the edge and for a few minutes we both stood staring out over the waves as they rocked and raced. The wind brought tears to my eyes.

*Beautiful,' said Flynn.

I nodded.

He pointed, first to the Antrim coast and then across in the direction of Scotland, although there was nothing visible in that direction. *Four times a day tidal pressure forces a billion tons of the Irish Sea through that gap between Torr Head over there and the Mull of Kintyre. On its way northwest it meets another current coming in the other direction and . . . whoa, then there's trouble. They meet over there, just off Rue Point a see the lighthouse?' I nodded. *The waves are so violent you can hear them a mile away. Makes you appreciate the power of G.o.d.'

I presumed this was his way into it, but if it was deliberate he wasn't taking advantage of the opening. We were silent for a few more minutes. He opened his mouth a couple of times, about to speak, then just gulped in some more air.

I returned to a well-used tack. *You know, Father,' I said, *there aren't many things in life can't be summed up in a single sentence. It's a basic rule of sub-editing.'

Flynn nodded slowly then turned to me. His eyes suddenly looked a little haunted.

*I've been having visions,' he said, simply.

I nodded.

*I've been talking to G.o.d.'

I nodded again.

*He's told me the Messiah has been born. Here on Wrathlin.'

*Oh,' I said.

We began to walk along the edge of the coast. We were alone, barring rabbits. *They're hares,' Father Flynn corrected, then added, *You think I'm mad.'

*No,' I said, *I'm sure they are hares.'

*I mean . . . the Messiah.'

*Not necessarily,' I said.

*It's why you're here, to write about me. To vilify me.'

*Absolutely not.'

He shook his head. *If only you knew,' he said.

I stopped, snagged his arm. *Tell me,' I said.

*You think I need this plastered all over the papers?'

*I'm sure you don't. And I don't intend to. If you don't want to tell me what you're on about, fair enough, let's get on with our walk. But I think you do.' I gave him my re a.s.suring smile. It rarely works. *All you have to do is say the magic words.'

*What, like, please leave me alone?'

*No, like, off the record.'

He smiled. Nodded. *I always did like you.'

I shrugged. *So what about the Messiah?'

It was cold. I put my hands in my pockets. I switched the tape on. He never did say the magic words.

*You should understand first,' he began, *that I never have been particularly religious. That may seem a strange statement for a priest, but it's the truth. Becoming a priest can sometimes be like becoming a plumber or an electrician, something you go into because it's a secure job or because it's something for which you have a natural apt.i.tude. It isn't necessarily something you have a particular love for. You learn it off by heart. That's how I was before my operation. I was doing a job. Just a job. Then I had my illness. Then my transplant.'

*And that made a new man of you, and alienated your flock.'

*Yes. A new man. A man with a greater appreciation of life. Of science. Of love. But not necessarily of G.o.d.'

*But that's changed.'

*Yes. Of course. It started with the sweats.'

*A lot of things do.'

*Really intense sweats. Seven nights in a row. Absolutely drenched, the entire bed, soaked through. I was scared. Very scared. I thought my body was rejecting the heart. I was too scared to go to the doctor. I didn't want to know. I thought I was dying all over again. Then on the eighth night I had this most incredible vision. The most perfect night of sleep and then this wonderful, wonderful vision.'

*A dry dream.'

*Dry. Comfortable. Warm.' The words were coming quicker now; he was slightly breathless, he moved his hands a lot as we walked. *I was climbing stairs, old stone stairs, like in a castle. There were windows cut in the wall and every few yards I could look out over the most glorious countryside, all bathed in the most beautiful light. There was such an overwhelming feeling of peace and tranquillity.'

*You weren't in Crossmaheart, then.'

He laughed. *No. Clearly. It was like heaven. Or what I imagine heaven to be like. And then I got to the top of the stairs and there was this great wooden door and it opened before me and I entered this circular room. There was a great window at the far end of it and shutters had been pulled back to give this wonderful panoramic view over hundreds of miles. Before the window there was a sofa, and on the sofa there was a man, and that man was G.o.d.'

*How could you tell?'

*I just knew.'

*What did he look like?'

*He was small. Heavy-set. He wore a black, wide-brimmed hat. Small eyes.'

*Sounds like Van Morrison.'

Flynn shook his head slightly. *He turned to me and said: "h.e.l.lo, Frank, it's good to see you," and I knew immediately that I was with the warmest, most loving man in the universe.'

*It wasn't Van Morrison then.'

*No. Not Van Morrison. G.o.d.'

*And then?'

*And then I woke up.'

*A bit of an anti-climax that.'

*No. Not at all. The next night the same thing happened. Almost before my head hit the pillow I was back in the castle, in that room, with Him. He sat me down and we talked and talked and talked.'

*What was he like? I mean, as a person?'

*What can I say? Omnipresent. Omnipotent.'

The only other word I knew starting like that was omnivore. I chewed that thought over for a moment, then said, *Then he told you about the Messiah.'

Flynn nodded, *He told me mankind had had two thousand years to improve itself since it crucified His son. That it was to be tested once again. That the Messiah was to be born, and that He was entrusting the Messiah into my hands.'

*And then you woke up.'

*And then He told me when and where.'

*When, then?'

*June thirteenth.'

*This year?'

*Four years ago.'

*Four years ago a before you came back here.'

Flynn nodded. *Aye. The address was Furley Cottage.'

*He gave you an actual address?'

Flynn gave me a half-smile. *Incredible, isn't it?'

*Incredible,' I agreed.

We had come to a dip in the path that had formed itself into a small but murky-looking pond. Flynn interrupted his story long enough to wade through it in his boots then reach out from the other side and help me across. His grip was strong. I thanked him and stood for several moments catching my breath again. *So,' I said, as we resumed his leisurely and my arduous walk, *first thing in the morning you were straight round to Furley Cottage to hail the new Messiah.'

Flynn smiled. *There is no Furley Cottage. I checked next day.'

*b.u.mmer,' I said.

*So I went to bed that night to ask Him was He sure a yes, I know it sounds ridiculous a but I just had a normal night's sleep. Same the next night and ever since. I convinced myself I was just having crazy dreams. Until one day I was busying myself about the church and old Mary Mateer came in. She does most days. She's about ninety. Husband died ten years ago. Electrocuted himself trying to fit an electric shower. The shock knocked him out and he drowned in the bath. What do you say to someone widowed under those circ.u.mstances? Anyway, she's our oldest resident, so I said to her, "Did you ever hear of a Furley Cottage, Mary?" and she said she fancied one of the old cottages on Main Street was called that when she was a girl, but had been changed years and years ago, for whatever reason. I checked it out in the parish records and she was right. Furley Cottage, sure enough. Somewhere along the way it just lost its name.'

*What you're saying, Father, is that G.o.d is working from an old street directory.'

*I didn't say I could explain any of it, Dan, I'm just telling you what happened.'

I shrugged. *Fair enough. So what happened? You went round . . .'

*I felt incredible. Euphoric. Scared. Nervous. Elated. Almost too scared to go . . . but I had to, of course. I walked down the hill, along the front. I stood outside the cottage for ten minutes. I didn't know what to do. On the one hand I was dying with excitement, on the other hand desperately embarra.s.sed. I mean, how do you walk up to a house and enquire if the Messiah is at home? Has the Messiah finished his homework yet?'

*I can see where there might be a little awkwardness about it.'

*Indeed.'

*So what did you do?'

*I prayed, I took a deep breath, then I walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and waited to see what happened.'

*And?'

*Well, nothing happened. The bell wasn't working. A bit of an anti-climax really. I knocked on the door, but there was still no response. So I went round the back way, came up the garden path. There was a woman was.h.i.+ng dishes in the sink. I half recognised her from church. She saw me. I stopped. We watched each other for a few moments. I wasn't sure what to do next. Then she peeled off these rubber gloves and opened the back door. She said: *You've come about my daughter, haven't you?'

10.

Patricia and I lay in each other's arms, listening to the rain. Storm clouds had gathered during the evening, dithering for hours as if waiting for us to go to bed so that they could cause the maximum annoyance by unleas.h.i.+ng their venom just as we were dropping off. Great cras.h.i.+ng rolls of thunder chased the sleep through our brains and out of our ears.

But we weren't intimidated. We snuggled up on fantasy island. It was nice.

After a while the thunder moved on, leaving behind a wind-scattered rain which wasn't steady enough to encourage drowsiness. Our tiredness had moved on as well. We lay with the covers thrown back. Little Stevie had gurgled happily in his sleep through the storm. He was giving every indication of being a trouble-free child. There was time yet, of course. I'd never recovered from teething. But then there wasn't any reason why he should have anything in common with me. The only thing we shared was Patricia.

It seemed like a good time to talk. In fact, it seemed like a good time for s.e.x, but Patricia was still on the mend.

*I'll let you know,' she said.

*Thanks.'

*It could be weeks.'

*But not months.'

*I don't know. I'll keep you posted.'

*Thanks.'