Part 8 (1/2)

I wasn't particularly familiar with the interior of any church, but I was particularly unfamiliar with the inside of a Catholic church. I grew up in a part of Belfast where there was very little cross-community activity. Just two cross communities. The one time I'd been inside a Catholic church was for a christening. There'd been a bunch of us, all branded Protestant by geography and parental affiliation, rather than religious fervour, but nevertheless we all cl.u.s.tered warily near the exit from the alien environment, ready to make a quick getaway if trouble flared. Throughout the ceremony a actually more spiritual than the Protestant version, a fine point to an atheist/ agnostic a my friend Tommy Nailor had kept up a whispered running commentary. *He's lifting the baby now . . . he's lifting the knife . . . he's slitting the throat . . . he's sucking it dry . . .' We were laughing so hard, bent double, that when the priest made the sign of peace and instructed everyone to turn to their neighbour and shake hands we'd thought we were being set upon and had bunched up ready for a sc.r.a.p. Funny. Yeah. Someone had burned down the church a couple of weeks later, although we all had alibis.

I walked down the aisle. Pleasant. Cool. A half-dozen candles flickered. Christ was on the cross. The Madonna. Their fiercely Anglo-Saxon faces. Christianity wouldn't have got so far if Christ had looked like Ya.s.ser Arafat.

I couldn't see any wine. Couldn't smell any. I walked back up the aisle. I stopped for a moment by the font. I dipped my hand into the water. Cold. I bent and sipped some up. Nice. Stony. I wiped my mouth and looked up into the eyes of a child standing stock-still in the doorway, his head back-lit by the last rays of the sinking sun.

My heart skipped a beat.

He couldn't have been more than five. His hair was blond, clipped short. He wore a white T-s.h.i.+rt and blue shorts. He had plastic sandals on bare feet. We held each other's gaze for a minute. His eyes were deep blue, his stare intense.

*h.e.l.lo,' I said.

He didn't react at all. I gave him a little smile. He didn't give it back. *What's your name?' I asked.

*What the f.u.c.k are you doing?' he demanded.

I relaxed. Probably not the Messiah.

*I'm looking for Father Flynn. Have you seen him?'

He shook his head warily.

*What's your name?' I asked.

*What's it got to do with you?'

He had a world-weary surliness not fitting for one so young. *Well,' I said, *I thought we could be friends.'

*Pervert,' he said, and turned on his heel.

I followed him back out onto the hill. He strode purposefully towards the long gra.s.s I had previously tramped through. As he reached it, three more boys rose slowly. They watched me sullenly as their young companion rejoined them, then spoke together in hushed tones. My young friend wagged a finger at me. *We're telling on you . . .' he shouted as they turned and walked slowly down the hill.

I started. I really did. *I was only . . .' I began, and then stopped myself with a silent curse. I was trying to justify myself to a bunch of elves.

I stopped at a small grocery store at the foot of the hill. The owner, a big woman in a starched ap.r.o.n, smiled and welcomed me to the island. I said I was glad to be there. She said they were glad to have me. I said I was glad they were glad to have me. It could probably have gone on for ever, but I broke the circle by asking about the availability of mainland newspapers.

*I'm afraid we don't get them any more,' she said.

*None at all?'

She shook her head. *No demand.'

I bought some cured ham. She looked pleased. I wasn't so sure. It still looked a little sick, but we had to eat. There were fish, of course, but we were a couple used to fish that came in fingers a indeed fish fingers that were charred black on one side and frozen on the other are a delicacy you can get in few other houses in Belfast a and I wasn't of a mind to buy fish as G.o.d had probably intended them. They lay on a metal tray, staring up at me. The woman did her best. Caught that morning. Absolutely beautiful fried in a little b.u.t.ter. I should have asked her to bone them, to poke their eyes out and cut their heads off, she could have done it without a second thought, but the first thought of it made me feel sick. As I turned to leave she tried to tempt me with a rabbit. It was no temptation.

When I arrived back at the cottage the Land-Rover was parked outside again.

Or not, as the case may be. It seemed to be the same vehicle as I approached it out of the growing dusk, but in the light from the front room I could see that there were subtle differences only the trained eye of an international reporter could detect. The front headlamp was smashed and the bonnet badly dented.

The front door opened before I could put the key in the lock. *Thought it was you,' said Patricia, Little Stevie in her arms, a welcoming smile on her face. *Visitor,' she said, a little quieter.

*Who?' I mouthed.

*Knows you,' she whispered.

I walked into the lounge. Father Flynn was sitting in the armchair, a cup of tea in his lap. He had the black s.h.i.+rt, the dog collar. For some reason I'd expected that he might have worn civvies. Or to have long flowing robes and a wooden staff.

I smiled and crossed to him. *h.e.l.lo,' I said, *I'm . . . I know you, don't I?'

*Of course you do, Dan.'

I stood before him. I glanced at Patricia. Back at him. *You're . . .?'

*Crossmaheart, Dan.'

I shook my head. *No . . . I . . . yes, of course . . . Father . . . Frank Flynn! Father Frank Flynn . . . G.o.d . . . sorry, yes . . . I'd no idea you were stationed here . . . yes, indeed, how's about you? How's the old ticker?'

Flynn set the cup and saucer on the floor and raised himself. He put his hand out. We shook. Firm grip. Warm grip. Bright eyes. He'd either had collagen treatment or he'd aged twenty years in the wrong direction.

*I'm fine, Dan, and you?'

*Great, just great.'

*I saw your name down for the cottage a couple of weeks back. I couldn't wait to see you. I've never forgotten what you did for me back in Crossmaheart.'

*I didn't do anything.'

He turned to my wife. *He wrote the most wonderful article about me, Patricia. I don't know, maybe he told you about me? Anyway, the thing is, I had a heart transplant, got a Protestant's heart, and the local people didn't like it. Gave me a very hard time.'

Patricia nodded. *I think I do remember . . .'

*He wrote a very sympathetic piece about me in the paper. People wrote to me from all over the world, you know? Offered me support, sent presents, even sent money. I was feeling so down. So lonely. It really did me the world of good. And I always did mean to come up and thank you personally a but you know how things are, you never quite get round to it. And here you are on my little Wrathlin. Such an amazing coincidence.'

*Indeed,' I said. *Do you still enjoy an occasional whiskey, Father?'

*I haven't had a drink since the day I had my transplant, Dan. As you know, I emerged a new man.'

Indeed, a Paul Newman for his acting. I clearly remembered sharing a gla.s.s or three of Irish with him. It was three years past, but I tend to remember drinks I've had in particularly important surroundings. I remember the seven shorts before my wedding. The first and last Bacardi and c.o.ke which nearly killed me before my first date. The can of beer I had sitting with my father in his bedroom, just after he died. Crying.

*Oh, well,' I said, *not that it matters. Prohibition seems to have returned.'

Flynn laughed. Patricia laughed with him. *Yes, indeed,' he said, *it's working wonderfully. You know there hasn't been one single crime on the island since we outlawed the booze?'

*Really?' I said.

*Just as it should be,' said Patricia. *It seems a wonderful island. I think we'll love it here.'

*I'm sure you will.'