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?’
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 sh
attered 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.
The Good Priest Page 9
