Part 31 (1/2)

He lifted his potatoes and walked off.

Patricia emerged from the hall bang on time, then spoilt the achievement by gossiping on the steps for ten minutes while I drummed on the wheel of the car. Her T-s.h.i.+rt looked damp, her hair dank.

*Don't worry about me,' I said when she slipped into the front seat, *I've nothing better to do.'

*True.'

*I was being sarcastic.'

*I wasn't.'

I started the engine. Little Stevie started crying. Patricia jiggled him about a bit. By the time we were out of the gate, he had settled again. He was his mother's son all right.

*Feeling good then?'

*Knackered.'

*And what's out of the Sisters of No Mercy?'

*Not a lot.'

I tutted. *You had an hour.'

*I was exercising.'

*Nevertheless, you had an hour.'

She ran a hand through her hair, which couldn't have been pleasant. *I hear they escaped. In a boat.'

*That I know. Nothing else?'

She shook her head. *I'm not the journalist, Dan. We've had this out before. I work in a tax office. You work in a newspaper. Tax your brain on this, not mine.'

*Well, thanks for your help.'

As we reached the junction at the bottom of the hill Patricia pointed across at the harbour. *Bit of a crowd gathering there,' she said, *if that's of any interest to you, lover.'

*I'm not blind.'

I hadn't noticed it, in fact. There was a crowd, on the far side of the harbour, and getting larger. I turned the car right and drove along the front as far as I could, then parked. I opened the door and jumped out. Then I leant back in.

*Coming?'

*Wait until I get Stevie . . .'

I closed the door and hurried on along the harbour. Patricia yelled something after me, but I was too curious to pay attention. There were about thirty locals gathered at the end of the looping harbour. They stood at the edge, looking down towards the water. About half of them carried guns. I squeezed my way through to the front. Father White was just making his way up a set of slippery-looking steps from a trawler, his pudgy hand clamped around the belt of a man in front of him for balance. Behind him, seven or eight others waited to step off. A small motorboat was tied to the back of the trawler.

Puffed by his exertions, Father White stood sucking air for several moments. The crowd shuffled back to give him s.p.a.ce. The other crewmen took the steps at a much faster pace and were soon gathered about the priest.

*What's the news, Father?' one of the crowd shouted.

*Did ye catch them?'

*Of course they didn't catch them; wouldn't they be in the boat, Dermot?'

Father White raised his hands. *As you can see, we've found Carl Christie's boat. It was floating a empty a about three miles off Ballycastle.'

He reached into his pocket and produced a pistol, which he held aloft.

Murmur. Murmur. Murmur.

*On the boat we found Constable Murtagh's gun, his shoes and his warrant card.'

Murmur. Murmur. Murmur.

*We can only guess at what might have happened. Perhaps Mary Reilly, in her distressed state of mind, or in an act of remorse and contrition, threw herself overboard. Constable Murtagh, perhaps, dived in to save her, and both were lost. I don't know. It could have been like that.' He drew his hands together. *Let us pray now for their lost souls.'

Heads were bowed. His wasn't. His eyes were wide and their glint was not one of sorrow for a tragic loss, but of triumphant elation.

32.

For the following three days the island was quiet a too quiet, as they say.

A watch was kept along the coast for any sign of the bodies, but the perceived wisdom was that if they were washed up anywhere it would be on the mainland, and that might not be for weeks, months, or even years, such was the malevolence of the currents. A service of remembrance was hastily arranged in the church, and was well attended. The spirit of the service was one of relief rather than sorrow. Mother Reilly wasn't there. A woman who visited her said she had accepted the news with dignity. Constable Murtagh had no living relatives on the island.

I busied myself in the cottage, at my desk, making notes for my epic. This was relatively easy. Notes for a novel are a joy, because they require neither style nor cohesion, two qualities I've rarely been accused of. Patricia kept herself busy with the baby and coming to terms with using more than one ring on the cooker at a time. Moira and Christine came around one day for lunch, and the chat was good, perhaps because it did not dwell excessively on the obvious. The att.i.tude was very much: she's the Messiah, so what? Have a biscuit. At one point Moira asked when I was coming round to do more interviews with her and my face went as red as a beetroot. Patricia was busy feeding Stevie and didn't notice. Christine busied herself in the garden, making sure that the hedgehog had enough undergrowth in its box to see it through the winter. She was remarkably patient, given the creature's lack of animation. As a child I would have clodded it with half bricks.

On the Thursday evening Duncan Cairns came for dinner. It was a star-filled autumn night. Patricia set a big coal fire which threw an ancient light upon our little dining room. I pulled the cot into this cosy setting, and after dinner we all relaxed and enjoyed the warming glow. Duncan seemed different: quieter, almost melancholic, his big frame squashed into a little armchair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His face was dourly set; every so often his eyes would flash or darken in the half-light with some mysterious thought. We fell into periods of silence, punctured only by Little Stevie's contented gurgles and the spit and crackle of the fire. It was extremely pleasant. I didn't say a word out of place. I'd been given my orders.

Duncan broke one such silence with an *excuse me' and pulled himself to his feet.

*It's just down the hall,' Patricia said, but he shook his head and smiled, then crossed to the door where his coat hung on a hook. He slipped his hand into a pocket. When he returned to his seat he held a bottle in his hand. He turned it towards me in the glow. The label said Bushmills. The capacity ten gla.s.ses. But the liquid inside was crystal clear.

*It's a cold night,' he said, watching me carefully, *I thought we might have a wee nip of this.'

He reached the bottle across to me. Our fingers touched momentarily around it. Bonding for real men. I unscrewed the top. Positioned my nose above the neck with the precision of a docking Apollo. Smelt. Whoos.h.!.+

I pa.s.sed it along to Patricia. She smelt it as well, and nearly toppled over. She pa.s.sed it back. I took a sip, held it in my mouth, then thought I better swallow because my fillings were starting to melt. Down it slipped, like lava; if Patricia's impenetrable stew had not already laid down a diamond base in my stomach it would have burnt its way through to my feet.

*Jesus Christ,' I growled with an involuntary impression of Tom Waits. *That's a bit rough.'

Duncan threw his head back and roared. I pa.s.sed the bottle to him. He took a lengthier gulp, then sat back and let the joy course through him.

I looked at Patricia. *Jesus Christ,' I said again.

He pa.s.sed the bottle to Patricia. She sniffed it again. Her face contorted. Then she gave a little shrug, pinched the end of her nose between two fingers, then tipped the bottle back. She paused just before the alcohol reached her lips. *If we're all blind in half an hour,' she asked with Minnie Mouse intonation, *who's going to feed the baby?'