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

side and help me across. His grip was strong. I thanked him and stood for several moments catching my breath again. ‘So,’ I said, as we resumed his leisurely and my arduous walk, ‘first thing in the morning you were straight round to Furley Cottage to hail the new Messiah.’
    Flynn smiled. ‘There is no Furley Cottage. I checked next day.’
    ‘Bummer,’ I said.
    ‘So I went to bed that night to ask Him was He sure – yes, I know it sounds ridiculous – but I just had a normal night’s sleep. Same the next night and ever since. I convinced myself I was just having crazy dreams. Until one day I was busying myself about the church and old Mary Mateer came in. She does most days. She’s about ninety. Husband died ten years ago. Electrocuted himself trying to fit an electric shower. The shock knocked him out and he drowned in the bath. What do you say to someone widowed under those circumstances? Anyway, she’s our oldest resident, so I said to her, “Did you ever hear of a Furley Cottage, Mary?” and she said shefancied one of the old cottages on Main Street was called that when she was a girl, but had been changed years and years ago, for whatever reason. I checked it out in the parish records and she was right. Furley Cottage, sure enough. Somewhere along the way it just lost its name.’
    ‘What you’re saying, Father, is that God is working from an old street directory.’
    ‘I didn’t say I could explain any of it, Dan, I’m just telling you what happened.’
    I shrugged. ‘Fair enough. So what happened? You went round . . .’
    ‘I felt incredible. Euphoric. Scared. Nervous. Elated. Almost too scared to go . . . but I had to, of course. I walked down the hill, along the front. I stood outside the cottage for ten minutes. I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand I was dying with excitement, on the other hand desperately embarrassed. I mean, how do you walk up to a house and enquire if the Messiah is at home? Has the Messiah finished his homework yet?’
    ‘I can see where there might be a little awkwardness about it.’
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘So what did you do?’
    ‘I prayed, I took a deep breath, then I walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and waited to see what happened.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Well, nothing happened. The bell wasn’t working. A bit of an anti-climax really. I knocked on the door, but therewas still no response. So I went round the back way, came up the garden path. There was a woman washing dishes in the sink. I half recognised her from church. She saw me. I stopped. We watched each other for a few moments. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Then she peeled off these rubber gloves and opened the back door. She said: ‘You’ve come about my daughter, haven’t you?’

10
    Patricia and I lay in each other’s arms, listening to the rain. Storm clouds had gathered during the evening, dithering for hours as if waiting for us to go to bed so that they could cause the maximum annoyance by unleashing their venom just as we were dropping off. Great crashing rolls of thunder chased the sleep through our brains and out of our ears.
    But we weren’t intimidated. We snuggled up on fantasy island. It was nice.
    After a while the thunder moved on, leaving behind a wind-scattered rain which wasn’t steady enough to encourage drowsiness. Our tiredness had moved on as well. We lay with the covers thrown back. Little Stevie had gurgled happily in his sleep through the storm. He was giving every indication of being a trouble-free child. There was time yet, of course. I’d never recovered from teething. But then therewasn’t any reason why he should have anything in common with me. The only thing we shared was Patricia.
    It seemed like a good time to talk. In fact, it seemed like a good time for sex, but Patricia was still on the mend.
    ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said.
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘It could be weeks.’
    ‘But not months.’
    ‘I don’t know. I’ll keep you