Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) by Bateman Page B

and also I was afeared that any sudden activity might cause the satellite dish to fall off the wall and kill me.
    The bath was tilted to one side and was maybe a quarter full of stagnant water. It stank. And there was an animal in it, but it wasn’t a rat. Not even a drowned rat. A hedgehog.
    Patricia, disregarding her own advice, had advanced to the door. ‘Bash it,’ she said. ‘Bash its brains out.’
    I turned. ‘What school did you go to? It’s a bloody hedgehog.’
    ‘Aw,’ she said, and hurried across, apparently not dizzy at all from her 360-degree turnabout.
    She peered in over my shoulder. ‘What’s it doing in the bath?’
    ‘Hold on, I’ll ask it.’
    ‘Ach – is it drowned?’
    ‘I presume so . . .’ I leant in further. It was breathing. Vaguely, like it was undecided about clinging to life. I pointed to the side of the bath. ‘It’s fallen in and not been able to get out. Look at all the scratches on the enamel. Poor wee thing.’
    ‘Aw.’
    It moved. Just a little. Weakly. ‘Life in the wee bugger yet,’ I said and leant down to pick him up. I got spiked for my trouble. ‘Aaow,’ I said.
    I ran back into the house and returned with the old sheet I’d used to protect the satellite dish on its journey across to the island. I wrapped it round my hands. Then I gently lifted the hedgehog out of the poisonous water and set it on the ground.
    ‘Aw,’ said Patricia.
    ‘We should just leave it be. Let it make its own way.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ said Patricia, ‘it’s too weak. I’ll go and get it some bread and milk. That’s what they eat.’
    ‘Bollocks.’
    ‘It is. Honestly, Dan. Bread and milk . . .’
    ‘Aye. That’s it, that’s their natural food . . . they stay up all hours of the day and night baking wee loaves for themselves.’
    ‘No need to be sarcastic, I’m only trying to help the wee thing.’
    ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ I looked at the critter again. ‘They’re meateaters, love. It needs . . . dog food or cat food or something. Will I bring some back from church?’
    She looked at me, her face fallen. ‘Does that mean I’m not going?’
    ‘You said you’d nothing churchy.’
    ‘I know, but . . .’
    ‘Well, make up your mind. It’s nearly time to go.’
    Her face fell a little further. Much more and it’d be in amongst the daisies. ‘I’ll stay then,’ she said sadly. It was an old ploy. The I’ll-be-the-martyr ploy. Apt, really, for where I was going.
    ‘Look, I’ll wait. But you’ll need to hurry.’
    ‘No, you haven’t time.’
    ‘I’ll wait.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’ll wait!’
    ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be okay.’
    ‘Jesus!’
    I went back into the house and had a wash and shave. The water was cold. When I emerged from the bathroom Patricia was standing in the hall, beautifully attired. A summer dress. Flowery, but not overly so. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
    ‘You look lovely,’ I said.
    ‘I changed my mind.’
    ‘Good. You’ve broken the land speed record.’
    ‘We can if we try. We just don’t try very often.’
    ‘Is that the third secret of Fatima?’
    ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
    ‘Maybe I will. I’ll ask Christine.’
    ‘She won’t tell,’ Patricia said, shaking her head slowly. ‘Don’t forget, Dan, she’s one of us.’
    And it stopped me for a few seconds, that.
    Patricia was right.
    Christine was. One of them .
    A little involuntary shudder ran through me.

12
    I stopped the car at the foot of the hill. I had the window down and my sunglasses on. A nice breeze was blowing in off the sea. In my own mind I looked pretty cool.
    ‘What the hell are you at now?’ Patricia demanded, snapping me out of the moment. She pointed up towards the church.
    ‘I know where it is. I’m just . . .’
    ‘I’m not carrying Steven all the way up there, I’ll tell you that for nothing. I’m still weak.’
    ‘I just wanted to take a look at Furley Cottage.’ I nodded over her shoulder. ‘The stable, as it