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A punk priest. Who knew?
‘And does Father Kerrigan know you’re… a…’
‘Barking mad, demon-obsessed lunatic?’ he finished for me.
‘Well, yes, that’s a good way of putting it. Does he?’
‘He does. And he sympathises. He’s also seen some strange things in his time.’
I bet he had, I thought, living in Everton.
‘Do you fancy another drink? Somewhere else?’ I said, standing up and trying not to wobble. First the shakes, then the wobbles. I was turning into a human jelly.
He frowned slightly and glanced at his watch.
‘All in the name of detective work,’ I added, in what I hoped was a reassuringly professional tone.
Ten minutes later we were standing in a back alley, looking at the closed-up doors of the You Craic Me Up. It’s an Irish comedy club, in case you hadn’t guessed. All their jokes start with ‘Have you heard the one about the English man, the Scots man and the Welsh man?’
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