O'Dowd made Dougal sit in a chair in the corner while he lit his candle and prepared his prayer book and crucifix. The curtains were still closed from the day before and the air was beginning to smell decidedly fusty. Dougal decided he could cope with it for now. After all, Father Jack often smelled much, much worse. Nevertheless, he thought it worth mentioning.
"Why does it have to be so dark?" he asked loudly.
O'Dowd's head turned slowly, like an iguana's. "Because, little man, the light must come to us."
"But it's right there," said Dougal, pointing at the shrouded window. "Open the curtains and you'll see it!"
O'Dowd smiled indulgently. "You don't understand, do you? Seeking the white light of salvation requires effort. It requires sweat and tears, and sometimes ... even blood."
Dougal gulped and went pale, although it was barely noticeable in his gloomy corner. "What do you mean, 'blood'?"
"Don't you worry yourself young padre," O'Dowd replied, smoothing the bedsheets around his book and crucifix. "I often speak figuratively. Much of the Holy Book is figurative, after all. However, certain spiritual beings are summoned by its words, as you will soon see."
"They'd get in easier if the window was open!" Dougal persisted.
O'Dowd tutted. "For the last time. The window stays shut and the curtains stay closed. There must be no contamination from outside. Everything we need is right here in this room."
"Everything we need for what? Summoning Satan?"
There. It was out. He'd said it, and there was no going back. Trouble is, he hadn't intended to say it. Far from being a bright idea, or part of a cunning plan, it was just Dougal speaking without engaging his brain, as usual. This was not what Ted would have done. Not at all!
Dougal gripped the seat of his chair as he waited for the tall priest's reaction. He fully expected to be set on fire or at least given an extreme wedgie.
O'Dowd drew himself upwards, silently unfurling like a slender reed. Soon he was standing at his full height before Dougal, who shrank down and craned his neck upwards in order to see the dour priest's angular face with the shadows dancing in and out of it.
"Satan, you say?" One eyebrow arched expectantly.
"Er, no. I meant Simon. That game, you know. 'Simon Says'. Simon Says, 'sit down Dougal and don't say another word'."
"It's too late to take it back now, McGuire."
"Not if Simon Says!"
O'Dowd began to chuckle. Soon he was laughing throatily. For some reason his laughter was even more frightening than his anger.
"You think I'm a Satanist, don't you?"
As the old saying goes, thought Dougal, in for a penny, in for two pennies.
"No. I think you're a vampire. Mrs. Doyle thinks you're a Satanist."
O'Dowd grinned with glee. "And what about Father Hackett?"
"Jack just thinks you're a gobshite," Dougal clarified.
O'Dowd guffawed until there were tears in his eyes. "Oh, this is priceless! A vampire and a Satanist! No wonder you and your friends were banished to this tiny island in the middle of nowhere! What vivid and outlandish imaginations you have!"
"You can't blame us," Dougal said defensively. "You're very weird."
"Why? Because I'm tall, dark and mysterious?"
"Because you like spider coffee and nearly raw meat and you think that when the horse bucks in Buckaroo it means you've won! You even sound like Dracula!"
O'Dowd wiped his eyes. "My dear Father McGuire. Had I known you were so tormented by your thoughts, I'd have reassured you much, much sooner."
"You mean, you're not... you're not a vampire?"
O'Dowd shook his head, still shaking with mirth.
"Or a Satanist?"
O'Dowd clutched his stomach and bent double. "No," he squeaked through ripples of laughter before returning to his full height. The candle flickered wildly as his dark head appeared to brush the ceiling even though the Parochial House had very high ceilings.
"I'm God," he said abruptly.
Now it was Dougal's turn to laugh. It spluttered out of him like a donkey sneezing while taking a drink. He was so taken aback by O'Dowd's claim that he forgot he was supposed to be scared.
"No way!"
"I am so! Heathens and unbelievers have laughed at me for the last time, McGuire. I plan to bring forth Lucifer himself so that I may defeat the Dark Prince and prove my Almighty Magnificence once and for all!" O'Dowd began pacing, raking his fingers through his hair. "Oh yes, I'll even have that cocky Len Brennan on his knees kissing my feet when he discovers who I really am!"
Dougal's brow furrowed, indicating that he was thinking. "So... you're definitely not going to summon Satan then?"
The tall priest rolled his eyes. "Yes I am. Lucifer is Satan."
"But you said you weren't a Satanist! Make up your mind!"
O'Dowd sighed loudly and impatiently. "Didn't you hear me, McGuire?! I must summon Satan in order to defeat him! To show the world the power of GOD!"
"And what do you need me for if you have all the power of God?"
O'Dowd loomed over Dougal, throwing the young priest into shadow.
"Because Lucifer is crafty," he whispered. "I need something to lure him out. He's very fond of soft, innocent, pure, untouched flesh. Just. Like. Yours." He prodded Dougal's chest three times for emphasis.
Dougal stared down at the clawlike finger poking into his tank top. "You're not God! You're mad," he wailed. "Just like everyone else who's ever been sent here! Mad as a kettle!"
"You're wrong!" O'Dowd spun around in the middle of the room and sent the candle flame dancing. "I am the Almighty! Those doctors don't know what they're talking about!" He grabbed his crucifix from the bed and held it up in both hands, aiming it at the ceiling. "Come forth, O Prince of Darkness! Come forth wretched lizard, and claim your prize!"
"I thought Satan lived down there," said Dougal, pointing at the floor.
"Shut up! I know what I'm doing!"
Dougal peered at the manic priest whose hair was now falling in long strands over his face. He wasn't a vampire, he wasn't a Satanist, but he was summoning Satan anyway because he thought he was God. How much more ridiculous was this day going to get?
Mrs. Doyle picked up the phone.
"I'm calling the police," she told Jack.
The crusty old priest jerked upright. "NO!" he shouted. "NOT THE FECKIN' POLICE!"
Mrs. Doyle sighed. Jack had thrown his brick in the direction of some nuns and even though it had fallen well short of them, they had seen fit to call the Garda. Jack had lasted five minute in the cells before the cops begged Father Crilly to take him back, but it had left the old priest with a lasting hatred of the Craggy Island federales.
"Not for you, Father," she insisted. "To rescue Father McGuire from the clutches of evil!"
But Jack wasn't listening. He banged on the arms of his chair shouting about not being arrested until Mrs. Doyle could barely hear herself think. She riffled hurriedly through Ted's address book.
"All right, Father. There must be someone we can call besides the police," she fretted.
Jack thumped his chair louder and louder. "NO POLICE! NO POLICE!"
Mrs. Doyle wished Jack would shut up. She was becoming more and more concerned by the odd banging and scraping noises coming from the guest room. It sounded like they were rearranging the furniture in there. She hoped they wouldn't move the bed and see that she'd only been vacuuming around it all these years.
She turned another page and her eyes fell on a number. it was surrounded by little doodles of daggers, hanging men, and swear words with lots of exclamation marks pressed so deep into the paper that they nearly went through the whole book and onto the table. Mrs. Doyle gulped as she read the name. Father Crilly would never forgive her, but it was worth a try.
Mrs. Doyle put the receiver to her ear and dialled the number for Father Dick Byrne.
Ted stood on the upper deck of the ferry straining his eyes towards the horizon. Normally he quite liked a bit of sailing, 'a load of men in a boat floating around on the sea' as Mrs. Doyle called it. But this was no self-indulgent Sunday jaunt on the briny. He pushed on the rail like he'd pushed on the passenger seat of the taxi, trying to make the ship go faster.
This was certainly the fastest he'd ever wanted to get to Rugged Island. He didn't want to keep bothering Mary, she might only grant three wishes a day, so instead he abused the poor handrail while fervently urging the boat to 'speed the feck up, for feck's sake'.
Other passengers began to stare, but Ted was long past caring what they thought. Their sheeplike milling aggravated him. They didn't care that the ferry was crawling like a snail, they were enjoying themselves, ho ho! Didn't they know that a man's life was at stake here?
Whether it was by divine intervention or just a turn in the weather, a brisk wind blew up and propelled the ferry forward like a kick up the backside. Ted jumped up and down, excitedly adding a bit more impetus with his feet.
"That's it, girl... push harder," he cried, to the shock and chagrin of a gaggle of elderly ladies sitting on a wooden bench by the wheelhouse. "Harder, harder! Faster, faster! Yes! That's it! Good girl!" He was, of course, talking to the ferry, but suddenly realised Mary might think him a bit condescending towards women. He crossed himself quickly. "Not you, Mary, you're not a girl. You're a lovely woman." Ted prided himself on how smooth he could sometimes be with the opposite sex.
Even with the increase in speed it still felt like a century before Rugged Island hove into view. A quick look at his watch told Ted they'd only been afloat for half an hour, but he didn't believe it. They'd probably sailed through a wormhole or something- the Rugged Island Triangle. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
At long last the ferry chugged into the tiny harbour which was little more than a couple of floating pontoons. Ted had long since descended from the upper deck and was first in line to get off, ignoring the old ladies behind him who were huffing and puffing. The boat was barely moored before Ted leaped over the side with his holdall, the ferrymen shouting angrily behind him. He thudded along the pontoon and up the concrete steps. He needed to find someone who would take him to Craggy Island- fast.
There was a boathouse ahead and as he ran towards it, he fancied he saw a familiar figure conversing with the owner. With a sinking heart, he recognised the arrogant tilt of the man's head, the kickable arse, the "I'm so much better than you" set of the shoulders. It was inevitable, he supposed, that he'd not last two minutes on Rugged Island without bumping into his sworn enemy.
"Dick!" he yelled as he reached the boathouse. "What the feck are you doing here?"
Father Dick Byrne spun around in surprise. "Ted! You old bastard! This is my island! What the feck are you doing here?"
"I don't have time for your nonsense," Ted muttered, pushing past Father Dick. "I need a boat, pronto."
"Well, you're out of luck, because Cyril and I just hired the last one."
Father Cyril MacDuff appeared in the doorway of the boathouse wearing a pair of armbands and a stupid smirk.
Ted grabbed Dick's lapels in despair. "Damn you, Dick! I need to get to Craggy Island right now!"
Dick smiled smugly and twirled a boat ignition key around his finger. "Isn't that a coincidence? That's exactly where we're going. Right Cyril?"
Cyril nodded like a spring-headed toy on a car dashboard.
"What the feck are you doing going to Craggy Island?" Ted demanded, eyes ablaze with fury. Were they attempting a takeover? A coup d'etat while he was gone?
"Your job," Dick shot back. "Since you're not there to do it."
Ted thrust his face close to Dick's, who shrank back just a little bit, even though the smug grin stayed in place.
"What do you mean, my job? Explain yourself Dick, you, you... shitehawk!"
Knowing he had the upper hand, Dick became outrageously fake-friendly and condescending.
"Your dear housekeeper Mrs. Doyle phoned me in a right state. Said Father McGuire was in trouble. Said she didn't have anyone else to turn to. Well, I said, how awful for you my dear lady. Of course you've phoned the right person. Cyril and I will be there in a shot!"
"Since when have you cared about Dougal or anything that happens to him?"
Dick escorted Ted to the motorboat he and Cyril had just hired. The owner had rolled it down to the shore and was standing in the shallows waiting for them to climb aboard.
"Since never. But Mrs. Doyle sounded frantic. She said you were off on vacation somewhere. Enjoying yourself, no doubt." Dick shook his head and tutted. "How selfish of you. But then, you always did put yourself first."
Ted fumed with impotent rage. He wanted to slap the man so hard, but Mary would never forgive him. Nevertheless, his fingers twitched like coiled snakes at his sides.
"I hate you, Father Dick Byrne!" he hissed, unable to think of anything more clever to say.
"I know," Dick smirked. "But let's discuss that on the way." He shoved Ted towards the boat. "Stop squawking and get in. You can watch me save your little friend from whatever misadventures have befallen him this time. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about being a priest!"
Ted was more grateful than he would ever, ever let on to Dick, even under extreme torture. He waded into the sea and clambered in before Dick had a chance to change his mind. Cyril provided a cheap laugh by slipping and falling in like an ungainly duckling, but Dick annoyingly climbed in like a seasoned sailor and settled in behind the wheel. Huddled in the back with his holdall, Ted prayed hard for Dougal's safety as the engine sputtered, then roared into life, filling the air with grey smoke and the smell of marine fuel.
Finally he was off to Craggy Island, and not a moment too soon!