Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) by Bateman Page A

write it all down, and keep writing it down, not for a newspaper, to make a complete record of anything and everything that happens to Christine . . .’
    ‘Christine?’
    ‘That’s her name. A bit of a coincidence, I thought.’
    ‘Or divine inspiration.’
    ‘Yup, there’s that. But he wants me to be, if you will, the official chronicler of everything pertaining to the life and times of Christine.’
    ‘You mean he wants you to write the sequel to the Bible.’
    ‘He didn’t say so in so many words, but yes, I guess that’s what he’s getting at. One of the better commissions, I’d say.’
    ‘And what did you say?’
    ‘What do you think? I enquired about royalties.’
    ‘No, seriously.’
    ‘I did. I thought it was important to keep everything on a vaguely humorous level. At least until the straitjacket arrives.’
    ‘And what did he say to you about you saying to him?’
    ‘He just sort of smiled.’
    ‘And what did that mean?’
    ‘I don’t know. He asked me to go to church in the morning. To meet Christine. He seemed to think that might convince me.’
    ‘And you’re going?’
    ‘I am. You were going anyway, weren’t you?’
    ‘I thought I was.’
    ‘You mean you’re not?’
    ‘I mean I’ve nothing to wear.’
    I tutted. ‘Why is that always a woman’s first reaction?’
    ‘Well, I haven’t. It’s a fact.’
    ‘What the hell did you bring in all those cases then?’
    ‘I’ve nothing churchy, Dan.’
    ‘Does it really matter? You’re not going to be refused entry to heaven because you haven’t anything churchy. Jesus.’
    ‘But what if I have to meet the Messiah?’
    ‘She’s not long out of nappies, for Christ’s sake. She’s not going to strike you dead for dressing down.’
    Patricia shook her head wearily. ‘Sometimes I get really tired of you, y’know?’

11
    Sunday was another fine day. Skies blue. Sea calm. Patricia stormy.
    She screamed.
    I was still in the land of Nod, that small kingdom between sleep and going to work. She’d gotten up early to do some more cleaning.
    ‘Daniel!’ she screamed again and I pulled myself up to a sitting position. She only uses the full Daniel when there’s an emergency or I’ve done something wrong, which is generally one and the same thing.
    ‘What?’
    A herd of elephants in the hall. Then she was in the doorway. ‘There’s a rat in the bath,’ she said.
    ‘Is he enjoying it?’ I asked blearily.
    ‘Daniel, there’s a rat in the bath.’
    ‘Jesus,’ I mumbled.
    ‘There’s a bloody great rat in the bath!’
    I tried to shake the sleep from my head. I climbed out of the bed and tottered for a second while I got my land legs.
    ‘There’s a rat in the bath,’ Patricia shouted, ‘there’s a rat in the bath! Get rid of the rat in the bath!’
    She was white. She held Little Stevie to her. ‘Rats eat babies’ eyes,’ she said. She stepped aside.
    I walked down the hall and cautiously put my head round the bathroom door. There were some dark hairs in the bath. I turned back to Patricia. ‘He’s gone,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘although he seems to be going bald.’
    Patricia put her head warily out of the bedroom doorway. ‘Not that bath. The one in the front garden.’
    I rolled my eyes at her. She rolled them back. ‘You can’t have rats around children,’ she said.
    ‘Might do us all a favour,’ I replied under my breath, but not under enough.
    ‘What was that?’
    ‘I said, do us a favour and try and find something heavy for me to blatter it with, while I pull my trousers on. Okay?’
    ‘Okay,’ she said sullenly. ‘But don’t let it in the door. Make sure you close it properly. I hate rats.’
    I got into my trousers. Pulled on a T-shirt. Patricia gave me a mean-looking hammer. I opened the front door and blinked for a few moments in the sun. Then I advanced on the bath with hammer raised, feeling vaguely ridiculous. I trod softly across the grass; the element of surprise wouldbe important,