The Good Priest (21 page)

‘So,' Vincent interrupted ‘while you were in hospital someone else attended to your car, the paperwork and so on, dealt with the insurance company, got the car repaired, had had it returned here in its present as-new state.'

Connor Bell did not answer immediately. Unconsciously, he began to stroke the elbow of his damaged arm with his good hand.

‘Yes.'

‘Sure about that?'

‘Sure! How could I not be sure?'

‘Who did all of that for you?'

‘My mother. Well, no, not her, actually. No, she was going to, but, for various reasons, she couldn't, so, instead, my brother …'

‘That's what the insurance company would say, is it? He's the man they dealt with, is he? Who are they by the way? And the police, were they called? Or an ambulance, maybe? It'll all be in their records, of course. Or, perhaps, despite your broken right arm, you managed to drive yourself from Vicar's Bridge to hospital?'

‘No. No police, no ambulance. My brother, he took me to hospital … honestly, he did.'

‘He may well have done. In fact, I expect that he did. But not because of any car crash. He probably took you from here, eh? From this house. You were beaten up, weren't you? That's why you're leaving. You abused Kyle and he, or his pals, took the law into their own hands and assaulted you, beat you black and blue. Broke your bones. There was no car crash, no car repairs – they beat you up.'

‘I'm saying nothing more,' Bell retorted. ‘Dominic knows everything. No one's complained, including the so-called victim. It was all rubbish anyway. You say one word, Vincent, just one word … to anyone. Do you actually want the Church to be further disgraced? I've no worries about you, anyway, because you're tainted goods yourself, aren't you?'

‘No,' Vincent replied. Now simply looking at the man sickened him.

‘Oh yes, you are. No one would listen to you, or to anything you have to say any more, and I'm out of here. Out of here! No, no one will listen to you – they'll think you're just trying to get your own back on the Bishop or whoever. You've a grudge of your own now, haven't you? That's why you've turned on poor old Mother Church. No one, inside the Church or, probably, outside it, would listen to you, Vincent. Not after that newspaper report. After all, you've had it away with hundreds of women, haven't you? Donkeys, for all I know. I'm not taking lessons in morality, or anything else, from the likes of you. There's nothing to pick between us – except that everyone knows about you.'

Twenty minutes later, Vincent entered the church, his church, and it brought tears to his eyes. The place seemed so tranquil, so calm after all the storms that had been buffeting him for so long in the outside world. Its silence enveloped him, embraced him, and in the half-light he felt at peace. The only illumination in it, apart from the muted daylight which filtered through the stained glass, came from the flickering sanctuary light. The very air was familiar, scented with the usual mix of damp carpet and stale incense. Deliberately breathing it in, he felt, immediately, that he had come home, felt like a small child returning to the bosom of its mother. Nowhere else could one find oneself alone and yet not alone, an invisible presence watching over and giving love from afar. As he walked towards the nave he slid his hand along the edges of each of the wooden pews, feeling the warmth of the
wood and its smooth solidity. Taking a seat opposite the altar, he looked up at the stone sculpture of the crucified Christ and tried to lose himself in the place, abandon all his thoughts and anxieties, and just be. In here he would be bathed and cleansed. In here he could rid himself of the distrust, anger and hostility that now clung to him like a second skin, went with him wherever he went. In here he could be his old self, drop this heavy burden.

Maria de Thuy, a harp teacher at a nearby private school, crept past him on her pigeon toes and then, realising belatedly who he was, she turned back to give him one of her widest smiles. Along with a clarinettist and a guitar player, she was a founder member of the church music group. Her head was covered by a black mantilla and, genuflecting and crossing herself at the same time, she edged into a nearby pew. Immediately, she knelt down and began praying, whispering excitedly through her thick lips, transported to find herself in the presence of her Lord. Having made the sign of the cross again, she began passing her rosary beads between her extraordinarily muscular thumb and forefinger, focusing her entire body and soul on her prayer.

Looking at the kneeling figure, the priest felt envious of her; envious of her certainty, her simple faith and the joy she found in it. She, he felt sure, experienced no shame in being a Catholic or admitting that she was one. All the child abuse scandals in the world would not dent her admiration for the papacy. Il Papa could do no wrong in her eyes and nor could his minions: the cardinals, archbishops or bishops. Always it would be someone else's
fault. She had an innocent, childlike faith, and however bright the light which was shone into the Church, she would never see the snakes writhing in its darkest corners or hear the scratchings of the rats. Her faith was, truly, blind; deaf and dumb too.

The confessional box had, in his absence, undergone a transformation. It no longer functioned as an extra broom cupboard, and in a nice touch someone had placed a vase of flowers on the shelf which had been cleared. He sat inside the box, trying to recreate in his mind the circumstances of that fateful confession. The CD which had been playing that night had come to an end, so there had been no background noise. All that he had heard had been the man's voice, a rumbling baritone, with an accent suggestive of Tyneside or Northumberland; the singsong sounds that he associated with fishing boats, cold winds and the North East of England. With his spine resting against the back of the box, he had seen almost nothing, partly because the penitent's head had been bent down, and partly because the grille had obscured the man's features.

Unforgettably, of course, there had been that strange odour, and breathing in he tried to smell it again, analyse all the constituent parts that made up the full aroma. The scent of the freesias in their vase proved a distraction. That night the dominant strand had been the warm, fruity tang of raspberries. That was the part which had surprised him the most. Running through it had been something else; a sharp note, possibly Dettol, and then an undertone of something industrial, paraffin or some kind of oil or petrol fumes. The scent of raspberries suggested that it was
some kind of household product, designed to appeal to the noses of domestic consumers. He sniffed the air delicately, filtering out the perfume of the freesias, analysing what remained, concluding that the box had recently been occupied by an illicit smoker, one keen to camouflage the scent of tobacco on his breath with minty polo fumes. So, almost certainly, a teenager, and that narrowed it down to three.

As he was stepping out of the box, he almost bumped into Father Roderick. A look of annoyance flashed across the old fellow's face, as if he had caught someone snooping or playing in forbidden territory, but it evaporated as he recognised Father Vincent. In his outstretched hands he held a tray with the chalice, the water and wine vessels and the Tupperware box with the unconsecrated hosts in it.

‘I'm sorry, I'm just setting up for Mass,' he said, as if he was the one required to explain himself, ‘and I'm on the late side as usual. I fell asleep after confession, in my chair … or rather, your chair …'

‘Right,' Vincent replied, ‘I was just …'

He stopped, unable to finish his sentence. No truthful explanation was possible even if it would have been believed, so he carried on walking, adding lamely, ‘Since you're late, Roderick, I'll not hold you up any more.'

Someone had flung a couple of raw eggs at his windscreen. One had slid all the way down the glass, some of it now trapped by the windscreen wipers. The other, which had caught the edge of the roof of the car on impact, was still
dribbling down, dragging its eggshell with it and leaving a smear of orange yolk in its wake. He looked around, searching for the culprit, and saw, stationary on the other side of the road, a male figure watching him. The man was silhouetted against the dim, late afternoon light but the priest recognised him without difficulty. The giveaway was his hair which looked unnatural, all over to one side and with a fixed, solid look. Pausing to allow the Perth bus to pass, he crossed the road and approached Mark Houston.

‘Did you do that?' he asked, his anger banishing his fear despite Houston's bulk and proven aggression.

‘Aha.'

‘Why? Haven't you done enough already?'

‘No,' the man replied, matter-of-factly, patting his toupee absent-mindedly, smoothing it down over his own thin locks with his pudgy fingers.

‘I never touched your wife!'

‘I know that.'

‘What?'

‘I said “I know that.”'

‘You know? Then what's all this about? What the hell's going on?'

‘I didn't always know. I thought you had when I came after you with Norm, but one night, a couple of weeks ago, she told me. She'd had a few too many. Vodka and Coke, that's her tipple, or Bacardi and Coke. Said she'd been after you, I mean, not the other way round. She threw it in my face. 'Course you're not the first – not by a long chalk – but that's worse for me, like, isn't it?'

‘Is it?'

‘Obviously it is. You're not very savvy are you? It doesn't reflect well on me – as a man. Her putting it about, or at least trying to. How do you think it makes me look? I'd rather everyone thinks you came after her. We moved from the last parish because she'd picked someone up there. I'm not having that again. But I can't tell Norman and the rest that, can I?'

‘If you know I didn't do it – touch your wife – why are you throwing eggs at my car, for God's sake?'

‘You not listen? People here have got to think you were after her. It's better for me …'

‘It's not better for me.'

‘Yeah,' the man replied, unmoved. ‘I can see that, pal. But what can I do? She's my wife, isn't she? If she tells the truth to anyone else, hopefully they'll just think she's trying to protect you now anyway. You lot are into suffering, aren't you? Nails through hands and spears into ribcages – crowns of barbed wire and that. You papes think it does you good, don't you? Well, add it, add all of this to your total. Every little bit helps on the way to Heaven, doesn't it? Think of it like air miles or something.'

To his mind, Elizabeth's kitchen in Curate's Wynd was perfect. It was painted a bright yellow and felt light and airy as a summerhouse. It was neat, but not too neat, warm, but not too warm; felt alive, occupied by someone intent upon living their life to the full. A mouth-organ rested on top of a music tutorial booklet and everywhere paperbacks were piled high, ranging from a book of recipes for chocolate to the autobiography of the aviator Beryl Markham. Stacks
of cookery books had taken over an entire kitchen unit and a small table, and on the top of the fridge perched two pots of red geraniums. In one corner of the room there was a dog bed occupied by a pair of elderly Labradors, Humphrey and Lauren, the dog's head resting on the bitch's flank. Vincent loved the orderly chaos of the house, saw in it only the outward manifestations of a lively mind. He was blind to its cobwebs and its crumbs.

Elizabeth gave him a cup of tea and then, explaining that she had a meeting to go to in less than half an hour, she continued with her housework. Her voice sounded thick, dulled with a cold.

‘It'll all be over soon,' she said, pulling a couple of chairs to one side, intent upon sweeping the wooden floor underneath the kitchen table.

‘Not if Mark Houston has his way. It suits him to keep it all going. He actually told me that.' Neurotically, as he was talking to her, he checked his phone for missed calls. Still nothing from Keegan, not even a text.

‘Would you mind moving your feet, please. Maybe it does. But he's shot his bolt and so has she. According to them there isn't a woman in Kinross who's been safe from you – except me, of course.'

‘No offence taken, I hope, as I'm obviously not very choosy. Anyway, at least things seem to be moving in the diocesan office. I saw their lawyer yesterday, and the only other person he really needs to see is Sarah Houston.'

‘And he'll see straight through her,' she interjected, her head now in the cupboard below the sink as she searched in it for a duster and a jar of furniture polish. Upright
once more and standing beside him, she sneezed twice, then tried to unscrew the lid, using first her strong right hand and then, having failed, trying her left.

‘Maybe, but the lawyer, McClaverty, is not much more than a boy.'

‘It's no good. Could you give it a go?' she asked, passing the jar of polish to him.

‘If you failed with this there's not much hope for me,' he replied. He applied all the torque that he could muster, his face reddening with the effort. Unable to budge it, he went to the sink and ran water from the hot tap over the lid. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, and failed to move it even a millimetre. Flexing his hand to ease the pain in his fingers, he shook his head.

‘Shall I try it in the door hinge?' he said.

‘Weak as I am, I'll have another go first. You'll just chip the paint,' she said, raising her arms and flexing her biceps like a Victorian muscle man.

As she wrestled with it, bending double and groaning with the effort, a man entered the kitchen as if it was his own. He was dark-haired and dark-skinned, with a sleek, overfed look about him. But his red nose and rheumy eyes, and the paper hankie in his hand, signalled his heavy cold. Seeing him she blushed slightly, straightened up and handed the jar to him.

‘You've caught it too? Have a go, see if you can unscrew this,' she ordered.