Chasing Angels (3 page)

And so, as he was carried into St Alphonsus’s, in his HLI regalia and wearing the shoes that hurt his feet, she laughed again, listening for clunks and knocks as the collection rolled
around inside. She laughed too when two large candles were placed at either end of the coffin.

‘They won’t last a minute!’ she said.

‘They will last for twenty-four hours,’ Father McCabe intoned solemnly.

‘Ah doubt it!’ she giggled.

Father McCabe shook his head, his face a mask of distaste. What he didn’t know was that Old Con had pinched candles from the chapel all his life for the next time the family’s
electricity got cut off, and it often did, because Con had better things to spend their money on, all of them alcoholic. He didn’t see purloining the candles as theft, even if he never went
out of his way to inform his parish priest; he was one of the faithful, one of the family, so it was probably a kind of honour among thieves as far as Old Con had been concerned, she thought. So
she had a mental picture of a hand emerging from the coffin in the quiet silence of the night, clutching the candles and dragging them, one by one, into the dark recesses with him and the
Child.

Later, in the vestry, where the priest had wanted to discuss the finer details of the funeral service the following morning, a man had knocked on the door and come in.

‘It’s you, John,’ Father McCabe had said. ‘Thanks for coming. We’ll need the usual people tomorrow for the service. Could you round them up and be here for ten
o’clock?’

John’s silent nod veered dangerously near to a bow as he left, and Kathy asked who he was.

‘We have a faithful band of parishioners we can call on to attend services like this,’ Father McCabe explained; he meant funerals where there might be few mourners, or where the
faithful might be in the minority. Couldn’t have heathens taking up pew space. If he had his own back-up troupe, then the niceties of the service would be performed as they should, with the
congregation giving their responses on time, getting up, kneeling and sitting down on cue and knowing all the words of the hymns.

Kathy laughed at that too. ‘You’ve hired “Rent a crowd”?’ she asked. ‘That’s terrific!’ She mopped at her eyes, once again unable to hold in the
laughter, unwilling to even try, come to that.

‘For God’s sake behave yourself,’ the priest said, ‘and show some respect.’

Well, that was good, coming from him; respect indeed, given what she knew about him. Still, she’d hold her fire on that, for the moment anyhow. ‘Look, wee man,’ she replied,
still laughing, ‘Ah’m the wan doin’ the decent thing here. Ah’m havin’ Auld Con done as a Catholic, but Ah don’t havtae, ye know. Ah could just as easy get him
done withoot a’ the mumbo jumbo. Ah could just stand up at the crematorium, announce “Game over” an’ press the button.’

Father McCabe glowered silently at her. He was a portly little man with wild, bushy white hair that seemed to be only just contained by the pom-pommed biretta he wore at all times. One of his
habits, when he was thinking, was to hold the biretta aloft with his thumb, and scratch his head with the fingers of the same hand, revealing the shiny, pink dome of his bald head underneath. It
always came as a shock, because the vigorous white growth that was visible ear-to-ear gave the illusion of a full and luxuriant head of hair. The whites of his watery blue eyes had a glistening
hint of yellow, the result, she had always suspected, of giving the communion wine a fair whacking when no one was about, and they were completely surrounded by heavy folds of skin, so that from a
distance he seemed to be wearing thick-framed, legless spectacles. He was never without a cigarette, held downwards between the thumb and first finger of his right hand, with the lit point towards
the palm, as though he was trying to hide it. It was, she thought for some reason, the way gangsters she’d seen in films held their cigarettes. In moments of deep conversation, when regular
drags at the cigarette weren’t possible, he would reluctantly nip it out and place it behind his right ear, half-hidden in the white hair, and over the years a little reddish patch had grown,
coloured by the smoke and the nicotine. As far as she could tell his appearance hadn’t altered in all the years she had known him. He hadn’t so much aged as gradually faded somehow, but
you’d still know it was him, even if you hadn’t seen him for years. Whatever modernising ploys had been tried by the spin doctors in Rome, he had remained untouched; he still wore his
long black robe and biretta and on his feet a pair of beige boot slippers, with zips up the front. She had never known him to wear shoes, and no matter when she saw him the slippers seemed to be
exactly the same as the last time, with no more or less apparent wear, even if, like now, decades had passed. If she were any judge he still muttered the mass in Latin under his breath too, like in
the good old days.

‘The least you could do was to let him be buried in St Kentigern’s with the rest of his family, with his mother and sisters, with his
wife
,’ he said, establishing his
credentials as an intimate of her family, and emphasising the last word, in an attempt to bodyswerve her question by provoking an argument on something else. An old ploy, that one.

St Kentigern’s; she hadn’t been there since the day before she had escaped. The memories flooded her mind and she shook her head to banish them, turning her attention back to Father
McCabe. ‘Aye, well,’ she smiled at his disapproval, ‘if anybody knows aboot ma family, wee man, it’s you, Ah’ll gie ye that. Ma Granny always said ye were a great help
tae her when she was married tae the Orangeman. Accordin’ tae Aggie, whit she woulda done withoot your support a’ they years didnae bear thinkin’ aboot. She said it
often.’

‘
Easy, Kathy
,’ she chided herself silently. ‘
The time will come!
’

Frank McCabe looked at her. ‘Your grandmother was a fine woman,’ he stated. ‘She was loyal to her faith and kept it alive even after she made her mistake and, when she could
be, she was reconciled with the Church.’

‘Ye mean when the Orangeman died? That’s ma Granda, ye know, an’ that’s a helluva nice way tae put it, “her mistake”.‘ she shot back at him, feigning
hurt. ‘But then, him bein’ a heathen, no’ bein’ really human, like, he wouldnae matter that much, would he? Ah don’t know why ye didnae just set the dogs oan him. But
Ah’m sure yer God blessed yer Christian charity in waitin’ tae he died a’ by hissel’, a few plenary indulgences marked up there, surely!’ She’d never met her
grandfather, known to one and all as ‘the Orangeman’, as though even mentioning his name would incur the wrath of Rome, he’d died long before she was born. For all she knew he
could’ve been a monster, and neither had she any time for his kind of bigotry, but it always annoyed the good Father to hear her defend him, so she did.

Frank McCabe didn’t answer her, but instead continued with his usual lecture. ‘You, on the other hand, never had to fight for your faith, you had it handed to you on a plate, and you
turned your back on it!’ he accused, stabbing a stubby, nicotine-stained finger in her direction. He hated having his authority either challenged or demystified, even after all the years she
had been doing it to him.

‘Put that finger doon or Ah’ll bite it aff at the knuckle!’ she replied tartly, smiling to herself at the priest’s angry expression. ‘Dae ye no’ get bored
sayin’ the same things ower and ower? Ah mean, Ah don’t think either wanna us will ever convince the other. Surely
you
don’t, dae ye? The difference is that Ah don’t
really care a mad monkey’s fart aboot convertin’ you, so that’s you lost the argument before it’s even started, because you
dae
care, daen’t ye?’

Father McCabe made no reply.

‘
Checkmate!
’ she thought gleefully. ‘But as for buryin’ the auld sod beside wee Lily, you’re not on. Ah think my mother deserves no’ tae have him
lyin’ beside her,’ she said quietly. Then she raised her voice again. ‘Besides, for a’ you know,’ she said merrily, ‘it might be time for another miracle.
Y’know, wi’ the trouble ye’re havin’ these days tryin’ tae force folk intae yer wee club, an’ tryin’ tae keep them there even if they’ve been born
intae it. At this very minute some big daft angel might be scoutin’ aboot, tryin’ tae find some way o’ reversin’ the trend, so tae speak, an’ he could see Con
lyin’ there, an’ decide he’s the very man tae restore the numbers of yesteryear! He might decide Con’s unfortunate demise is the very dab, an’ afore ye know it
he’ll have Con risin’ frae the grave! This dump could become the next Lourdes, wi’ bus loads o’ people comin’ tae see the place where Lazarus Kelly jumped tae his
feet! Noo, dae you think that’s a chance Ah’d be prepared tae take?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Naw, naw, there’ll be nae burial for Con. Ah’ve never
been sure about angels, so it’s the burny fire at the Linn Crematorium for him, just in case!’

‘Blasphemy is a sin!’ Father McCabe said, taking another puff from his cigarette and peering at her through the smoke.

‘Christ, is that the best ye can come up wi’? Besides, as Ah say, it would suit me a damned sight better tae cut the proceedin’s tae the minimum. Ah’m quite prepared tae
let ye aff the hook, an’ Rent-a-crowd tae for that matter. A quick trot in an’ oot wi’ a pause tae press the button, an’ then Ah’ll go back tae my ain life. Whit
d’ye say?’

The little priest glared at her in silence.

‘Aye, Ah thought so,’ she said. ‘Ye aye hing oan in there, frae the cradle tae the grave, daen’t ye? He’ll be yours till his ashes grow cauld. Ye’d climb in
the urn wi’ him for wan last look just tae make sure if ye could. But just grit your teeth, efter this Ah’ll be oota your life, an’ merr tae the point, you’ll be oota mine.
Noo is that no’ somethin’ worth shuttin’ your mooth for?’

Later, as she sat on the floor of Old Con’s house, going through the pictures, birth certificates and insurance policies, laughing again at the evening’s events, she knew that Father
McCabe had been right, though; she really would have to get a grip. After all, in the morning, after the final act took place, she would be free at last. After three months of camping in
Con’s house, nursing him out of life, she would be able to return to her cottage and her real life on the West Coast. ‘
But there again
,’ she thought, feeling another burst
of giggles approaching, ‘
that’s likely why Ah’m laughin’ in the first place!
’

Her brother Peter hadn’t been there when Con died, in fact the beloved son hadn’t been there for many a year, but his name was still the last word on the old man’s lips. Father
McCabe was in at the kill, of course, he’d almost kept vigil by Old Con for months, in case, she’d mused to herself, he really had taken up his bed and walked instead of doing the
decent thing and pegging out. During that last week especially he’d hardly been away; the whole place reeked of his cigarette smoke.

‘Just as well my auld man is dyin’ already,’ she said, pointedly sticking another ashtray under the priest’s nose, ‘or ye’d dae him in wi’ fag fumes!
Have ye nothin’ better tae dae than hing aboot here a’ day clutterin’ the place up anyway? Is there no’ a statue somewhere ye could be noddin’ at?’

‘My place is with your father,’ he intoned mysteriously, ‘as you well know.’

‘Ach, yer arse!’ Kathy retorted. ‘Ye’d have thought ye’d have merr tae dae wi’ Christ’s birthday coming up. This no’ wanna yer busy times?
Ye’ve gied the auld man the Last Rites that many times Ah’m beginning tae wonder if ye’re oan piecework.’

Father McCabe glared at her. There was once a more respectful age when that glare alone could control his most errant parishioner, though never, it had to be said, Kathy, and it was still the
first weapon in his arsenal, long, long after that time had passed. ‘Will you never learn to show respect, Kathleen Agnes Kelly?’ he demanded, mentioning her grandmother’s name as
a jibe.

Kathy smiled to herself, flicking cigarette ash off the surfaces with a tea towel, refusing to take the bait. ‘Ah shouldnae think so,’ she replied coolly. ‘Whit aboot
you?’

‘Even at your christening you were the same,’ he said, shaking his head. That was his other weapon, a headshake of disapproval guaranteed to keep the most defiant, rebellious child
awake for a week with fear, though once again, never Kathy. ‘I’ve never known a child struggle so, screaming and squirming and refusing to lie quietly.’

Kathy shook her head, laughing at the priest. ‘It was probably the Orange blood in me,’ she replied, ‘but ye still held on though, didn’t ye? There’s nae chance
o’ escape wance ye get yer hands on somebody, even if it’s a wean wi’ nae say in the matter, eh, wee man?’

‘Your father was a good, faithful Catholic –’ the priest said wearily, going through a litany he had delivered to her remorselessly throughout her life without it ever having
any effect.

Right on cue Kathy interrupted. ‘He was a useless auld drunk as well! See when ye started dolin’ oot the wee drink o’ communion wine, ye made his day, he was never away frae
the chapel efter that! Drinkin’ was his real religion, believe you me, but Ah don’t recall ye ever recommendin’ Ah follow him in that tae.’

‘– so,’ he continued, ignoring her intervention, ‘you should have been one too.’

‘Ye know, that’s wanna my highest achievements in life,’ she said. ‘It bothers the hell oota you that Ah got away. Go oan, admit it, it’s only us here and we know
it’s true anyway. It does, doesn’t it? An’ Ah see ye havnae changed your tactics ower the years either,’ she laughed. ‘Still very selective aboot what questions ye
answer, ye shoulda been a bloody politician! It must drive ye daft, though, seein’ that you really believe your religion is passed on through the bloodline, only wi’ wee Lily an’
me there’s that other bloodline frae her faither. Whit a helluva problem ma Orange Granda has been tae ye, auld man!’

‘Just once in your life, at this time of all times, you could call me “Father”!’

‘Christ, Ah don’t know,’ Kathy sighed. ‘You know fine whit ma experiences o’ the real thing have been like, an’ ye really
want
me to call you
“Father”, dae ye? Ye’re a sad case right enough, wee man!’