Free Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) by Bateman Page A

understand first,’ he began, ‘that I never have been particularly religious. That may seem a strange statement for a priest, but it’s the truth. Becoming a priest can sometimes be like becoming a plumber or an electrician, something you go into because it’s a secure job or because it’s something for which you have a natural aptitude. It isn’t necessarily something you have a particular love for. You learn it off by heart. That’s how I was before my operation. I was doing a job. Just a job. Then I had my illness. Then my transplant.’
    ‘And that made a new man of you, and alienated your flock.’
    ‘Yes. A new man. A man with a greater appreciation of life. Of science. Of love. But not necessarily of God.’
    ‘But that’s changed.’
    ‘Yes. Of course. It started with the sweats.’
    ‘A lot of things do.’
    ‘Really intense sweats. Seven nights in a row. Absolutely drenched, the entire bed, soaked through. I was scared. Veryscared. I thought my body was rejecting the heart. I was too scared to go to the doctor. I didn’t want to know. I thought I was dying all over again. Then on the eighth night I had this most incredible vision. The most perfect night of sleep and then this wonderful, wonderful vision.’
    ‘A dry dream.’
    ‘Dry. Comfortable. Warm.’ The words were coming quicker now; he was slightly breathless, he moved his hands a lot as we walked. ‘I was climbing stairs, old stone stairs, like in a castle. There were windows cut in the wall and every few yards I could look out over the most glorious countryside, all bathed in the most beautiful light. There was such an overwhelming feeling of peace and tranquillity.’
    ‘You weren’t in Crossmaheart, then.’
    He laughed. ‘No. Clearly. It was like heaven. Or what I imagine heaven to be like. And then I got to the top of the stairs and there was this great wooden door and it opened before me and I entered this circular room. There was a great window at the far end of it and shutters had been pulled back to give this wonderful panoramic view over hundreds of miles. Before the window there was a sofa, and on the sofa there was a man, and that man was God.’
    ‘How could you tell?’
    ‘I just knew.’
    ‘What did he look like?’
    ‘He was small. Heavy-set. He wore a black, wide-brimmed hat. Small eyes.’
    ‘Sounds like Van Morrison.’
    Flynn shook his head slightly. ‘He turned to me and said: “Hello, Frank, it’s good to see you,” and I knew immediately that I was with the warmest, most loving man in the universe.’
    ‘It wasn’t Van Morrison then.’
    ‘No. Not Van Morrison. God.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘And then I woke up.’
    ‘A bit of an anti-climax that.’
    ‘No. Not at all. The next night the same thing happened. Almost before my head hit the pillow I was back in the castle, in that room, with Him. He sat me down and we talked and talked and talked.’
    ‘What was he like? I mean, as a person?’
    ‘What can I say? Omnipresent. Omnipotent.’
    The only other word I knew starting like that was omnivore. I chewed that thought over for a moment, then said, ‘Then he told you about the Messiah.’
    Flynn nodded, ‘He told me mankind had had two thousand years to improve itself since it crucified His son. That it was to be tested once again. That the Messiah was to be born, and that He was entrusting the Messiah into my hands.’
    ‘And then you woke up.’
    ‘And then He told me when and where.’
    ‘When, then?’
    ‘June thirteenth.’
    ‘This year?’
    ‘Four years ago.’
    ‘Four years ago – before you came back here.’
    Flynn nodded. ‘Aye. The address was Furley Cottage.’
    ‘He gave you an actual address?’
    Flynn gave me a half-smile. ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’
    ‘Incredible,’ I agreed.
    We had come to a dip in the path that had formed itself into a small but murky-looking pond. Flynn interrupted his story long enough to wade through it in his boots then reach out from the other