Grabbing his overcoat, he left the building and headed for St Margaret’s. It was so cold it took his breath away. Lengthening his stride, he could feel his cramped muscles start to loosen, and ten minutes later he was dipping his fingers into holy water and entering the church. There was only a smattering of the Catholic faithful there for evening Mass on a weeknight. Genuflecting, he made the sign of the cross and slipped in to a pew at the rear of the huddle; his natural reticence making him more comfortable in his own space. He could see his mother seated near the front, in the middle of a row of women, the ones who got things done. She too had switched from St Aidan’s and was doing the best she could to expunge the terrible memories of what had occurred there. As if she sensed his presence she turned round and stared, acknowledging him with a nod and a small smile. He did likewise. They had been long estranged until last year, and it was with slow cautious steps they were exploring their rapprochement.
As Father Murray entered from the far left, moving towards the altar, Farrell reflexively stood, taking comfort in the familiar patterns of the Mass and drawing sustenance from it. As he moved seamlessly with the others to take Communion from the priest, he felt a rare moment of peace. Kneeling afterwards, he lost himself in prayer and sensed the layers of time fall away until he was once more at one with God.
Pulled from his almost meditative state of prayer by the rustle of the congregation rising to its feet, he hurriedly followed suit. It was as if the slender thread connecting him to the Divine had once more been sheared away.
He waited on the steps outside for his mother, glad to see she was smiling and laughing with her new Catholic brethren. She would be in the thick of things here in no time. Her grief had been raw and unexpected. He had thought she might snap under its weight. He had thought that he might too.
She came to a halt and scrutinized him from head to toe.
‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘And you’ve lost weight.’
This last was pronounced with more than a hint of accusation.
‘You are still on your meds, aren’t you?’ she hissed under her breath.
Farrell felt a familiar flare of irritation and tried to squash it back down.
‘Stop fussing. I’m hardly likely to make that mistake again.’
The mistake that had allowed the demon of psychosis to make its presence felt after an absence of fifteen years.
‘I’m your mother, I’m allowed to fuss,’ she snapped. They both fell silent, overwhelmed by the subtext lurking behind the ordinary words.
Father Murray relieved the sudden awkwardness by choosing that moment to appear. His mother re-joined her friends who had been waiting for her. Farrell noticed a couple of them shooting curious looks in his direction.
‘Pint?’ asked Farrell.
‘Too right,’ said his priest and friend, Jim Murray. ‘If we head up to the Bruce, we can grab a bite to eat as well. I’m starving.’
A fifteen-minute walk took them to the fluted columns of the Robert the Bruce pub. Farrell felt his mouth begin to water as the sign outside announced it was curry night. That would do nicely.
Although he had only known Jim since the tail end of last year, they had quickly become close. The life of a Catholic priest was a lonely one, and Farrell was glad to provide a listening ear, understanding the pressures only too well. In turn, he could talk to Jim about his growing dilemma of whether to seek a return to active service as a priest, leaving behind the career he had worked so hard to carve out for himself after his breakdown.
As he wiped the last piece of naan bread round the sauce left on his plate and drained the dregs of his beer, resisting the temptation to give a satisfied belch, the revolving door swung open and in walked a couple of women, dressed to impress. He glanced at them idly. Then he did a double take. One of them was Laura, and she was very drunk.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jim, looking puzzled by his reaction. ‘Do you know them?’
‘It’s Laura, Lind’s wife. I don’t know who the other woman is, but I can guess.’
‘Ah, the one who …?’
‘Yip,’ said Farrell, feeling his jaw clamp tight.
He had no right to interfere. Laura was none of his concern. Keep telling yourself that, said the niggling voice in his head. She had lost the baby weight and had killer curves to prove it, which were much in evidence in her tight-fitting purple dress.
Farrell tried to move the conversation on to other things, but his eyes were continually drawn back to Laura.
Eventually, his friend sighed deeply and turned to him.
‘It’s like having a beer with a robot.’
‘Sorry, Jim, I’m just worried that some predatory nut job is going to take advantage of her in the state she’s in.’
‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you had feelings for this woman that went way beyond platonic,’ said Father Murray.
‘I don’t!’ said Farrell. ‘John is my oldest friend. I would never do anything to come between them.’
‘All right, keep your hair on. What about phoning John? Get him to come and take her home?’
‘He’s got his hands full at work, and I don’t want to trigger another row. Their marriage is under considerable strain as it is.’
‘Uh oh,’ said Father Murray.
Farrell turned round to see two guys in rumpled suits approaching the women. They too looked somewhat the worse for wear and were exuding that air of fake bonhomie that men assume when trying to pick up women in a bar. He tensed, waiting to see if Laura would shut them down. Dammit, she was accepting a drink. At this rate he was going to have to intervene.
The four of them went to sit in a booth. Laura still hadn’t clocked him. Maybe she was just chumming her mate, had told them she was married.
He turned back to his friend and confessor.
‘Sorry, Jim, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Where were we?’
‘Debating the merits of chicken bhuna over chicken madras, I think.’
‘How’s my mother settling into St Margaret’s? She’s been through a lot, and it’s been a wrench leaving all her old cronies behind.’
‘I don’t think you need worry on that score,’ Father Murray said with a chuckle. ‘She’s scything her way mercilessly to the top of the pecking order. Westminster politics has got nothing compared to the machinations of the Catholic faithful. Her arrival has really shaken up the inner circle. They’re all running around like headless chickens trying to outdo one another. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so many baked offerings. I’ve put on half a stone,’ he said, patting his expanding tummy with a rueful smile.
‘Sounds like she’s being a bit of a handful?’ Farrell said.
‘Not a bit of it. Most of our more involved ladies are widowed, not always with the most attentive of families. It keeps them on their toes, therefore happy and engaged.’
‘And how are things with you?’ asked Farrell.
‘Me? Rushed off my feet, as normal. What I wouldn’t give for an extra pair of hands some days! If your hours weren’t so insane and unpredictable I’d have conscripted you already.’
Farrell fell silent. He would love nothing better than to help out at St Margaret’s, but the Super would have a fit if word got back to him. He was feeling more and more conflicted about where his true vocation lay. Where was he of most use? In the Church or fighting crime?
Father Murray nudged him, and he glanced back over at Laura. One of the sleazy characters had his arm around her and looked to be getting ready to make a play. Her mate was already indulging in some tongue action with his friend. As he leaned in to seal the deal, Farrell sprang to his feet and approached their table, struggling to keep his temper in check.
‘Laura!’ he announced loudly, causing her to spin round in shock. ‘How lovely to see you. How are the kids? John mentioned he might join me here later. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?’
His manner was mild, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tightly coiled bearing as he looked at the creep now surreptitiously sliding his arm back along the seat.
Laura glared at him. Then the fight went out of her, and she started to cry.
As if reacting to an unspoken signal, both men stood up, muttering about having to go as they had an early meeting in the morning. Farrell glared at them with unconcealed contempt, his copper’s eye taking in white bands on ring fingers and the stench of stale booze leaking out of their pores.
The other woman stood on wobbly heels and squared up to him.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, crashing our party?’
‘I’m Laura’s and John’s oldest friend, DI Frank Farrell,’ he replied, a hard edge to his voice. ‘And you are?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t need this shit in my life. Laura, I’m off. You okay if I leave you with this fucking charmer?’
Laura waved her away, struggling to get her emotions under control. Farrell passed her a hanky and sank into the seat beside her. Now what? He hadn’t a clue what was going on in her head. Crying women weren’t his strong suit.
Steeling himself, he waded in.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Laura, but I couldn’t let you do something I know you would regret in the morning.’
‘Don’t pretend you know what I’m thinking, Frank, because trust me, you haven’t got a fucking clue,’ she hissed through her tears.
Two women swearing at him in five minutes! He was on fire tonight. He could do with Mhairi here, she’d have the whole mess sorted out in double-quick time.
‘Okay, hands up, I haven’t a clue what you’re thinking.’
‘Some things never change,’ she snapped.
‘Those weren’t good guys, Laura. You know that! Married, the pair of them, looking for a cheap lay. Is that what you want? To be a cheap thrill for some loser?’
‘How dare you, Frank Farrell,’ she hissed. ‘Just who do you think you are? You’re such a hypocrite, hiding behind the robes of the Catholic Church when it suits you. Any time things get too intense, you run for the Church. Like with Clare, last year.’
‘I seem to recall, she dumped me,’ he said, striving for a light tone, though the wound had only partially healed.
‘Look, your friend has bailed,’ he said.
‘Whose fault was that?’
‘So, you might as well let me take you home.’
Grudgingly, she fumbled for her coat and bag and allowed him to help her out the pub. He shot an apologetic glance back to Father Murray, who had witnessed the whole scene, and whose expression was unreadable.
As soon as the fresh air hit her, she swayed and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.
‘Frank, I’m going to be …’ She bent double and vomited over the pavement, narrowly missing his shoes.
***
By the time he got her home she was pale and clammy. He called out as he opened the door with her key, but no one was home. The kids must be off staying with Lind’s mother.
Once she was in the hall she slid down the wall like snow off a dyke. He had to get her into bed, so she could sleep off the worst of it before Lind saw her in the morning. Farrell lifted her to her feet, but her legs were like cooked spaghetti. Grimacing he hoisted her into his arms and staggered upstairs, nudging open doors until he found the master bedroom. He pulled off her coat and shoes then felt under her pillow for her nightie.
‘Here, put this on,’ he said, turning his back.
‘Help me,’ she muttered.
Rolling his eyes skywards he reluctantly helped her remove her dress. He was shocked by how thin she had become, her bones jutting out at sharp angles. Hurriedly, he pulled her nightie over her head. Suddenly, she locked her arms round his neck.
‘I love you, Frank. I’ve always loved you.’
For a split second, he thought about yielding to her embrace. Horrified at himself for even entertaining the idea, he peeled her arms from around him. Nothing but the drink talking, he muttered, as he tucked her in on her side. She fell asleep right away, and he felt his heart lurch. It was as if the years had melted away. She looked so young and vulnerable, like the girl he used to know.
Before he slipped out into the night, he placed a glass of water and a couple of painkillers by her bed.