Part 32 (1/2)

*Seriously?'

*Yes! He retired about five years ago. Flynn came to replace him. Flynn had the original visions about the Messiah, but he didn't know what to do with them, who to tell . . . eventually he told White, and that's when all this really took off. It was White who worked at it, moulded the visions, moulded Christine, into the concept we live by today. Well, some of us live by.'

*But wasn't there a priest that came out here from the mainland, and got converted, then didn't go back? I mean, just a few months ago? I'm sure someone told me that. I thought it was you.'

*No. Definitely not. I mean, there may have been one across for a weekend or something, but Flynn and White have been pretty nervous about anyone in their trade getting in on the secret. They haven't given much away.'

Ignored for too long, Little Stevie suddenly let out a wail. It seemed to shake Duncan's confident flow. He set the bottle down at his feet as Patricia leant over to see to the child. *I'm sorry,' he said, *I've been running off at the mouth a bit.'

*Nonsense,' said Patricia, lifting the child from the cot, *you've just been getting a bit off your mind, and opening our eyes a wee bit. It's what we needed.'

*Thank you. But I don't want to give you the . . . y'know, the wrong impression about our wee group. I mean, we're not really a . . . rebels or anything. It's mostly hot air. The sum total of what we've done is daub a slogan on a church wall. We wouldn't harm a hair on Christine's head, y'know? We just enjoy a drink.'

*Of course you wouldn't,' Patricia said.

*But things are getting more serious,' I pointed out.

*Aye. I know.'

*And sooner or later someone might have to do something in the way of standing up for what's right.'

Duncan nodded. He looked at his watch. *Well,' he said, *school in the morning.' He stood up, crossed to the door and slipped his coat off the hook. *Thank you,' he said, suddenly awkward again. *It was a lovely meal.'

*Our pleasure,' said Trish.

*Come again,' I said.

We followed him up the hall. He lingered by the door. *Ahm,' he said, his gaze falling between us, *I'd appreciate if you kept what I've said under your hat. I mean, not for my own sake, but for the others. We're, uh, just a bit of a joke really. Except no one has much of a sense of humour any more.'

I patted him on the arm. *Don't worry, mate, we won't breathe a word. Besides, who would believe a name like the Alcoholic Front?'

He smiled grimly. *Aye, I know. Stupid, eh?'

Patricia gave him a little hug. I stood by, without hitting him. Then I walked him to the Land-Rover. Patricia turned back in with Little Stevie.

*You okay to drive?'

*Who knows? It's a fairly straight road, but for the bends.'

I nodded. We shook hands. When I went back in Patricia was sitting in front of the fire with Little Stevie on her knee. *Gone?' she asked. I nodded. *Odd big lump, isn't he?' she said.

*I suppose. Yeah.'

*You know what the gossip is down in the church?'

*I don't particularly care.'

*That he's Christine's dad.'

*Jesus Christ,' I said.

*And Joseph,' added Patricia as I checked to see if there was anything left in Duncan's bottle.

33.

During the night an intruder broke into the cottage. He made his way to our bedroom, curled back the quilt, then sliced off the top of my head and filled my skull with quick-setting cement. Then he stuck barbed wire up my nose and nailed my head, naturally enough, to the headboard. Patricia slept through it all.

The morning was one of the brightest and loudest since the creation of the universe. Even with the curtains closed.

Patricia stood at the foot of the bed, hair sleep-tousled, eyes dark, skin grey. Her dressing gown hung open. Little Stevie guzzled at a bottle. She kicked the bed's wooden frame. Earthquake. *You never learn, do you?' she screamed quietly.

*Uuuuugh.'

*You only have yourself to blame.'

My head was revolving at 72 rpm, an unfas.h.i.+onable speed. *Thanks,' I croaked, *I need to hear that.'

*You knew how strong it was.'

*I can cope.'

*Aye, you look like it.'

I hid back under the quilt. *Am I complaining?' I whined, from the safety of the coc.o.o.n. Staying up to finish the bottle had been a mistake. Like the Bay of Pigs.

I peeked out. She had that mock sympathetic look. *Do you want a hair of the dog?' Evil smile. *Do you want me to see if there's any left in the bottle?'

*There's none left.'

*Do you want something to eat, then?'

*No.'

*A fried egg sandwich?'

*Patricia. This isn't funny. Please go away.'

And she did. She rumbled about the house for a twenty-minute eternity and then shouted something about going down to the church for another social. She asked me to do the dishes from the night before. I gave an inconclusive grunt. The door slammed. The cottage seemed to vibrate and I tensed, ready for the ceiling to come down on my head. It didn't.

When I was sick for the fourth time that morning I made the promise. I was never drinking again.

It had worked well in the past.

Some time around four in the afternoon I began to get some feeling back in my legs.

I raised myself cautiously from the bed, then tested my feet out on the floor. I managed a few Bambi steps, then sat again. Then a few more. A seat. Then some more. In ten minutes I was back to the svelte fighting machine of the night before. After that, and holding my nose, I bent and lifted the basin from the side of the bed. I took it into the bathroom and washed it out. Yum. Then to the kitchen and a can of Diet Pepsi. And a chocolate digestive.