by Maggie Finn
‘Touché. But I’m really here to find out what Ross are planning. Are they going to take on the church?’
Sir Charles smiled.
‘I really think you need to ask Ross Oil about Ross Oil’s plans. I’m sure they have a number on their website.’
‘So you are denying that anyone from Ross has spoken to you about a continued interest in using Clover Cove or the Rowe estate as a site for their energy project?’
‘Not at all. I can give you an exclusive, Danny. Ross Oil are still interested in siting their energy project here.’
Danny’s eyes opened wide and Charles chuckled.
‘Not such a headline, is it? Six weeks ago, Ross wanted to begin work here, six weeks later they’d still like to use Clover Cove as their base. The bay hasn’t changed, the depth of the harbor is still the same, the waves keep coming and going. Your question – whether they’ll find a way, church or no church – that is the one part of it I don’t have an answer to.’
Danny could see that Charles was right. Without a change from the church, this was all just speculation; certainly not a scoop.
Sighing, he thanked the landlord and, ever the gentleman, Sir Charles walked Danny out to his car.
‘One last thing,’ said Danny as they reached the drive. ‘Could I ask you a personal question?’
‘Fire away,’ smiled Charles. ‘But if it ends up in your paper I shall sue.’
‘Tessa Drake.’
‘Ah. So that’s where the tip-off came from, I was wondering.’ He gave Danny a sideways look. ‘A wonderful girl,’ he said. ‘And as far as I am aware, a single one, more’s the pity. Does that answer your question?’
Danny could feel his cheeks burning. He nodded and quickly ducked inside his muddy car. He wound down the window to wave and backed the car away from the house.
Sir Charles waved back, then called out: ‘Remember what I said about your book. Bum on seat, eh?’
Danny smiled and put the car in gear. He glanced down at his phone sitting on the passenger seat, the phone holding his pictures of Bishop Ray and his hip-flask.
‘Thanks,’ he called, then added to himself as he drove away: ‘But I’m not sure I’ll need it.’
Chapter Eleven
There was a man in Kate’s kitchen. Tessa’s heart jumped, then settled when he turned and she saw the white of the dog collar.
‘Bishop,’ she breathed, pressing a hand to her chest. ‘I thought you were a burglar.’
Tessa had walked up to the guest house on the square to look for Kate to give her the latest news about her encounters with both Charles Balcon and Danny Brennan. The front door was open – it was a guest house after all – so Tessa had gone straight through to the kitchen; Kate had already mentioned that she was Mrs. Brennan’s only guest. She hadn’t expected to find anyone else there.
‘Sorry my dear,’ said Bishop Ray, holding up a tea caddy. ‘We’re out of the good stuff up at the rectory and Mrs. Brennan lets us borrow a few bags when we’re short.’
He looked around.
‘You’re looking for Miss O’Riordan I’m guessing?’
‘Yes, yes I was.’
‘I’m afraid it’s just me right now. Anything I can help with?
Tessa shook her head. ‘No, I… I just wanted to talk something over with her.’
The Bishop nodded.
‘Well perhaps you’d have time for a cup of tea all the same.’
Tessa was about to make a polite refusal, but the old man held up his hands.
‘No names, no pack drill, as they used to say in the army.’
Tessa’s face must have betrayed her confusion.
‘It means you don’t have to tell me exactly what’s going on, but I was a parish priest for more years than I care to remember, and I have always found that talking to a stranger about things can help an awful lot.’
Tessa was skeptical, but she didn’t think she could back out now. Plus maybe Bishop Ray might let slip some information about those turbines outside her window. Since Tessa’s conversation with Charles Balcon, she couldn’t get the image out of her head.
‘Sure,’ she said, ‘Tea would be nice.’
She waited until the Bishop brought two mugs over and they sat at the old kitchen table.
‘So will it be an affair of the heart you wanted to discuss?’ said the priest, blowing on his tea.
Tessa tried to answer, but just spluttered.
‘It doesn’t take Hercule Poirot, Miss Drake,’ smiled the bishop. ‘Guard Noah – the policeman down at Port Quinn? – he once told me that most problems in his line are motivated by love or money. And as you were coming to talk to your girlfriend, I was safe assuming the former.’
It seemed funny talking to an old priest about love, but then Tessa reminded herself that he’d probably been to more weddings than most people.
‘Are you married, Bishop Ray?’ she asked.
‘Forty-one years before the Lord called my Callie back to Him.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
He shook his head firmly.
‘Never feel sorry on that score. I was lucky that God saw fit to bring us together. We were happy.’
Tessa looked at him.
‘Is that what happens, do you think? Does God bring people together?’
‘Of course. Nothing else makes sense. Two hearts finding each other and fitting together perfectly? It would be crazy to think that just happens by chance.’
‘It’s a lovely thought.’
The priest nodded.
‘In my job, I have the privilege of joining people together in marriage, but I’m sure you have seen the statistics in the newspapers; far too many end badly.’ He held up a gnarled finger. ‘But many do last. Marriage can be tough, the Good Lord knows, but a partnership between two people who were meant to be together is a joy, Miss Drake.’
‘But how do you know? I mean, how do you know if someone’s meant to be with you?’
‘Ah, now that’s the tricky part, isn’t it?’ he smiled, taking a thoughtful sip of tea. ‘Love is the one pure thing in the universe, Miss Drake, and when one finds a spark of it, you should tend it and nurture it into a flame, then keep feeding it. Because it can go out too.’
He gently touched her hand.
‘But you’ll know the spark when you feel it, that’s my belief. Don’t ignore it, whatever you do.’
He chuckled softly and put down his cup.
‘But you didn’t come here to ask about dating, did you?’
‘Are you a mind reader, Bishop?’
‘No, just a grumpy old man. But I know when something’s weighing on someone’s mind.’
Tessa paused, sipping her tea. She desperately wanted to talk to someone about the huge elephant sitting in the Lombard Gallery over in Port Quinn – it had become a huge weight on her shoulders she wasn’t sure she could bear for very much longer. But to discuss it with Bishop Ray? He been very nice so far, but his reputation suggested he might take a dim view of Tessa’s huge secret, even if it was motivated by a desire to keep her father safe and well. On the other hand, weren’t priests supposed to be able to give absolution? Weren’t they big on forgiveness? If only she had paid more attention in Religious Studies at school.
‘Can I ask you one of those general questions?’ she asked.
‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s more of a moral dilemma. Is it right to lie about something to help a loved one?’
The priest sat back in his chair.
‘What kind of lie? A little white lie or a great big whopper?’
‘Depends on where you’re standing I suppose.’
‘How does it seem to you?’
‘At first it seemed like a little white lie, like it wasn’t really hurting anyone and it was really helping someone I cared about, but…’
‘But now it feels different? Well I’d have to ask – theoretically – what has changed?’
‘Me, I suppose. I’ve changed.’
He looked at her, his old face serious.
‘And if you stopped telling this lie? What would happen to the loved one? Would they suffer?’
‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t be happy, that’s for sure. But yes, mainly I’m worried that they might not recover.’
Ray pressed his lips together.
‘Hmm. I take it you’ve traveled on an aeroplane in the past?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well you remember the safety briefing they give you where the little yellow masks fall from the ceiling when the cabin pressure drops?’
Tessa nodded.
‘What do they tell you to do? They say put on your own oxygen mask before helping anyone else, don’t they?’
‘Because you have to be fit and well in order to be able to assist someone else.’
‘Exactly.’
Tessa looked at him.
‘So you think I should put on my oxygen mask first?’
‘Yes, Miss Drake. I think it’s about time you did.’
He gave her a sad smile.
‘Because it sounds if you don’t, the whole jumbo jet is in danger of crashing into the runway.’
Chapter Twelve
Danny stood in the corridor outside the editor’s office, trying not to listen.
‘I don’t care if he’s on sick leave,’ shouted Ciaran, ‘Are you telling me he’s too ill to pick up his phone?’
There was a pause, then: ‘I want an interview, Nathan, not excuses. If you have to climb over his garden wall, I want that man on record. He’s very happy to talk when he’s on the campaign trail – now he’s on the ropes, we need him to talk to us.’
Danny turned away as the door opened, but not quick enough to avoid seeing the anger on his rival reporter’s face. Nathan glared at him, but Danny genuinely felt bad for the boy. He’d been in that same hot seat himself plenty of times and he wouldn’t wish Ciaran’s wrath on anyone.
‘That you Danny?’ shouted the editor, spotting him through the open door. ‘Just the man. Come on in.’
Danny gave a wary smile and closed the door behind him. He had good news – a world-class scoop, in fact – and yet he still felt nervous. Perhaps it was something to do with the first time he had walked into Ciaran O’Neill’s office. They said you remembered the traumatic incidents most clearly, didn’t they? Car crashes, bad break-ups – and that first time in Ciaran’s office still made Danny wince. Armed with some cuttings from a student paper and a lot of bravado, he had lied his way into the Examiner office, claiming to be from a local solicitor’s, delivering some legal papers Mr. O’Neill needed to sign in person. Once face to face with the editor, Danny had confessed and thrust his clippings into Ciaran’s giant hands, babbling that he was a huge fan and that the Examiner was his dream job. Ciaran had stared at him, then slowly tore up Danny’s papers.
Crestfallen, Danny had turned to go, but Ciaran held up one of those big hands to stop him.
‘I don’t care what you’ve done before,’ he’d said. ‘Writing I can teach, but a brass neck like yours, you have to be born with. If you can get into my office, you can get in anywhere.’
That had been the start and there had been plenty of ups and downs in between, plenty of times when Danny had experienced Ciaran’s famous ‘code red’ anger just like Nathan, but not today. Ciaran was unpredictable, but he was a campaigning editor, the kind who adored stories about corruption and hypocrisy at the heart of the community. This was a slam-dunk. So why was Danny feeling so nervous?
‘What have you got for me?’ said Ciaran, sitting forward over his desk. Danny turned to check the door was closed.
‘Something big.’
Ciaran’s eyebrows flickered with interest.
‘Go on.’
Danny took a deep breath and told him: how he had been up to Sleagh Castle looking for Charles Balcon to follow up a lead on the Ross Oil story, how he had happened to see Bishop Ray taking a snifter. Danny handed over his phone showing the picture he’d snapped.
‘And you’re sure it was brandy?’
Danny nodded. ‘Certain.’
Ciaran pressed his lips together and tapped a finger thoughtfully on his desk. It wasn’t the reaction Danny had been expecting. Ciaran wasn’t the kind of man given to whooping or punching the air, but he’d expected a smile at least.
‘Tricky,’ he said.
‘Tricky?’
‘Very tricky. Bishop Ray can be grouch, but he’s well-loved and well-respected in the county. We’d need to be very sure about this.’
Danny pulled the water bottle from his bag and placed it on Ciaran’s desk. ‘There you go. Haven’t had it tested, but I’d say 40 proof at least.’
The editor span off the cap and sniffed, jerking his head back in distaste.
‘That’s brandy alright. But here’s what we have to ask ourselves: ‘Is this news?’
Danny spluttered.
‘News? Of course it’s news, boss. What else do you think would qualify? He’s a pillar of the community – an anti-drink campaigner, no less – who is revealed to be a secret boozer. People should know.’
‘Ah, the old “public interest” angle,’ Ciaran nodded. ‘We’re doing our readers a service, yes?’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Danny. ‘What Ray does at home is his own business, but it stops being his private life when he takes a big moral stand about the evils of alcohol, telling all us sinners how weak we’re being. That’s when it becomes a lie.’
Ciaran sat back in his chair, nodding to himself, evidently thinking it through and Danny squirmed with impatience. He hadn’t been sure how he felt about the story when he had come into the office – Ciaran was right, it was a tricky issue – but now his boss seemed so cool about it, Danny suddenly desperately wanted to see it in print.
‘What’s the problem here, boss?’ said Danny in frustration. ‘I thought you’d be rubbing your hands with glee at this. This is a great story.’
The editor pulled a pained face.
‘Sure, it’s a great story, no argument. The problem is this is Kiln County, Ireland, not Washington DC. And then there’s the fact you have an issue with Bishop Ray. It muddies the water.’
Danny bristled. He wasn’t actually all that sure how he felt about Bishop Ray, but he disliked the implication that he’d allow his prejudices to influence his journalistic integrity.
‘This is nothing to do with my personal feelings about the man,’ he snapped. ‘And even if I did have an issue with the Bishop, I certainly wouldn’t let that stop me writing a balanced story.’
Ciaran held up a hand.
‘Okay, fine, you’re King Solomon, I get it. But even so, Ray is a priest who likes a drink. That’s hardly a headline, is it?’
‘Bishop Ray is no ordinary priest, Ciaran,’ said Danny evenly. ‘He stands for something.’
‘Yes Dan, he stands for the church. And the church, for good or ill, tends to be very protective of its members.’
Danny frowned.
‘You’re scared of the church? Because they have influence around here?’
‘Don’t be daft son,’ said Ciaran with a laugh. ‘If I was frightened to run stories about powerful organizations, we wouldn’t have spent the past few months writing about Ross Oil, would we? Come on, there’s no question a story like this is going to ruffle feathers and I have to weigh up whether it’s worth it.’
‘Look, if the archbishops and the cardinals are going to start throwing their weight around…’
‘Not the church, Dan,’ said Ciaran. ‘It’s the readers who will object to this. People don’t take kindly to this sort of thing, I’ve seen it before. It doesn’t matter the rights and wrongs of the case, Joe Public will see it as the media attacking an institution that can’t defend itself.’
‘But that’s nonsense! The church has money and lawyers and…’
‘I know, I know. But that’s why we have to consider it very carefully. Emotions will run high.’
‘So
they should.’
Ciaran fixed him with a hard look.
‘You think this is a moral issue, do you?’
‘Of course. Bishop Ray has spent decades telling people they are immoral for drinking. Now we find he’s been doing that all along.’
‘Slow down, Danny. We don’t know anything of the sort and we certainly can’t print that. For all we know, this is the first brandy Ray has ever tasted.’
‘But he’s a hypocrite!’
Ciaran nodded.
‘Sure he is, but let me tell you, most people won’t see it that way. Most people will just shrug and say ‘ah, good man himself. So he has a drink every now and then, just like me. So what? It’s not hurting anyone’.’
Danny clenched his jaw.
‘And there will be people who are outraged.’
‘Sure, you’re not wrong. Some people will demand his head. But then what? What do you think will happen?’
‘Well, I suppose the church will… well, they’ll…’ Danny blustered, but realized that he hadn’t considered the next step.
‘This is what will happen,’ said Ciaran. ‘Ray will write a heartfelt apology – which we will of course print – the archbishop will send him on some awareness away-day, he’ll give a few sermons about the weakness of the flesh and everyone will get on with their lives.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe they’ll kick him out.’
The editor gave a grim smile.
‘And is that what you want?’
Danny thought about it for a moment.
‘It doesn’t matter what I want, boss, and actually it’s not for us to say what will happen. We just report the news, tell people who did what and when. It’s up to the public – and the church – to decide what comes next.’
Ciaran sat forward.
‘So write it.’
Danny stopped.
‘Write it?’
‘If you write it, I’ll print it. Front page, big splash. Let’s go big on this.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. For once Dan, you’re right. It’s a story we have to tell.’
Danny narrowed his eyes.
‘So why do you look so grim?’