Glen waved his concerns away as he swallowed the chewed mouthful.
‘Excuse me. Not at all, we’re practically finished. Your wife is over at the church, if you’re looking for her.’
‘I know. That’s where I usually find her.’
‘She made me feel so bad for not having bibles in the rooms. A situation I’m going to rectify asap.’
‘I wouldn’t rush to fill your rooms with bibles; not many need them. Not as much as they need good food, a comfortable bed and a hot shower. All of which I’ve enjoyed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Glen. ‘That means a lot.’
‘I mean it,’ said Shep, as he took out his wallet. ‘I’d like to settle our bill.’
‘You’ll be leaving tonight?’
‘Thought we’d try and beat the snow, before it gets too heavy. Don’t want to get stuck here.’
‘I understand. Like they say, could be a day, could be a lifetime.’
‘They said it right.’
‘Sally mentioned … You get everything you needed done?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Shep. ‘Thank you. I’ll recommend you to anybody I know coming out this way. You’re just what this place needs, you and Sally.’
‘Thank you again. I’ll pass that on to her.’
Glen looked genuinely pleased as he processed Shep’s payment.
Outside, Shep tossed the bags onto the back seat of the car. Closing the door, he pulled a half-cigar from his pocket. Looking across the road, he changed his mind, put it back and headed for the church.
The moment he stepped inside, he saw Wittin making his way from the vestry. The priest had cleaned the blood from his face and was wearing his collar. He eyed Shep briefly before stepping into the confessional.
Shep lowered the door latch quietly. Apart from the burning candles, there was no sign of Rebecca. He knew she was waiting to confess. He hesitated, remembering how closed she had been when he’d asked what she prayed for. Bending to loosen his laces, he stepped out of his shoes and carried them to the pew closest to the confessional, leaving damp sock-prints on the floor. Wittin’s voice was the first he heard.
‘Are you sure you want to do this? It can wait until …’
‘Until?’
‘Things have settled down and you know how you feel. Sure, it’s been a difficult time.’
‘I know how I feel.’
Rebecca’s voice was clear and strong and sure. Shep hadn’t heard such certainty for a long time. He had grown accustomed to the sound of her fear.
‘Okay then,’ said Wittin.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five years since my last confession.’
There was a pause where Wittin’s response should have been.
‘You’re not going to ask me,’ she said.
‘All right. Why so long since your last confession?’
‘Because I saw no point confessing to a sin I would commit over and over again.’
‘There was no contrition?’
‘None.’
‘You sure now? You really weren’t able to reject the sin and resolve never to commit it again?’
‘No, Father.’
‘What was this sin?’
‘I prayed every day for the death of my son, Douglas Evans.’
‘And now he’s dead. So that’s it?’
Rebecca didn’t answer straight away. Shep slipped his feet back into his shoes. He could hear the priest losing patience with her and wanted to be ready when she came out.
‘Yes,’ she said, as if it all should be obvious to him. ‘I no longer need to pray and I can confess.’
‘You really think it’s that simple?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Because it isn’t just a case of you confessing, of saying the words. Your love of God can only be reborn with true repentance. You do understand?’
‘I do repent. I am truly sorry.’
‘Okay then; do you regret his death?’
‘No.’
‘Asking God for his death?’
‘I had no one else.’
‘Even though each request was a mortal sin, an offence to him and the grace of the soul?’
Rebecca was silent.
‘Do you really think God answered your prayers and caused the death of another human being?’
Again, Rebecca failed to answer Wittin’s question. Her demurring appeared to calm him down slightly and to Shep’s ears his tone became priestly, conciliatory.
‘He could never answer a prayer like that, could he?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad we agree. Are you still clear about what you’re confessing?’
‘I’m less sure.’
‘Of the exact nature of the sin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you be needing more time, to examine your conscience?’
‘Wishing him dead was a sin, I know that. But asking God’s help to that end was a far greater sin, wasn’t it?’
Shep and Wittin had both heard Rebecca’s doubt.
‘I would say so, if one mortal sin could carry more weight than another. I know it’s been a long time, and this is hard, but you’ll feel better when you receive the Lord’s mercy and you are forgiven. We’ll go slowly so.’
‘I’m sorry, Father.’
‘That’s all right, it’s why I’m here.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t ask for God’s forgiveness.’
‘Come on now. Why ever not? We’re almost there.’
‘Because I’m not sorry. I’m glad he’s dead and I know it’s wrong.’
Wittin didn’t respond. Shep could hear him fidgeting, at a loss.
‘You don’t need to say anything,’ said Rebecca. ‘Thank you for listening.’
‘I am sorry for you, child. I want to help you. But what you asked him for, that’s a burden you’ll have to carry alone.’
‘Nothing to the one I carried.’
‘I hope you have the strength.’
‘I’m feeling stronger.’
Wittin sighed. They both knew it was over.
Rebecca stepped out of the confessional to find Shep sitting in the nearest pew, waiting for her.
‘You were listening?’
‘I heard,’ he said, stepping into the aisle.
‘He knew you were here?’ Rebecca indicated Wittin’s side of the confessional. He didn’t come out.
‘Let’s go home, Becky.’
Rebecca went to Shep and hugged him harder than she had for years. He gathered her in.
‘Can you call me Becky?’
‘Like I used to?’
‘Yes.’
‘From now on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay then.’
He kissed her.
‘I love you, Shep.’
‘I know.’ She blinked as he pushed her hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘I’m looking tired and old.’
‘Not from here.’
She kissed him. They moved as one to the door and left the church without looking back.
Shep handed Becky the half-opened woollen blanket. She was already swaddling herself as he closed the car door. The windows were slowly demisting. He took the chance to spend five minutes with his cigar, the snow and the quiet of the village. When the windows had cleared and the snow on the bonnet had begun to melt as it landed, he flipped his wet cigar stub into the gutter and slipped his jacket off. He laid it across the bags on the back seat. He was about to get into the warmth of the car when he saw movement through the hotel window. Glen and Sally were both waving. He waved back, not blaming them for staying inside. Looking at them, he hoped they had what it would take to drag this
village out of the past. He imagined himself in the future, a regular customer on Sunday mornings, having coffee and a pastry while he read the papers, enjoying a cigar on the hotel steps, talking to Sally again.
Moments later, he eased the car away from the hotel kerb and drove up the hill. Becky was asleep before the lights from Struan House left the rear view. She didn’t wake until he guided the car between snow poles, laying fresh tracks across the car park of the inn.
‘Want me to leave it running?’ he said as he applied the handbrake.
‘Please.’
‘I won’t be long, a minute or so.’
‘Okay.’ Her eyes were already closing again.
Inside, the bar was empty. The only sound was the crackle of the freshly stoked fire in the hearth. When Bill stood and turned around, a tin bucket of hot ashes in his hand, he was surprised to see Shep.
‘Shep?’
‘That’s a good fire you’ve got going, Bill.’
‘Never know on a night like this. Somebody might make it here and need it. I’ve got soup, tea, whisky and an open fire. That would warm anybody up.’ He frowned. ‘Thought you’d be a while longer, I have to say.’
He put the bucket down on the hearthstone as Shep sought a handshake.
‘I just came to say goodbye, Bill. I don’t know if I’ll ever be up this way again.’
‘Where’s the good lady?’
‘Waiting in the car. Pretending to sleep.’
‘Nonsense; let me …’
As Bill made to go by Shep, his intention to repair the last meeting as best he could, Shep put his hand out, stopping him.
‘She’s fragile. It’ll take time.’
Bill stopped, met Shep’s gaze; acquiesced.
‘Okay.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How did the funeral go?’
‘Not easy.’
‘My sincere condolences, Shep, to the both of you.’
‘Thanks, Bill.’
‘Was there a good turnout?’
‘Most of the village saw him buried.’
‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, that was something.’
‘At least he was liked. You can take consolation from that.’
Shep shook Bill’s hand. ‘Thanks again, Bill.’
He didn’t look back as he left the inn.
He got into the car, kissed his sleeping wife, put the wipers back on and headed south.
Acknowledgements
Dog Evans was born in the bar of the Plockton Inn. Michael Campbell and Stephen Burt helped with the birth. John Weir gave me the use of his Millport flat to get to first. Val Penny was up for being first reader. All at Freight, particularly, Adrian Searle, Rodge Glass, Robbie Guillory and Persephone Lock. Ben Willis and all at Orion. Nicola Barr, for taking a chance on the writer of this dark novel.
Merci – Cleremont Ferrand, Admiral Flotant for the invitation. Francois Andrieux, Camille, Baptiste and the cats, were generous with hospitality, guidance, good cheese and the best bread. Sophie, Maela, Annabelle and Florence, drove me, supported me and were good company. Francois Nugier and Michael Bourrier almost made me want to teach. Jean Christophe and Beatrice welcomed me into their home for truffade, wine and brandy.
‘You know what I’ve learned, you know what I’ve learned?
Some people do love you when you are down and out,
and they are the people I will value for my ever.’
Jonny Murray, Bovy and Caroline MacKinnon, Jeremy Donald, Mum, Anne and Jim, Beth and Brian, Carole, Ava and Honor.
About the author
Barry Gornell was born in Liverpool and now lives on the West Coast of Scotland. He is a novelist/screenwriter, ex fire-fighter, truck driver and bookshop manager. His short films Sonny’s Pride and The Race were broadcast on STV. Graduating from the University of Glasgow Creative Writing Masters programme in 2008, he was awarded a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Bursary in 2009. His short fiction has been published in The Herald and The Scotsman newspapers, Let’s Pretend, 37 stories about (in)fidelity, Gutter 03 and Gutter 04. The Healing of Luther Grove was his first novel, followed by The Wrong Child, which was originally published by Scottish press Freight Books in 2016.
Copyright
An Orion Ebook
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Freight Books
This Ebook first published in 2017 by Orion Books
Copyright © Barry Gornell 2016
The right of Barry Gornell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 7183 6
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
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