Part 11 (1/2)

She peered in over my shoulder. *What's it doing in the bath?'

*Hold on, I'll ask it.'

*Ach a is it drowned?'

*I presume so . . .' I leant in further. It was breathing. Vaguely, like it was undecided about clinging to life. I pointed to the side of the bath. *It's fallen in and not been able to get out. Look at all the scratches on the enamel. Poor wee thing.'

*Aw.'

It moved. Just a little. Weakly. *Life in the wee b.u.g.g.e.r yet,' I said and leant down to pick him up. I got spiked for my trouble. *Aaow,' I said.

I ran back into the house and returned with the old sheet I'd used to protect the satellite dish on its journey across to the island. I wrapped it round my hands. Then I gently lifted the hedgehog out of the poisonous water and set it on the ground.

*Aw,' said Patricia.

*We should just leave it be. Let it make its own way.'

*Nonsense,' said Patricia, *it's too weak. I'll go and get it some bread and milk. That's what they eat.'

*b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

*It is. Honestly, Dan. Bread and milk . . .'

*Aye. That's it, that's their natural food . . . they stay up all hours of the day and night baking wee loaves for themselves.'

*No need to be sarcastic, I'm only trying to help the wee thing.'

*I know. I'm sorry.' I looked at the critter again. *They're meateaters, love. It needs . . . dog food or cat food or something. Will I bring some back from church?'

She looked at me, her face fallen. *Does that mean I'm not going?'

*You said you'd nothing churchy.'

*I know, but . . .'

*Well, make up your mind. It's nearly time to go.'

Her face fell a little further. Much more and it'd be in amongst the daisies. *I'll stay then,' she said sadly. It was an old ploy. The I'll-be-the-martyr ploy. Apt, really, for where I was going.

*Look, I'll wait. But you'll need to hurry.'

*No, you haven't time.'

*I'll wait.'

*No.'

*I'll wait!'

*It doesn't matter. I'll be okay.'

*Jesus!'

I went back into the house and had a wash and shave. The water was cold. When I emerged from the bathroom Patricia was standing in the hall, beautifully attired. A summer dress. Flowery, but not overly so. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

*You look lovely,' I said.

*I changed my mind.'

*Good. You've broken the land speed record.'

*We can if we try. We just don't try very often.'

*Is that the third secret of Fatima?'

*Wouldn't you like to know?'

*Maybe I will. I'll ask Christine.'

*She won't tell,' Patricia said, shaking her head slowly. *Don't forget, Dan, she's one of us.'

And it stopped me for a few seconds, that.

Patricia was right.

Christine was. One of them.

A little involuntary shudder ran through me.

12.

I stopped the car at the foot of the hill. I had the window down and my sungla.s.ses on. A nice breeze was blowing in off the sea. In my own mind I looked pretty cool.

*What the h.e.l.l are you at now?' Patricia demanded, snapping me out of the moment. She pointed up towards the church.

*I know where it is. I'm just . . .'

*I'm not carrying Steven all the way up there, I'll tell you that for nothing. I'm still weak.'

*I just wanted to take a look at Furley Cottage.' I nodded over her shoulder. *The stable, as it were.'

She gave me the steady look, perfected over a century of marriage. *Aye, away in a manger, Sherlock,' she said, then shook her head malevolently. *Let's get the church over with first, eh? Do your nosing in your own time, okay?' She tutted. *Some people have no consideration.'

I tutted myself. She had already shouted at me for driving too quickly. And then for driving too slowly. Sarcastic driving, she called it. I knew to expect mood swings after the birth of a baby. I'd read a book. But Patricia had spent our whole married life practising for them.

The former Furley Cottage was at the end of a long whitewashed terrace. It seemed unremarkable. Small. A st.u.r.dy wooden door with the number 14 on it. A Mickey Mouse fluffy toy propped up against the main window. I hadn't known what to expect, but I was disappointed to see Mickey there. He was a fantasy figure bringing a touch of reality to what promised to be a bizarre story. Still. Maybe there had been an equivalent propped up in Mary and Joseph's front window way back when. Mickey of Arimathea. Or a Happy Herod.