Part 39 (1/2)

*Not G.o.d, Starkey. You know that as well as I do.' His hands were behind his neck. So were mine. My neck, that is. It's not a very comfortable way to sit, but it's more comfortable than having a bullet make its way through your head at a hundred-odd miles per hour. Duncan pulled his elbows in until they met in front of his nose. *But now I wish they'd get on with it,' he added.

*I don't,' I said.

Amongst other things never to have reached such a wayward outpost as Wrathlin a myxomatosis, satellite television, Lean Cuisine Tagliatelle a was a collection of old maxims, including two of particular relevance about shooting neither the messenger nor the piano player. But thus it had been ordained.

Father Flynn's attempts to explain to his colleague the error of his ways, that Christine was quite possibly the most highly developed human being on the planet but not the daughter of G.o.d, had obviously fallen on deaf or mutated ears. Definitely red ears, in any case, because White had come storming out of their meeting and ordered that Duncan and the world's most fearless reporter be readied for execution. It was a bargaining tool, but Flynn wasn't in the form to bargain, which wasn't good news for us.

Gunmen dragged us out, thrust us down, pulled us up to our knees, pressed cold metal barrels against the back of our heads. And then we had a temporary reprieve. It went to arbitration as the rest of the Council trooped in, barely looking at us as they marched past, stern-faced. Jack McGettigan, proving that there's nothing worse than a reformed drinker, slapped Duncan on his injured face as he pa.s.sed and muttered something largely incoherent but involving the word *p.o.r.nographer'. Duncan let out a yelp.

*What a way to end up,' I said into the face of a cold, stinging wind. A tear or two rolled down my cheeks. I bit at a lip. I didn't want anyone to think I was crying. I was tough, a street-hardened cynic. I'd stared death in the face before. And cried.

Duncan spat into the embers of the fire. *Aye. What a way to go,' he said.

*Shut up, will youse?' the gunman behind me ordered, nudging me with the barrel.

*Give me a good reason why,' I said, sniffing up.

*Because I'll shoot you if you don't,' he barked.

Duncan gave a sour laugh. *Tommy, for G.o.d's sake wise up, you're going to shoot us anyway.'

*Well, just keep it down, eh?'

I looked at Duncan again. *Thanks,' I said, *for cheering me up.'

He gave a little shrug.

Tommy was the only gunman directly threatening us. The rest had retreated out of the wind to the shelter of the hall steps; they could also hear better the wind coming from within as Flynn fought his last stand. I hadn't met Tommy before; he'd stared in at us in the church hall earlier in the day; beardy, bulky, a sheep's lifeless eyes.

*You were in my cla.s.s at school, Tommy,' said Duncan.

*So?'

*Nothing. Just that now you're probably going to have to shoot me.'

*So? You're a heretic and p.o.r.nographer.'

*You believe that?'

*Of course I do.'

*Because Father White says?'

*Yes.'

*You believe everything he says?' I asked.

*Sure.'

*Why believe him and not Father Flynn?'

*Because Father Flynn's not well.'

*Who told you that?' asked Duncan.

*We know he's not well. He's mental. He's saying all sorts of crazy stuff.'

*Like what?'

*About stupid gas driving us nuts.'

*You don't think he could have a point?' I asked.

*Of course not,' he said and gave us a pity-the-poor-misguided-fools sigh. *He's just lost the faith.'

*You don't think the likelihood of the Messiah being born on Wrathlin is just as crazy as some gas driving us nuts?'

*That's exactly the argument I'd expect a heathen to come up with.'

*Tommy,' asked Duncan, *could you really shoot us?'

*I could.'

*You must really hate us.'

*I don't hate you at all. I just love Christine. And if Father White says killing you two will protect her, then that's fine by me.'

*It won't be on your conscience then.'

*No. Not at all.'

*Good,' I said, *that's nice to know.'

A jumping to attention on the steps, then the door opened and Father Flynn, followed by Father White and the rest of the Council, emerged. They appeared, if anything, even more sombre than before, although sombreness is a difficult thing to judge where religion is involved; in a religious type, sombreness can often be taken as the equivalent of a broad smile in a non-religious type. It goes with the territory. A priest who comes on like Laughing Boy isn't to be trusted.

As the councillors formed themselves up, the gunmen hurried down the steps, then stood in a loose semi-circle behind Duncan and me. They gazed reverentially up at our jury. The councillors spread out along the top step, almost equally split around Father White. Flynn stepped down into the yard and walked the few yards to us. It was difficult to judge from the set of his eyes the outcome of those heated discussions. His face was pale, but so was everyone's; it was a pale afternoon, chilled by the grey clouds above and the rush of the freezing Atlantic winds up the hill to the church.

Flynn stood before us, nodding his head slightly, then clasped his hands behind his back.

*I never wanted this to happen,' he said simply, then sucked in his cheeks and looked beyond us, down the hill towards the harbour. Not finding any solace there, he turned slightly, then peered back at Father White, who nodded. *I have asked that you two, and I, be allowed to leave the island immediately, and that we give our word to tell no one of what has gone on here.'

*Fair enough,' I said.

*Unfortunately this request has been refused.'

I tutted. Duncan's head dropped. My head rarely drops without the influence of alcohol. I tossed a defiant look in the direction of the Council. I would get to the screaming and begging soon enough.

*The thing is,' Flynn said, *I fully understand the position Father White and the rest of the Council find themselves in. If you believe in something, especially if it is something as important as this, then you have to stick to your guns, literally, in this case. Give it everything. Don't let anyone put you off. That is what they are doing. I sympathise, because I felt the same way. Now, because of recent revelations we are all aware of, I am no longer able to believe in the idea of Christine being the daughter of G.o.d. She's a remarkable girl, but I can't say that she is anything more than that. I have argued my case, but I could just as well be wrong. I hope for the sake of the people behind me here that I am. But I see now that I cannot stand in their way.'

*That's a little short of an endors.e.m.e.nt,' I said.