Father Donal Byrne had always made a point of blessing each and every one of his congregation as they left St Patrick’s at the end of Sunday Mass. He remembered being a young priest when his church overflowed with worshippers fulfilling their sacred duty; obeying the Third Commandment and taking the body and blood of Christ. Back then it could take a whole hour before the entire congregation had gone home to their Sunday dinner. Sadly, in these modern times, when church attendance had dwindled by two thirds, it sometimes took no more than fifteen minutes.
Despite this, he remained good humoured and resolute, his faith undiminished, ever more determined to carry out his important work on earth to serve God and his son, our saviour Jesus Christ. He was much loved in Drumloghan and in his forty years as parish priest garnered a reputation for decency, kindness and selfless devotion to others. Father Donal was a veritable pillar of the community and despite his advancing years was still able to remember the name of every one of his congregation, a task made easier, he had to admit, now there were fewer of them.
“Goodbye Margaret and may God go with you” he said to old Mrs Donnelly, taking her hands briefly before making the sign of the cross for the hundredth time that morning. “And give my very best wishes to Diarmuid. I hope he’s feelin’ better soon.”
“God bless you Father. I think he’ll be makin’ his peace with God before too long.”
“Aye, well. Be sure God will be with you all the way.”
Bishop Cormac McKenna stepped forward, hands behind his back and watched old Margaret Donnelly and the last of the worshippers disappear down the path towards the village.
“That was a fine Eucharist Donal. It’s just a pity these days there are so few young folks in attendance.”
“Aye Your Grace. We do what we can to educate the children in the way of the Church, but it seems that once they get to a certain age, they drift away.”
“Yes Donal, it’s a worryin’ trend.”
“And it’s self-fulfillin’, so it is. They grow up and they have their own children, but don’t bring them back. Where do you think we’ve gone wrong?”
“As God is our witness, I don’t know Donal, but I fear the devil that infiltrated our ranks in years past has left an indelible stain on the Church’s reputation.”
“Thank you for comin’ Your Grace. Shall we retire to the vestry and have somethin’ to warm the heart?”
Oona stood to attention and made the sign of the cross when Father Donal and the Bishop entered. Her desk was covered in neat piles of coins from the day’s collection.
“Bless you my child,” said Bishop McKenna “don’t let us interrupt you in the Lord’s work.” Oona O’Brien nodded sheepishly, embarrassed she should still be referred to as a child at the age of fifty-eight.
“Oona. Perhaps you could get out that nice bottle of Tullamore?”
“Yes Father.” She scuttled off and returned with a dusty bottle and two crystal tumblers.
“That’ll be all for today Oona.”
“But I haven’t finished countin’ Father.”
“It’ll still be there tomorrow. Off with you now.” Oona curtseyed, retrieved her hat and coat off the rack and made for the door, picking up a cardboard box as she went. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Oh, it’s just last month’s Charity records. I take them home to sort them out before filin’.” Father Donal nodded and smiled at his clerk as she struggled out the door with the box.
“I admire her dedication Donal.”
“Aye Your Grace. Forty years she’s been here. You could not wish for a more loyal servant of God.” They clinked glasses and took a moment to savour the taste of the single malt.
“Now Father, you wanted to talk to me about The Sisters?”
“I did, I did. Sister Shona was tellin’ me a journalist has been there askin’ questions of a very unpleasant nature. I think it’s tied up with that terrible business involvin’ poor Eamonn Flynn, God rest his soul.”
“Terrible business,” concurred Bishop McKenna solemnly. “But we’ll be forever grateful to him for his generous donations to the Church and The Sisters.”
“That we will Your Grace.”
“Despite his misguided motives and opinions.”
“Indeed. But it seems he may have poisoned the minds of others with his vile and deluded fantasies.”
“The journalist?”
“Aye Your Grace. She was askin’ about him. It will do the Church no good at all for these lies to be spread once more, especially when we devoted all that time and effort, never mind the Church’s scarce resources into suppressin’ them the last time. Do you think it might be productive if you were to have to a wee word with the editor.”
“I’m not sure about that Donal. He’s not a patron of the Charity, as far as I’m aware and it might only fan the flames of curiosity; lend undue credence to the lies. Anyway, we can’t be seen to be involved. It would be misconstrued, and the enemies of the Church would exploit it for their own gain.”
“I have to agree with that Your Grace. It’s a sad fact that, unlike the Church, others in society whose reputation and standin’ risked similar damage would be less concerned about the methods they use to protect them.”
Bishop McKenna studied the contents of his glass under the watchful gaze of his priest. He’d taken over the diocese only a year ago after the Holy Father had promoted him from his parish in the west of County Kerry. Father Donal was much older, and in this matter, much wiser not least due to his extensive local knowledge.
“So, you think, for example, were Mr Flynn’s family subjected to the same unwarranted attacks, they might be dismayed?”
“I think they have already demonstrated that they would Your Grace.”
Bishop McKenna sighed deeply. It was a paradox and most likely, another test of faith from God. Colluding with those who would happily see the Church destroyed might be the best way of preserving and protecting its sanctity.
“Aye Donal. I think it would be courteous to alert them to the possibility their security might be prejudiced. Through a third party, of course. I think it would also be prudent for me to alert Cardinal Monzi. If Flynn was prepared to slander the Charity, who knows what else he may have invented and told her regarding his financial arrangements with the Church?” He took another sip of the Tullamore. “I have to say, that’s a mighty fine whiskey you have there Donal.”
“I keep it for special occasions Your Grace.”
***
Jack woke up with a mouth as dry as the Sahara, a thumping headache and an overwhelming feeling of disorientation. Even through one eye, he could tell that during the night, the furniture had been either moved or replaced, and his bedroom window which once faced west, now must be facing east, given the sunlight that streamed through wooden blinds where once, curtains had hung. The bed too had been changed to one that was exceptionally wide but inordinately short so that while his arms could not reach the sides, his head and feet dangled over each end. Slowly, and as his brain engaged with the world and his consciousness rebooted into the new day, things started dropping into place.
He and Barry had gulped down a couple of pints of Hooky Gold, gorged on Whitebait, Steak and Ale Pie and Apple Crumble, all lubricated by two bottles of cheap Merlot, followed by two more Hookies, two single-malt chasers, an Old Hooky and a Courvoisier to finish or was it two? “If you get in that Range Rover, I’ll be forced to arrest you!” Barry’s slurred words in the freezing air were memorable if nothing else, as were Carole’s “You two are a total disgrace!” as were his own “Carole, if you wanna leave Barry and come and live with me, I’m all yours.”
It was payback time. He made a supreme effort to move his body and found to his astonishment all four limbs still responded in one form or another but seemed uncoordinated and had minds of their own. He peeked under the bunched-up duvet to discover he was naked, and an image surfaced in his head of Carole staring down at him, hands on hips, shaking her head in dismay. Oh God! He could only imagine what might have happened and dreaded finding out.
He rolled his body until it slid onto the floor and he sat there for a moment, cocooned in duck-down and silk, holding his pounding head. He spotted a wide-open door and he crawled towards it along the floor until he felt cold white porcelain and some sliding glass and hauled himself into the shower cubicle stretching a hand up to reach the chrome knob above his head. The cold was intense but invigorating and soon turned hot, so he sat on the floor of the shower under the steaming torrent until body and brain regained some sense of normality.
Over breakfast and paracetamol, Barry had carried on lecturing him about loose women as if he were an adolescent and how if he wanted to hook up with someone there were plenty of dating web sites he could try “Yes, yes, okay! I get it!” while Carole sloped around the kitchen with a permanent smirk which he found particularly disturbing.
“I’m sorry if we disgraced ourselves,” he’d said over his third coffee.
“Boys will boys,” she’d cooed in return, apparently unperturbed. Carole was second time round for Barry. He’d pulled her over for speeding fifteen years ago, she’d burst into tears, they’d exchanged numbers, one thing led to another and the next thing he’s announcing his divorce. Much to Jack’s surprise they’d made a go of it, Barry’s eager puppy forever taunted and slapped down by her wicked sense of humour. Everyone loved Carole’s wicked sense of humour until it was turned on them.
They showed him to the door. “And on no account go back and get into your car,” said Barry. “You have another twelve hours before you’re legal.”
“Okay constable. Carole, thank you for putting up with us.” She stepped forward and gave him a hug and put her lips to his ear.
“Thank you, Jack,” she whispered, her breath hot and damp. She stepped back and winked surreptitiously. He suddenly felt a wave of nausea and guilt. Scary bitch. I have no idea what happened and probably never will.
The Range Rover was only two hundred yards away in the pub car park and although tempted, he dutifully walked in the opposite direction. It was only two miles home and he could do with the walk. But at the end of the road, he had second thoughts, turned right and right again, arriving back at the car park fifteen minutes later. He climbed inside and rubbed his forehead. It was throbbing from a hangover, not just from the alcohol but also the resurgence of thoughts and concerns about Siobhán. Barry was right. He should leave it alone. He was chasing shadows and had blown the saga out of all proportion. It just wasn’t worth it. He’d end up running round in circles making a fool of himself.
He checked his phone for messages then opened the Find My app. The icon for the new phone was still flashing in Watford. He reached into the glovebox and retrieved Siobhán’s discarded phone. He looked through the handful of messages again for anything new, but no one had been in touch, nor had she sent anything by email from elsewhere. He re-read the messages from Louise Harrison. Either she was a friend or Sineád was just someone who languished in a contacts list. But Sineád had no contacts, so no number for Lou. He started a new email. “Leave it Jack!” ordered the voice in his head but he ignored his sensible alter-ego and began tapping out the message.
“Hi Lou, hope you’re well. Got your message about the virus thanks and fingers crossed, there’s no harm done. But I just got a new phone and I’ve lost your number. Can you email or text me? Thanks ever so. Sineád xx.” He appended the number for good measure. He hesitated for a moment then pressed send, a deep sense of trepidation growing inside him. But he was already committed, and justified his actions by telling himself that, whatever his intentions, they were not dishonourable. He’d come this far, and he would not be deterred.