by Pat Young
Marty glanced away, deep in thought, then instead of answering, she shouted, ‘Look, Smeaton’s on his knees again.’
‘Joe! Come quick! You need to hear this.’
***
CHAPTER 79
Picturing his colleagues and realising he had wronged every one of them, in some way, Thomas Smeaton prayed, ‘God, have mercy on me. I believed I was a good man, trying to do a good job, managing people and making them work hard. But I might have overdone it. I am truly sorry I didn’t have more compassion for some of my employees.’ He stopped to think, trying to decide if it would be better to name them. He remembered he was supposed to be praying for forgiveness. It might be a good idea to use the word ‘forgive’.
‘Forgive me, Father, for not allowing Carole, my secretary, to go to America. I am truly sorry and if I could tell her that, face to face, I would.’ He stopped again, struck by the awareness that he meant every word. Pity it was too late. He’d never have the chance to apologise to Carole or anyone else.
‘I’m so sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me. If Carole wants a baby, then it’s not up to me to stand in her way. Why didn’t I see that before now?’ He fell forward on to his hands, feeling worse than he ever had in his lifetime. Abject, that was the word to describe it, as in abject apology. Whispering now, he recited, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.’
As the words he had known since boyhood rolled off his tongue, he wondered whose forgiveness he ought to pray for next. Liz Douglas. Suicide. Because of him? He retched a few drops of watery sputum on to the ground. Pushing up on his arms he righted himself and looked up towards the trace of light.
‘Lord, forgive me for the way I treated Liz Douglas. When she came to me, looking for support, I sent her away, preferring to make her feel the inadequacies were all hers. They were mine, Father. Mine. I failed as a leader, failed as a human being. God, please forgive me for saying I would send in the inspectors to get to the bottom of things. I could tell she was terrified and I must confess, I took pleasure in seeing her suffer.’
Thomas Smeaton could hardly believe his own ears. All this stuff was pouring out of his mouth in an effortless stream. He didn’t have to think about it. Was that good or bad? He was tempted to blame Councillor Cooper for the way he had been treating staff recently. There was no doubt she had been a poisonous influence on him. For some reason, he had wanted to please her, and the council, more than he had wanted to support his staff. He had no idea why, but it had made sense at the time.
He now saw Morag Cooper as an unpleasant, powerful woman who had wooed him so that she could control him. It had been she who insisted all schools follow council directives to the letter, with no room for creative or caring head teachers.
‘They’re either with us or against us,’ she’d said to him one day. ‘It’s your job, Tom, to make sure they’re with us. We have no room for the maverick in this authority.’
‘But Councillor Cooper,’ he’d said, only to be reminded to call her Morag when they were alone together. ‘Morag,’ he’d muttered, ‘some of these head teachers are doing great things, often in very difficult schools.’
‘Unless they are sticking rigidly to council policies,’ she’d insisted, ‘I want them out. Do you understand me, Tom? Out.’
Maybe he should ask forgiveness for listening to the likes of Morag Cooper, when common sense had told him she was nothing but a power-mad tyrant. It was she who’d suggested making savings on the education budget by cutting this and cutting that. Then, when the people of Bankside had stood up for themselves, she’d been right in there, milking every opportunity for publicity. Some said she was hoping to move from local government to greater things. God help Scotland if independence meant being ruled by the likes of her.
‘Father, forgive me for putting my desire to please Morag Cooper before my desire to do the right thing for the teachers and pupils in my care. I wish I hadn’t listened to her, Lord, and been taken in by her. She was the one who wanted to cut funding to the poorest areas. I shouldn’t have done what she told me. But, forgive me, Lord, I was worried about keeping my job.’
***
CHAPTER 80
‘Wow,’ whispered Marty. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Did you hear that? He’s repented his sins against lovely Liz.’ She touched Sheila’s arm and gave it a squeeze.
‘Yes,’ said Sheila, ‘but have you noticed how easily he’s slipped back into his old ways, blaming Cooper for his behaviour, instead of acknowledging his own guilt? The man makes me sick.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Joe, ‘there’s a touch too much Nazi Germany about this for my liking. He had to do it to please his superiors. It’s nothing but jobsworth bullshit.’
‘Shh …’ Marty pointed to the screen. ‘Listen to him. He seems to have moved on from blaming the Troll. Sounds like he might be taking responsibility for his own decisions.’
‘Forgive me for cutting the funding to the children’s orchestra. I know it does a lot of good in an area blighted by deprivation. If I could, Father, I would beg Sean to pardon me and would do everything in my power to re-instate the orchestra.’
‘Too late,’ muttered Sheila sadly, ‘that boat has sailed.’
Smeaton quietened and sat back on his heels, as if to give his knees a rest.
‘What’s he up to now?’ Marty asked the others, feeling obliged to whisper.
‘I think he’s wondering what to say next.’
Smeaton raised himself into his praying position and was off again, voice raised as if he were delivering a prayer in a cathedral.
‘He looks transfixed,’ said Sheila, ‘don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, he’s in the zone,’ said Joe. ‘I hope it isn’t an elaborate act for our benefit.’
‘Do you hear him, Joe? He’s on about your stuff now, I think.’
As they fell silent, Smeaton voiced his regret for the way he had spoken to Joe, asking forgiveness for suggesting he was a paedophile.
‘What?’ screamed Sheila, then clasped her hand over her mouth. On screen, Smeaton continued his fervent prayer, undisturbed by her outburst. Sheila said, ‘Oh, Joe. The man’s beyond disgusting.’
‘Docherty was a fool, going to the papers, thinking he could get the better of me, but, I have to admit, Lord, he’s been doing good work with those boys of his, keeping them off the drugs. Forgive me for pulling the funding from his projects.’
‘Blow me,’ said Joe. ‘This is a day I never thought I’d see.’
‘I should never have shut down his bothy and I promise, if I could go back and live my life over again, I would encourage him in his good work.’
Beside her Joe was clasping a hand to his chest, as if he was having a heart attack.
Marty gave him a thumbs-up. ‘You’re back in a job. Sorted!’ She shook her head. ‘He’s unbelievable.’
There was a lull in the confessions while Smeaton muttered a few more lines from what sounded to Marty like conventional prayers. Then, to her astonishment, Marty heard her own name mentioned. It was surreal and she glanced at Joe to see whether he had heard it too.
‘Your turn,’ he said, eyebrows raised.
‘God, forgive me, please, for what I did to Marty Dunlop. She was a thorn in my side, there’s no doubt, and a really aggravating woman, but I could have dealt with her better. Councillor Cooper was haranguing me to get rid of difficult people. And Marty Dunlop was definitely difficult. And a maverick if ever I saw one.’
Marty choked with indignation. ‘Damn you,’ she shouted at the screen. Sheila hugged her, but Joe, she noticed, didn’t take his eyes off Smeaton, who was confessing his sins at the top of his voice.
‘Forgive me, Father. I realise now how much damage I must have done to the likes of Joan Donaldson and Ken Barty, Mary Henderson, mmm, Willie Morgan, mmm, Marie whatsername.’
‘Listen to the sad bastard,’ muttered Joe. ‘He’s listing anyone he’s ever offended. Can’t r
emember all their names but hoping to cover enough bases to escape from purgatory.’ He turned to Marty, his anger clear to see. ‘Does that sound sincere to you?’
‘No,’ admitted Marty, ‘but I’ve never listened to anyone pray before, let alone a man trying to save his eternal soul.’
‘What do you think, Sheila?’ he demanded. ‘You’re Catholic. Does that sound genuine to you, reeling off random names?’
‘I’ve no idea, Joe. I’m way out of my depth here.’
Marty said, ‘That’s how I feel too. We’ve no way of telling whether he’s sincerely repentant. I suppose the only way we’ll ever find out is if he changes his ways after this. We’ve done all we can.’
‘I agree. Maybe we should be thinking about getting out of here,’ said Sheila. ‘We’ve achieved our objective, haven’t we?’
Marty said, ‘I hope so. It feels a bit of a let-down though. I expected to feel exhilarated, vindicated. I’m not sure I’m satisfied.’
They watched and waited, hoping for more, but, having reeled off another list of names, Smeaton appeared to have completed his confession. No more prayers were offered. No-one else was mentioned.
***
CHAPTER 81
Although she’d agreed to have a lie-down, Marty couldn’t sleep; she had far too much going on in her head. There was tomorrow to be got through and, sooner or later, she’d have to give Joe an answer.
If David were the only obstacle, Marty thought she might say yes, but there was Mark to consider and he was a different matter. Okay, she hardly saw him these days, since he moved away to university, but that was normal, right? And at least she always had the holidays to look forward to. Maybe he’d want to come to Bulgaria on his holidays? He could bring his pals. It would be like the old days when all the boys used to gather at their house.
But what if Mark took his dad’s side? What if she never saw her son again? What if she missed his graduation, his wedding?
They’d never rowed in front of Mark, in fact they rarely disagreed at all. Maybe that was the trouble, their relationship was totally lacking in passion. They never fell out so they never had the fun of making up. Life with David had become boring. She’d never noticed before, too engrossed in bringing up Mark and running a school, keeping so many balls in the air she didn’t have time to see how unexciting married life had become.
Joe, somehow, exuded danger. Maybe she was being daft but she hadn’t felt this exhilarated since she was fourteen. She started to work out how many years that was and gave up. Joe made her feel young again, while David seemed happy for her to settle into middle age and embrace retirement. Every part of her rebelled against that idea. Paris had been nice, but it was hardly electrifying. She wanted excitement, and she wanted it now, while she was young enough to enjoy the thrill of the ride.
Trying not to disturb Sheila who was asleep in the next bunk, Marty climbed out of bed, determined to tell Joe, before she changed her mind, that she would go with him.
The living room was empty. All that could be heard was white noise from the speakers and a soothing whirr from the heater. Joe was nowhere to be seen. On screen, Thomas Smeaton lay curled in a ball, harmless as a sleeping child.
Marty went to the window and parted the curtains. The sky was a star-sprinkled navy, the ground white-frosted. The loch, in the distance, lay silent and slick. Nothing moved, except Joe’s silhouette prowling back and forth against the pale moon.
***
CHAPTER 82
When Thomas Smeaton opened his eyes, disappointment hit him like a blow to the stomach. He groaned, not understanding how he could still be here. He rolled on to his back and peered upwards, but there was no sign of God’s holy countenance, far less the radiant glory he expected to welcome him into heaven. Surely he had done all he could? He tried to conjure up the faces of the folk he had named in his prayers and saw that tree again, laden with images of those whose lives he must have made a misery. It seemed more had appeared while he’d been dozing. The trouble was, while he vaguely recalled the faces, he couldn’t remember all of their names. How was he to pray for forgiveness if he couldn’t remember the people he’d sinned against and call them by name? This getting out of purgatory was proving to be a serious challenge. Imagine if he were doomed to spend eternity like this. Thinking he had done enough then waking over and over to the realization he was still full of sin and unlikely to ever be released to the glory of heaven.
Thomas Smeaton felt very aggrieved. God wasn’t playing fair. What more was he supposed to do? He had repented and begged for forgiveness. Now surely, it was God’s turn to keep his side of the bargain and let him out of here.
In a fit of pique, he clambered to his knees then up onto his feet. This was no time to be meek and mild. Being assertive had got him what he wanted in life. Why should death be any different?
***
CHAPTER 83
‘Joe! Sheila! You have to come and hear this.’
Joe hurried in the front door to find Marty practically jumping up and down.
‘Don’t miss this, Joe. He’s complaining that he’s done enough and yet God hasn’t sent a band of celestial angels to escort him through the pearly gates.’
‘Has he actually said that?’ asked Sheila, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
‘Not in so many words, but that’s what he’s getting at. He’s very annoyed and letting God know it.’
Right on cue, Smeaton shouted, ‘God! Are you listening to me?’
Joe couldn’t believe his ears. It was a long time since he’d been a practising Catholic, but he knew from years of attending church that this was no way to speak to the Almighty. His boyhood training in faith and worship came back to him and he watched the screen fascinated, expecting a thunderbolt or flash of lightning to appear and strike Smeaton to the ground.
‘I’ve done my bit,’ whined Smeaton. ‘Why won’t you forgive me?’
Sheila stared. ‘This is unbelievable,’ she said. ‘The man obviously believes he can bully his way out of anything, including purgatory.’
‘Come on, Sheila,’ said Joe, grinning, ‘be fair. He’s only pulling rank.’
Sheila spluttered with mirth. ‘You’re right. Putting the Almighty in his place and letting him know Thomas Smeaton’s not happy with his arrangements.’
Joe listened to the tirade for a moment or two and then said, ‘That’s exactly the way he spoke to me the last time I saw him.’
‘He’s bullying God,’ shouted Marty. ‘That’s what he’s doing, he’s bullying God.’
On screen Smeaton was building up a head of steam. In a style familiar to all of them, he was strutting up and down, his chest puffed out with self-importance, ridiculous in his nakedness.
‘This is comical. It reminds me of a story I used to read to Mark when he was small, about the emperor’s new clothes. He walked around naked too, believing he was powerful and to be obeyed at all costs.’
‘God,’ Smeaton shouted, ‘I’ve had enough of this. Fair enough, a little time in purgatory, to remind me I wasn’t always as perfect as I thought, you know, vis-a-vis my mother and a few employees. But may I remind you, Father? It was only a few hours before my death that I made my last confession.’
‘Don’t you expect him to be struck down at any moment?’ whispered Sheila, her voice full of wonderment. ‘Turned into a pillar of salt?’
‘It’s what he deserves,’ said Joe. ‘What a terrible way to speak to your maker.’
‘I agree with you, Joe, and I don’t even believe in a maker,’ said Marty, who sounded as if she might be in danger of choking. ‘The man is incredible.’
‘Now do you believe he was being insincere earlier?’ said Joe, looking from Marty to Sheila and back.
‘I’ve repented my sins and begged your forgiveness. I don’t know what else you expect of me. I’m a good man. I live a clean life, give a lot of money to the church and never pass a collecting tin in the street. I even buy the Big Issue, occasionally. I’m
not the kind of person you should be keeping here.’
‘Oh, I wish Ruby could see this.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Joe. ‘There’s a fresh disc in the camera. It’s all being recorded. Every ranting word of it.’
‘And I do my best to help that lot up at Bankside, don’t I? They neither work nor want, those people, but I funded musical instruments, canoes and all the rest of it, so they could be rescued from their deprivation. They’re deprived of damn all. New trainers, new phones, everything. And they’ve always got money for fags and drink, have you noticed that, God? Whereas I never touch a drop.’
The three friends gazed at each other, speechless, but it seemed Smeaton hadn’t finished yet.
‘What rescued me from poverty? Hard work, that’s what, not poncing about with a saxophone or wandering the hills at the taxpayer’s expense. My mother worked her fingers to the bone bringing up Archie and me. You didn’t see her down the social security, claiming this allowance and that allowance. She was far too proud for that. They’ve no pride, these people, that’s the trouble. No pride at all.’
‘Not something anyone could ever accuse you of, Smeaton,’ said Marty.
‘Ruby described him as a champagne socialist,’ said Sheila. ‘He’s showing his true colours now. Listen to him.’
‘There’s only so much someone like me can do, Father. I try my very best to provide for those in need, but the councillors don’t always see it my way. All they’re interested in is power.’
‘I wonder what Morag Cooper and his other councillor pals would make of this?’ said Marty.
Smeaton had stopped strutting and was now standing, hands on hips, face upturned. ‘Are you listening, God?’ he roared. ‘Enough is enough. You’ve made your point. I repent all my sins. Now, it’s high time you let me out of here.’
