was having a relationship with a man on this island. A single man. That relationship is now over. Somewhere along the line God got involved, and I bore His child. I don’t know the whys or the hows or the biology . . . I didn’t feel the earth move . . . the heavens didn’t split open and bathe me in angelic light . . . but I know as sure as I’m standing here that Christine is God’s child and I will do everything within my power to protect her, to bring her up properly until the time comes for her to inherit the . . .’ She cut herself off, laughed lightly, almost embarrassed.
‘The earth,’ I said, and gave her a little smile. I tried not to make it seem too cynical. ‘And when do you think that might be?’
‘I have no idea. At the moment she’s just a perfectly ordinary little girl . . .’
‘Although she’s done a few mirkles.’
‘. . . just a perfectly ordinary little girl who happens to have performed a few miracles . . . just a perfectly ordinary little girl who has no real idea of her own destiny, of her own potential . . .’
‘But when . . .’
‘Dan, there’s no timetable for things like this. It’s only happened once before, and we messed it up then. Frank thinks we might see her coming into her own around about the time of puberty. Girls grow up so much more quickly than boys.’
‘It could be one hell of a first period then.’
‘If you wish to reduce it to that level, well, yes, it could.’
Christine was out on the road now, kicking her sandalled feet through the gravel.
‘Ma,’ she called, ‘come ’n’ play.’
‘Get off the road then. What have I told you about playing on the road?’
I stepped off the path and reached a hand out to her. She stepped back and kicked some gravel at me.
‘That’s not very nice, now, is it?’ I said.
She gave a mischievous smile. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll give you a good slappin’, girl,’ said Moira, wagging a finger.
‘Are you allowed to do that?’ I asked.
‘Of course I am.’ She gave a wink. ‘The good thing is, Christine then has to turn the other cheek.’
‘And does she?’
‘Of course not.’ Moira laughed. ‘She doesn’t know who she is yet.’
Christine reached out and took my hand. ‘Will you play with me?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I said, and kicked some gravel over her sandals. She squealed with pleasure and pulled away.
‘You’re asking for trouble,’ Moira warned.
I took a step towards Christine. She took a step back, then raised her foot ready to aim some more gravel at me.
I took another step forward, stopped, raised my foot to attack.
We faced each other, smiling, mock-frowning, eyes locked. Moira walked ahead. The only sound was the gentle breeze, the far-off cry of a gull and . . . and something . . . whooshy . . . whooshy . . . which for a second confused me, something familiar yet strange, like blowing through a comb . . . getting closer . . . closer . . . and then I twigged . . . a sound I remembered best from childhood games and I looked quickly behind me, back up the hill, and in that moment it was already too late to do anything about it.
The woman from outside the church was racing down the incline on her bike, her legs firing like mighty pistons, her fat form raised off the saddle, her head and chest bent down over the handlebars, her hair flying behind her, mouthgaping, eyes fixed horribly wide behind her glasses. She was screaming.
She was not out of control.
She was in control, and coming straight for me.
Only at the very last moment did she veer away, but before I could even think Thank Christ I knew that her change of direction was no accident.
She was aiming for Christine. Dead centre.
The little girl stared at her, transfixed.
Moira turned, already screaming, but she was too late, she was too far away.
14
A whiff of alcohol, a sniff, a pale imitation of the real thing, a hint of booze consumed, attacked by the stomach’s natural acids and belched back up
‘The earth,’ I said, and gave her a little smile. I tried not to make it seem too cynical. ‘And when do you think that might be?’
‘I have no idea. At the moment she’s just a perfectly ordinary little girl . . .’
‘Although she’s done a few mirkles.’
‘. . . just a perfectly ordinary little girl who happens to have performed a few miracles . . . just a perfectly ordinary little girl who has no real idea of her own destiny, of her own potential . . .’
‘But when . . .’
‘Dan, there’s no timetable for things like this. It’s only happened once before, and we messed it up then. Frank thinks we might see her coming into her own around about the time of puberty. Girls grow up so much more quickly than boys.’
‘It could be one hell of a first period then.’
‘If you wish to reduce it to that level, well, yes, it could.’
Christine was out on the road now, kicking her sandalled feet through the gravel.
‘Ma,’ she called, ‘come ’n’ play.’
‘Get off the road then. What have I told you about playing on the road?’
I stepped off the path and reached a hand out to her. She stepped back and kicked some gravel at me.
‘That’s not very nice, now, is it?’ I said.
She gave a mischievous smile. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll give you a good slappin’, girl,’ said Moira, wagging a finger.
‘Are you allowed to do that?’ I asked.
‘Of course I am.’ She gave a wink. ‘The good thing is, Christine then has to turn the other cheek.’
‘And does she?’
‘Of course not.’ Moira laughed. ‘She doesn’t know who she is yet.’
Christine reached out and took my hand. ‘Will you play with me?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I said, and kicked some gravel over her sandals. She squealed with pleasure and pulled away.
‘You’re asking for trouble,’ Moira warned.
I took a step towards Christine. She took a step back, then raised her foot ready to aim some more gravel at me.
I took another step forward, stopped, raised my foot to attack.
We faced each other, smiling, mock-frowning, eyes locked. Moira walked ahead. The only sound was the gentle breeze, the far-off cry of a gull and . . . and something . . . whooshy . . . whooshy . . . which for a second confused me, something familiar yet strange, like blowing through a comb . . . getting closer . . . closer . . . and then I twigged . . . a sound I remembered best from childhood games and I looked quickly behind me, back up the hill, and in that moment it was already too late to do anything about it.
The woman from outside the church was racing down the incline on her bike, her legs firing like mighty pistons, her fat form raised off the saddle, her head and chest bent down over the handlebars, her hair flying behind her, mouthgaping, eyes fixed horribly wide behind her glasses. She was screaming.
She was not out of control.
She was in control, and coming straight for me.
Only at the very last moment did she veer away, but before I could even think Thank Christ I knew that her change of direction was no accident.
She was aiming for Christine. Dead centre.
The little girl stared at her, transfixed.
Moira turned, already screaming, but she was too late, she was too far away.
14
A whiff of alcohol, a sniff, a pale imitation of the real thing, a hint of booze consumed, attacked by the stomach’s natural acids and belched back up
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