Fear of the Fathers (5 page)

The first day had been the worst; emotional and frightened and not quite knowing what to expect, he had tried to escape before he entered the building. But his fears had been quickly allayed by the kindness of Gabriel.

Gabriel was a missionary of no fixed country or religion. Intuiting a difference from the other children, he had taken the apprehensive Abdullah under his wing and helped him acculturate. With unceasing patience he had schooled him in mathematics, the sciences, languages and literature. By the time he was sixteen Abdullah was better educated than most university graduates.

And then there was Miguel, Abdullah's best friend. Miguel had arrived at the orphanage two weeks after himself. Having been orphaned at roughly the same time Gabriel decided that the two boys should room together. From day one, and throughout their childhood, they had been inseparable; sharing the vicissitudes of life, and helping each other through them. They were more like brothers than friends, and with Gabriel as a father figure they had formed their own little family. When the time finally arrived to leave the orphanage and enter the world outside, both boys were filled with regret.

Abdullah remembered their last day with Gabriel vividly. After calling the boys into his room to say goodbye, he had confided in them the great secret. As he spoke, all that they had been taught suddenly fell into place. It became clear that Gabriel had been tutoring them for a purpose. Abdullah had always wondered why an unreligious man had taught them scripture so thoroughly; why he had given them such an in-depth knowledge of all persuasions. Now, at last, he knew.

After Gabriel had finished speaking, a heavy silence hung over the room. Not only had he stunned them with a revelation, he had also set them a task that would consume the rest of their lives; a task that would mean the two friends going their separate ways. They had planned to travel together, the two brothers against the world, but Gabriel's request put paid to this, and they knew it was right to comply with his wishes. Without him they would have been destined for a life of abject poverty like most of the other orphans. However hard it was to give up their plans, they had to respect the man who had given them so much.

Abdullah had seen Miguel just twice since that fateful day, although they made a point of writing to each other at least once a month. Had it really been forty years? The time had gone so quickly. And now everything was coming to a head. The day Gabriel feared was fast approaching. Abdullah made a sign in his head, beseeching the universe to give him strength.

The air was crisp and the sun was shining. Stella stepped out of her front door and took a deep invigorating breath. She had spent too much time indoors of late, and she was starting to go ‘stir crazy'. The current inertia meant that her fitness levels had dropped to an all-time low. To remedy the situation she had dusted off her running shoes and was about to attempt a two-mile run. A few years back it would have been no problem – she could have done five without breaking sweat, but since leaving Special Branch she'd let herself go. She wondered if she'd make it to the end of the road.

She started off at a sedate pace, breathing rhythmically, and reached the end of the road without succumbing to a coronary. Considering their rustiness, her legs felt surprisingly springy. She upped her pace slightly and sped on with confidence, her system becoming clearer with every blood-pumping inhalation. She'd almost forgotten the joys of running and its mentally cleansing effects; she vowed that she would keep it up and go out at least four times a week.

After a mile she'd had enough: her lungs were bursting, her legs had gone scarecrow, and her pulse was thumping faster than Michael Flatley's feet. It didn't matter that she was in the middle of a busy street – she had to stop. She collapsed onto a bench and lay face up with her eyes closed, oblivious to the passing world. Every mouthful of air felt like an icy stab to her chest. What had possessed her to go for a run? Never again, she thought. Never again.

“Are you alright?” said a familiar voice.

Stella opened her eyes. Looking down on her was the priest from outside the supermarket. “I…I'm…fine,” she stammered heavily.

“Good,” said the priest. “I'm glad to hear it. It's just that you looked to be quite distressed. That's twice in two days.” He gave her a kindly smile.

Stella dragged herself up to a sitting position and steadied her breathing. “I haven't been running for ages. I think I might have overdone it just a tad.”

“Just a tad, eh?” he grinned.

“Yes,” said Stella, finding herself reciprocating. “Why are you here anyway? Are you stalking me Father Cronin?”

“Ah, so you remember my name then. I suppose that's a good thing. And no, I'm not stalking you, I just happened to be passing. It is a thoroughfare after all.”

Stella stood up. “Well, thanks for your concern. But I'd better be heading back home.”

“Oh, that's a shame,” said Cronin. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to grab a coffee. I'm new around here, and I don't really know anyone. Unless of course you're too busy?”

Stella's instinct was to pretend she was. But looking into Cronin's warm eyes she felt unable to lie. And what would be the harm? He was hardly going to hit on her, he was a Catholic priest. “No, I'm not busy,” she said. “I could do with a drink and a sit down. I hope you like Starbucks, because that's all there is in Chiswick.”

Stella grabbed a table at the back of the busy café while Father Cronin got the drinks. Her pulse was just about back to normal and she was thinking about how nice it would be to have a smoke. Unfortunately, she'd left her cigarettes at home, so she was going to have to sit it out. And besides, standing outside like a social pariah was never appealing.

“There you go,” said Cronin, returning with the drinks. “One hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“No, thank you Stella, for coming here. You probably have better things to be doing than humouring the clergy of a Saturday afternoon.”

“You'd be surprised,” said Stella, prodding at a marshmallow. “My social diary hasn't exactly been full of late.”

Cronin eyed her thoughtfully. “I sense that you've been through some sort of trauma. Divorce maybe? A death in the family?”

Stella continued to play with her drink.

“I'm sorry,” said Cronin. “I'm being too nosy.”

“No, don't apologize,” said Stella. “I don't mind. I was just thinking, that was all. It was a death.”

Cronin sipped his coffee. “Family?” he asked.

“Not exactly. It was an old friend of mine. An ex-boyfriend to be precise. Except he wasn't really an ex when he died.” She shrugged. “It's complicated.”

“Ah,” said Cronin. “I shall pry no more then.”

“It's not like that, it's just difficult to explain. Although I suppose, in a nutshell: I loved him; we split up; we got back in touch; I realized I still loved him; he died.”

“It must have been awful for you,” Cronin sympathized.

“Yes, it was. The worst thing was that I never got a chance to be with him properly again. We were reunited under extreme circumstances, and just didn't have the time to really tell each other how we felt. I guess if we'd had the opportunity for that then I wouldn't feel quite so bad. Even though he's dead, I just feel like there's still something hanging in the air between us. There doesn't seem any way that I can make my peace with the situation.”

“Of course. It's a common phenomenon. Making your peace is extremely important. But it's more about making peace with yourself than anybody else.”

Stella gave an ironic laugh. “That's exactly what he would have said.” She took a sip of hot chocolate and luxuriated as the warm liquid trickled slowly down to her stomach. Father Cronin was having a soothing effect on her. She didn't know what it was – perhaps his reassuring smile, or his anodyne voice – but he made her feel safe, and she felt comfortable opening up to him. She couldn't believe that she was saying so much to a man she hardly knew.

“He must have been an exceptional man,” stated Cronin.

“He was, most of the time. He had his moments though.”

“If you don't mind me asking, what exactly happened to him?”

Stella thought for a moment. “He was shot. But I can't tell you much more than that I'm afraid – it's classified information”

“Sounds intriguing,” said Cronin. “But I won't press you.” He drank some more coffee. “What about the funeral? Did you not have a chance to say goodbye then?”

“That's part of the problem. There was no funeral.”

Cronin raised his eyebrows. “No funeral?”

“No. His body was stolen from the mortuary. God knows how, or why.”

“Very odd,” Cronin mused. “Sounds very Burke and Hare. I didn't realize bodysnatching still went on in this day and age.”

“Well, seemingly it does.”

“And there's been no sign of the body since?”

“None whatsoever. There's just nothing for the police to go on.”

“Well, I can see why it's so difficult for you,” said Cronin. “What about a memorial service? Wouldn't that help?”

“Yes. I've thought about that. I've been trying to arrange something with his brother. But there's a problem.”

“Oh. What's that?” asked Cronin.

Stella sighed. “They didn't get on, for one thing. The other being that their parents were murdered at roughly the same time as Stratton. His brother put the blame squarely on him. He doesn't seem interested in remembering Stratton at all. It's a case of good riddance as far as he's concerned.”

Cronin shook his head. “That's a real shame,” he said. “But perhaps all is not lost. I can help you organize a service if you like. I can also have a word with his brother. He might be better disposed towards a priest.”

Stella was about to answer when she caught sight of someone glancing over at them. Two tables down to the right a man was sitting reading the
Daily Telegraph.
He was Mediterranean-looking, wore a suit, and had dark brown hair greying at the temples. He had arrived just after she had sat down. When Stella returned his gaze he quickly went back to his paper.

“Something wrong?” asked Cronin.

“No. Well, I don't think so.” She lowered her voice. “I just had the feeling we were being watched by some guy. It's probably only paranoia. I'm always suspicious – it's an unfortunate side-effect from years of duty.”

“Oh yes. You said something about classified information earlier. What exactly do you do?”

“It's more a case of what I did,” she said. “I used to be in Special Branch, protecting government ministers and the like.”

“Sounds very exciting,” said Cronin.

“Yes, I suppose it was. But I'm out of it now, and that's that.”

She was thankful that Cronin didn't press her any further on the subject. Instead, he asked her some more about Stratton and the possibilities of organizing a memorial. He seemed very interested in Stratton, and asked her plenty of questions about how they'd met, what sort of person he was, and what he was into. Stella put his inquisitiveness down to genuine concern and a desire to bring forth any latent emotions she was harbouring. He was a fantastic listener, and talking to him was proving a cathartic experience.

After another hot chocolate Stella decided it was time to leave, or more importantly – time to go home for a cigarette.

“Thank you very much for the chat, Father,” she said, as she left her seat.

“It's been my pleasure,” said Cronin. “I feel like I've made at least one friend around here now. I'll be in touch with you about the memorial service.”

“Yes, of course. Do you have a pen?”

Cronin produced a silver biro from his pocket. Stella wrote down her number on a napkin.

“Thank you,” said Cronin. “And remember, if you need to talk in the meantime, you can find me just down the road at Our Lady's. Pop in whenever you like.”

Stella thanked him again for his kindness and left smiling. Cronin followed her out.

A minute after their departure, the Mediterranean picked up his paper and wandered out onto the street. He found a quiet spot and made a phone call.

The sun sank into the horizon, a perfect pink semicircle surrounded by faint wisps of cloud. Stratton sat in the lotus position on a tree stump at the edge of the wood, looking out over the moor. By his side Titan sniffed the air inquisitively. It was chill, and a light frost was beginning to form.

Stratton smiled as he took in the panorama, losing himself in the vast expanse of unbroken tranquillity. He'd been living in the woods for nearly three months and every afternoon he came to the same spot to think and reflect.

His thoughts were currently with Stella. He wondered what she was doing, and whether she was happy again. He hoped with all his heart that she was getting on with her life. It was probably cruel not to let her know the truth, but telling her would have been far too dangerous. Only Oggi and his three lieutenants knew that he was alive, and he wanted to keep it that way. There was a whole world of trouble waiting for him beyond the fringes of the moor. A world of questions and assumptions that he wasn't ready to deal with.