The Good Priest (11 page)

Savouring the malt on his tongue, he glanced down at the battered figure opposite him, and, suddenly, felt a great rush of pity for him. He looked so small, so anxious, like a dormouse in shock having just escaped the blades of the combine-harvester. For a second, it crossed his mind to take the tartan rug from the wing of his chair and tuck him up, make sure he was warm and comfortable.

‘Tell me all about it, Vincent,' he said, sitting down himself and pressing the sides of his tumbler with his long white fingers. As he listened, he nodded sagely, occasionally inserting a shocked ‘Really?' or an outraged ‘No!' Hearing about Laura Houston's request for help, her problems, the frequent meetings and Vincent's growing fondness for her, he knew already what was coming next. His own view, formed within less than five minutes, and which could be summed up as ‘What an unbelievable mess!' remained
unspoken. It would be unhelpful. And Father Vincent probably shared it by now. Loneliness, all too often, in his experience, led to a lack of judgement; and everyone knew that women, like tigers, were best admired from afar.

Seeing his colleague's empty glass, he gestured at the bottle as if to urge him to get a refill. The interruption, however, stopped Vincent's story in mid-flow, as the embarrassment of his predicament hit home. Seeing an opportunity to move to other less painful topics, the Dean began to speak. There were, he said, the practicalities to attend to. Masses still had to be said, baptisms and funerals conducted. In short, the life of the parish must continue. As Father Vincent returned, almost involuntarily, to the subject of Sarah Houston, wondering out loud whether she had known about the assault before it happened, Father Bernard was flicking through the card index of his memory in search of a suitable standby.

‘I don't think she can have,' Father Vincent repeated, ‘because we were close. Genuinely close. Good friends, I thought. Too close, I now appreciate. But I'm sure she wouldn't have let that happen.'

‘Father Roderick …' the Dean interrupted, unaware of his non sequitur, pleased that the parish problem had been resolved. ‘He's retired. But he's helped out often enough before. He's always willing.'

‘Father Roderick?'

‘He was at St Mungo's – a good standby. Now, have you anywhere to stay?'

‘Yes,' Father Vincent answered, massaging his bruised jaw with his fingers. ‘I think I'll see if I can stay, for the
moment, with the Sisters at the Red Retreat. For a bit anyway.'

‘The Red Retreat? Do I know it?'

‘It's the rump of the old convent near Dunning. There are only seven sisters left now. They offer retreats, reiki, talking therapies … my pal Sister Monica's in charge.'

‘Monica McDermott? Doctor McDermott – with the build of a sumo wrestler – learned scholar and all round tough egg? That's one powerful woman.'

‘I like powerful women.'

‘Each to his own, Vincent. But you're more than welcome to use my spare room for a while if you prefer.'

‘Thanks, but I've already spoken to her.'

‘You've no parents left, no relatives, no siblings even?' the Dean said, standing up and shaking his umbrella to get rid of the last remaining droplets.

‘I've a brother but … we're not close. He's married, got a very busy job. Our lives have taken different paths.'

‘Right. I'll ring Dominic tomorrow and he'll be in touch in the very near future, I'm sure. He'll let you know where we go from here. Now, the police …'

Seeing his pet slinking past the open door, and suddenly struck by the realisation that his household was likely to be split up, Vincent exclaimed, ‘Satan! What shall I do with Satan?'

‘Satan?' Father Bernard replied, baffled.

‘My Siamese cat. No, it's obvious. Of course, he'll have to go into kennels or something.'

‘Yes, kennels or a cattery, or something,' the Dean echoed, nodding, patting Vincent on the shoulder and looking
around for his hat. ‘But have you spoken to the police yet, Vincent?'

‘No, I contacted Dominic. I thought I'd better speak to him first.'

‘Quite right too. He and I discussed it. It's up to you, of course, but at the moment everything is still within the family, a Church matter. We don't want a scandal, do we, if we can avoid it? Our view,
quantum valeat
, is to let sleeping dogs lie, otherwise we up the ante, don't we – involving outside agencies. We don't want to lose control, if we can keep it. We certainly don't want the press involved. All it would do is damage the Church further.'

‘No police. I don't want Sarah Houston's name involved, and a criminal conviction for her husband won't help her. There are children too. No doubt, the big brute will get his come-uppance from somewhere or other. Soon, I hope.'

The thin plasterboard walls of his room at the Red Retreat confined him. It was a guest room, blandly painted and blandly furnished. No one could be offended by it; or feel at home in it. The accommodation in a Holiday Inn had more character. In the fake fireplace, a bunch of fake flowers gathered dust, and a single reproduction watercolour in a gilt frame hung above it. The picture showed a vase of poppies, each bloom less red, more blurry and insipid than the last. Instead of the familiar scent of honey from his bee-suit, the air reeked of soap from the nearby laundry room.

Showing him round it with suitable proprietorial pride, Sister Monica had informed him that the lack of an
ashtray was deliberate policy, thus letting him know, in her oblique way, that smoking was not permitted. Finding herself unable, because of her bulk, to manoeuvre between the bed and the armchair, she apologised for the smallness of the room. Its saving grace, in Father Vincent's opinion, was the view from it of the world outside. It was a wide vista of the distant hills, high and wild, clothed in a faded green, occasionally interspersed with the gunmetal grey of scree. Trees, dwarfed and windblown, hugged the lower slopes as if clinging onto them for their own dear lives. One peak in particular caught the eye. It loomed above the others, casting dark shadows on its neighbours, an exposed rock face on it recalling its ancient past as a quarry.

Within days of his arrival he had bought an OS map of the area from Waterstones, and amused himself by locating in the scenery the features named ‘Hologrogin', ‘Rossie Law' and ‘Marcassie Bridge'. Sometimes, looking at the broad landscape in the warm tangerine light of dusk, he felt almost intimidated by it, unnaturally exposed within it. It was so large, so different from the enclosed town-scape with which he was familiar and the mellow, fertile land surrounding it. The absence of a loch reflecting the ever-changing skies struck him every time he looked out, making the scene feel as abnormal as a face without a nose. But the nuns loved it, he reminded himself. They were drawn to its grandeur, even if to him it seemed cold, hard and unapologetically impersonal. There were no dwellings arranged higgledy-piggledy beside each other, no pavements, no shops, play-parks or people. No people.
If massacres came to mind in the windswept bleakness of Glencoe, they seemed not too far away here. Opening the window he could hear only the songs of moorland birds: the mournful cries of curlews, peewits and oystercatchers. In retrospect, the perpetual hum of traffic in his parish seemed soothing as a lullaby, and he missed it.

Many letters of support from his parishioners, plus a nightly glass or two of a good claret, warm as blood and consumed alone, comforted him and kept him sane. On day two, the cardboard box of bottles he kept under his bed was unearthed by the nozzle of Sister Clare's beloved Dyson. From then onwards, the nuns, largely teetotallers, teased him mercilessly. It became known as his ‘Box of Delights'. Conviviality for most of them consisted of sitting together, breathless, spellbound by the latest Scandinavian murder series, arguing over who would do the sudoku in the newspaper and playing endless board games. Despite the lack of alcohol, their high-pitched laughter often penetrated his sanctuary, bringing home to him the otherness of his masculinity and, on bad days, making him feel as misanthropic as Scrooge. The only other male in the whole place was an African grey parrot called Bertie. He spent his days in a cage in the communal sitting-room, negotiating his perches, splitting and spitting seeds and squawking expletives. His fledgling years had been spent in a pub in Leith, fed on a diet of peanuts and absorbing the language of the patrons along with their cigarette smoke.

‘One fuckin' IPA, eh – just the one fuckin' IPA, pal,' was his usual sing-song greeting. The nuns, to a woman, adored him.

The first time the priest listened to abuse hissed down his mobile phone, the venom warm in the caller's mouth, he became fearful, reluctant to pick up any more calls. Each time he heard the nerve-jangling ringtone he began to sweat, his pulse racing in anticipation of more verbal hatred dripping from a stranger's lips. At the very sound, the back of his skull began to tingle, as if a metal band was being tightened around it. But after the first call, it was simply Father Roderick with some practical query: where did he keep the keys to the prayer room? Was he aware that his dry cleaning was now ready? Had Hayes' last bill been attended to?

Consequently, he forced himself to answer the calls. Only one call in twenty would be malevolent, but it was enough to ensure that he remained tense, permanently living on adrenaline, expecting the worst. The name-calling he could bear, it was the silences that upset him the most. He sensed that his caller enjoyed his disquiet, hoped, sadistically, to hear his victim's racing heartbeat.

‘You should be afraid of the dark, Father,' the man said, adding, in a voice suddenly laden with pent-up fury, ‘we know what you are, we know where you are! You can't hide from us, you filthy …'

The priest ended the call before the speaker could finish. Mark Houston would not get that satisfaction.

In the Bishop's absence, Monsignor Drew had set in train an investigation. It would, he had explained on the phone to Father Vincent, be imprudent for him to return to his parish in the meanwhile. The diocesan lawyer, Fergus
McClaverty of Grant Borthwick WS, had been instructed to interview everyone involved in order that the Bishop, amongst others, could come to a view on the incident and the events leading up to it. He would, he was assured, get his chance to tell his side of the story but, in the meanwhile, he should bide his time at the Retreat. When he asked how long the investigation was likely to take, his question was answered with an extended sigh, followed by ‘A fortnight? As long as it takes,' said in a tone that pre-empted further enquiries. Frustrated by his enforced idleness, he had, nevertheless, repeated the question the next week and the one after that, but no timescale was forthcoming. The third week that he asked the question, he was reprimanded by the Monsignor. In the circumstances it ill became him, he was told, to attempt to impose time-limits on anyone. Riled by the Monsignor's attitude, and frustrated by his loss of control over his own destiny, he replied, ‘“In the circumstances.” What circumstances would they be, then, Dominic? I'm still a priest in good standing as far as I'm aware. No-one has yet asked me to give an account of what happened. Has a judgement been reached all the same?'

‘Eh …' The man hesitated, clearly unprepared for any resistance. ‘No. I simply meant that we have to let things take their course. The lawyers and so on. They operate in geological time, don't they? We're in their hands, I'm afraid.'

‘He who pays the piper calls the tune,' Father Vincent said.

‘The piper,' the Monsignor replied stubbornly, ‘is only
required to blow a pipe. Thanks to you, a full-blown investigation is under way.'

‘As long as it is under way.'

By way of reply, the Monsignor simply grunted. Imprudence would be unearthed by the solicitors, if nothing else, of that he had no doubt. And with that finding, Vincent's vessel would be holed below the waterline. And, all in all, that might be no bad thing.

Walking up along the metalled road that led to Gallows Knowe, that same day, Father Vincent bowed his head against the horizontal rain. Despite the high hawthorn hedges, the road was lashed by a gale, turning the drops into darts which stung his scarlet cheeks, lashed the right side of his head and made his ear ache. He pulled up his collar as far as possible, cursing himself for setting off without a scarf. His trousers were already soaked, and raindrops slid down his anorak and dripped off it into his boots. Turbid, muddy water had poured into the drainage ditches on either side of the road until both burst their banks, flooding the tarmac, streaming down it and forming a gargantuan puddle a few yards ahead of him. If he was to continue, he would have to wade through it.

As he was in the middle of the pool, a car came from behind and tore through it at high speed, making no allowance for his presence less than a foot away. A wall of water hit him, drenching his face and clothes. Momentarily his breath was whipped from him by the cold. Tempted to flourish a V-sign after the red brake lights disappeared round a bend, cursing the driver for his thoughtlessness,
he decided to turn back home and accept that he'd been defeated by the weather. Now when he walked, his boots made an obscene squelching noise. As he was trudging back, the other side of his head exposed to the freezing rain, the car drew up beside him. Its window was rolled down and a cheery female voice said, ‘Want a lift?'

‘OK,' he replied, still aggrieved but opening the passenger door and getting in.

‘Dreadful day,' the woman said, moving off in first gear, her windscreen wipers, despite their frenetic speed, hardly able to cope with the volume of rain. An air freshener in the shape of a miniature fir tree swung from the rear-view mirror, filling the interior of the Volkswagen with a sweet and sickly perfume. As he was still blowing life back into his numb fingers, about to give her a piece of his mind about the soaking she had given him, she added, ‘Want a ciggie?'