Part 25 (1/2)

Rain drummed against the windows. I knelt on the arm of the chair and stared out into the drizzled darkness and reflected on how I had managed once again to get myself involved with loonies.

Before, in Belfast, in New York, it had been individual loonies, a magic mushroomed comedian or a detective who snipped fingers off with rose-clippers, but this was a different kind of loony altogether. It was a collective looniness. The council of loons.

Patricia could see that I was troubled. She hovered about me. Little Stevie slept. *I'd make you a cup of tea,' she said sympathetically, *but you'd only tell me to stick it up my hole.'

I smiled. I shrugged. I looked at the rain again.

*And I only brought the one bottle of wine, so there's no answer there.'

She put her arm about my shoulders. I rested my head against her for a moment. She felt warm. Smelt nice. I put my arm round her waist.

*I'm sorry I can't help,' she said.

*There's nothing wrong.'

I dropped my hand onto her rear and it sparked off a thought. I looked up at her hopefully. A way to forget my troubles.

She moved slightly away, then squeezed my shoulder and looked at the ground. *I'm having trouble with thrush,' she said, her voice barely a whisper, shy even after all these years.

I dropped my hand. *You shouldn't put so much bread out.'

She laughed and slapped the back of my head, then turned quickly on her heel. *Well, I'm going to make a cup of tea.'

I stared into the blackness for a little longer. It would be easy just to pack up our belongings and get on that ferry in the morning. To forget about all the nonsense. I already had enough evidence for the Cardinal to send in the ecclesiastical stormtroopers. I'd earned the money, was maybe owed some more for the bicycle injuries. I'd never even thought to ask about whether I was covered by any kind of insurance, whether Patricia would gain anything if a spoke entered my eyeball or a plague of locusts took a sudden interest in me. Third party fire and pestilence.

I followed her into the kitchen. I took a can of Diet Pepsi from the fridge and sat at the table. *The way things are going,' I said, *they'll probably outlaw this too, and then I'll really be stuck.'

*Dan, you'll never be stuck.'

*We should go home,' I said. *These people are nuts.'

She shook her head. *Dan, you won't go home till you see this through. You know that.'

*Jesus was thirty-odd when they got round to crucifying him. You want to be here that long?'

*And what's Jesus got to do with it?'

I grinned. She was right. *Good point.'

*Besides, girls grow up so much quicker than boys.'

I tutted. *Are you being sucked into all of this?'

*No more than you, sweetie.'

Her evening had been better fun. The ladies of Wrathlin seemed a nice bunch. What they lacked in sophistication they made up for with old-fas.h.i.+oned charm and a contagious homeliness. The social evening was nothing more than a chin-wagging session, with Patricia the centre of attraction. I'd given her her instructions, of course, but by the time she'd talked through her life and times the evening was drawing to a close and she very nearly failed to steer the chat round. She'd been worried about how to introduce the subject of the Messiah in the first place, and had hoped that it would come round naturally, but n.o.body mentioned it all night. Finally she just plunged in and hoped for the best. She tapped the knee of the woman sitting next to her and whispered, *What about this Christine then? What's the gen on her?'

The woman smiled at her. *It's great, isn't it? Our wee Christine a such a star!' And that had set the whole lot of them off.

Patricia poured her tea. I drummed my nails on the side of the can.

*It was like Christine had won a bonny baby compet.i.tion or a talent show or something. They just seemed genuinely proud of her. Local girl does good.'

*Loonies,' I said.

*Maybe they're just right to treat it like that, love.'

*Aye. Drink your tea.'

*But . . .'

*Trish, if you'd seen my lot . . .'

*Well, maybe if there were any women on that Council, this might be a better place to live.'

*I can't imagine Wrathlin ever being a better place to live. Unless they reopened the pub.'

*You know what I mean.'

*Anyway, I'm not rising to the bait, Trish.'

*What bait?'

*You know what I mean.'

*I haven't a notion what you're talking about.'

*You know rightly. All that feminist c.r.a.p.'

*What feminist c.r.a.p?'

*About women ruling the world and . . .'

*I never mentioned women ruling the world!'

*You were getting there . . .'

*I . . .'

*Just finish your tea and do the dishes, love,' I said. Then I ran into the front room laughing.

*b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' she shouted.

But it was okay. She was laughing too.

My idea was to write a big epic novel about the history of Ireland. It had been done before, but never properly. None of them had ever been funny, and the history of Ireland was nothing if not a laugh. Before, I'd had the thoughts, but never the time to write them down; now I had the time but the thoughts were driven from my mind by visions of the Messiah.

Patricia went to bed. I sat in the corner of the spare bedroom I was using as a makes.h.i.+ft study and pa.s.sed ten minutes staring into nothingness and sniffing at a thick black felt pen. It smelt pretty good. After a while I started to feel a bit light-headed and set it down. Then I switched on the computer and started writing a report for Cardinal Tomas Daley. I tried to keep it objective and concise. The word loony only crept up twice. It took me about half an hour. Then I sat and pondered a while on how to get it to him. I had an Internet connection and a speedy modem, but no phone line. I could post it, but I had some doubt about how wise it was to let it out of my hands. No, I needed to get on the ferry, phone or fax him the report from Ballycastle. h.e.l.l, while I was there I might be forced into an off-licence. I spent a few minutes trying to work out how many cans of Harp I could squeeze into the car (a) without anybody on the ferry noticing, and (b) without sinking the ferry. I reckoned about two hundred in the boot. And a crate of Diet Pepsi in the pa.s.senger seat to throw the alcohol police off the trail.

After I printed out the report I folded and sealed it in an envelope and put it in my jacket pocket. I didn't address it. It contained no reference to the Cardinal.