The Good Priest (15 page)

Shona had known that she was not Callum's first love, but she did not know who was. The mystery of their dry, fruitless union might have been less mysterious to her if she had done. Unwittingly, she had married a man who divided his life into compartments, each sealed, and each locked. She believed his lies, why should she not? Telling them, he did too.

‘What do you want, David?'

‘To see you.'

Catching sight of his own wrinkled hand, its arthritic fingers twisting over each other like the limbs of a diseased tree, he shook his head. No one, nowadays, could want to see him. Not literally see him. There could be no pleasure in that for anyone, however close a friend they might be.

‘Where?' he said wearily.

‘In the Western.'

‘The Western General? Are you in hospital, David?'

‘Yes.'

‘Of course I'll come. But what's the matter?'

‘Cancer of the oesophagus. That's why my voice has changed. I'm in a room by Ward 14. It's easy to find – on the second floor. I've a room on my own now. A great luxury as you may imagine. I've never been one for daytime TV … but I don't need to tell you that. Will you come?'

‘Of course. I said I would. I've got a disabled badge, one of those blue ones that lets you park anywhere, double yellow lines, the lot.'

‘Your walking's not so good then?'

‘Rheumatoid arthritis. Nothing more than that, apart from old age. I use a Zimmer in the house. I'll come tomorrow. Visiting hours, when are they?'

‘Yes. Come tomorrow. I'd love that. You can come anytime now that I'm on my own. Every privilege is mine …' He paused, before continuing. ‘Will you pray with me, Callum?'

‘I'll be there. Say, eleven o'clock?' Was he on his deathbed or something?

‘Good. Eleven o'clock. Will you pray with me, Callum?'

‘Sure you want me to?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I'll pray with you.'

He looked in his cupboard and was pleased to see that the ironing woman had done her job. Plucking a creaseless blue-and-white striped shirt from its hanger he added it to the primrose yellow tie and the fawn pullover that he had already selected. If he fed the billy after the visit there could be no possibility of the goat smell clinging to
him, as long as it had not contaminated the clothes chair in the bathroom. Even if it had, that could be solved by storing tomorrow's clothes in the spare room. Blue socks. A pair of thick black cords would set everything off nicely and, perhaps, disguised in such style the ravages of time would be less apparent. He made a mental note to trim his eyebrows, nose and ears too, and to polish his shoes.

David, of course, would be in bed. Maybe, just maybe, if he was not too ill, he would be allowed out to come home with him for a little? Then he could look after him, treat him. Look after him for longer, if they agreed, until others required to do so, at least, and that might be a long time away. He could afford professional nurses, a sister, a matron, if the need arose. Cancer of the oesophagus might even be curable for all that he knew. And an uncle taking in his sick nephew sounded plausible enough. Or he could say they were cousins, the neighbours would buy that. They would have to. Whatever happened he must take his chance. He had been given this opportunity to put things right. To make amends. He would surely do so.

Carla's yapping alerted him to someone at the front door. He bundled her and his clean clothes into the bedroom. No one enjoyed a lapdog snuffling about their ankles, tripping them up, snarling if they as much as tried to pat her. Only Shona had been safe from those plaque-coated teeth.

But as he opened the door to find a young stranger facing him, she managed to escape from her incarceration. Tutting, he bent down to pick her up, and found himself
being shoved backwards, indoors, away from any prying eyes.

When her master's body was found, over a week later, the little dog was released. By then the carpet by the front door was in shreds, green underlay exposed, and the bichon's tiny front paws were bloody and torn. An army of rats appeared to have been gnawing at the base of the door. The sharp ridges of the dog's spine protruded, and her dehydrated skin hung off her like an ill-fitting coat. Constable Wren picked her up and cuddled her, smoothing the soft fur on her forehead while talking to her in a gentle, singsong tone as if she was a baby. Later, when she inadvertently squeezed the dog she got a nip and almost dropped her. Hidden under Carla's unkempt coat were three broken ribs. They were the only tangible testament to her bravery. Defending her master, she had earned each broken rib in return for a mouthful of the killer's calf, until, screaming in fury, he had kicked her into unconsciousness. Seeing her lying there lifeless, the old man ceased all resistance, accepting everything the stranger did to him as if it was his due.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘It's my serve,' Father Damian said, reaching out for the squash ball and clicking his fingers impatiently for it.

‘Is it? Right,' Vincent replied, handing it to him and bending over, his palms on his knees as he fought to get his breath back. At least when it was his serve he could do things in his own time, hold up play for a minute or so, give his lungs a chance to recover. Still bent double and trying not to gasp too loudly, he glanced at his opponent. Annoyingly, the man was not even red and had hardly broken sweat. He looked healthy, as if a brisk walk in the cool air had put roses into his cheeks. Somehow, despite his victories in the two earlier games, his whites still appeared crease-free, and it had not even occurred to him to remove his pullover, to at least pretend that he was hot. Had he been modelling sportswear, he would not have appeared less flustered.

The thwack of nylon on rubber alerted Vincent to the fact that the game had started again, and he straightened up, trying locate the little black ball. By the time he had, it was already behind him and he spun round, flailing the air with his racquet. The ball, meanwhile, careered off the back wall and was now dribbling along the floor at his feet.

‘Seven–nil,' Damian announced, scooping it up with the end of his racquet in a single, smooth movement, oblivious to the farce of his opponent's play.

One point, Vincent thought, one point would be enough, would amount to a victory for him. It had been eleven–nil in both earlier games, but surely not this one. Honour would be saved, in his own eyes at least, if he could retrieve a single point. Perhaps even Damian would feel that? Superhuman effort might be required but, for a second or so, that could be tried without fear of heart failure. Consciously visualising himself as a big cat, muscles twitching and rippling in readiness to pounce on its prey, he watched his opponent serve. Once more, the ball bounced off the front wall and straight onto the back one. This time he kept his eye on it throughout its entire trajectory and managed, somehow, to belt it after the first bounce. Thrillingly, it hit the front left corner and lodged for a second in the angle, which absorbed all speed from the ball. It then flopped to the floor like a dead bat and, despite his last-minute dive, Father Damian was unable to retrieve it.

‘That'll be seven–one, eh?' Vincent said, startled by his own success and, unthinkingly, punching the air in his joy.

‘No, it's still seven–nil. You've got nothing, but it's your serve.'

Vincent's massive backswing resulted in a miss-hit, the ball shooting off the frame of the racket and fooling his opponent completely. Freakishly, it struck the front wall above the red line and then dropped spinning to the floor only centimetres from the point of impact. This time, dizzy with elation, Vincent jumped in the air, celebrating his triumph, until he was reminded that the game was not yet over. Less than three minutes later it was, and
as they left the court Father Damian was amused by his opponent's euphoria. The man was a wreck, his hair matted with sweat, his face the colour of a beetroot, and he was struggling so hard to breathe that he was whooping like a seal. But he wore a radiant smile. In the changing-room, the two priests hardly exchanged a word. One had no breath to spare, the other was engrossed in thought. Father Damian was trying, and failing, to think of a sensitive, or even tactful, way of mentioning the newspaper article. He had been sickened by it, had crumpled it up in disgust and dropped it in the bin. Sport itself might prove a useful route into the subject.

‘Who taught you squash, Vincent?'

‘Hugh, a friend, an old friend from college. Neither of us were much good, actually. Sport isn't really my thing.'

‘You don't say. Hugh?'

‘Brightman.'

‘No doubt, but what was his surname?'

‘Brightman. And he is … he's teaching at a college in Trongsa, in Bhutan.'

‘Never come across him. So, it's three pots of honey for me, Vincent, as we agreed. Hand them over. To the victor go the spoils.'

‘How about double or quits?'

‘At squash?' The man could not believe his luck.

‘No – you might have a heart attack. How about a quiz on, say … I don't know, anything. Social insects? No, that might give me an advantage. Plucking a subject at random … from the ether … how about the wines of Australia?'

‘Do you think I was born yesterday?'

‘Did you even bother to bring your homemade marmalade?'

‘I did indeed. You might have improved.' Damian replied, opening his sports bag to show three pots in bubble wrap. He buttoned his black jacket and took out a comb. With his hair slicked down and bag in hand, he held open the changing-room door for his erstwhile opponent.

‘See you tomorrow then?' he said.

‘Will you?' Father Vincent replied, surprised. He was still trying to stuff his shorts and T-shirt into a carrier bag, and a trainer had just ripped a hole in the bottom of it.

‘It's Paul Ogilvie's twenty-first. Yvonne said you were coming. She certainly thinks you are. She told me she was looking forward to seeing you. They all are.'

‘Right.' Father Vincent nodded his head. He had forgotten all about the party in Kinross and his promise, given months ago, to attend. He could not disappoint his friend, and if, despite his unexplained absence from the parish, she was still counting on him turning up, he would not let her down. But the thought of returning to the parish in such circumstances weighed heavily on him, sucked all the sweetness from his one-point victory.

‘It'll be fine,' Damian said, putting an arm around his shoulder. ‘Everyone knows it was trash. They'll say anything, they have to sell papers somehow. I expect sometimes you wish you'd been the one with a foam pie handy for Rupert Murdoch at that Commons committee …'

‘Yes. Except that on today's form, I'd probably have missed!'

The music from the Windlestrae Hotel could be heard on the far side of the grassy expanse known as Market Park, along the western fringe of the golf course and even at the bowling green, despite its thick hedges. The velvet of the night air was being slashed by the sharp chords of an electric guitar, then pounded to dust by a prolonged and merciless drum solo. In the entrance porch of the hotel, a man leaning against the lintel nodded at the priest as he walked in, raising a wine glass at him in a good-natured mock salute.

The McMillan suite was dark, dense with people, and few took much notice of him as he worked his way through the pulsating crowd, his eyes searching for Yvonne Ogilvie. In the warm, humid atmosphere, he could feel a drop of sweat trickling its way down his brow, coming to rest on an eyebrow. But the heat was only the half of it. He felt tense as a cornered cat. Once his reception would have been entirely predictable, but he could no longer count on that.

‘What you doing here?' A man he did not know stood in front of him. His eyes were heavy with drink, his tie loose, and one missing shirt button had created a porthole through which the hairy flesh of his white belly could be seen. A girl, his teenage daughter, pulled on one of his arms, trying to move him away, keep him out of trouble.

‘Stop it, Stacey!' he shouted, ripping his arm free so violently that he unbalanced himself and careered sideways onto the dance-floor. He collided with a dancer in full flow, her exposed, tanned flesh rippling in time to the music, lost in a world of rum and coke and the Bee Gees.

‘Careful, you,' she said, grinning, her body now supporting his, preventing him from falling over but almost losing her own footing in the process.

‘That's my pal, Father Vincent, you're speaking to,' she added, using her hip to shove the man out of the way.

‘Hiya, Father.'

‘Hiya, Lauren.'

Smiling gratefully at her, the priest moved on, elbowed accidentally in the ribs by an over-enthusiastic dancer, and deafened by ‘Bohemian Rhapsody', which had started up and was now being belted out by most of the people on the dance-floor.

‘Father! Good to see you!'

The voice came from behind him and he spun round, finding himself looking into Janie Walker's reddened features.

‘I …' she murmured, beckoning him with a crooked finger for him to come closer, ‘I … I … want you to know … I didnae believe a word o' it … no' a … single word o' it!' Then, winking at him affectionately, she allowed herself to be pulled away by her partner, a bald man in a black leather jacket. Vincent continued to burrow through the crush of people, waves of beer, aftershave and sweat fumes washing over him.

‘Hi de hi, Father,' chirruped Mamie, catching his eye as he shouldered himself onwards, and swivelling her bulging hips to the music as if inviting him to dance with her. Having tried and failed to make himself heard above Freddie Mercury, he pointed towards one of the buffet tables, miming a drink, letting her know that he had other
things on his mind at present. Finding himself beside a table loaded with filled glasses, he took one and downed it quickly, pleased to have chanced upon some red wine. It was as bitter as grape pips and set his teeth on edge, but he took another mouthful. An elderly man, baseball cap low over his eyes, sidled up to him.