The Lost Children Page 8

  Charlie straightened in his seat and switched on the engine. ‘Now you listen to me. I’m not blackmailing you. I just want to know I can call in a favour when I need to. Not that an extra few quid won’t come in handy now and again, mind you. Now beat it, piss off, get out, I’m in a hurry.’

  *

  The meeting was arranged for ten. This time Tom wasn’t kept waiting. He was led straight into the third floor office by the same grey nun he had seen before.

  Father Watson didn’t greet him with an outstretched hand. Instead he remained seated behind his desk and nodded at Tom to sit opposite.

  ‘Right. What’s going on?’ He spoke through his usual haze of cigarette smoke. A big man who, despite his dog collar, looked like an ex-prize fighter. He took a long final draw and swallowed hard before stubbing out the butt into the overflowing ashtray. He looked directly at Tom. ‘I know you’re up to your neck in something. I just don’t know what. Now, I want to know exactly what’s been going on…’

  Tom’s mouth was dry. His prepared speech evaporated. Everything was falling apart at the seams. His early euphoria on leaving Oonagh’s house had long gone.

  ‘Tom! Father Thomas. Are you listening to me?’ Father Watson was squinting at Tom through a thin plume of smoke as he lit yet another cigarette. ‘Now, whatever it is, I can help you. BUT, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.’

  Tom held his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. ‘Christ, it’s complicated. I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘You’re darn tootin’ it’s complicated, son. One minute I’ve got Father Kennedy ranting and raving on the phone, telling me he wants rid of you, next day he drops down dead, his body full of poison.’

  ‘Look, I had nothing to do with that. I swear it.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I believe you. It was probably suicide. The poor old soul was demented with pain towards the end. We found some notes he’d written while we were going through his things. Notes about joining Jesus, and God in Heaven… seeing his mother again, and, well just stuff like that really. Nothing that made any sense. He probably just, well, just couldn’t take any more.’

  He shook his head. ‘Silly old fool, he got penicillin from the dentist last year apparently. Kept it. He might have been planning this for ages. Don’t even know if there was enough penicillin to kill him. But he’d taken paracetamol and stuff too. To be honest he was going a bit, well, strange towards the end. He was telling people things – daft things – all sorts of nonsense. Did you no’ notice anything?’

  His fellow priest had seemed his usual self. It had been quite a shock to learn of Father Kennedy’s cancer. Hadn’t even known he’d been ill. He felt lousy for not having spotted the signs. Suicide was looking more and more likely to be the cause of death, but that was not good news. Suicide was the ultimate sin. It would send shockwaves through the Church.

  ‘What kind of things was he saying?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Never mind.’

  The earlier rain had stopped. The weak autumn sunshine squeezed through the clouds and made a silver snowdrop on the desk between them.

  Tom took a deep breath.

  ‘I think it’s best if I left the priesthood.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Best for whom? Who would it be best for?’

  ‘Look, I just don’t believe any more.’

  ‘So? Do you think you’re the only priest who feels like this?’

  Father Watson stood up, walked round the desk and perched himself on the edge. He was tall enough for both feet still to touch the ground. He leaned over and touched Tom on the shoulder, his body blocking out the sunlight, which had been hitting Tom square in the eyes. Father Watson relit his cigarette, which had gone out, blew on the match and threw it into the ashtray.

  ‘I should really give these things up. But then there’s few enough things in life to enjoy, and we do without enough pleasures already, don’t we?’ A pause, a few more draws then: ‘Is it a woman, Tom, are you in a bit of bother?’ He pushed his tongue through his lips and wiped away a piece of filter tip with his fingers. He squinted his eyes as the smoke snaked its way up his face. ‘You wouldn’t be the first priest to—’

  Tom interrupted before he got any further. ‘No, nothing like that.’ Not a complete lie. ‘I just don’t get it, I just don’t believe in it anymore.’

  ‘Right, listen to me. You’re going nowhere.’

  He pointed out of the window to some far off place, his cigarette squeezed between two fingers. ‘I’ve got one priest lying in the morgue after going side-e-ways, and I’ve got another saying he’s packing his bags cause he’s having a crisis of faith. How d’you think this’ll look? No. I’m sorry, but that’s not on. Think of our reputation.’

  He softened slightly. ‘People look up to us, Tom. Look up to the Church. It gives them something to believe in. Even if it sometimes seems like… it’s shite… At least it’s well-meaning shite. And the Church needs men like you. Guys who can make a difference.’

  ‘What difference do I make?’

  Father Watson leaned towards him, blowing the smoke through the side of his mouth. ‘You kidding? Look at all you do for those poor youngsters at that homeless place.’

  He knew he was being buttered up. Only six weeks ago, he’d been lambasted by Father Watson for telling the kids about safe sex.

  ‘And what about all your counselling and stuff,’ added Father Watson, going along with the wee game. ‘You set all that up single-handed. Most of those kids don’t have anyone else, Tom. Times have changed, you know. It’s not enough for priests to pray over the sick and the dying. We need guys like you out in the community. We need to make our presence felt.’

  Tom nodded, conscious of the colour rising in his cheeks. He bit his bottom lip, which was trembling.

  Father Watson slid off the desk and walked to the window, arms folded. Tom sensed that his moment of glory was coming to an end.

  ‘Besides, we’ve got to put a united front on this one. What do you think it’ll look like if you walk away now, especially after the way you’ve been carrying on?’

  ‘“Carrying on”?’

  Father Watson either didn’t hear him, or just ignored him.

  ‘Now, the police have agreed to release Father Kennedy’s body, so we can start the preparations for his funeral. The Mass will be at St Patrick’s, of course, and all the big nobs from the Church’ll be there. We’ll get the kids from the primary school to do some readings, sing a couple of hymns. Give him a good send off.’

  Nothing seemed to be sacred to the Watson PR machine.

  ‘There’ll still need to be a fatal accident inquiry of course.’ Father Watson hadn’t been joking about damage limitation being his game. ‘That might easily allude to death by misadventure. In his confusion poor old Father Kennedy took penicillin rather than his usual medication. It was a single error, but with his age and advanced illness, it proved fatal.’

  He paused for just a second. ‘Now, it’s been decided next Monday’s best for the funeral, so that gives us a few days to handle the press, you know how these things are. Oh, and of course in your grief-stricken state you’ll need some help. I’ll be sending a curate round to take care of everyday business. Give you a bit of a break.’

  Father Watson returned to his desk and Tom took this as his cue to exit stage right. Even when he stood up he was still dwarfed by Father Watson, who stooped over the desk pretending to sift through a pile of documents.

  The older priest spoke without looking up. ‘Now, you will take my career advice on board, Tom, won’t you?’

  He stood upright and held out his hand for Tom to shake, this time looking him straight in the eye. ‘Oh, and by the way, in case you’re thinking of jumping ship, I know you’ve been helping yourself to the odd bit of overtime pay and a wee monthly bonus, but don’t worry, we would never prosecute our own, Father Thomas.’ He held his gaze. ‘Now, I’ll
be seeing you before Monday. Take care and God Bless.’

  16

  Glasgow, 2000

  She turned the key in the lock, but the door jarred against the safety chain. She called out through the space, ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  The footsteps quickened down the hallway. ‘Hold on, I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  Her mum’s hair was damp and hung in soft waves around her face. She pulled her dressing gown tight across her body, her face flushed. Oonagh felt the tug on her heart. She leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, ‘Oh Mum, you old slapper, the middle of the day and you’re still not dressed.’

  ‘Get away.’ They linked arms, and Fran O’Neil gave her daughter an affectionate squeeze and a crinkled grin with every step.

  ‘You all right, Mum?’

  ‘Uh uh… more than all right, in fact.’

  When she opened the kitchen door Oonagh felt the colour drain from her face. He sat at the table, but stood up when they entered the room.

  ‘Oonagh, Owen; Owen, Oonagh.’ Her mum beamed, arm outstretched to present her trophy, although it was hard to tell which she considered the better prize.

  Oonagh shot her mum a look, taking in the situation. Owen held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Oonagh. Your mum’s told me a lot about you.’

  ‘Oh really? Wish I could say the same.’ Oonagh looked down at his feet and raised an eyebrow. ‘Very bohemian. They all the rage in Clarkston?’

  ‘Oh these,’ Owen laughed, ‘no, they’re shower shoes, I’m just—’

  Her mum cut in. ‘Oonagh, I’m glad you came round. I’ve been wanting you two to meet for—’

  ‘Eh, Mum, excuse me, do you mind telling me what the hell’s going on? Who’s he?’

  ‘Oonagh, Owen and I are… are…’ Oonagh decided she’d throw up if her mum said boyfriend. ‘Owen and I are friends.’ She clocked Oonagh’s expression. ‘Now honey, I know this is a bit of a… a… surprise…’

  Well, at least she had the decency to be embarrassed.

  ‘… but Owen and I have been seeing quite a lot of each other recently…’

  ‘A friend who just happens to drop in for a shower. How very bloody convenient. I get the picture; very clear it is too. And how long has this being going on? I mean, where d’you pick him up? I hadn’t realised your social life was quite so bloody spectacular.’

  ‘Oonagh. Please. I thought you of all people would understand. You know how lonely—’

  ‘Lonely. Don’t bloody dare talk to me about being lonely. Dad’s not even been dead five minutes, in case you’ve forgotten, and here you are sitting with some… some…eedjit that we know nothing about.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Oonagh.’ Her mum looked mortified but let out a laugh. ‘Stop being so… so pompous.’

  ‘I actually came to tell you something, to ask for some motherly advice. Well, don’t bother, I can see I’m in the way.’

  Fran looked at her and pulled out a chair. ‘Och, you’re being ridiculous,’ she tutted. ‘Look, sit down, the kettle’s on and—’

  ‘Mum. Are you being serious? I’m not sharing a table with him.’ She tossed her head in Owen’s direction. He looked as mortified as her mum. ‘How can you betray Dad like this?’ She looked at the pair of them and bit down on her lip to stop her chin from trembling. ‘It’s… disgusting.’

  ‘Now stop this, do you hear me? What do you expect me to do? Grieve for the rest of my life? In the name of God, Oonagh, it’s been two years. I’m only fifty-seven, that’s young nowadays. You’re getting on with your life; what’s wrong with me doing the same. Or am I not allowed a life because I’m your mother?’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. Do you call working fourteen hour days and anaesthetising myself with pills and booze a life?’

  Owen stood up, scraping the legs of his chair along the tiled floor. ‘Perhaps I should just go, Fran. This is obviously a private matter.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea,’ said Oonagh.

  But Fran put her hand on his shoulder and sat him back down. ‘No, no, stay where you are, Owen. You’re right, it is private… between the three of us.’

  ‘Well, at least I know where I stand. Thank you very bloody much.’ Oonagh’s voice choked, her eyes brimmed over.

  ‘Oh, grow up. You haven’t been to see me for nearly two months, then when you do decide to pop in I’m read the riot act for having a boyfriend.’

  The word stung Oonagh.

  ‘Oonagh, it’s your choice if you want to ruin your life wallowing in grief. It’s not what I want for you, and it’s sure as hell not what Dad would have wanted.’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me what Dad would have wanted.’ She pointed a perfectly manicured nail at the table, as if somehow it might split the couple.

  ‘Oh, you’re acting like a spoiled teenager, Oonagh. You’re a bright, intelligent woman with the world at your feet, but look at you; you’re letting grief turn you into a shell. D’you think this is the worst thing that’ll ever to happen to you? Let me tell you, Oonagh, there’s a lot worse than losing your father. You need to start facing up to life instead of hiding behind this… self-pity. You should be grateful for what you’ve got.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll thank God, shall I? Thank God for making me feel so shitty all the time?’

  ‘Oonagh, you can’t expect me to put my life on hold just because that’s what you want. You’re too demanding, Oonagh. You’re too needy.’

  ‘I’m NOT needy.’ She banged her fist on the table, causing the cups and Owen to tremble. ‘I never ask anyone for anything.’

  ‘No, Oonagh, you don’t ask – but you expect. You expect people to work and play as hard as you do. And to grieve as hard too. But I’m just not up to it, Oonagh. I can’t do it anymore.’

  ‘Well, bully for you for being able to switch off so easily.’

  It was turning into a battle for which she was ill prepared. She was losing control, losing order in her life. She wanted things back as they had been.

  ‘Listen to me, young lady, this is my house, understand? My house, my home, and I’ll have whoever I want in here. If I want Jack the Ripper doing a naked jig on the table then I’ll have it. And if you can’t accept that, then you shouldn’t just barge round here uninvited.’

  ‘Yes, Mother, your house – bought and paid for with my bloody money.’ She could have cut off her tongue. ‘Oh Mum… Mum, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Fran slumped into the chair, the fight gone from her all at once. ‘Just go, Oonagh.’

  *

  Oonagh slammed her fist hard against the steering wheel – ‘Shit’ – and drove home to the West End, fighting back the tears. She imagined the stoic Owen with his easy manner and shower shoes comforting her mum now. She felt a complete idiot – and wanted to cry.

  Back home she decided to take a walk to Kelvingrove Museum. The fresh air would do her good and she needed space to think. And anyway, if she were out in public she’d be less likely to start blubbing. But the picture of her mum with her new boyfriend wouldn’t leave her. She felt wretched, abandoned and… totally fucked up. She bit her lip to stop it trembling.

  Picking up speed, she marched down Byres Road, turned left past the old part of the hospital and onto Argyle Street.

  *

  Oonagh instinctively made her way to the Egyptian sarcophagus and ran her hand over the huge stone coffin that held the body of an ancient high priest – his image carved on the outside. It was worn smooth in places by the many thousands who had stroked it over the years. Her problems were always diluted here, surrounded by things thousands of years old.

  Doesn’t really matter how bad things get, how dreadful the situation looks, everything ends the same way. Everything ends up dead.

  She sat down and hugged her belly, and was shocked by a sudden bubble of maternal instinct. ‘Hello, Wee Thing,’ she whispered. ‘You as scared as I am?’

  She’d decided fairly early on that there was no place in her life for a child
, but that had been before. Now, things were different; perhaps Wee Thing wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  But what’s the point if everything ends up dead?

  The electronic twang of ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ echoed round the gallery. Frantically she fished in her bag for her phone and rushed towards the exit as she answered.

  Tom’s number appeared on the screen. She’d forgotten about him.

  ‘Hi, I was just thinking about you,’ she said. ‘I left a message on your machine this morning. Oh, by the way, Father Kennedy’s voice is still on it, you’ll need to change that.’ She was outside by this time, and could talk freely.

  ‘Right, something to do while I’m having my nervous breakdown.’

  ‘As bad as that?’

  ‘Worse. Listen, are you free later? Can you meet me somewhere?’

  From his hushed tones she guessed he wasn’t alone. ‘Why not come over to mine? I’m just making my way home now. Anyway, there’s something I need to tell you. And wait till you hear what it is. Hey, by the way, I thought you’d been told not to see me anymore, order of the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church.’

  ‘This is the rebel in me coming out. Didn’t I tell you my nickname at the seminary? Mad Chicken-Head, Findlay, because I used to bite the heads off live chickens.’

  ‘What was your nickname really?’

  ‘Plook.’

  *

  She was only home minutes before he was at the door. He must have left the house as soon as he had hung up.

  Oonagh led him through the living room, and straight into the kitchen. She took her coat off, and stretched to reach the hook on the back door, craning her neck round to see his face.

  ‘Help ma’, Boab! What’s happened to you? You look dreadful.’ His eyes were bleary and black-rimmed, and he hadn’t shaved.

  He laughed. ‘God, Oonagh, for a journalist you’ve certainly got a way with words.’