Andrew Hurley - The Loney

Henry suddenly raised his voice. ‘Do you think I’m going to come back? I never want to set foot in this place ever again, so it doesn’t really matter what you tell me.’

This wrong-footed Paul, but he pretended to be bored with the whole thing.

‘It’s in the belfry,’ he said, then scowled at Henry. ‘You need to lighten up, McCullough. It was only a bloody joke.’

Henry let go of the handlebars and Paul went off slowly so that he could give Henry a grin. We watched him go and then Henry sat down on the steps outside the vestry.

‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell Father Wilfred.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks.’

I looked at him.

‘What will your mother say when you tell her you want to leave?’

‘Make me come back.’

‘Can’t you tell her what Father Wilfred’s like?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t believe me. She thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Help me get my coat down will you?’

‘Alright.’

We walked around the base of the tree trying to find a stick long enough to reach Henry’s jacket. In the end, with some effort, I gave him a leg up and he managed to get his fingertips to the sleeve that was hanging down.

It was, I remember, an expensive looking leather thing with wide lapels and a belt with a circular buckle. He turned it over to inspect the damage and then spat on his hand and rubbed away the moss stains with his fingertips.

‘Do you believe in Hell?’ he said.

‘About as much as Father Christmas,’ I replied.

‘Seriously, though. What if it does exist?’ he said.

‘It doesn’t.’

‘Yeah, but what if it does?’

‘It’s just an idea,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’

‘But where did the idea come from?’

‘Someone’s imagination.’

‘You can’t imagine something like that,’ he said. ‘No one can have invented Hell. It’s like saying someone invented air. It’s just always been there.’

‘Look, don’t worry about Father Wilfred,’ I said. ‘I’ll make something up.’

He smiled weakly and put on his jacket and did up the belt as he went to fetch his bike from the holly bush where Paul had evidently thrown it.

‘Thanks, Smith,’ he said.

He stood with one foot on the pedal, pushed himself along and once he was moving lifted his leg over and went out through the gate, the front wheel wobbling. The bike was much too big for him. Or he was much too big for the bike. One or the other.

I waited for a moment, wondering if I ought to go home too and just let the whole thing blow over. But if I knew Father Wilfred he wouldn’t let up and in any case I felt sorry for Henry. If his mother did force him back, as he was convinced she would, then it wouldn’t be fair for him to face Father Wilfred’s fury when he’d done nothing wrong.

I make it sound so noble, but in truth I just didn’t want Paul to have the satisfaction of making Henry the whipping boy anymore.

I climbed back up the steps to the vestry and Father Wilfred was still turning the office upside down.

‘Yes? What is it, Smith?’

‘I know where your diary is, Father?’

‘Ah, McCullough owned up to stealing it did he?’

‘No, Father. Henry didn’t take it.’

‘Then who did? Peavey?’

‘No, Father.’

‘You?’

‘Of course not, Father.’

‘Surely not Miss Bunce,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t Miss Bunce.’

‘She has been acting rather rashly these last few weeks. Talking about leaving Saint Jude’s. Moving away.’

‘Father, it wasn’t her.’

He stopped and sat down on the wooden chair. He had one of his antique swords laid across the table.

‘All that I do seems to go amiss,’ he said, picking it up and inspecting the blade. ‘Why won’t McCullough change?’

‘I don’t know, Father.’

‘I punish him and still he sins. When will he see that I’m trying to save him?’

‘I don’t know, Father.’

‘I fear for his soul as I fear for my own.’

‘Yes, Father. I know you do.’

He turned his attention to the portrait of Jesus hanging over the sink.

‘When will he realise that I give these lessons out of love? Because I do love him. If I could only save one, it would be him.’

‘Father, your diary.’

‘What about it?’

‘I told you, I know where it is.’

‘Who took it? McCullough?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Where is it then?’

‘In the belfry.’

‘The belfry? How did it get up there?’

‘I don’t know, Father. Perhaps you left it there by mistake.’

‘Yes, perhaps I did. I don’t remember,’ he said, staring into space.

‘Would you like me to get it for you, Father?’

He snapped out of his gaze and looked at me.

‘I don’t know what I would do if I lost my diary, Smith,’ he said. ‘It has everything in there, you see. Everything. It’s how I keep control of my thoughts. It’s how I can understand where a thought has come from. I can trace it back to its origin. I can pinpoint where things went wrong. It’s a map. Do you see?’

‘Where things went wrong, Father?’

‘With McCullough.’

‘Shall I fetch it for you, Father?’

‘No, no,’ he waved his hand irritably. ‘I shall go up to the belfry myself.’

He went out and I followed him and watched him going down the central aisle of the church talking to himself. I don’t think he realised that he still had the sword in his hand.

The new born lamb caused so much excitement that breakfast went on too long and we set off late for Mass. But no one seemed to be worried, jubilant as they were about it being Easter Sunday and excited about visiting the shrine the following day.

On the minibus, Mr Belderboss got out his harmonica and had everyone singing Come Let Us with Our Lord Arise and Jesus Lives and So Shall I . Miss Bunce smiled for the first time in days. Mummer sat with her eyes closed, enjoying the rare sunlight that was blessing the coast that morning and giving the sea a deep blue calmness that I’d never seen before. I felt the same sense of hope that I’d felt at Saint Jude’s the morning we’d set off. There was nothing to worry about. Parkinson and Collier may have hung the gruesome thing in the wood to scare us, but that seemed to have been the extent of their menace. They were nothing more than oversized children playing knock-a-door-run.

I took everything that was offered that morning — the warm sunlight, the soft shadows on the fields, the spangle of a brook as it wound under some willows towards the sea — and managed to convince myself that nothing would harm us.

Such naivety makes me laugh now.

***

The small spire of The Sacred Heart appeared and everyone stopped singing so that they could hear the bells. But there was nothing. Only the bleating of the sheep in the field.

‘That’s odd,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘They always ring the bells on Easter morning.’

‘I know,’ said Farther. ‘A full peal too.’

‘Why is everyone standing outside?’ said Miss Bunce as we pulled up next to the church.

‘What’s going on, Father?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

Father Bernard stopped the minibus and we all got out and joined the rest of the congregation as they milled about in front of the church doors.

The priest came over to meet us.

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid there’ll be no Mass this morning,’ he said.

‘Why? What’s happened?’ said Mummer.

‘An act of vandalism,’ he said.

‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Is there much damage?’

The priest seemed lost for words. He could only look back at his flock, gathered around the main door. Clement was among them and when he saw us he waved us over to look.