The Good Priest (16 page)

‘Hello,' the priest said, ‘are you looking for a drink? Red or white?'

‘Scum like you, Father, are not welcome here – I read all about you,' the man replied, nodding and smiling benignly at the nearest dancers, then catching Vincent's eye and grimacing as if disgusted at the sight. Father Vincent held his gaze but said nothing. This was neither the time nor the place, but the effort of remaining silent was taking its toll and he found that his whole body was now bathed in sweat.

‘You could
not
be more wrong there, Grant,' Yvonne Ogilvie said, coming to the priest's rescue and bestowing a kiss on his cheek. ‘Father Vincent's very welcome here – at
our
party. I wanted him here. He's here to celebrate Paul's twenty-first. He baptised both my sons and gave them their first Communion. He's almost part of the family – my family.'

‘Thanks,' the priest said, watching as Grant helped himself to a handful of crisps and then disappeared into the melee of people, shaking his head at the way he had been treated.

‘I meant it,' the woman said, ‘and I hope you'll be back here, in the town, with us all, very soon. Grant's only here because he fishes with Jim, ties his own flies and everything.
He's got a freezer full of roadkill, apparently. It's good to see you, Father. Father Roddy's not a bad man, not a bad man at all, but he doesn't know our ways. He's not you. We all miss you. I'll away and tell Paul that you've made it, and he'll be that thrilled too …'

A loud clattering noise interrupted her, as an ashet laden with sausage rolls was knocked off the table by a couple of over-energetic dancers. Tutting loudly, Yvonne Ogilvie left the priest, telling all and sundry to let her through before someone broke their neck slipping on the mess.

‘Jim, Jim!' she shouted to her husband. ‘Leave those sandwiches alone and go and get one of the staff, eh? There'll be one at reception, or the bar, if nowhere else.'

‘Aye, aye, doll. I'm onto it the now.'

Looking over the heads of the revellers, Father Vincent steeled himself to work his way through to the seats on the far side, anticipating a crushed foot or two and drink spilled on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth Templeton waving at him. She was sitting beside one of the tables and the seat next to hers was vacant. Helping himself to a couple more of the glasses, this time filled with white wine, he clutched them to his chest and edged his way through the heaving mass of humanity towards her. Twice his elbow was jostled, but keeping tight hold he managed to avoid spilling them onto himself or others.

As he reached her, she smiled up at him and patted the seat by her side. Looking at her in her party clothes, a green silk blouse and a knee-length dark blue skirt, he felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Her smile had been as warm as ever, not a trace of reproach in her eyes. If all of this had
never happened, had they been meeting outside the church or by chance in the street, she would have greeted him in the same fashion. Sensing that she seemed to be as comfortable as ever with him, for a second, he wondered if she had read the article. As if she had heard him speak the thought, she said in her husky voice: ‘Don't worry, I do know – I heard all about it. The Daily Drivel, we get it in the library along with the rest of them. I know the Houstons too, we all do. You're not the first to get caught up in their stupid games – and they are games.'

‘I wish I'd known.'

‘This'll all blow over. The next scandal will sweep it out of the way and people have surprisingly short memories.'

‘I must admit I wasn't looking forward to returning here, not this way. I want to come back, obviously, but to my own job, my own home. Properly. With things just like they used to be.'

‘Is that on the cards, then?'

‘My return? Yes. Yes, it is. As soon as I can make it happen. Yes.'

He offered her one of the glasses and she took it, glanced at it and then laughed out loud.

‘What's the matter?'

‘You have this one! It's got a cigarette-end dunked in it. Are you trying to poison me or something?'

‘Oh, but you're a fussy woman!' he said, looking inside the glass himself and then adding, without a thought, ‘Take mine. It was dark!'

She took it, smiling at him as she did so. The next number was so loud that it was impossible for them to speak.
So, while it lasted, they sat side by side companionably, watching the dancers, admiring the gusto and skill of the uninhibited and trying not to laugh at the elephantine efforts of a trio of children. A dumpy couple, fuelled by neat vodka, appeared deaf to the barbs hurled at them as they collided first with one dancer and then another, bouncing off them like dodgem cars. Neither showed any signs of injury or pain, despite being elbowed by the irate and poked in the back by the aggrieved. Their eyes were locked on one another and the rest of the world remained out of focus.

In a brief interval between songs, Vincent looked at his friend.

‘Is Michael here?'

‘No. I came with the Cochranes. He's away … inside. In Perth Prison, I'm ashamed to say.'

‘Elizabeth, I'm so sorry. What happened?'

‘He won't take his medication any more, and I can't force him. He was with his friends … although they're not really friends at all. Not as you or I would define the word. Anyway, he was with them and they were all coming back from a party in Graham's car. Graham was so drunk he couldn't drive, so the rest of them persuaded Michael to take over. They all know he's got no licence, insurance, that he's only had four driving lessons in his entire life. You know the lights by the community campus, the ones with the pedestrian crossing beside it?'

‘Yes.'

‘He hit another young lad, right there, on the crossing. I think he'd been on the booze too, though not
with them. After he was hit they all panicked, took off. Thank God the boy wasn't killed, but he got a fractured skull and a crushed foot. He's all right, back at college, I gather, but …'

‘Forgive me, I've been so preoccupied with my own troubles. How long did he get?'

‘Three years. If he's lucky he'll be out in one. If you've time, would you visit him, Father? I get the impression that, at last, he's beginning to think about things. You might be able to help. He might talk to you. To be honest, I'm almost glad he's in there.'

‘Glad?'

‘Not about the accident, obviously, but I'm glad he's safe. He was driving a lot, not just on that night. And he was being driven by some of those half-witted boys. At least he won't be in a car – lose his own life or take someone else's. Could you go and see him, Father? He asked me to ask you.'

‘Of course I will. I'd like to. I've known him practically since he was tiny after all. And to tell you the truth, I haven't got a lot to do at the moment.'

‘When will you be able to come back, do you think? You're missed, you know.'

‘I'm trying, Elizabeth, I'm trying. Believe me, I'm doing my very best.'

Perth Prison is made up of a number of separate buildings. A few of these are grand old edifices, such as the guardrooms which remain from Napoleonic times, and the gatehouse, with its battlemented centrepiece and clock
face dating back to the 1840s. But many of the others look more like the campus of a new university, all steel and tinted glass. Other structures, mostly late twentieth century and uneasy with their penal function, disguise it behind the clichéd architectural style of the bus station or DSS office. Close to the entrance and unfurling in the wind, as if at a royal palace, are flags; the Union Jack and the cross of St Andrew. The third and final flag, however, dispels the illusion of majesty, having the letters ‘SPS' emblazoned on it, impressing upon all that the Scottish Prison Service are in charge here. A high perimeter wall, part rubble-built and part pre-cast aggregate panels, an unhappy marriage of old and new, screens the complex from the city, dividing it on the north side from the pleasure grounds of the Inch, and on the west from the Edinburgh road.

Father Vincent, his anorak zipped high to the chin to conceal his dog collar, joined the line of visitors preparing to go through the metal detector. Once he had been scanned, he looked around the waiting-room, thinking he would be able to check out the pamphlets as he usually did. But before he had a chance to do so a queue began to form for entry to the screening-room. Passive, like cows in a slaughterhouse, they all shuffled forwards.

‘Open your mouth, please,' a man wearing green Marigold gloves ordered him.

The priest obeyed, trying not to breathe on the prison officer, who was now inches away from his face and inspecting his gums. Beside him, a woman was having her tattooed hands swabbed for traces of heroin or cannabis; silently co-operating, familiar with the routine
and accepting meekly that she must be subjected to it. Together, they were then escorted upstairs to the visiting hall. He had been told to go to table 13 and saw, across the room, Michael Templeton waiting for him, already seated, his fingers drumming on the top of the circular glass table.

‘'Lo, Father,' a man said, tapping him on the elbow as he passed by.

He turned to see one of his parishioners grinning at him. He nodded his head but said nothing, knowing any conversation would attract unwanted attention from the warders. No visit had been scheduled between them this time, although it had many times previously. The fellow, he had discovered many years earlier, had an independent mind, idiosyncratic morality and a very good constitution. He did not consider incarceration to be depriving him of anything very valuable, viewing it as a respite from his otherwise overwhelming urges to possess other people's goods.

‘'Lo, Father,' the man repeated brightly.

‘Fancy seeing you here,' the priest whispered.

Michael Templeton kept his eyes downcast when the priest took the seat opposite him. He was pale, but no paler then when living at home, and his upper lip sprouted fine, fair hair like the cobwebby down on a half-fledged squab. He drummed his fingers silently on the table, the nails bitten to the quick, dried blood visible where his nibbling had gone too far. An old Tourette's symptom had returned, and every few seconds he raised his chin and cleared his throat energetically. For a second, the priest caught a glimpse of the little boy he had first met, brow
furrowed in concentration, sucking on his paintbrush as he completed his mother's birthday card.

‘Is my mum OK?' he asked, peering upwards slightly but not meeting Father Vincent's eyes.

‘She's fine, managing well. You've no need to worry about her, Michael. How are you getting on yourself, in here?'

‘All right,' he replied, eyes back on the table.

‘Are they feeding you OK?'

‘I get by.'

‘Sleeping all right?'

‘No – but I'll get used to it. I miss my own bed.'

‘You'll be pleased to hear that the boy's out of hospital, the one you hit. He's got a cast but otherwise he's fine.'

‘OK. Good.'

Despite the priest's continued attempts, the conversation, more or less stillborn, died in minutes. Throughout, the boy's fingers continued drumming, their rhythm broken only by extended bouts of throat-clearing. Looking at him, Father Vincent was reminded of a penitent puppy, tail down, glancing up every so often to ensure that no hand was raised against it. Suddenly, a toddler careered into their table, letting out a loud wail on impact. Apologising as she did so, his granny scooped him up into her arms and carried him, wriggling like a worm, back to the play-area.

‘Father,' the youth said, finally raising his eyes, ‘will you tell me something?'

‘Of course, if I can.'

‘My mum will be all right, without me, won't she? You'll look after her?'

‘I will, I'll do my best.'

‘Promise?'

‘I promise.'

The boy smiled his gratitude, scratched the back of his head self-consciously, and then asked, with a spark of genuine vitality in his voice for the first time, ‘How's Satan, prince of cats? I remember him when you first got him, when he was just a wee kitten.'

As Father Vincent made his way out of the hall, working his way between the tables, he felt someone tug the hem of his anorak. Surprised, he wheeled round and found himself staring into a pair of pale eyes. They protruded from their owner's face like those of a rabbit suffering from myxomatosis. Gazing at the man, he was sure he had encountered him before. A face like his would not be easily forgotten. Holding his gaze, the prisoner mouthed silently, ‘Visit me, Vincent.'

On his table, he put both his hands together as if praying for the favour, then moving them upwards in supplication until they were opposite his chin.

Still unsure who the man was, the priest nodded and carried on walking towards the exit. He tried to place the face, put it in its normal context. If he could do that, with luck a name would emerge from the mist. The prisoner was not one of his parishioners, not from Kinross, he was pretty certain of that. Had he met him on holiday, or at a conference somewhere, or on a retreat? Sparse, grey hair crowned a sloping forehead, above eyes as rounded and protruding as a couple of poached eggs
and an unexceptional mouth merged into a receding chin. To whom did those features belong? He ought to know, because their owner had recognised him, called him by name.

Standing outside on the pavement by the Edinburgh road, deliberately exhaling the stale air of the prison from his lungs as the traffic whizzed past, he cudgelled his brain for an answer. The information was, undoubtedly, in there somewhere. Frowning hard, he conjured the image of the man's face in his mind's eye again, trying to associate those features with something, anything that would give him a clue to the man's identity. He sighed out loud when it came to him.

‘Penny for them,' a beaming lady said in passing, wheeling her tartan shopping bag behind her. He neither saw nor heard her.