The Good Priest (12 page)

Further mollified, he took one and lit up.

‘You're not, by any chance, Father Vincent Ross, are you?'

‘Yes,' he replied, taken aback by her question.

‘Like the heater on? It's pretty parky today.'

‘Thanks. How d'you know who I am?'

‘That better, Vincent?' she said, turning the fan on full blast.

‘Yes. Thanks. But could you please tell me how you know who I am?'

‘You're the priest, aren't you? The one in Kinross who's been having it away with that married mother of twins, eh?'

‘I have not!' He looked across at her indignantly, taking in her appearance for the first time. She had an unruly, plum-coloured thatch of hair and a fine, almost Grecian, profile. Placed beside her skin, ivory would have looked dark. A single silver stud glinted above an eyebrow. Her small eyes looked straight ahead, scanning the road, never meeting his. She was dressed entirely in black, and he noticed that her spade-shaped nails had been lacquered in the same colour. The contrast between her complexion and her clothing made her striking, as if she was at death's door, or drained of blood.

‘That's not what I've heard, Vincent. Apparently, you and she have been having an affair for months. Meeting in the church, your home and God knows where else. You seduced her – took your chance when you were supposed to be counselling her about a recent miscarriage.'

‘That's complete rubbish! I did no such thing. Who are you exactly?'

‘But that's what they're all saying. If I were you, Vincent,' she added, glancing across at him for the first time, braking gently and flicking an indicator, ‘I'd want to tell my side of the story. This is your chance, darling, to put the record straight. Best take it, eh? We've got enough, in fact more than enough, to go to press with, but I thought you'd like to put your side of things. Tell the world what really happened. We know you've had it away with her, she told us as much. But, perhaps, it was a love story, a real love story. You fell head over heels in love … you know the kind of thing.'

‘Stop the car, please.'

‘I was going to, so that we could speak. But maybe I should just carry on to the Red Retreat now, eh, Vincent? We're only minutes away and we could talk there. Better there than on the side of the road.'

‘Stop the car, please – now!' he ordered her, his hand on the passenger door-handle.

‘Here? Now? In the pissing rain? Are you mad? We're going to print the article, you do understand that, don't you? Know what your media people – the Catholic media office – said, this morning? No, I thought not. They said “No comment”. Rather damning, I'm sure you'd agree. I think, probably, we'd better hear your side of things. This
is
your only chance, Vincent.'

‘Stop the car!'

‘You don't want to set the record straight?'

‘STOP THE CAR!'

The Volkswagen having finally ground to a halt, he climbed out and slammed the passenger door with all his might. It made a satisfying bang. In response, the driver roared off, revving her engine like a rally driver, the spinning rear wheels splattering him in gobbets of mud. Walking onwards he could feel his heart palpitating. The cold now seemed even more intense, as if icy fingers were gripping his skull and pressing hard into his temples. What he had been dreading had happened. Now, everyone in the whole of Kinross-shire would read her nonsense, everyone in Scotland or beyond, for all he knew. He had become tabloid fodder, would join the ranks of ‘Randy Reverends', ‘Pants-down Priests' and ‘Molesting Monks'. Maybe they would all believe it too. After all, he had left
the parish – ‘fled' might be a more accurate description – and no real explanation for his sudden departure had ever been given. Her garbage would plug that particular gap.

Increasing his pace in his haste to get back to the Retreat, he plunged his cold hands into his trouser pockets. In one he found the tooth that the Norman man had kicked from his jaw. Twirling its monstrous root between his fingers, he was struck how dissimilar it was to a milk tooth. He could picture the first one he had lost, a neat, compact little thing, with the tell-tale brown stain of caries on its chewing surface from sucking too many sweets, the hallmark of a Scottish childhood. While he slept, the tooth fairy had removed it from under his pillow, leaving a twenty-pence piece in its place. By the time the last obstinate tooth had come out the rate had increased to fifty pence. But the poor old tooth fairy was long since dead, and, today, that was a blessing. At least she would not have to read of his disgrace, catch gossips discussing him in the shops and feel the need to defend him. It would have broken her heart. No one had been more proud of him. In his mind's eye an image of her at the party after his ordination appeared, beaming, plump, clad in a red coat, darting about like a robin puffed out in its winter plumage. Graduating in law had been nothing, in comparison, in her eyes. He shook his head, determined to dislodge the picture from his thoughts. In disgust he threw the shattered tooth into the bushes.

As he entered the driveway to the Retreat, Sister Margaret came to greet him. Buffeted by the high wind her umbrella was swinging to and fro above her head,
its sharp spokes ready to take an eye out. Her fine grey hair streamed behind her like smoke. She appeared to be dressed in some sort of cloak, which the wind periodically inflated, making her look like a puffball. Hobbling towards him, still wearing her furry bedroom slippers, she spoke as soon as she was within range. ‘There's a lady to see you, Father. From the press, she says. She's told us that this really is your last chance, whatever that means. I've just come to warn you.'

Before he could answer, his phone went. Smiling at the nun to apologise to her for not responding immediately, he took it out and put it to his ear.

‘Couldn't keep your grubby hands to yourself, eh, Father?' a voice sniggered at the other end. Instantly, he cut the line.

‘She doesn't look well, does she?' Sister Margaret said linking an arm in his. ‘Come to think of it, you're not looking so good yourself, Father.'

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dennis May's post dropped through the letterbox. Hearing it cascading onto the hall floor, he stopped what he was doing and wandered off to retrieve it. The first envelope that he looked at was brown and looked, he thought, dull and unattractive. Official. It had his name and address printed on it and advised, in large red letters, that it contained ‘Important Information'. Thinking that he would be the judge of that, he stuffed it to the back of the pile and opened the uppermost white envelope instead. It appeared far more enticing, begging to be opened, with its looped writing in blue ink and an unfamiliar stamp. Taking out a greetings card from it he put on his spectacles to read it. ‘Happy Birthday,' a grinning donkey proclaimed through tombstone teeth. Inside he found the message ‘Many Happy Returns of the day on your 78th from Theresa and all the family.' Bemused, he looked at the date on his
Telegraph
and realised that it was Friday 25 February and, therefore, his own birthday. Without the card he would have missed it completely! He was, and would always be, a … a … The name of the star sign eluded him, but in his mind he could picture a woman holding a jug of water. Those born under the sign were all, as far as he could recall, due to meet a handsome stranger shortly. So Minette du Bois had predicted in some column or other. But who the hell was Theresa, never mind her family? As there was no mention of love
or kisses beneath the message, they could not be his family, and that, at least, was a mercy.

Back in the kitchen he put the unopened envelopes on the oak table and picked up where he had left off in his hunt for the butter. It had not been in the fridge or the larder, of that he was fairly certain. For a second he wondered if Julia had got there first and eaten whatever was left. But close inspection of the dog's muzzle, twitching occasionally as she dreamt of a favourite rabbit burrow, revealed no evidence of theft. Sitting beside the old Alsatian on the white leather settee he fingered her ears, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she slept on, unconscious of his presence. In the silver ashtray on the nearby Welsh dresser his half-smoked cigar glowed, dwindling away beside a dried out cigarette-stub stained with lipstick.

Catching sight of the empty butter-dish on the table opposite him, he was reminded of his task, patted the dog, and headed off to inspect the interior of the nearest wall cupboard. After five more minutes of intermittent searching he found the block of butter in the microwave and, laughing to himself, sat down to eat his lunch of olive bread and cheese.

The front page of the newspaper was devoted to another Taliban atrocity in Helmand. After glancing at a photograph of the latest casualty, he turned to his favourite part of the paper, the obituary columns. Perusal of them almost always cheered him up. While it was true that he would not be remembered in such a distinguished way, even though he had opened the largest casino in the New Town, it was also true that he was still alive.
And that was much, much more important. Alan Bridges might well have been ‘A Daring Cold War Spy' and Arlene Summers, ‘A Nightclub Chanteuse in a Class of Her Own' but they were both now either six feet under or stored in a dusty urn somewhere. He, good old Dennis, was sitting at his table, eating the very best Colston Basset Stilton and drinking tepid Hobgoblin. Simply remaining alive was his crowning achievement. Nowadays his best hope of being honoured with an obituary lay in winning the lottery and spending the dosh in record time. Perhaps he should buy a ticket this afternoon? Best not, maybe best that the obituarists don't delve too deep.

His reverie was shattered by the insistent ringing of the alarm clock in his pocket. He fished it out and silenced it. Attached to the back of it was a yellow Post-it note which read: ‘App – 2 p.m. – HC on Colinton Mains Road.'

Sitting opposite the doctor, he wondered where his usual one had gone. This blonde doll looked younger, prettier, than any fully qualified MD ought to look. Perhaps she was a partly qualified locum or some such thing? She would have fitted in nicely at Jokers, spinning the roulette wheel in a low-cut frock. The punters would have liked her. Those blowsy types went down well with them.

‘Has this been going on long – weeks, months or what?' she asked.

‘Sorry?'

‘The forgetfulness and so on, when did it start?'

‘Well, Doctor Allan,' he began, watching her intently to see if she responded to the name of his real doctor. ‘It's
difficult to say. A while, a while … yes, that's how I'd describe it.'

Oddly, she did not attempt to correct the name. Perhaps she was indeed Doctor Allan, but if so she must be on some youth drug, some elixir of life. I'll take a prescription for a gallon of that, he thought, giggling uncontrollably and covering his mouth with his hand in order to hide his amusement.

‘And you've no one you could bring with you? That I could talk to? It often helps, you see. They know you, know if you've changed.'

‘I've changed, all right. I used to be beautiful!'

‘In character – in your ability to recall things.'

‘No one,' he said firmly, sure of that fact, if no longer of any other.

‘Right,' she said, turning away from her computer screen and looking him in the eye, ‘We'll get on with the little test I told you about, then, shall we?'

He nodded.

‘I'm going to say three words. You say them back to me once I've stopped. Okay? Ready? Apple. Penny. Table.'

‘Mmm …' He hesitated, running his finger along the bridge of his nose as he thought, ‘Table?'

He smiled at her in what he hoped might be a winning way. In tests you always want the examiner on your side. That early lesson had not yet been forgotten.

‘Right-ho,' she said, noting his answer down on her pad and picking up a yellow pencil.

‘What's this?' she said brightly, pointing at it.

‘Writing wood,' he shot back, uncertain as he spoke if that was right, trying to think if there was a more exact term for the object. Concluding from the fact that she was writing his answer down that he had given the correct one, he gave up trying to think of a better word.

Next, she held up a sign which said in large letters: ‘CLOSE YOUR EYES'.

‘If, Mr May, you could do what the sign tells you to do?'

Reading it out loud, he closed his eyes and then looked back at her, finding, oddly, that he was hoping for praise.

‘Spot on, eh?' he said jauntily.

‘Spot on.'

Purely to be on the safe side, she explained, she would arrange a scan and refer him to a consultant neurologist. He would have to have an MRI scan, probably. Feeling that he had got his money's worth, and how, the old man stood up and, to Doctor Allan's surprise, raised his arm in a flamboyant Nazi salute.

That evening, Dennis May was annoyed with himself. He was tired, and although it was past ten o'clock, he had not eaten his evening meal. Cooking it, once a pleasure, had become impossible. The recipe in the book stated that Chinese dried shrimps and peeled prawns were to be used. That was clear enough. But Nigel had then written, ‘Add the seafood to the dried mushrooms.'

What was seafood? Food of the sea? Then shrimps and prawns presumably ate seafood? Plankton, krill or whatever. Nigel had made no mention of either of them in the
list of ingredients and even Waitrose was unlikely to stock them. How could anyone hope to prepare Singapore Stir Fried Noodles unless precise and accurate instructions were given, involving obtainable foodstuffs?

Seeing a figure looking in the window Julia rushed at it, growling, showing her yellowing fangs below black lips.

‘Sssh!' her master said, his back to the distraction, scrabbling in the cupboard for noodles amongst all the bags of pasta. ‘Sssh, you bad, bad girl!'