by Pat Young
Nothing could be more relevant to this situation. He said the line one more time for good measure. When nothing happened, it occurred to him he might have been too quiet. After all, he was unlikely to be the only one in purgatory. He would have to make sure his voice could be heard above all the other souls in agony. His knees were beginning to hurt but he made a real effort to keep his posture appropriate. He raised his voice and said both prayers again, much louder this time.
***
CHAPTER 71
Marty bumped Joe with her elbow, ‘Tell me what he’s saying.’
Joe watched the praying figure and said, ‘I don’t know. I guess it’s a prayer.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ said Marty, quoting for some reason, a saying of her son’s that she deplored. ‘Sorry, I can see that, but I want to know what words he’s using.’
Joe said, ‘Not sure. It’s hard to make out, but I think he’s making an act of contrition.’
‘Which means …?’ Marty waited for an explanation.
‘It’s basically a special prayer that expresses sorrow for sins committed.’
‘A bit like Our Father, who art in heaven? Everybody says the same words?’
‘Yeah, exactly. Oh my God, I am heartily sorry and so on.’
‘When did you learn that?’
‘No idea, but it’s in there for ever.’ Joe tapped his forehead. ‘Never underestimate the power of rote learning, eh?’
‘I wish he would speak up a bit,’ said Marty and as if he had heard her, Smeaton raised his voice. ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘that was creepy.’
‘That is an act of contrition he’s making, I was right. Listen for yourself and you’ll hear him ask for forgiveness.’
Marty did as Joe asked and sure enough she heard Smeaton praying.
She repeated his words, ‘and cleanse me from my sin.’ Does that mean we have a result?’
‘No way,’ said Joe. ‘He’ll need a damn sight more than a few Hail Marys to get him off this time. He’s going nowhere until I hear him listing those sins and truly repenting. Then, and only then, will I be prepared to put him out of his misery.’
Marty was a bit surprised by the ferocity of Joe’s reply, but she knew he was bitter about Smeaton and now that she understood why, she didn’t blame him.
‘We didn’t go to all this bother for some pathetic prayer he’s been reciting since his first communion.’
Marty touched Joe’s arm. ‘All I meant was, are we getting somewhere? As in, is he praying for forgiveness at last?’
Joe looked into her eyes with an intensity that unsettled her. ‘Yes, he is. Sorry, but you know how I feel about the man.’
‘I understand,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘Probably better than anyone.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Joe, ‘Let’s watch. We don’t want to miss the moment when Smeaton repents being an evil bastard to Joe Docherty and Marty Dunlop, do we?’
***
CHAPTER 72
When there was no change in his circumstances, Thomas Smeaton knew he had to try harder. He wanted to be here for as short a time as possible, so it made sense to make sure he got his repentance right.
He moved into a sitting position and stretched his legs out in front of him, trying to get rid of the stiffness in his joints.
He’d start with his mother and work backwards. Even though she was the last person he’d seen before he died, he found it hard to picture her face. He had heard people describe the same experience when they lost a loved one. Except that Ruby Smeaton was not a loved one in the true sense of the word. For the briefest of moments he felt relief that dying before his mother meant he’d never have to stand up in church and say he was heart-broken at her loss.
Strangely the idea that he was dead didn’t trouble him. He felt no regret for things undone and places unseen. He’d never believed in ‘bucket lists’ and since fatherhood had never appealed to him, he had no regrets on that score either. He was ready to meet his maker, it seemed, if his maker was ready for him.
Back to Ruby. Remembering the fourth commandment, he could only conclude that he hadn’t honoured his mother enough. Otherwise he would have had the chance to ‘live longer on the earth’ as promised. He was puzzled. He’d never shown disrespect towards his mother. He was looking after her in her old age. Plus, he went to visit her, which was more than could be said for some folk. He was taking care of her finances, not squandering her money on wine or women. Maybe he’d failed her by not giving her grandchildren, but then, that wasn’t his fault. She did a lot of moaning about his having forced her to move into Briargrove; even accused him of dodgy goings-on with the lawyer, but that was paranoia on her part, stupid old bat.
Woah! His train of thought slammed into the buffers as he disrespected his mother.
Admiration for his faith filled him with warmth. It was very simple and yet so sophisticated. A sin he had not noticed was enough to stop him gazing on the face of God. Oh well, that would be easily rectified.
He rolled over on to his knees and clasped his hands like a child in prayer. He was about to make another act of contrition when inspiration came to him. It might be more effective if he used his own words to repent this sin. ‘Oh my God,’ he said, then, remembering how much more powerful it sounded in a louder voice, he started again. ‘Oh my God,’ he intoned, with priest-like authority, ‘I am heartily sorry for sinning against you and my mother. I regret the times I have called her a stupid, old bat or a silly cow. Have mercy on me, please God, for, in my defence, I would add that I did not ever say these sinful things to my mother’s face.’ He stopped, aware he was sounding more like a courtroom lawyer than a penitent sinner. He chose his next words carefully. It was important to get them right. ‘I deeply regret my lack of respect for my mother who took me in and brought me up as her own. I am sorry I wasn’t nice like Archie when I was a wee boy, so she could have loved me more easily. I regret that I did not take her wishes into consideration when she grew older. I ask your forgiveness and promise you this: if I could go back and say sorry to my mother, I would not hesitate.’
Might it be appropriate to offer up a prayer for her immortal soul? He decided to look after number one. Anyway, if, as he suspected, his mother had gone straight to hell, it would be a waste of a prayer that could be better used for himself. He was the one trying to remit time in purgatory, not his mother. He cast around in his mind for an appropriate ending to this prayer and decided on his favourite line. Looking up towards the miserable vestige of light, he prayed,
‘Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.’
***
CHAPTER 73
Marty was in hysterics. ‘Will you listen to him? “Wash me? Whiter than snow?” Can you believe that man?’ Her eyes were sparkling with tears and her glee was so infectious, Joe couldn’t help joining in.
‘He’s priceless,’ she said. ‘Only Smeaton could turn a prayer for forgiveness into a pompous demand. The man’s surely beyond redemption?’
Joe laughed. ‘That little performance proves my point. He hasn’t learned a thing. He’s speaking to his creator as if he was ordering a fish supper.’
‘I have to agree with you, Joe. There’s not much sign of humility or repentance that I can see. I’m hardly an expert on the Roman Catholic faith, but wouldn’t you expect someone who is trying to expiate his sins to sound a little more humble and apologetic? Dare I say, repentant?’
‘I think he’s taking the piss.’
‘What?’
‘I think he knows he’s been set up.’
‘Why on earth would he think that?’
‘He’s not stupid.’
‘Far from it.’
‘That reaction was so over the top, it had to be for an audience. Don’t you think so?’
Marty shrugged and said, ‘We’ve got no way of knowing, have we? All we can do is wait and see what happens next.’
‘You’re right. We’re not going anywhere.’ He pointed to the screen, ‘And n
either is he.’
Joe tried to stifle a yawn but Marty noticed and said, ‘Joe, my friend, you look shattered. You should sleep.’
‘I’m okay. I got used to going without sleep when Sally was ill. I’ll be fine for a few hours yet.’
Marty rose from her chair and came towards him. She took his hand and he got to his feet. She led him, like a child, through to the dorm and made him lie down on one of the bunks. Joe held on to her hand, unwilling to let her go. ‘Marty. Stop me if I am out of line here, but I want you to think about something.’
She sat on the edge of the bed opposite. ‘Okay.’
‘I’d like you to consider coming away with me.’
‘Away?’ she repeated, as if it was a word in a foreign language. ‘Away where?’
‘To Bulgaria.’
‘Bulgaria? Where you’re building your new house?’
‘I’m building a new life, Marty, not just a new house.’
‘And you’re asking me to go? What, to give you a hand?’
‘To give me a hand, yes. I guess I could do with a hand.’ He took both her hands in his and said, ‘Two would be better.’
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
Joe nodded, a smile on his lips.
‘You want me to move to Bulgaria with you?’
Joe kept on nodding. ‘I want you to share my new life with me.’
‘But I have a life, Joe.’
‘It’s not making you happy, though. Is it?’
Marty looked away. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘Sorry. You’re right. I don’t.’ He let go of her hands. It was clear she didn’t know what to say. Joe felt embarrassed. He had shown all his cards and now he regretted his openness.
‘Look, Marty. Forget I ever mentioned it. I’m sorry.’ He raked his hair with both hands and tucked them behind his head. ‘That was way out of line. Sorry.’
‘Joe,’ she whispered, ‘it wasn’t out of line. But,’ she paused, as if she were trying to find the right words, ‘I can’t walk away. I have a son, you know. Not to mention a husband. And a dog.’
Joe pushed himself up onto one elbow. ‘I can’t speak for your son. I’ve never met him, but your husband doesn’t seem to make you happy. You’ve told me as much. And you can bring the dog.’ He tried a laugh but it didn’t come out light-hearted.
‘David’s a good man, Joe. I’d never walk out on him. He doesn’t deserve that, after all these years.’
‘What’s the alternative, Marty? You stay with a man you don’t love, because he doesn’t deserve to be left? What about you, Marty? What do you deserve?’
‘I guess I’ve never thought about it, to be honest.’
He flopped back on the bed. ‘Sorry. I’ve handled this all wrong. Sorry.’
‘Joe,’ she said, laying her hand on his cheek, ‘please don’t keep apologizing. Thank you for asking me. I’m so flattered, I can’t tell you. Me, boring old Marty, being asked to go away with a gorgeous man like you. I can’t believe it.’
‘But you’re more flattered than tempted, is that it, Marty?’
‘Believe me, I’m tempted. I would’ve sold my soul to the devil when we were teenagers, for one look from you. And now you’re inviting me to share the rest of your life? I must be dreaming.’ She pinched her arm for effect, yelping when it hurt.
‘You make me laugh. Don’t you think we could have a great life, you and me?’
Marty sighed. ‘Oh, Joe,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’
‘You’re right,’ he said, brisk again. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Forgive me.’
‘Nothing to forgive. You’re offering me a priceless gift. Thank you so much.’
‘But you decline the gift, priceless or not?’
Marty got to her feet. ‘Sweet dreams,’ she whispered, as she slipped out the door and closed it behind her.
***
CHAPTER 74
Thomas Smeaton lay down again, overcome with a sudden, forlorn weariness. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen after the confession of his sins against his mother, but he’d certainly hoped for something. He was becoming more puzzled and disappointed as time went by. Deprived of all the indicators of time passing, he could only guess how much time had elapsed. Everything around him remained exactly the same. There was no change in the quality of light, no alteration to that shooshing sound that he’d do anything to silence. There was no ticking clock, no snatch of television music, nothing. He had slept and woken several times, but that meant nothing. It could be days, it could be hours. And how was time measured in purgatory? He might have millennia to wait for a response to his prayers. He tried to remember any other way that souls could be released from purgatory. Repentance was the big thing and he had tried that. His soul must be badly stained with sin.
His only way out now would be through the prayers of other people. He thought about offering up a quick prayer to St Gertrude on his own behalf but logic told him he couldn’t pray for souls in purgatory once he was there himself.
He’d never liked having to depend on others. In his experience, they generally let him down, one way or another. At work for example, he preferred to ‘micro-manage’. He called it ‘making sure everything gets done properly’ but he knew there were many who considered him a control freak. He hadn’t got to his position by being casual about the quality of work done by inferiors. A good manager knew his workers’ strengths and weaknesses. His style had been to use the strong and get rid of the weak. ‘L’enfer, c’est les autres’. That had always been his motto. Other people can make your life hell. Letting you down, not following your instructions, thinking they know better. It annoyed him no end. He didn’t care that he had made few friends in his life. He, Thomas Smeaton, needed no-one. He came into the world alone and look at him now. Alone. Precisely the way he liked it.
The problem was, he couldn’t stay here in darkness forever, deprived of the light of God’s grace. He needed people praying for him. Who would say a novena to St Catherine on his behalf? Even if his mother were alive, she would be no good to him. She never went to mass. The congregation at his church would pray at least once for his departed soul, and there would be more prayers if his solicitor made sure he had a proper Catholic funeral. He hoped he hadn’t been dumped onto the production line at the local crematorium. Thomas regretted never making his wishes clear. A serious oversight, but he’d always thought he would have plenty of time to think about that stuff.
He began to picture his funeral and imagined people praying for him. At first he visualised the church, full as on a feast day; he was an important man after all. But when he tried to pick out individual faces in the crowd he found it hard to identify enough to fill the front rows. Unlike many Catholics he had no large extended family to pray for him. There had only been himself and Ruby. There were no close friends to mourn his passing. Work colleagues might help to fill the pews, a few acquaintances from the council, perhaps, but he had no one he could count on to pray for him.
A tear ran down the side of his face and trickled into his ear.
***
CHAPTER 75
Marty knew most women her age would die for the chance to start a new life in a brand new, custom built house in the sun, away from cold, depressing Scotland and a boring, predictable life. With a fit, handsome man she knew was a good person, not some gigolo she’d met in a bar or on a dating site. David was a good person too, just too familiar and a bit boring although she hadn’t always thought that and Paris had been a revelation. David had been so caring and kind. He’d also been good company, entertaining and knowledgeable. What about Mark? What would he have to say if she left his dad and went off with Joe?
Remembering there was one more man in her life at the moment, she raised her head and glanced at the screen. Smeaton was lying down, asleep, not dead, she hoped. She watched anxiously for a few minutes until Smeaton proved he was still alive by rolling onto his back.
Marty checked the time. It was still early. She thought about waking Joe, but nerves stopped her. She would start preparing breakfast. The smell of bacon frying was enough to rouse any man she’d ever known.
She was popping rashers of best Ayrshire in the pan when the outside door opened. Marty screamed as a blast of cold wind blew in, followed by a figure in a huge ski jacket and scarf. ‘Shit! How did you get here?’
‘Jeeso,’ said Sheila, ‘that’s some welcome.’
‘You frightened the life out of me.’
‘Sorry, I thought you’d be pleased to see me. And I didn’t bring my car, just so you know.’
‘I am pleased to see you,’ said Marty, giving her friend a hug. ‘Good morning.’
Sheila unwound her scarf. ‘I couldn’t stand it, just waiting at the flat, not knowing what was happening, so I decided to come. Hope that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ said Marty, wondering if Joe would say the same.
As if summoned by her thoughts Joe appeared. ‘Thought I heard voices.’ He gave Sheila a welcome hug. ‘Good to see you. Great job you did yesterday.’
‘How is he?’
Marty pointed to the screen where Smeaton still lay spread-eagled. ‘See for yourself.’
Sheila covered her eyes with both hands and said, ‘Do I have to?’
Joe and Marty laughed. ‘Not a pretty sight,’ said Marty, ‘but you’ll get used to it.’
‘Is that bacon I smell?’ asked Joe.
Over bacon rolls and hot tea, Sheila told them about Smeaton’s plan to take Ruby to Turnberry and how determined Ruby had been to defy him and make their plan work. She also revealed how nerve-wracking she had found the whole abduction.