“Aye, indeed I have,” Father Steele said wearily.
“I'd clearly love to blame the empty churches down South on her, but for once I have to admit, and it grieves me to say it, that it doesn't be her fault. It be's with Hollywood, with— Och!” Father Steele couldn't know, but a bolt of inspiration had suddenly flashed deep inside Fionnuala's brain. With a glimmer of hope and some satisfaction she realized that, aye, Ursula could be blamed. Her husband was Jed. He was a Yank, They had moved here to Derry when he said he had retired. Claimed. But Fionnuala now suspected an insidious truth: Jed Barnett hadn't retired at all. He had been on a secret mission from the godless US government, to infiltrate and subtly spread American culture and to lead to the secularization of modern Irish society. To wrench the Irish from their pews and into rap concerts.
“Are ye right there, Mrs. Flood? Do ye need a...glass of water? A cup of tea, maybe?”
Father Steele stared at the woman's face and all the expressions that were passing over it.
Jed Barnett was an agent of Satan. With a glow of satisfaction, Fionnuala sank back in her chair. Ursula Barnett was indeed to blame for the country turning heathen. All of this, however, she decided to keep to herself. There was no need for Father Steele to know every little detail. And she no longer had the time to bring up a further horror she had read about in the seventh paragraph of the article: in the South: they had even legalized gay marriage! A travesty! And she had difficulty enough keeping the sick down her throat when they went prancing across her telly every evening...back when she lived at home and had a telly to watch. She kept all this quiet. But where would it all end?
She could've kept talking about it for hours, but she didn't want to take up more of the priest's time than was reasonable. She had to tell him the reason for her visit. She had to reveal her plan.
“I've seven wanes, Father.”
“That I know.”
“And I fear for their future. Even though two of them already couldn't resist the lure, and have fecked off to Florida. One other I don't wanny mention in the sight of God, but she be's gone and all. Though in her case, perhaps we're better rid.” Lesbian Moira, her eldest, she was talking about. She lived in Malta.
“Aye, and?”
“I know how to end it all, Father, and that's why I'm here today. I've a plan.”
Fionnuala couldn't understand why Father Steele suddenly appeared so tense. Perhaps he needed an assistant for all the work his job entailed. She continued: “I'm getting older, Father. And I've realized I need to make me mark on this world. Perhaps it be's the passing of Mrs. Ming. Did I mention she used to look after me when I was a wane? Naw? Well, she did. Anyroad, me plan's brilliant, so it is. I can do two things together. See me name in all the history books. Well, I guess I won't see it meself, as I'll probably be gone by the time it gets in them. But I can live on, and I can solve this problem of the South. Kill two birds with one stone.”
“What are ye planning on doing, Mrs. Flood?” Father Steele now looked scared, and Fionnuala whipped around to see what was frightening him so, but couldn't see anything except the wall, so she turned back and answered him.
“What are we planning, ye mean, Father. That's why I'm here. To get ye to go along with me. I need papal endorsement, ye see. Or, rather, we do. I kyanny do it without ye. One simple phone call to the Vatican—”
“Is this...this an exorcism ye're talking about? Them Mings and the Ouija board again?”
“Och, not a tall!” Fionnuala spat derisively. “Sure, I told ye that was nothing but a wee extra. Naw. Hear me out, Father. Ye'll understand, and be happy to join in, I'm sure. Ye want to see yer name written in the history books and all, if I'm not mistaken. I've told ye why them down South be's deserting the church, and, aye, Yank songs and such is part of it. But the real reason, Father, and the real reason throughout the years why there was people what had turned their backs on the church that turned them right around again and sat down proudly on the pews anew was because they had to fight the enemy.”
“That Eminem, do ye mean? Or that Jay-Z? South Park?”
“God bless us and save us! Naw, ye haven't a clue, have ye? And, naw, not that Miley Cyrus, either. Though...” She considered for a moment. “Naw. Not even her. Naw, there be's a bigger, more dangerous enemy. Father, as I'm sure ye're aware, there be's a race alien to God, or if I've read it right on the internet, two alien races what have taken over the most holy Catholic city in the world. That doesn't be our dear Dublin no more. Not with church attendance rates lower than eighteen percent. And I'm not even talking Rome. Ye know as well as I do that be's number two.” She raised her eyebrow.
Father Steele made noises as if he were being strangled.
“Are ye talking about...”
“Aye! Jerusalem! The sacred place of our Lord's birth here on Earth. Heaving with Jews and Arabs, so it is, nowadays. Vulgar, godless heathens! It's our duty, Father, to clean the lot of them out of the city. And then things will be right with the world again.”
“But heathens—”
“Father, I'm talking about giving the people, and not just them what's lost their way in Dublin, but all them across the Continent as well, as I'm planning on passing through there as well, I'm talking about giving all people hope instead of fear.” The woman's voice now seemed different somehow, as if she were a very bad actress reciting lines in a high school production of Grease. Father Steele could imagine no role Fionnuala could play in that musical. The eerie voice continued, “The promise of salvation and not the threat of damnation. The reward of...of...” Here it faltered. Fionnuala reached into her Titanic satchel and pulled out a paper bag from the bakery she had scribbled some notes on. There was a bit of jam tart on the outside of the bag. She found her place and read out, “They will be rewarded with everlasting paradise. Instead of spending an eternity of torment in Hell.”
“It sounds like yer talking about...!” Father Steele sputtered. “Ye kyanny be talking about...!”
“But I am, Father. From what I've seen on the internet, there was seven crusades. Mines will be, excuse me, Father, ours will be...crusade number eight!” She smiled triumphantly. “Don't look at me that way, Father. I've done all the research. The first crusade, we won that one, the second crusade, well, we lost, except for the fact that they was allowed to set up them crusader states, so maybe that was a bit of a draw, the third crusade, but, we lost outright. Och, we was robbed, so we were—”
“Mrs. Flood!” Father Steele squealed, scandalized. “Ye kyanny reel off the wins and losses of the most holy crusades as if they was football matches leading up to the championship!”
It was as if she didn't hear him. Fionnuala looked back down at the paper, at a different part of it.
“Here's what I'm on about, Father. Them what engages in crusades, ye wouldn't believe the perks they gets! I don't know why they went outta style. It's like yer loyalty card points all being redeemed at once, like skipping the queue at the Top-Yer-Trolley, like, aye, like winning the lottery! All ye need to do is get that endorsement from the Pope, grab a cross, march into Jerusalem, kick out them Jews and Arabs, and it's plain sailing for the rest of yer life! Listen, Father. I've a list here.”
As Father Steele continued to stare in shock, Fionnuala read from her list. “It says here ye get a pardon for all yer sins. I guess that means no more confession. And then ye get all these privileges from the Church. Just listen, Father. It's like a dream come true. Exemption from tolls and taxes! Immunity from arrest!” She eyed him eagerly. “Exemption from interest payments! No interest payments, Father! Could ye imagine it?”
“Mrs. Flood!” Father Steele yelled. Fionnuala dropped her list, so taken aback was she by the anger in his voice. “Cease and desist this moment!”
“But there's more...” Fionnuala tried to reach the note, but couldn't maneuver her stomach in such as way so that her hand could snatch it up way down there on the floor.
“Don't read me one more thing!
I kyanny stick no more of this...this...nonsense! Have ye gone mad, woman? I'm speaking literally here, now. Are ye deranged? A crusade?! In this day and age?!”
Fionnuala's face was beet-red. Her eyes were wide with shock. Her lips disappeared, and her hands curled into fists.
“What are ye on about?”
“This is not...not normal thinking.”
“Are ye trying to tell me, oh, who the bloody hell was all them famous people now, that Richard the Lionheart, that, er, yer man, some king from France—”
“That was centuries ago! Think of it logically for a moment. I know your financial situation, Mrs. Flood.”
She gasped. She looked like she'd just been slapped.
“How the bloody hell—”
“Ye've yammered on about it often enough. How would ye even get to Jerusalem? Can ye even afford the plane fare?”
“Doesn't RyanAir—”
“Even if they did, ye've yer visa to pay for, and a passport to pay for and all. Have ye any clue how dear visas and passports is? Not that I think for a moment the Israeli government would issue ye a visa. And how many people were ye planning on taking with ye on this eighth crusade of yers?”
“As many as I can scrounge up. I'm gonny start the...the...application process for fellow crusaders, the call to arms, if ye like, this Sunday in the city center. Here before the church.”
“Do not. Do. Not. I implore ye, Mrs. Flood. Ye're gonny make a laughing stock of yerself.”
“Are ye telling me ye're not gonny join me?”
Several tense moments passed. Finally, Father Steele spoke. “I should think ye know the answer to that yerself. And ye said yerself the first thing ye need be's a papal endorsement.”
“Aye, and that Pope Francis seems a good egg. I'm sure—”
“Please listen to me, woman. Have I not given ye good advice every time ye asked for it? About yer sister-in-law, and yer husband, and yer daughter Dymphna and the grandchildren? Answer me! Answer me, woman!”
“A-aye.”
“Well, I'm giving ye advice again. And all me other advice kyanny be good, and this one suddenly bad. Don't go through with it, Mrs. Flood. I know ye sit alone in that caravan every night and behind that counter at Final Spinz every day, and that's yer lot. Yer sad lot. But there be's other, more constructive ways to fill yer life. To make yer life worth living. To leave, as ye want to, yer mark on the world. There be's charities ye can help with here at St. Fintan's, ye can help out at the homeless shelter next door, ye can—”
“The homeless shelter!” Fionnuala had finally wrenched herself out of the chair and was trying to slip the strap of her satchel around her broad shoulder, but the strap was twisted and she was having trouble. She leaned forward and hissed into the priest's face: “Traitor! Ye're a flimmin fecking traitor, Father! A disgrace to the Church! I'll not say feck away off to ye, but, or that ye be's dead to me, as I have a feeling...I feel it in me heart...ye're gonny change yer mind. When ye sees all the support me plan gets on Sunday, when ye see the masses, the throngs, banging on yer church door, roaring for ye to come along with us, I'll happily allow ye to join in. So, although I'm spitting with rage at ye at the moment, I'll just say 'cheerio' and 'I'll love ye and leave ye' instead. I'll let ye have a wee think about it. And then ye can tell me yer final decision. After ye've seen sense.”
Out she stomped. Father Steele lunged for the paracetamol.
Two minutes later, Yootha watched in shock as the shameless woman marched over to the holy water font at the front doors of the church, reached into her horrible satchel and took out what looked like an empty gin bottom. She scooped the bottle into the font. Stealing holy water! The bold-faced cheek! Though, Yootha considered, it was free, so perhaps it wasn't such a heinous act after all. But the sense of entitlement! She shook her head and swept the floor with more vigor than a minute earlier.
The first item checked off her list. The first two, if she counted the bottle. Five minutes later, Fionnuala passed the KFC, an American invention, on Shipquay Street. She eyed it with sudden suspicion. How she loved their batter, but she'd be taking her custom elsewhere in the future. The Irish owned-and-run Kebabalicious.
Back at Father Steele's desk, the shell-shocked man was writhing with indecision. He was supposed to love all his flock, but Fionnuala Flood wasn't even part of his parish. Though she still deserved his love, as all humans did. The best thing to do, he thought, would be to keep loving this particular non-parishioner...from a distance.
* * *
CHAPTER 24
Zoë's sister-in-law Vera was unable to meet them; she had a pressing engagement. Zoë, the nanny and the three screaming children were greeted by a Mrs. Foley in the lobby of Krick Labs. The lobby was rosewood-paneled and chrome-accented, and had a vaguely Berlin 1920s feel about it that pleased Zoë's senses. Everything would be carried out for Mrs. Riddell by the very capable hands of the assistant director of the labs. Mrs. Foley had, of course, been instructed to give Zoë preferential and, more importantly, accelerated treatment.
As she shook the AD's latex glove, Zoë didn't have a clue as to what Mrs. Foley might look like, nor what clothing brands she favored, as the woman was hidden beneath a white lab coat, a plastic blue cap, goggles and a face mask. Her eyes were hazel, though. It seemed to Zoë this getup wasn't necessary there and then, but, she considered, the woman probably had to wear it when the actual DNA processing was going on, and it was probably too much of a hassle to take everything off just to put it back on again. So she left them on all the time.
“Please follow me,” Mrs. Foley said.
Zoë, the nanny and the children were ushered down a hallway off the lobby, then into an antechamber, then through a series of doors. A man similarly dressed to Mrs. Foley—his name tag said Jez Frett—looked up from a desk and asked if these were the children who needed to be tested. Mrs. Foley told him they were indeed.
“What are their names?” Jez asked.
The nanny looked over at Zoë.
Oh! Those embarrassing names! Zoë hadn't been able to bring herself to tell them to the nanny, and she certainly wasn't going to mortify herself in these surroundings.
“They're rather difficult to pronounce. Let's just give them numbers, shall we?” she said to the surprise of all. “One, two and three.”
Jez arched an eyebrow over his goggles. Zoë barely had time to shrug off her jacket and admire the minimalist, clinical surroundings she found herself in before Jez and the nanny bundled up the children and carried them beyond doors Jez had punched many numbers into a keypad to open.
“You're quite free to accompany them if you'd like, Mrs. Riddell,” Mrs. Foley said with a smile.
“I don't believe that will be necessary,” Zoë said.
Mrs. Foley motioned to a chair next to her desk. They both sat down, though not in the same chair. Mrs. Foley had her own behind her desk.
“I believe,” she said, “there are other tests you'd like done?”
“Indeed there are.” Zoë unclasped her handbag and delved inside. She handed over Rory's sample. “This is my son's DNA. I'd like you to compare it with the results of the children's DNA if you could.”
An eyebrow was raised under the goggles. “Are you aware of the Human Tissue Act of 2004? Section 45?”
“Well, no.” Who would be?
“It is a crime to possess any bodily material from another human with the intent of analyzing its DNA without the appropriate consent of the person involved.”
“I can have my son Rory ring you if you'd like. He gave it up quite voluntarily. There was full disclosure on my part.”
After a tense second or two, Mrs. Foley finally said, “I trust you.” I should think so, thought Zoë. “Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?”
Zoë had spied a cappuccino maker in the corner, and approved of it. But she was too jumpy without adding caffeine to the mix.
“Thank you, but no. But, please, have some if you'd like.”
&
nbsp; “I'm fine. Hmm, maybe I should dismantle all this gear.” Mrs. Foley began the lengthy process of removing all her lab accoutrements, and finally she was revealed, a woman about Zoë's age with mousy brown hair and laugh lines around the eyes.
Zoë said, “I've brought the children along only to ensure I didn't mix up the samples, which swab belonged to which mouth. It's essential I learn exactly which one of them might be an imposter. Or, indeed, if all of them are.”
“Perhaps you'll be interested in exactly what we'll be measuring? How this all works?”
Zoë, who was a naturally inquisitive woman, was indeed mildly interested. She was slightly disappointed she hadn't followed the children into the actual lab. It would have been intriguing to see them squirting the liquid into little test tubes, watch the machine twirling them around. But she couldn't stand another minute of the children's horrid noises. A little enlightenment might make up for the disappointment.
“Please do enlighten me.”
“Here at Krick Labs, we do PCR-based testing, that's polymerase chain reaction, as it's quicker and more sensitive than RFLP. You see, interspersed along the DNA chain, there are conserved regions, which are the same for everyone, and variable regions, which are different for everybody...”
The woman went on at length and with much technical jargon, then woke Zoë up when she said, “Let me sketch out what chromosome number 4 looks like under a microscope, together with the location of the GYPA locus, and its corresponding variations, let's say B Allele on the right chromosome, A Allele on the left.” She quickly drew the sketch, two deflated-balloon like things, and scribbled some numbers and the letters and arrows which pointed to the locations of the loci. “This is what you would see if you looked at the chromosomes under a microscope. Though without the letters, numbers and little arrows.”
Zoë looked at her sharply.
“I did understand that much. Yes.”
“I'm so sorry. Of course you did. You wouldn't believe the questions I've been asked...”
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