Part 26 (1/2)

Sometimes I think utter b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

Patricia was saying something to me. I said, *What?'

*She wants you to go and speak to them. She says they respect you. Ask them not to harm her little girl.'

*They're not going to listen to me. And they're not going to harm her. Father Flynn's not going to let . . .'

*They've already decided! It's all over the village!' Mrs Reilly shouted.

*Are you serious?'

*Yes! So please. At least try. No one else is going to help her. She has no one.'

*Why can't you . . .?'

*They're not going to listen to me. They hate me as much as they hate her!'

*Why?'

*Because we don't believe in all that s.h.i.+te!'

I cleared my throat. You rarely hear old people cursing. It's not right.

Patricia put a hand on my shoulder. *Maybe you should, Dan.'

I twisted round. *But what can I do? What can I say?'

*Dan, put a spanner in the works. You usually do.'

I tutted. *Thanks.'

*You know what I mean.'

*Will you do it for me, son?' She was right in front of me then, clasping my hand. Her touch was surprisingly gentle for a gorgon.

I sighed.

Mary Reilly was a medium who was a large who was a potential murderer. Anywhere else I wouldn't have spoken up for her. But the rights and wrongs of the situation were obvious even to an old cynic like me. Everyone deserves a fair trial, and, Messiah or not, letting a four-year-old girl decide verdict and punishment doesn't amount to a fair trial.

Patricia squeezed my shoulder again.

Mother Reilly rocked back and forth on her heels, eyes pleading, anorak still dripping.

There was one important question that needed answering before I volunteered my services.

*Mrs Reilly,' I asked, *you wouldn't happen to know where I could track down some alcohol on the island, would you?'

27.

My suspicions about Mrs Reilly were confirmed by her speedy acquiescence. She had the baggy jowls of someone who enjoyed a pint or twelve of Guinness. She couldn't come up with the drink there and then, but she said she'd see what she could do about locating some. I promised to see what I could do about having a word on her daughter's behalf. As she sopped back out into the storm she gave me a benign grin which suggested that she wasn't too bothered about the trade-off. Patricia was, though. She thought I was pretty pathetic, bargaining over Mary Reilly's future. I gave this due consideration, and then told her to shut up. I meant it jocularly enough but it didn't come across that way, so she punched me in the eye.

Later, in bed, I tried to explain myself, but I didn't stand up to close examination and we spent a long night as far apart as we could without falling onto the floor.

By morning the rain had stopped. The fog was gone. The ferry was waiting. But I had to intercede on behalf of Orca, Killer Whale. I rose early, did a press-up, then readied myself for the journey into town. From the bathroom I shouted: *Why didn't you tell me I had black ink on the end of my nose?'

*I thought you knew,' Patricia replied.

*Thanks,' I said.

Showered, shaved, I returned to the bedroom and put on a pair of black jeans, a black jumper, my fading light-blue denim jacket and a pair of black Oxfords. Patricia nodded approvingly from the bed as I dressed. I'd already wormed my way back into her affections by making her a cup of tea, which was no mean feat. Little Stevie gurgled. I'd made him a bottle. There's nothing like a bit of gla.s.s-blowing first thing in the morning to put some colour in your cheeks.

According to parish law, I should have loaded up the satellite dish and the television in the boot of the car and taken them down with me to Constable Murtagh. But Patricia simply said no, they weren't getting the TV, and that was good enough for me. Although Little Stevie seemed in perfect health, she was still nervous about being left in the cottage with no means of communicating with the outside world if he did take another turn, so she wanted to hold onto the car as well. The closest thing we had to pa.s.sing traffic was a not very dependable hedgehog. Had we a dog, a La.s.sie, he might have been able to race into the town in minutes and bark out precise instructions to Dr Finlay, but a hedgehog would take days to cover the same territory and only pa.s.s on a serious case of fleas.

So I set to walking, fixing my face in suitably martyrish fas.h.i.+on before kissing Patricia and the baby goodbye.

*Good luck,' she said, and then added, *Don't do anything silly.'

*As if,' I said.

It was a pleasant enough walk, damp but not cold, and by the time I reached the edge of town I felt invigorated, which was a novel experience. I looked at my watch. Jesus. 7.30 a.m. The last time I'd been up and about at that hour I'd been meandering home from a bar.

As I pa.s.sed the harbour I saw in the distance Charlie McMa.n.u.s leaning over the side of the Fitzpatrick. He seemed to be looking in my direction, but when I waved there was no response. When I reached the T-junction at the foot of the hill I paused for a moment and looked up towards the church, sitting dark and cold. Then I carried straight on along the front towards Constable Murtagh's house. It was a whitewashed mid-terrace, two up, two down, distinguished from its neighbours only by the iron bars on the upstairs windows. It was about a hundred yards along the row, and the only interesting things between me and it were the two men who loitered outside it with shotguns hung loosely over their shoulders.

As I approached they pushed themselves off the wall, blocking my pa.s.sage in the process.

*Morning,' I said and nodded at the guns. *What's up?'

One, a short, balding guy in a Barbour jacket, dropped the gun casually from his shoulder until it pointed at my stomach. *You tell us,' he said.

The other, with much the same build but plenty of hair and an ancient duffel coat, said: *Where do you think you're going?'

*I've to see the Constable.'

*What about?'

*My satellite dish. It's been confiscated.'

The balding guy stepped closer. The gun moved with him, into my stomach. He peered into my face. His breath was stale and he had sleepywogs in his eyes. *You're that writer fella, aren't you?'

*Aye.'

He turned to his companion. *You know, the one saved Christine?' Abruptly he pulled the gun away. *Sorry,' he said, *no offence. We're all very grateful to you.'

The other smiled broadly and stuck his hand out. I shook it. It was cold and damp. *Well done,' he said.

I shrugged. *Youse look like you've been here all night.'