The Interpretations

  He looked up at the roof of the church. He looked hard at the roof. There was no evidence that Skinner had done any repair work whatever. Nothing at all. And after all those promises. But it was just like the man to let you down. Typical. This was a man after all who wanted to knock down the church, who . . . Suddenly he realised what had happened. It was clear as day. Skinner had known all along about the decision to knock down the church. Yes, clearly that was it. He’d known about it and realised that repairs were a waste of time . . .

  The minister strode across the grass, crossed the path and climbed up the short flight of worn stone steps that, since 1847, eleven ministers of the parish had mounted before him. He entered the vestry.

  There were only seven – or was it eight? – steps up to the vestry but he felt quite out of breath once he was inside the small room where he prepared himself before he went into the church.

  The chair he sat down in was in poor shape. He knew it needed some repair work or perhaps replacement altogether. But he resisted the idea of throwing it out for another new or newer chair. It wasn’t just the expense; it was the rush to get rid of old things that he disliked. Everyone’s advice about almost everything, it seemed, was to throw it out, knock it down, get rid.

  There were three wooden upright chairs with wicker seats placed in a semi-circle in front of him. This was the number the bible class was now reduced to, since the tragic passing of Eileen Tulloch. But in truth it had never been very popular among the young of the parish. Next year when the MacDonald boy went off to university it was likely that only two of these seats would be occupied. There had been seven or eight at least, he remembered, during the time that Tom Kingsmill had been a biblical scholar. Tom Kingsmill, whose attacker he was about to bury. He thought about Tom a lot, about all the education he had received, about all the study at school and university and then . . . he’d thrown it all away, all of it, to dig roads, to collect rubbish, to work in a fish factory. A fish factory! What a waste of a life.

  He stood up. He felt a little better now, rested, though he realised he still had to climb the steps up into the pulpit. How many were there? He wasn’t sure. Seven or eight only. Maybe nine. About the same number as the stone steps outside. Seven, he thought. He was suddenly surprised that he didn’t know this very basic piece of information. He had climbed these steps at least twice every Sunday for the past thirty-four years. Surely this would lead to some familiarity with the process. Perhaps his feet knew the number but his brain had not registered it. He decided he would count them today, in a few moments in fact, as he climbed into the pulpit for the service.

  He faced the door that led into the church and he composed himself. He touched his right collarbone, felt the hard knot of the string that held the key, pressed it lightly onto the little bruise, that lovely cancer, felt the key itself pushing gently against his lower chest.

  Just as he was about to reach for the door handle there was a light tap on the door and it opened a few inches. It was McCritchie, one of the elders, whispering as loudly as he could, ‘Is everything all right, minister?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  The door opened wider and McCritchie’s head ap­peared. ‘It’s only that we were . . . concerned that maybe something was wrong.’

  ‘Oh, nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong.’ But he looked at his watch and saw that he had been in the vestry for more than ten minutes now so yes, it was understandable that people were concerned. Or impatient.

  ‘I’ll be out directly.’

  ‘Fine. Fine.’ McCritchie withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The minister remained standing in front of the closed door for a few seconds and then went back to his chair and sat down again. He hated being interrupted like that, especially when he was preparing himself for such a solemn occasion. He felt greatly irritated and knew that this was not at all the correct mood in which to enter the church. So he stood up again, turned round and knelt down before the chair. He leaned forward placing his elbows on the faded seat and clasped his hands together. With his forehead resting lightly on the sides of his thumbs he recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  He gave the prayer a few moments of rest after its completion and then he got to his feet, with some difficulty. He turned to face the door again but paused only briefly before opening it and stepping into the church.

  He was aware of some kind of murmuring or it might have been a collective sigh of relief, something like that, though he couldn’t define it exactly. He did not look at the congregation directly as he made his way along the side aisle to the pulpit steps. But by the sound of his footfalls upon the stone floor he knew the church was almost empty. He glanced only briefly at the coffin sitting below the pulpit, long enough only to register the brown polished mass of it. He mounted the pulpit steps.

  McCritchie followed him almost to the top, closed the pulpit door on him and then descended to take a seat at the end of the front pew. The minister, now enclosed by the circular wooden wall that formed the pulpit, sat down on the small upright chair there was hardly enough room for. He was about to say quietly the short prayer that prepared him for all church services but he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to count the pulpit steps.

  This tiny omission troubled him. And the fact that such an insignificant event should claim his attention irritated him further. The number of steps, he told himself, was of no importance whatever, none whatever. He bowed his head and repeated, slowly, the prayer he always said when he entered the pulpit, ‘Oh, Lord, may I speak as Thou wouldst wish me to speak, in humility and love, to reflect the greater nature that is Thine, not the lesser one which is my own.’

  When he stood and reached for the bible, already opened by McCritchie at the first passage to be read, and looked over the top of the lectern which he had always thought was a fraction too high, he saw that the little church was almost empty.

  However, there were a few more people than he had expected. About fifteen in all. He recognised McCritchie, of course, and Mike Delvan, and there was that idiot Fisher from the Dalmore Herald. There were Gilfedder’s relatives in the front pew; he recognised only the widow, none of the others. And there was a small group of people right at the back. Gilfedder’s workmates probably, unsure about how active their participation in the service should be. To his surprise he saw that Skinner, the builder, was also there, sitting alone somewhere in the middle of the church, halfway between the group of men at the back and Gilfedder’s relatives at the front.

  For a few moments he looked out over the mostly empty pews and during this interior silence he heard the first raindrops spattering against the stained glass windows in the west wall. The rain nearly always came from the west. So Skinner had informed him.

  He said, ‘Today it is our unhappy task to commend to God the soul of Donald Gilfedder. We are all, I’m sure, aware of the tragic events which led to his untimely death. But whatever these circumstances were we must not lose sight of the fact that he was greatly loved as a husband and he will be sorely missed . . .’

  It wasn’t immediately clear whether the pause that followed was intentional or the result of some distraction. Certainly it seemed that his little oration had not ended but rather had failed to continue and the fact that his last few words could be taken as a complete sentence may well have been the result of luck rather than design.

  He appeared bemused. He began to chew his lower lip, a mannerism most of his parishioners were familiar with. They knew that a few moments would pass and then he would resume. They knew also that recently these pauses had increased both in length and frequency. And they didn’t really know what to do about it or even if they should be thinking about doing something about it or not. But few of his regular church attenders were there. In fact there were only two, McCritchie and Skinner, and it was McCritchie alone who was fully aware of what was happening. He coughed loudly. Then he remained silent, pretending that everything was quite all right.

  But t
he Reverend McFarren was not lost in some kind of dream; he was listening. The wind had got up and was buffeting the west wall and driving the rain against the window panes. And then, in a little lull between gusts he heard the plop of the first drop of water that had entered the broken roof and dripped down into the red plastic bucket that McCritchie, or maybe Skinner, had placed in the aisle at the end of the Mitchell pew. He actually saw the second drip descend and then the third and fourth and fifth but then they came faster than he could count until there were no individual drips any more but a thin stream coming down, wavering as it did so, some water landing in the bucket, some on the surrounding stone floor.

  Everyone else realised what was happening too.

  The minister said, ‘I can only apologise for this problem with the roof which, as you can see, remains unrepaired. But I trust the inconvenience is minor. I can promise you that this . . . this will all be sorted out very soon. And now . . . and now let us pray.’

  He closed his eyes and raised his hands above his head. As he did so, something broke, something parted, something fell. It was the string that broke, the string that held the key. Released, the key dropped inside the minister’s shirt to his waistband and settled for a moment against his navel. But the minister dropped his hands quickly as if to catch it. The key escaped and slipped down into his underpants. He clutched at the key and doubled up in a slow, geriatric jack-knife that brought his head down to collide with the hard corner of the lectern. All this was accomplished almost soundlessly. What sounds there were – the muffled thump of head on wood and the slight groan he gave out when he collapsed inside the pulpit – were covered up by the wind and rain outside.

  At least six of the members of the congregation, standing, heads bowed, eyes closed, waiting for the first words of the prayer, noticed nothing. But McCritchie moved quickly, leaving the front pew almost at a run and stepping up the seven carpeted steps to the pulpit door which he flung open violently.

  The minister lay curled up on the floor of the pulpit, knees to his chest, a cut on his forehead dripping thick drops of blood, his eyelids fluttering. His head was pushed back against the front legs of the chair, the disposition of his body on the thin carpet determined by the shape of the tiny space available to it. McCritchie, in shock rather than in reprimand, said, ‘Good God, Reverend, what are you doing down there?’

  Though he was a small, slight man it was difficult to get him out of the tiny pulpit with its one narrow door. It was Mike Delvan who made more room by removing the upright chair. He picked it up and dropped it over the side of the pulpit as if he were bailing a boat. As it fell, the little chair bounced off the foot of Gilfedder’s coffin and struck the stone floor of the church. Its right front leg splintered with a loud crack.

  The Reverend McFarren came out of the pulpit head first, drawn out by the careful hands of McCritchie, Mike Delvan and two of the mourners. It was as if he were being pulled out of a wrecked car or a ruined building. His head, bleeding freely now from the wound above his left eyebrow, was carefully cradled in the hands of Gilfedder’s widow, Avril, who began to take control. She despatched her brother-in-law to the nearest house to call for an ambulance and then suggested that they should take the minister into the vestry and lay him down there.

  But they found that the vestry was cold and draughty, the carpet was worn and thin and the heater didn’t work. They laid him down anyway and McCritchie, in a gesture he immediately regretted, ripped down the curtain from the single window so that they would have something to cover him with. But this disturbed a great deal of dust that had accumulated over several years in the folds at the top of the curtain and on the inside of the wooden pelmet.

  The flow of blood from the minister’s head was soon staunched but the old man was only semi-conscious. He was delirious as if suffering from a fever. Indecipherable words or parts of words came from him and occasionally his body would twist violently, struck by a series of spasms which worried all those who crowded round him.

  Someone suggested that they shouldn’t wait for the ambulance, they should put him in a car now and drive him to the Royal Infirmary. But Avril Gilfedder said no, best not to move him. Best to wait. So they waited.

  While they did so, McCritchie, the elder who was also an electrician, knelt down on the floor to try and repair the heater. He marvelled that such an ancient device still existed. From one of the baggy pockets of his black jacket he pulled out a set of small screwdrivers. Within a couple of minutes a tiny red glow began to creep into the bars of the heater, sending out not just a fragile heat but the sharp smell of burning dust.

  As they waited for the ambulance, the minister became calmer. His body stopped twitching and his eyes opened. It became clear that he was about to speak. First his mouth began to open and close silently as if the mechanics of speech were to be practised for a time before the introduction of sound. McCritchie, Mike Delvan and Avril Gilfedder leaned over him in expectation and he said, in a very small but firm voice, ‘Genesis.’

  A moment or two later he added, ‘Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers . . .’

  During the short pause that followed, McCritchie looked at the others and said quietly, ‘I imagine we’re going to get the lot.’

  And so it was. Deuteronomy followed, then Joshua, Judges and Ruth. But, after he had spoken the name of the second book of Chronicles, he stopped. With his mouth still open but his eyes now closed again, there was no movement on his face at all. Then he opened his eyes and his expression changed. His look was one of desperate sadness, disappointment. He looked defeated.

  Avril Gilfedder turned to McCritchie and said, ‘Get him started again.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘What comes after Second Chronicles?’

  ‘God in heaven, I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I imagine there’s a bible in here somewhere,’ she said.

  But it was Mike Delvan who knelt down and spoke into the minister’s ear, ‘Ezra.’

  And the Reverend McFarren repeated, ‘Ezra.’

  Mike said, ‘Nehemiah.’

  ‘Nehemiah,’ said the minister and then, by himself, he added, ‘Esther.’

  It was a bit like jump-starting a car. Once the Reverend McFarren’s mental engine had turned over a couple of times it gained the momentum to continue. He went on, at a gentle pace, through all the Old Testament scriptures to Malachi. And he was well into the books of the New Testament – Titus, Philemon, Hebrews – when the ambulance arrived.

  An hour and a half later Mike Delvan and McCritchie sat in a corridor of the Royal Infirmary, waiting for news. The brisk activity of the nurses and doctors alarmed Mike and made him feel sure that the minister was seriously ill. But a nurse then came to tell them that the Reverend McFarren was quite well, though tired. He had received two stitches on his forehead but was otherwise unharmed. He would be kept in hospital for the rest of the day and overnight but there was no reason for alarm.

  Mike asked if they could see him. The nurse said one at a time, no more than five minutes each. Mike went in first.

  ‘Michael,’ the minister said straight away. ‘They tell me I’m in hospital. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, Mr McFarren, you’re in hospital but there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Did God smite me?’

  ‘No, no. You just had a fall and banged your head.’

  ‘Banged my head?’

  ‘That’s right. In the pulpit. You fell over and banged your head on the lectern.’

  ‘Is that so? Well . . . so God did smite me after all . . .’

  ‘No, Mr McFarren, no. That’s not what happened. You just fell over and banged your head . . .’

  ‘And I’m in hospital, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Royal.’

  ‘Oh. And how did I get here?’

  ‘You came in an ambulance.’

  ‘From the church?’

  ‘Yes.�
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  ‘Directly from the church?’

  ‘Yes, I . . .’

  ‘So . . . so . . .’ He raised a hand to the small wound on his head. ‘So . . . I came over the new bridge, then?’

  ‘Ah, well . . .’

  ‘Did I?’ And then, ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  Mike said, ‘Yes, Mr McFarren, you came over the new bridge.’

  Mike came out and sat in the corridor again as McCritchie went in for his five minutes. One of the nurses approached Mike and said, ‘Do you know what this is?’ She held before her the heavy iron key.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s the key to the church . . . I mean, the Reverend McFarren’s church.’

  ‘Will you take it?’

  ‘Well, I’ll give it to McCritchie. It’s more his line than mine.’ He took the key from her. ‘Can I ask you where you got this? I mean, it wasn’t on him when we put him in the ambulance.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t in his jacket or anything.’

  ‘We didn’t find it in his jacket.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It was . . . somewhere else,’ she said and she left before he could question her further.

  Three days later Inspector McCall rang Mike and asked him to come over to the police station. Mike was there within fifteen minutes.

  ‘Found this,’ McCall said and he pointed to a running shoe, size ten, left foot, that sat on his desk.

  Mike looked at it. ‘Tom’s?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty sure. I’ve checked with McBraith and he’s sure it’s the same make and size he sold to Tom the day before the race.’

  ‘And where did you find it?’

  ‘Wasn’t me, actually,’ McCall said. ‘A Mrs Dundas found it, or her dog did.’

  ‘Mrs Dundas? Is that the wife of the guy who works at WattWays?’

  ‘Not wife, mother. Lives in Dalmore. Takes her dog for a walk every morning on the beach. So this morning he comes trotting up to her with this in his mouth. They were over by the new bridge. On the south beach.’