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

was a sea journey away, that was the killer. A real bloody killer. I slapped the wheel again.
    ‘There’s beer on this island somewhere,’ I said. ‘There must be.’
    ‘Forget the beer for a moment, love,’ Patricia said. ‘It’s time for milk.’ She nodded down at Little Stevie. He started to cry. They had plainly rehearsed it.
    Then it was Patricia’s turn to grin.
    We followed a winding road out along the coast for abouta mile, then when we came to a lighthouse we turned inland. Another half-mile further on we came to Snow Cottage. Home.
    There was a bath lying on its side in the front garden. It was half filled with murky water. The cottage walls had once been whitewashed but were now damp and dark. The garden was wildly overgrown.
    ‘I don’t like this,’ Patricia said simply.
    ‘Now don’t jump to conclusions. It’s probably a little palace inside.’
    ‘Aye,’ she said.
    ‘You know,’ I said, ‘you can be very sarcastic when you try.’
    ‘That wasn’t even trying,’ she spat, ‘and if this place is a hole you’re a dead man.’
    Of course it wasn’t a hole. It just wasn’t a palace.
    The key was being kept warm under the doormat by a couple of thousand woodlice. I didn’t mention them to Patricia, they were probably just visiting. I stepped aside and made calming noises as she entered, Stevie in her arms, and began to storm from room to room, tutting. There was a fairly new bathroom suite, but the last bather had left a couple of layers of skin in it. There were dirty pans in the kitchen sink. A half-eaten bowl of Frosties sat on the kitchen table, the milk thick and stenchy.
    ‘It’s like the fucking Mary Celeste ,’ said Patricia.
    I nodded. ‘Could be worse,’ I said.
    ‘How, Dan?’ she demanded.
    ‘There could be pigs in the parlour.’
    ‘There have been pigs in this fucking kitchen, Dan. What am I supposed to do with this . . .?’ Her eyes darted suddenly with renewed intensity about the kitchen. ‘Where’s the microwave?’
    ‘What microwave?’
    ‘Dan, the microwave?’
    ‘What microwave? Plainly, I would say from the evidence before you, there is no microwave.’
    ‘But how am I supposed to cook?’
    ‘With the cooker. Look. There. That thing in the corner. That’s the cooker. It’s plugged in. That’s what real people cook on.’
    ‘But . . . but . . .’
    ‘Trish, it isn’t difficult.’
    ‘But I always use a microwave. I brought microwave meals.’
    ‘Trish, they probably don’t have microwaves here. They probably don’t even have demi-waves.’
    ‘I don’t like this place, Dan. It smells.’
    ‘It just needs to be cleaned up a bit, love.’
    ‘Aye. And who’s going to do that?’
    ‘We’ll both do it.’
    ‘It’s no place for a baby.’
    ‘It’ll be all right, love. It’ll just take us a while to find our feet. Then we’ll be laughing. Honestly.’
    The bedroom was nice. A double bed. Made. No cot.
    Patricia noticed first. She tutted. ‘You promised.’
    ‘The Cardinal promised.’
    ‘The Cardinal seems to have promised a lot. Just get on the bloody phone to him, Dan, and tell him what sort of a state this place is in. It’s a disgrace.’
    She looked miserable. I pulled at my lower lip. ‘I hate to point this out, Trish . . .’
    Her eyes narrowed. ‘What?’
    ‘This business about phoning the Cardinal.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘It would really require a phone.’
    ‘Dan . . .’
    ‘I’m sorry, but I told you it was an isolated cottage, there’s no . . .’
    ‘But how am I supposed to phone . . .?’ She stopped. Bit it back. Silence hung in the air, hung on the dust.
    ‘Tony?’ I suggested.
    ‘Dad, Dan. Dad . That’s not fair. He’ll be worried if I don’t call.’
    ‘So send him a pigeon.’ It came out a little harsher than I intended. She looked hurt. I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘You spend your whole life apologising to me.’
    ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
    The tears started to run down her cheeks. ‘I want to go