Part 9 (2/2)

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.'

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