The Good Priest Read Online Free Page A

crossfire? Tomorrow, he would convene a summit and, if necessary, knock some heads together.
    Without thinking, he nudged one of the vases to one side with his foot, appalled when it toppled over with a loud crash. The noise was quickly replaced by complete silence once more. Sitting back, relishing the quiet, he basked in it until something told him that it was wrong. All wrong. Hell’s bells! Where was the music? Without it, the making of confession became a public act rather than a private one, the penitent’s words easily audible to those in the nearby pews. Others, further away too, if they strained to hear hard enough. The whole thing became more like The Jeremy Kyle Show than one of the blessed sacraments. Peering out of his door, he saw that the church was still empty, and hurried into the sacristy in his squeaking shoes. In seconds the building resonated to a Latin chant intoned by an all-woman Bulgarian choir.
    â€˜You just try and do your homework when your mum tells you, eh?’ he said to the child, yawning silently. The tediousness and predictability of the sins on parade were acting as a soporific on him. So far there had been three mumbled accounts of using swear words, a brace of ‘entertaining’ bad thoughts, their content remaining unspecified despite a little prurient prodding by him, and one young woman’s confession of lying to her spouse about her use of birth control. It was like being pecked to death byducks. The sharper stab of some more inventive sinner would be almost welcome, wake him up at the very least.
    The girl left and was replaced, quickly, by the next penitent. The newcomer was breathing heavily, every inhalation and exhalation audible until, suddenly, he wheezed, gasping for air and making a strange hollow, crackling sound. Instantly, the priest knew who was sitting behind the grille. He sighed wearily, having been expecting just such a visit. His friend, Barbara Duncan, had tipped him the wink that there had been a spate of thefts from washing lines in Sandport. Apparently the thief had been very selective, pilfering only ladies’ pants, bras and tights. Inevitably, given the man’s record, George Lumsden’s name had been on her lips, on most people’s lips. If only, Vincent thought, George had a little more grey matter encased in that strange, bullet-shaped skull of his, he would realise that such a haul could only be taken from the same place once, if he valued his liberty. Everyone in the town knew of his weakness; gossip was, after all, the lifeblood of the place. One missing Wonderbra and he would be the prime suspect. But, unless he was apprehended, that is all there could be, suspicion. But, after this latest confession, Vincent would know. If anyone had their finger on the pulse of the place it was him.
    Later that same evening, he looked along the packed supermarket shelf, yearning to pick up a couple of bottles of the Saint-Émilion Grand Cru. But on seeing the price of them, he turned to the Lussac-Saint-Émilion, a poor substitute but drinkable. With over half the month gone,woefully little of his salary remained and there were only a couple more anniversary Masses still to be said. Worse, the McKinnons were notoriously late payers and, unfortunately, the Cockburns had not a bean between them. A baptismal fee was a possibility, but that could not be relied upon nowadays. Half the infants practically walked to the font, and a few could have made their own responses. The Argentinian Cabernet Franc might be a good compromise – it was both on offer and well-rated.
    To his disquiet the woman at the till, a Baptist married to one of his flock, gave him a wink as he began stowing the bottles into their carrier bag. Disconcerted, he resolved to avoid her in future. He could feel his cheeks reddening, blushing from the neck upwards. But, he reminded himself, the only vow he had given was one of celibacy, not abstinence from all the other