The Good Priest Read Online Free Page B

good things of life. So he was not some sort of rogue as no doubt she fondly imagined. Alcohol was not forbidden to him. Trying to get across that he had nothing to hide, he looked her straight in the eye as he opened his wallet. She winked at him again, three times, and he relaxed, realising that she had a facial tic.
    â€˜Will that be all, Father? Of the drink, I mean,’ she said in a whisper, wrong-footing him again, and grinning conspiratorially at him.
    â€˜Well … for tonight at least,’ he replied, joining in with her, smiling too, amused at the thinness of his own skin.
    As he was walking up Station Road, humming under his breath, he saw a pack of youths ahead of him in the Sands car park. They were noisy, drinking. Feeling the bitingcold for the first time, he zipped up his navy anorak and quickened his step. Some of the group were seated on the low stone perimeter wall that ran along the pavement. A couple more stood immediately below the street light kicking a glass bottle between them, and one sat astride a green plastic rubbish bin, drumming his legs against it. In order to avoid them he would have to cross the road, which had suddenly become unusually busy. Briefly, he closed his eyes It had been a long, tiring day. He was not in the mood to return their quips, deflect their rude, adolescent banter. But somehow he had to get past them.
    As he continued onwards, putting one foot resolutely in front of the other, a cider can bounced into the gutter beside him and a girl, an unlit cigarette in her pouting mouth, marched straight up to him. The sound of glass breaking filled the air, followed by a stream of angry swearing. He could feel himself tensing. Just as he was about to collide with her, she jinked to one side, laughing at the near-miss that she had engineered. She had been so close he could smell the alcohol fumes on her breath. Determined to get away and avoid any more of their attention, he hurried on. A missile hit his back. Someone had hurled a full can of Tennent’s lager at him. On impact, he staggered slightly and the carrier bag that he was carrying hit his lower leg. The bottles inside it clinked loudly as if to raise the alarm. Instantly, the boy on the rubbish bin sprang off it and stood in front of him, blocking his path.
    â€˜Aye, aye. Bit of an alky are we, Father?’
    â€˜No,’ he replied, stunned by the blow, rubbing his back with his hand, feeling the bruised muscle below hisribcage through his shirt. He recognised the boy, became aware that he knew his parents. He had buried his great-grandfather less than two months earlier.
    â€˜No. No, Thomas, I’m not,’ he repeated crossly, sidestepping the youth, trying to continue on his way but finding his path blocked by another of the group. This boy, dressed in a hoodie, skinny jeans and trainers, towered over him. His face was unnaturally pale, peering from his hood like a sickly monk. Every time the priest moved to the side he mirrored his movement, making progress impossible.
    â€˜â€™Cause it’s a sin, eh, Father?’ the boy said, his eyes fixed on the plastic bag and then, as if an idea had struck him, he added: ‘We could help you there, Father. Take your sins off you. Gie us what’s in the bag … they bottles, for the good of your soul, like.’
    â€˜No. I’m on my way home – if you’d just get out of my way.’
    â€˜I said gie us what’s in the bag!’ the boy shouted, shoving him in the chest and trying to snatch the swinging carrier. The rest of the gang clustered around him.
    Alarm washed over the small priest. There were at least seven of them, and although he knew some of their families, and had baptised two of them, in their drunken state he knew that would mean nothing. Creatures possessed by the Devil would be more amenable to reason. Here and now, he was simply their sport, their prey. He knew one, at least, already had multiple