When had it all gone so wrong? He’d always enjoyed his job, got along fine with the other lads—even when Seamus Williams was their supervisor, and he could be a right grumpy sod at times. But the lads would keep their heads down, wait for Seamus’s bad mood to blow over, as it invariably did, although he was hell to work with those last few weeks before he left O’Grady’s to take on old Barry’s farm. The gossip mill had spun up a grand tale of how Seamus had proposed to his girlfriend while attending his younger brother’s wedding in America, and she’d turned him down.
The story soon changed when it transpired Barry had left his ramshackle old farm to the Williams brothers. So Seamus was Barry’s bastard son, which was why he and Paddy looked nothing alike. It was all shite. Tom had never met Paddy, but he’d seen his wedding photos on Seamus’s Facebook, and the brothers were very alike. Seamus was bigger—pretty much bigger than every other man in Omagh—and Patrick had shocking red hair, whereas Seamus’s was a darker kind of auburn colour. And, of course, there was the other thing they had in common. Paddy had a husband; Seamus was with that American fella with the teenaged daughter and the famous ex-wife. The gossips had raptures over that one.
That’s what Tom had spent most of his day listening to—the lads speculating whether Michael had caught ‘it’ off Seamus. At first, Tom ignored them. While they were being idiots, they were still working, and saying something would only make them worse. But when they’d taken it up a notch and suggested that Seamus and his boyfriend took turns to bang Michael, Tom had snapped, told them they were being disrespectful and needed to stop or he’d report them to O’Grady. They’d muttered insincere apologies and kept quiet after that. Dead quiet. Not a murmur. It was awful, and Tom may have said a prayer of thanks when the manager at Ryan’s farm insisted they stop work at five o’clock, even if it meant they now had to work Friday.
Guess I have got something to confess, then.
With a deep sigh, Tom pushed the door open and heaved his exhausted body out of the car, clicking the key fob as he stumbled his way across the car park. A day’s work, followed by a punishing workout, had him feeling three times his age, which was the same age as his grandad. Probably not the best comparison—until a few months back, his grandad had been a spritely man, always on the go even though he was officially retired, such as writers ever retire.
Inside, the church was empty, but the hushed voices behind the closed door told him that someone was in with Father O’Neill. Tom dodged into a pew and knelt to pray, his thoughts still with his grandad. Tom sometimes felt it, too—that urge to take a pen to paper and capture his feelings, experiences, the beauty of the world. He didn’t have his grandad’s way with words, nor his experience of The Troubles—for which he thanked God right then and there—and it was frustrating, but it didn’t stop him trying.
A noise from the back of the church pulled Tom from his thoughts and prayers. Loud voices, laughter. Tom turned to see who was making the racket, and within seconds, a door slammed at the front of the church. He could do little but stare in disbelief as Michael bolted from the confessional, marched up the centre aisle and stopped dead. Like a shot, Tom was on his feet. The lads advanced down the aisle, but Michael dodged away through the closest pew and sprinted up the side aisle and out of the church.
“What the hell have you done?” Tom demanded, but the three lads—one from work and two others he didn’t know—just snorted with laughter and took no notice.
The door to the priest’s side of the confessional opened, and Connor stepped out, grinning like a demon and puffing his chest when he saw his mates’ amusement. Then he saw Tom, and his face fell.
Tom’s fury took over. He stormed down the aisle and slammed his hand into Connor’s chest, pinning him against the wall. “What did you do?”
“I…well…I just…” Connor’s eyes were wide with fear, but Tom didn’t care. He tightened his grip on Connor’s coat and shoved him hard. Connor gasped and gulped for air. “Let me go, you crazy bastard!”
“What did you do to Michael?”
“It was a laugh, all right? A bit of fun.”
“Yeah? What kind of fun? Only, it didn’t look like he was enjoying it very much to me.”
“We…” Connor huffed and looked away. “We followed him in, and he was praying. There was a note on the door that confession was cancelled tonight. I only went in to have a look.”
“This is a sacred building!” Tom hissed and jerked his head at the door Connor had just exited. “You don’t get to go in there. I don’t get to go in there, and I’m a Catholic. What did you say to Michael?”
“Nothing much. He started to confess, so I just kind of…went along with it.”
“You…” Tom let go of Connor’s coat and snarled. “Get out.”
“Or what?” Connor asked, suddenly full of bravado—Tom could see Connor’s mates in his peripheral vision. They were right behind him, but he could take them on, no trouble at all. They were bullies of the worst kind, and in God’s house. How dare they!
Connor looked Tom in the eye and gave a nonchalant shrug. “What you gonna do about it, Tommy? Gonna go crying to the boss, are ye?”
Tom didn’t think, couldn’t. Before he knew it, his fist flew and slammed into Connor’s jaw.
Connor’s head jolted sharply to the side, and his hand was straight up, but Tom didn’t wait for him to retaliate. He kneed Connor between the legs and rounded on the other three lads.
“Come on, then. Think yous are hard, take me on.” The lads stood their ground. “Anyone? No?” Still they didn’t move. “Get out of my church.” Tom lunged forward. “RIGHT NOW!” The bells began their half peal, and the lads fled. They were long gone by the time the bells ended.
Tom turned back to Connor, or where Connor had been, but he was on the move—running, treading in Michael’s footsteps.
In the silence of the empty church, the deafening pound of Tom’s heart made his whole being vibrate with rage, yet even as his blood coursed and his thoughts swirled in chaos, he still heard it—a whisper that gently urged him. Come to me. Forcibly unclenching his fists, Tom bowed his head in reverence and stepped before the altar, soundlessly reciting the words of the Eucharist.
Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof…
He dropped to his knees and leaned his hands on the altar rail, his forehead pressed painfully to his knuckles.
“Oh, God, please forgive me…”
<<<>>>
Three a.m. was a damn awful time to be lying awake, only the sound of Dad’s snoring for company. Tom went downstairs for a glass of water and then stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the dark Christmas tree and wondering if he’d ever forgive himself. He was no better than Connor, starting a fight in the church. He was appalled by his own behaviour, not least because he had a feeling he’d probably made things worse for Michael.
His knuckles were bruised, but it was his own stupid fault. There were peaceful ways to resolve this—he should’ve talked to Michael about it, found out what he wanted to do. Or told Father O’Neill and let him deal with it. Fat lot of use it was, knowing that now. But back in the church he was too angry to reason it through, and Connor wasn’t a Catholic. He probably had no idea just how awful it was. The homophobic bullying was bad enough, but this? Talk about take it to the next level—now he’d bullied Michael online, in person and in the afterlife.
All right, so that was a wee bit melodramatic. God would know and understand that Michael had acted in faith. Acknowledging one’s sins before the Lord took courage, which Michael had by the bucketload. He just kept on going, always with that happy smile for everyone, so much kindness, honesty. He was a beautiful human being, and it wasn’t right he was being made to suffer by unthinking idiots ‘having a bit of fun’.
For as much as Tom didn’t think God was Old Testament vengeful, it certainly wouldn’t be bad news if tomorrow he heard Connor had been struck by a freak bolt of lightning. And that was why
he was finding this trial so difficult. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. To Tom, what Connor was doing was unforgiveable, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that the gobshite didn’t know any better. He certainly wouldn’t have learned anything of value from being punched in the face, but would he have listened to reason?
Tom pressed the heels of his hands against his weary eyes. He needed sleep—he had to be up for work in less than three hours, and he was going to talk to O’Grady about Connor. He was a fair boss, a reasonable man, and while it wasn’t a work-related matter, it did affect all of their performance. Whether O’Grady was in favour of gay equality, Tom didn’t know, but he was in favour of getting the job done. If for no other reason than that, he’d surely intervene.
Glad to have decided on some course of action, Tom returned to bed, checking Facebook on his phone one last time. Still no posts from Michael, no shares, no likes…that poor kid. Please look after him, Father.
<<<>>>
Tom didn’t dare leave the lads working on their own. The sneers, sly digs, muttered insults—some of the names they were calling him were downright laughable—he was pretty sure the only thing stopping them from sabotaging the job was that they’d all be out of pocket.
Lashed out for no reason.
Not his fight.
Exerting his authority.
Lost our respect.
He could see that much was true. He had lost their respect, and they had lost his, along with his trust. It was a horrible feeling, but what could he do? They had to work together, although today they were finished until after Christmas, which meant a cracker night at the pub—it was safe to say Tom wouldn’t be joining them this year. Maybe it would blow itself out over Christmas. Regardless, he wasn’t leaving it to chance, and when they stopped for dinner, he drove over to see O’Grady, cringing at the minibus’s crunchy clutch and inability to stop! Twice, he overshot a junction because the brakes were non-responsive.
O’Grady wasn’t in when Tom arrived at the office, but both of his assistants were there, somewhere behind the huge piles of paperwork they needed to clear this side of the festive season.
“He’ll be back by one, so he will,” Shannon informed Tom, peering over the heaps of paper to offer him a brief, coy smile. “Are yous all out tonight?”
“I’m not, but the lads will be, aye.”
“Oh, right. We thought we might come and join ye, didn’t we, Jen?” Jen—O’Grady’s other assistant—nodded. She was wearing Christmas earrings with jingling bells and flashing lights. For a moment, they made Tom forget what a hellish day he was having.
“They’re mighty, them, Jen.”
“Great, aren’t they?” She moved her head from side to side, making the little bells tinkle, and Tom chuckled.
“How come you’re not going?” Shannon asked.
“I’ve got, er, a family do.” He hated telling lies, but he couldn’t tell her the real reason, and he still felt bad about turning her down. “I’ll find out where they’re starting from and let you know.”
“Thanks.” Shannon turned away from him and stared at her computer screen, the light reflecting off her face and emphasising her blush-reddened cheeks. Jen gave Tom a knowing look and raised an eyebrow.
“I might try and get down later, though,” he babbled and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Shannon nodded, still staring at the screen. “That’d be nice.”
Tom didn’t know what else to say. He was saved from embarrassing them both further when O’Grady returned and did it for him.
“You just can’t stay away from the lovely Shannon, can ye?” he joked.
Tom rubbed his hand over his hair. “Er, yeah. Something like that. Can I have a word with you, Martin, about a couple of things.”
“Sure. Come on through.”
Tom followed Martin O’Grady into his office and waited to be invited to sit down, but the invitation wasn’t forthcoming.
“What can I do for you?” O’Grady asked, sitting down himself.
“OK, firstly, the minibus is banjaxed. It needs to go in for a service ASAP.”
“No problem. Any chance you can get it over to Newtonstewart tonight?”
“I suppose. I’ll get my dad to follow me over in my car.”
“Grand.” O’Grady tore a sheet of paper from a pad and wrote on it. “I don’t plan on being in the office next week. But if you can drop it off at the house, I’ll get on to the garage on Monday.”
O’Grady handed over the paper, on which he had not very legibly scrawled his address, but the postcode was clear enough, and Newtonstewart was only a short drive away. It wasn’t like Tom had anything else to do tonight.
He pocketed the paper and spent a moment considering his words. Angry as he was, he needed to keep this on a professional keel. When he was sure he could hold his tongue, he said, “There’s a problem with a few of the lads, Martin.”
“Oh aye? They giving you bother?”
“Not me as such. It’s…well, I don’t think they mean any malice, but Connor and a couple of the others are getting at Michael McFerran.”
“Michael? He works for Seamus Williams, not me.”
“I realise that. But it’s having a knock-on effect.”
O’Grady got up and turned his back on Tom, noisily opening and closing the drawers of the filing cabinet behind his desk. “How’s that, then?”
“I’ve had to challenge Connor three times now.”
O’Grady lifted some papers from a drawer, flicked through them, and put them back again. “During the work day?”
“No, but—”
“Then it’s nothing to do with me. If you’ve got a problem with each other, you need deal with it in your own time, not mine.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I’ve kept it away from work, but Connor hasn’t, and he’s got a lot of influence over the other lads.”
“You are the supervisor.”
Tom’s hair prickled with barely suppressed rage. He wasn’t failing in his job. It had reached the point where O’Grady needed to intervene, but it didn’t sound like he was going to.
“You know, Tommy, if this all comes back to the McFerran lad being the way he is, you’ve got to ask yourself—is it worth fighting his corner?”
“With all due respect, Martin, I can’t abide people who stand by and watch someone getting kicked to the ground. And I doubt it’s anything to do with Michael being the way he is—the word’s gay, incidentally. Connor was looking for someone weak to pick on. It just happened to be Michael.”
“What can he expect when he’s flaunting it?”
God help me. Determined not to shout at his boss, Tom dialled down the volume and focused on O’Grady’s bulbous nose as he spoke. “Every Saturday, there’s a whole stream of wedding cars passes my house, confetti all over the place. Straight people are allowed to flaunt it. Surely gay people are entitled to the same? And it’s not like Michael’s snogging boys in the street, is it? He’s just trying to get on. But even if he was, it’s no one’s business but his own.”
Martin banged a drawer shut and turned to face Tom. “Again, what’s it got to do with me?”
“All right, say we get a new lad on the crew who’s a bit different, maybe got a learning disability, or something? What do you think Connor’s going to be like? Because I’ll tell you now, Martin, I, for one, don’t want a running repeat. Connor needs a talking to, but I’m his supervisor, not his employer. I don’t have the authority to give him a formal warning—you do. That’s what it’s got to do with you.”
O’Grady kept his eyes on Tom, although his mouth was as mobile as a bag of worms. He sucked his teeth, rolled his tongue over them, licked his lips, and grunted. “Leave it with me,” he said finally.
<<<>>>
If anything, the lads were even worse after their dinner break. Tom ignored what they were saying, only challenging them if they were slacking. To be fair, Connor was playing
no part in the jibes, although that was more to do with his swollen jaw than sudden enlightenment. However brave a face Connor put on it, he was clearly in pain, and Tom was sorry. He’d lost his temper, retaliated on Michael’s behalf, when he had no right.
When at long last they finished for the day, Tom dropped off those who wanted to go home and change and then went to pick his dad up.
“You not going out tonight, then?” his dad asked as he got into the minibus. Tom crunched it into first gear and silently shook his head. “Ah, well. Look on the bright side, son. If they’re out getting poleaxed, they’re not going to be worrying about what young Mike’s up to.”
It was small consolation, but his dad was right, and when they stopped to get the car from Ryan’s farm, Tom held on to the keys a moment, and said, “Thanks, Dad.”
His dad smiled and took the keys from him. “You’re not alone, Thomas. Don’t forget that.” He opened the door and was halfway out when he added, “What d’you say to having a pint with your al fella tonight?”
Tom wrinkled his nose and fought back a grin. “Well, I could be persuaded, maybe…”
His dad cuffed him playfully around the head. “Cheeky get.”
Chapter Seven:
Surprise!
“Mi-chael…”
He closed his eyes and pulled the pillow over his face, tugging it down over his ears in a desperate bid to block Dee’s hammering on his bedroom door.
“You can’t stay in there forever.”
Watch me.
“You’ve gotta be at church in half an hour.”
Not going. And anyway, what was she doing up so early on a Sunday morning?
A silence followed, just long enough for Michael to be lulled into a false sense of security. He threw the pillow on the floor and sighed.
“Are you even alive?”
Seriously, take the hint, Deidra. “I’m not going to church.”
Seeds of Tyrone Box Set Page 64
