Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘You look distressed,’ said the priest.

‘It’s been a funny old day,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve just found out that my mother has killed herself, and I narrowly missed wrapping myself around a tree.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the priest. ‘Was she a Catholic, your mother?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘She wore a crucifix, if that counts for anything.’ He took out his packet of Marlboro and tapped out a cigarette, but the priest wagged a finger at him.

‘I’m afraid smoking isn’t allowed on the premises,’ he said.

Nightingale grinned. ‘You can see the irony in that, can’t you, what with all the candles and incense you burn in here?’

‘Just one of the many regulations that make our lives so much more complicated than they used to be,’ said the priest. ‘Don’t get me started on refuse collections from our church. Would you class unused communion wafers as a foodstuff? Because our local council does. And heaven forbid they find their way into the recycling bin by mistake.’

‘Actually, I’d have thought communion wafers would have been the ultimate in recycling, from bread to the Body of Christ.’

The priest chuckled. ‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ he said. ‘They weren’t consecrated, of course. Once they’ve been consecrated they have to be consumed. These had gone mouldy so they had to be thrown away. But because they were edible they were classed as food so they were in the wrong bin and some jobsworth decided I had to pay a penalty or be taken to court.’ He waved at the door. ‘You can smoke outside and we can carry on our conversation there.’

They walked together out of the church and over to a wooden bench at the edge of the graveyard. A small brass plaque was fixed to the back: ‘In memory of Mary, 1921-98, my soul-mate’. They sat on the bench and Nightingale lit a cigarette.

‘Again, I’m so sorry for your loss,’ said the priest. ‘It’s always difficult to lose a loved one, but the bond between a mother and son is the strongest of all, I think.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. The truth was that he didn’t feel any sense of loss at the death of Rebecca Keeley, even though she had been his biological mother. She had given birth to him but that was all, and he had no more feeling for her than for a total stranger. But he knew that the priest meant well so he tried to look as if his mother’s death meant something.

‘You’re not a churchgoer?’ said the priest.

‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you mind me asking how old you are, Father?’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ said the priest. ‘I’m twenty-seven, so you can drop the “father” if that makes you uncomfortable. My name’s Peter.’

‘I’m Jack. That’s young to be a priest, isn’t it?’

‘It is, these days, that’s for sure.’

Nightingale offered him a cigarette but he shook his head. ‘I’ve never smoked,’ he said.

‘Do you drink?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the priest. ‘Definitely.’

‘But no sex?’

The priest’s eyes narrowed as if he suspected Nightingale was being provocative. ‘That door is firmly closed,’ he said.

‘I didn’t meant to pry, it’s just that I can’t imagine why anyone would become a Catholic priest,’ said Nightingale. ‘You have to give up so much.’ He blew smoke, taking care to keep it away from the other man.

‘But we get so much more back,’ he said.

‘But wasn’t it a hard decision to make, to turn your back on everything to enter the Church?’

The priest smiled. ‘You’re looking at it the wrong way. I was turning to God, and that gives me everything I could ever want or need. There is no better way to love one’s life than in the service of the Lord.’

‘And you have no doubts?’

‘I doubt the sanity of the idiots who run our local council, but no doubts at all about God.’

‘And you talk to God?’

‘Of course, all the time. That’s what prayer is.’

‘But does He talk back?’ Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette.

The priest chuckled. It was an old man’s laugh, and he put up his hand to cover his mouth as if he realised that it was at odds with his appearance. ‘I don’t hear voices, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘It’s not like Joan of Arc.’

Nightingale exhaled smoke slowly. ‘But you have a conversation with God, and that’s why you believe in Him?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘But He answers your prayers?’

‘Of course.’

‘So if you prayed to win the lottery, He’d give you the winning numbers?’

‘I wouldn’t pray for that,’ he said.

‘What about world peace? I’m sure Christians everywhere pray for that but the world is still a very dangerous place.’

‘You’re asking why God doesn’t stop all wars, why He doesn’t create heaven here on earth?’

‘I’m asking what makes you believe in God when all the evidence is to the contrary.’

‘Every day I see the evidence of God’s hand, in the beauty of the world, in the people I meet.’

‘Yeah, well, I was a police officer and I tended to see less of the beauty and more of the dark side. And a read through any newspaper will prove that bad things happen to good people all the time.’

‘Again, it’s perception. Maybe you should try talking to God. When was the last time you prayed?’

Nightingale dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and stepped on it. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘You should try it again,’ said the priest. ‘You don’t even have to go to a church. Just find yourself a quiet place and pray.’

‘Our Father who art in heaven?’

‘Not necessarily the Lord’s Prayer. Just tell Him what’s troubling you.’

‘And He’ll talk to me? I don’t think so.’

‘You won’t know unless you try,’ said the priest.

Nightingale folded his arms and sat back. ‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ he said. ‘God wants us to obey Him, worship Him and all that stuff. And church attendances are down because fewer people believe He exists. So why doesn’t He provide definitive proof? Why doesn’t He let us know once and for all that He exists? If He did that, the whole world would believe, right?’

‘But He did that, didn’t He?’ said the priest. ‘He sent His son, and we killed Him on the cross, and God brought Him back to life. That was definitive proof at the time, and it still is.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Nightingale.

‘A little over two thousand years,’ said the priest, ‘which in human terms is the twinkling of an eye. We can’t keep asking for proof every twenty minutes. He gave us proof, and we have the Bible to remind us of that.’

‘But it’s not enough,’ said Nightingale.

‘For you, perhaps. But have you read the Bible?’

‘No,’ admitted Nightingale.

‘And you’re not a churchgoer, so how can you expect to hear God’s message?’

Nightingale sighed and stretched out his legs. ‘You’re so sure, aren’t you? You’re sure that God exists, you’re sure you did the right thing in becoming a priest.’

‘I am,’ said the priest. ‘Tell me, Jack, can you say the same about the decisions you’ve made in your life?’

Nightingale grinned ruefully. ‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘What about the devil? You believe in the devil?’

‘Without a doubt,’ said the priest. ‘And if it’s proof you want, I’d have thought you were spoilt for choice so far as evidence of the devil’s concerned.’

‘You believe that bad things are the result of the devil’s work?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘In my experience, bad people do bad things,’ said Nightingale.

‘But what makes people go bad? You don’t think there could be some influence at work?’