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 h
is 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.
‘Hello,’ the priest said, ‘are you looking for a drink? Red or white?’
‘Scum like you, Father, are not welcome here – I read all about you,’ the man replied, nodding and smiling benignly at the nearest dancers, then catching Vincent’s eye and grimacing as if disgusted at the sight. Father Vincent held his gaze but said nothing. This was neither the time nor the place, but the effort of remaining silent was taking its toll and he found that his whole body was now bathed in sweat.
‘You could not be more wrong there, Grant,’ Yvonne Ogilvie said, coming to the priest’s rescue and bestowing a kiss on his cheek. ‘Father Vincent’s very welcome here – at our party. I wanted him here. He’s here to celebrate Paul’s twenty-first. He baptised both my sons and gave them their first Communion. He’s almost part of the family – my family.’
‘Thanks,’ the priest said, watching as Grant helped himself to a handful of crisps and then disappeared into the melee of people, shaking his head at the way he had been treated.
‘I meant it,’ the woman said, ‘and I hope you’ll be back here, in the town, with us all, very soon. Grant’s only here because he fishes with Jim, ties his own flies and everything. He’s got a freezer full of roadkill, apparently. It’s good to see you, Father. Father Roddy’s not a bad man, not a bad man at all, but he doesn’t know our ways. He’s not you. We all miss you. I’ll away and tell Paul that you’ve made it, and he’ll be that thrilled too …’
A loud clattering noise interrupted her, as an ashet laden with sausage rolls was knocked off the table by a couple of over-energetic dancers. Tutting loudly, Yvonne Ogilvie left the priest, telling all and sundry to let her through before someone broke their neck slipping on the mess.
‘Jim, Jim!’ she shouted to her husband. ‘Leave those sandwiches alone and go and get one of the staff, eh? There’ll be one at reception, or the bar, if nowhere else.’
‘Aye, aye, doll. I’m onto it the now.’
Looking over the heads of the revellers, Father Vincent steeled himself to work his way through to the seats on the far side, anticipating a crushed foot or two and drink spilled on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth Templeton waving at him. She was sitting beside one of the tables and the seat next to hers was vacant. Helping himself to a couple more of the glasses, this time filled with white wine, he clutched them to his chest and edged his way through the heaving mass of humanity towards her. Twice his elbow was jostled, but keeping tight hold he managed to avoid spilling them onto himself or others.
As he reached her, she smiled up at him and patted the seat by her side. Looking at her in her party clothes, a green silk blouse and a knee-length dark blue skirt, he felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Her smile had been as warm as ever, not a trace of reproach in her eyes. If all of this had never happened, had they been meeting outside the church or by chance in the street, she would have greeted him in the same fashion. Sensing that she seemed to be as comfortable as ever with him, for a second, he wondered if she had read the article. As if she had heard him speak the thought, she said in her husky voice: ‘Don’t worry, I do know – I heard all about it. The Daily Drivel, we get it in the library along with the rest of them. I know the Houstons too, we all do. You’re not the first to get caught up in their stupid games – and they are games.’
‘I wish I’d known.’
‘This’ll all blow over. The next scandal will sweep it out of the way and people have surprisingly short memories.’
‘I must admit I wasn’t looking forward to returning here, not this way. I want to come back, obviously, but to my own job, my own home. Properly. With things just like they used to be.’
‘Is that on the cards, then?’
‘My return? Yes. Yes, it is. As soon as I can make it happen. Yes.’
He offered her one of the glasses and she took it, glanced at it and then laughed out loud.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You have this one! It’s got a cigarette-end dunked in it. Are you trying to poison me or something?’
‘Oh, but you’re a fussy woman!’ he said, looking inside the glass himself and then adding, without a thought, ‘Take mine. It was dark!’
She took it, smiling at him as she did so. The next number was so loud that it was impossible for them to speak. So, while it lasted, they sat side by side companionably, watching the dancers, admiring the gusto and skill of the uninhibited and trying not to laugh at the elephantine efforts of a trio of children. A dumpy couple, fuelled by neat vodka, appeared deaf to the barbs hurled at them as they collided first with one dancer and then another, bouncing off them like dodgem cars. Neither showed any signs of injury or pain, despite being elbowed by the irate and poked in the back by the aggrieved. Their eyes were locked on one another and the rest of the world remained out of focus.
In a brief interval between songs, Vincent looked at his friend.
‘Is Michael here?’
‘No. I came with the Cochranes. He’s away … inside. In Perth Prison, I’m ashamed to say.’
‘Elizabeth, I’m so sorry. What happened?’
‘He won’t take his medication any more, and I can’t force him. He was with his friends … although they’re not really friends at all. Not as you or I would define the word. Anyway, he was with them and they were all coming back from a party in Graham’s car. Graham was so drunk he couldn’t drive, so the rest of them persuaded Michael to take over. They all know he’s got no licence, insurance, that he’s only had four driving lessons in his entire life. You know the lights by the community campus, the ones with the pedestrian crossing beside it?’
‘Yes.’
‘He hit another young lad, right there, on the crossing. I think he’d been on the booze too, though not with them. After he was hit they all panicked, took off. Thank God the boy wasn’t killed, but he got a fractured skull and a crushed foot. He’s all right, back at college, I gather, but …’
‘Forgive me, I’ve been so preoccupied with my own troubles. How long did he get?’
‘Three years. If he’s lucky he’ll be out in one. If you’ve time, would you visit him, Father? I get the impression that, at last, he’s beginning to think about things. You might be able to help. He might talk to you. To be honest, I’m almost glad he’s in there.’
‘Glad?’
‘Not about the accident, obviously, but I’m glad he’s safe. He was driving a lot, not just on that night. And he was being driven by some of those half-witted boys. At least he won’t be in a car – lose his own life or take someone else’s. Could you go and see him, Father? He asked me to ask you.’
‘Of course I will. I’d like to. I’ve known him practically since he was tiny after all. And to tell you the truth, I haven’t got a lot to do at the moment.’
‘When will you be able to come back, do you think? You’re missed, you know.’
‘I’m trying, Elizabeth, I’m trying. Believe me, I’m doing my very best.’
Perth Prison is made up of a number of separate buildings. A few of these are grand old edifices, such as the guardrooms which remain from Napoleonic times, and the gatehouse, with its battlemented centrepiece and clock face dating back to the 1840s. But many of the others look more like the campus of a new university, all steel and tinted glass. Other structures, mostly late twentieth century and uneasy with their penal function, disguise it behind the clichéd architectural style of the bus station or DSS office. Close to the entrance and unfurling in the wind, as if at a royal palace, are flags; the Union Jack and the cross of St Andrew. The third and final flag, however, dispels the illusion of majesty, having the letters ‘SPS’ emblazoned on it, impressing upon all that the Scottish Prison Servic
e are in charge here. A high perimeter wall, part rubble-built and part pre-cast aggregate panels, an unhappy marriage of old and new, screens the complex from the city, dividing it on the north side from the pleasure grounds of the Inch, and on the west from the Edinburgh road.
Father Vincent, his anorak zipped high to the chin to conceal his dog collar, joined the line of visitors preparing to go through the metal detector. Once he had been scanned, he looked around the waiting-room, thinking he would be able to check out the pamphlets as he usually did. But before he had a chance to do so a queue began to form for entry to the screening-room. Passive, like cows in a slaughterhouse, they all shuffled forwards.
‘Open your mouth, please,’ a man wearing green Marigold gloves ordered him.
The priest obeyed, trying not to breathe on the prison officer, who was now inches away from his face and inspecting his gums. Beside him, a woman was having her tattooed hands swabbed for traces of heroin or cannabis; silently co-operating, familiar with the routine and accepting meekly that she must be subjected to it. Together, they were then escorted upstairs to the visiting hall. He had been told to go to table 13 and saw, across the room, Michael Templeton waiting for him, already seated, his fingers drumming on the top of the circular glass table.
‘’Lo, Father,’ a man said, tapping him on the elbow as he passed by.
He turned to see one of his parishioners grinning at him. He nodded his head but said nothing, knowing any conversation would attract unwanted attention from the warders. No visit had been scheduled between them this time, although it had many times previously. The fellow, he had discovered many years earlier, had an independent mind, idiosyncratic morality and a very good constitution. He did not consider incarceration to be depriving him of anything very valuable, viewing it as a respite from his otherwise overwhelming urges to possess other people’s goods.
The Good Priest Page 12
