‘How much for the stand?’ she asked him, bending over, her back turned as if she was interested in the knife case on top of the table.
‘Fifteen hundred, as the label says,’ he replied, coming towards her, ‘but it’s a lovely piece, isn’t it? A real gem. It’s late eighteenth-century English.’
‘It’s such a shame there’s no basin, no ewer with it,’ she replied, turning and eyeing him with a slightly disappointed air. ‘You don’t have them somewhere else, do you, through the back or whatever? Without them I’m just not sure … not for that kind of money.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘they’ll have been broken long ago. But you don’t see many of the stands about nowadays, do you? You used to be able to pick them up all over the place, particularly at the big country house sales, but not nowadays. A lot have been shipped off to America.’
Clutching the Chihuahua more tightly, she looked at him and suddenly flashed a broad, artificial smile, her carmine lips in an unnaturally wide arc.
‘Well, Choo Choo and I like it. And it’s her birthday. What’ll you take for it?’
‘Oh, on Choo Choo’s birthday? In that case, twelve-fifty with my good wishes and many happy returns. How old is she?’
‘How old are you, baby?’ the woman asked, looking into her pet’s bulbous black eyes and pouting at it. ‘She’s thirteen, she says. In doggy years that’s thirteen, but in human years more like ninety-one. An old, old ladykins. This …’ she added, looking first at the little dog and then at the shopkeeper, ‘could well be her last birthday. So, surely, an extra-special present would be in order?’
‘Fine. Twelve hundred, but that’s my last offer. I have to say Choo Choo has impeccable taste. She’s homed in on the jewel in my collection.’
‘Yes,’ the woman agreed, kissing the tiny dog’s head, ‘she has a nose for quality, doesn’t she? You see that oak commode over there – the one with the japanned decoration?’
A tall young man wandered through the door marked ‘Private’ at the back of the shop, a bacon roll in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. His long auburn hair had been scraped back into an untidy ponytail, emphasising his perfect cheekbones and heavy-lidded eyes. The crotch of his low-slung black trousers reached mid-thigh level, and he moved his hips like a dancer, avoiding the pieces of furniture effortlessly, never spilling his tea. As he came closer to the pair, the Chihuahua opened her eyes wide, curled her freckled lips to reveal a set of minute dagger-like teeth and growled. By way of reply, the youth widened his own large eyes and bared his perfect teeth, terrifying the dog so that she released a volley of high-pitched yaps.
‘Choo Choo!’ said the woman, giving the animal a sharp tap across its muzzle, ‘manners! This isn’t your shop.’
‘Or yours,’ Hal said, looking hard at the smirking boy.
‘Dad,’ the young man said, ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘In a minute, Rick, in a minute,’ the man replied, stroking the pet’s dome-shaped head with his forefinger in an attempt to pacify it. ‘I’m busy with a customer.’
‘I don’t really like commodes – other people’s … it’s just the thought, isn’t it?’ The woman wrinkled her nose. ‘But that wee card table near the window. I’d give you five hundred for that …’
‘The label,’ Hal said, beginning to get annoyed at her assumption, true though it was, that he would haggle over everything, ‘says a thousand.’
‘Label says “no”, then?’ she replied, putting on a glum face like a clown’s, and sweeping her pashmina back over her shoulder as if readying herself to leave.
‘No, label says a thousand, and I say eight hundred. Since it’s Choo Choo’s birthday.’
‘Mmm. Eight hundred. Do you know, it’s my birthday too?’
‘Ninety-one-year-old twins are you, then?’ Hal remarked drily.
‘No, we are not. Seven-fifty, that’s my last offer.’
‘Done.’
After the woman’s credit card had been lightened and she had departed with a spring in her step, Hal finally turned his attention to his son. ‘God bless Choo Choo. Long may she live … to shop,’ he said, writing ‘Sold’ on the two labels with a marker pen.
‘Where’s the book?’ Rick asked, lowering himself on to the embroidered seat of a bow-legged armchair, mug still in his hand.
‘Don’t sit on that!’ his father shouted.
‘OK, OK! Take it easy!’ Rick said, leaping up as if stung and splashing tea across his shirt.
‘It’s got woodworm, Rick. I’ve treated it, but with your weight it’ll come crashing to the ground. That’s why I’m describing it as “an ornamental chair”.’
‘Junk would be nearer the mark. Right. I’m needing to go now. So, where’s that book gone?’
‘What book?’
‘The big green one – the one that was in the living-room, the one you said you picked up in a job lot in Edinburgh.’
‘I don’t know. In the living-room, I expect. That’s where it was.’
‘It’s not there,’ Rick said crossly, swallowing the last of his roll and putting his mug down on a sideboard.
‘Don’t do that, it’s wet. Pick it up. It’ll leave a ring. The book must be there. I haven’t touched it. What about Kyle, have you checked with him?’
‘No, he’s not in. He wouldn’t touch it anyway, he doesn’t know what a book’s for. You must have shifted it, Dad. Think.’
‘Me, dust anything? Christ, Rick, I don’t need to think. I haven’t touched the bloody book, OK? If it’s not there someone else must have shifted it.’
‘Who would have? You threw that cow Ellen out, remember?’
‘I don’t know who and I haven’t got time for this. It’ll be there, OK?’
‘Who else has been in there recently?’
‘Nobody! What do you want with it anyway? It’s not yours. Now, push off, I’ve got work to do.’ Hal suddenly put his hands to his head. ‘Christ! I know who was in there.’
‘Who?’
‘That bloody priest – that crazy, sodding priest from Kinross. I don’t believe it, the wee bastard’s taken my book!’
Sitting in his armchair, a chilled glass of Sancerre in his hand, Father Vincent opened the book on his knee. There, in Stevenson’s unsightly scrawl, was the first entry. It had been added to and amended in different coloured inks.
ADAM, ALLAN.
Address – 13 Old Deane Way, Scone
1973 – Scone. Star of the Sea.
Complaint dated 13th May 1972 – Father Adam was intoxicated while celebrating Mass. Father Adam denied the allegation. He explained that he was suffering from flu.
14th July – Stopped by the police, breathalysed and charged with drunken driving.
16th July – Admitted to Monsignor Rose that he had a drink problem. Seen by J. Devlin, Psychiatrist. Report discloses that Father Adam is lonely and depressed and is self-medicating with drink. Six sessions arranged, to be paid for by the Diocese.
1st February 1973 – Father Adam injured in a fall while in his own home. Broken femur. Admitted to Monsignor Rose that he’s back on the drink and fell downstairs while intoxicated.
Action: Agreed to attend Alcoholics Anonymous and Bishop informed. Moved to fill vacancy at St Mary and St Joseph’s, Blairgowrie.
11th September 1974 – Deceased.
Immediately, he turned to the entries for ‘M’ and found:
MAY, DENNIS.
Address – ‘Broxbank’, South Street, Perth
1975 – Perth, Curate, at St Francis of Assisi. Complaint by Mrs Susan Dando that her daughter, Anne (age 11) had been encouraged to sit on Father May’s knee at a youth group picnic. Father May said any apparent sexual contact was purely accidental. Mrs Dando was reassured by Monsignor Giuliani.
1983 – Complaint by parents of two girls (both aged 11 years) to Bishop McSweeney that in the changing cubicles of the swimming pool, while ‘helping them dress’, Father May involved in inappropriate touching. Youth Group Outin
g. Investigated by Monsignor Donnelly, a former Chancellor, and both lots of parents found to be credible. Father Ranaghan, Parish Priest of nearby St John Bosco, accepted the allegation and observed that it confirmed his suspicions of his colleague. Bishop concluded that a Crimen Pessimum committed.
Action – Father May to retire from the Parish but not for six months in order to protect his reputation. Thereafter, he is to go to Granada Institute for assessment. The assessment concluded: ‘Diagnosis is mild paedophiliac urges, but Father May was very responsive to counselling … unlikely to reoffend. He should still be able to serve as valuable priest.’
1987
Address – “Wood End”, High Street,
Alyth Alyth – Mater Admirabilis
A complaint made by parent that after early morning Mass Father May touched 10-year-old serving girl inappropriately. Complaint investigated by Monsignor Carron. Parents found credible and Bishop apologised to them.
Action: Father May granted leave of absence due to his growing spiritual and vocational crisis. He has indicated that he may apply for laicisation.
It was evident that he had not done so. The entries relating to him continued for another two pages, covering a spell in Rome, teaching at the Scotch College, and then ministering to a further four towns within the diocese. In the margin, opposite his current address, was an ‘X’ in red biro and the figure £1,000 written in pencil. Father Vincent turned over several blank pages, searching for the entry for Callum Taylor, his nose aware of a strange, dry peppery smell. The notes on him were much shorter.
TAYLOR, CALLUM.
1962 – Bridge of Earn – Curate at the Blessed St John Ogilvie School.
Address – 5 Sorrel Bank, Bridge of Earn.
Complaint made by parents of sixth form boy (18) that Father Taylor had ‘corrupted’ him and turned him into a homosexual. Father Taylor admitted a ‘relationship’ with the boy. Ordered to go on compassionate leave. Grounds given as ‘mother sick’. Petition for laicisation sent to Rome in October 1963. Granted 1964.
Address – The Cottage, Forge Street, Bo’ness.
Opposite that entry there was another ‘X’ in red biro and ‘Try £500?’ written in pencil. After a Yarrow and a Youngson he came across the entry for Patrick Yule.
1963 – Dunning – Stella Maris – Curate.
Address – The Auld Byre, Dunning, Perthshire
April 1964: two separate complaints by mothers that Father Yule had been taking photographs of their sons and others when naked in the showers after a football match. Separate occasions. Investigated by Father Hennessey. Father Yule denied the allegation and said he was taking pictures of the showers to show a plumber as new showers were needed and he wanted advice on what types would be suitable. Each of the parents unaware of the other’s complaint.
Action: Reassurance to parents and warning to Father Yule to call plumber in personally.
1968 – Gateside – St Joseph’s.
Complaint of inappropriate ‘washing’ of twelve-year-old boy in showers after football match. Mother complained. Monsignor McDonald investigated. Father Yule denies the allegation and his denial was accepted. Parent counselled.
Action: Canonical Precept put in place prohibiting Father Yule from having any contact with children on his own. Moved to replace Father McBride as chaplain at Our Lady’s Hospital.
1969 – Chaplain at Our Lady of Fatima’s Hospital, Perth.
Address: 10 Learside Street, Perth
1st August 1970: Bishop informed by security officer at a photographic company that some of the transparencies of a colour film sent for developing showed the private parts of young boys. Father Yule admitted and explained that the photographs caused no physical disturbance in himself and that the photos are ‘art studies’. Fr Yule advised to depart on sick leave. Referred for psychological counselling to the Servants of the Paraclete.
Conclusion: Offence out of character and resulted from naivety about the ways of the world. Not an objective or subjective crime within the meaning of Canon Law.
1972 – Address – Convent of the Blessed Wound, Forgan-denny
Chaplain at Convent of the Blessed Wound, Forgandenny.
Complaint of touching genitals of servitor. Complaint investigated by Monsignor Barratt.
Father Vincent read on, appalled, flicking through the further catalogue of crimes and excuses contained in the next two pages. In Ireland the man had been moved on several times as he had in New Mexico. By 1975 the police had, finally, become involved and he had been imprisoned for five years. Thereafter, a formal process of compulsory laicisation had been instituted, but the decision of the tribunal, that Yule be dismissed from the clerical state, had been overturned on appeal to the Roman Rota Tribunal. It had substituted for the dismissal only a seven-year period of suspension. Opposite the man’s final address in the village of Cleish was, once more, a red ‘X’ and an entry stating ‘£3,000+’.
Sickened by what he was reading, Vincent closed the book with a bang, picked up his telephone and dialled.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Detective Chief Inspector Keegan?’
‘It is. Who am I speaking to, please?’
‘Father Vincent Ross.’
‘Vincent, good to hear from you. Are you all right? You sound different. Have you any news?’
‘Yes, and I’m sorry to disturb you because I know it’s late. But you are the only … the obvious person to call. I need to speak to you. That missing property, the stolen property, which you and I talked about, it’s come to light,. It’s come into my hands, and I think it should be in yours, Donald. For lots and lots of reasons.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘At home in Kinross, in the presbytery.’
‘Fine. Perfect. Have you told Dominic yet?’
‘I want to get rid of it, get shot of it. Shall I bring it to you?’
‘No, no. Just stay where you are, Vincent, OK? It’ll take me twenty minutes at most. I’m getting in my car now, but put it somewhere safe for the moment, eh? I’ll be round as quick as I can.’
He did as the policeman told him, and then poured himself another large glass of white wine and sat in his armchair, with Satan purring on his lap. He felt numb. Touching the book, turning its pages had made him feel dirty, soiled, as if he had touched sewage and would never again be clean. It was a chronicle of evil. Judging by the book, everywhere, all the time and all around him, close by, this evil had been going on and, somehow, he had failed to see it. In Ireland, in America, yes, but elsewhere in Scotland, even here, right here in Inchkeld? Once, a few years ago, he’d heard a rumour about someone he knew, someone that he had been on retreat with in Edinburgh, but he had chosen to ignore it, had given the man the benefit of the doubt. After all, he knew the man, and he was a priest like him. And he had continued as the chaplain at a school. So there could have been no foundation, no truth in the rumours. If there had been, he would have been got rid of, removed from the Church by the Church. He would have been reported to the police. That was what happened nowadays. Well, so in his naïvety, he had thought. But he had been blind.
Because the book told a completely different story. In it was recorded, revealed, the true concerns, the continuing concerns, of the Church. His church. What had been done had been done by them, first and foremost, to prevent scandal and, secondly, to protect their own. The concerns of the victims were incidental, were accorded minimal importance. The names of most of them had not even been thought worth writing down. In all the entries he had seen, the ‘Action’ had not once included reporting the allegations to the police, counselling the children or compensating them. And the book was not simply a historical document recording sins committed in the distant, dusty past. The last entry he had seen had been for a year ago. Connor Bell and his like could still keep their secrets. The book might be thin on recording previous convictions, but it bulged with previous complaints. It was crammed with a series of narratives establishing patter
ns of behaviour over many years. Armed with its contents a complainant might not be a lone voice calling in the wilderness. Hal, whatever he might think of him, had been right in that respect. Kyle’s story more than likely would have been believed, if it had been supported by the rest of the complaints recorded against Father Connor Bell.
The town clock chimed eleven and he took another sip of wine, keen to dull the turmoil of his emotions. How could they have done it? The Church, his church, had protected its own rather than the innocent, the children. And right here in Inchkeld. It had no heart, and there could be no excuse. The whole host of Heaven must have wept, be weeping still.
When the doorbell rang he went to answer it eagerly, keen to rid himself of the repulsive volume, to hand it over to the police, to his ally. But he did not immediately recognise the man who confronted him on his doorstep.
‘Hello,’ he said, taken aback.
Without a word, the pony-tailed stranger pushed past him and walked right through into his sitting-room. Father Vincent followed, alarmed by the forced intrusion into his territory. As he stood and watched, the young man paced about the room, pulled a drawer out of his desk, briefly inspected his bookcase and then yanked a couple of leather-bound volumes out of it, letting them crash on to the floor.
‘What on earth d’you think you’re doing?’ Father Vincent said angrily, coming over to the stranger and, as he appeared to be about to continue to ransack the room, grabbing hold of his arm to restrain him.
‘Where’s the book?’ the young man asked, seizing Vincent’s wrist and banging his hand hard on the bookcase, making him yell in pain. Getting no other answer he glared at Father Vincent and then, not shifting his gaze, he aimed a kick at the television. The screen shattered into hundreds of pieces of glass, flying into the air, hitting a nearby table and showering the carpet.
‘Where’s the holy book?’ the man shouted, staring the priest in the eye. Getting no response, in a single, swift movement, he swept all the papers off the nearby desk. A second later, he picked up a china table lamp and threw it against the wall, smashing it to pieces and gouging a hole in the plasterwork.
The Good Priest Page 21
