10 THE MISSILE

It's time for revenge....

The Presbytery front room was comfortably appointed with furniture that had been accumulated by a succession of Samuel’s predecessors, and the two women and a very nervous priest sat down, he as far from anything of the female persuasion as he could contrive to get and they quite happy with the arrangement.

Constance cleared her throat, then smiled at the holy Father. It had decided that it would be she who broke the ice.

“You remember when you called at the library and looked for very specific books on religion and faith, particularly on the biblical story of the good Samaritan?” she asked.

Of course I remember… I wanted to know whether a woman could ever be a good Samaritan, because women, all of them from the tiniest baby girl to the oldest crone, are tainted with the shadow of original sin, created when Eve plucked the forbidden fruit … it’s such a wonderful account of the frailties of the female and the way they beguile men, and I hope these two creatures aren’t going to try to deceive me…

“Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

‘‘Well, I got the idea that you weren’t particularly impressed with the selection of books we’ve got under religion in the town library,” smiled Constance, “and to be quite honest there aren’t many books of that sort anyway, and those we do have are rarely if ever issued to members of the public, and it crossed my mind there are two ways of me looking at this...”

“There are?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course. There are always two or more ways of looking at just about everything,” said Constance seriously, “either very few people are interested in consulting religious texts or people can’t be bothered to look because they know an ordinary borough library like ours won’t have much in the way of specialised titles, and if they think that they’d be quite right.”

“Er, yes,” he murmured briefly. But what’s she getting at? Why is sh telling me this, he asked himself, frowning.

But Constance had got herself ready to flood the room with library talk even if it was about a scarcity of religious books, so she carried on: “and it crossed my mind that if someone like yourself would like to suggest a few titles, not really obscure ones but some that might benefit researchers in the town, then if you could provide me with a short list I could suggest them to the committee… you never know, we might be able to improve what we have to offer gentlemen like yourself.”

“It’s a worthy thought,” he said slowly, “I was particularly bothered about the place of women in Creation, which is why I went to the library, if you remember. I mean, women are people, aren’t they?”

“We are these days,” put in Sophia, shocked at his implication, “but there was a time when we weren’t, and there are still some corners of the world where women are condemned to occupy a place not far removed from slavery, and all that goes back to primitive times when your old Testament was created, and it reflects those times rather than the here and now.”

“Because of original sin,” sighed the Priest, “if Eve hadn’t … you’ve only got her reckless plucking of the forbidden fruit to blame for your gender’s lowly position in some corners of the world...”

Sophia looked at him furiously. Did he believe this nonsense? Surely not! She was ready to elaborate on her thoughts, vehemently, but had only just opened her mouth when a house-brick crashed against the window, making the kind of noise only normally heard by combatants in warfare.

The Priest almost leapt out of his seat and for a moment Sophia feared for his apparently weakened heart. Constance squeaked with shock and remained otherwise silent, and it was left for Sophia to shout “what in the name of goodness...” in a voice loud enough to challenge the dead in the nearby cemetery.

Then all three stood up, and faced the window. A figure was just disappearing slowly, almost theatrically, across the front lawn towards the wrought iron gate.

oo0oo

Jonathan O’Donnelly was more miserable than he thought a human being could get. His natural grief as a consequence of the very unnecessary death of his wonderful wife was one thing, but the chaos at the funeral and the most unchristian attitude of the Priest was another, and that was considerably worse. It had cut deeply through his emotions and he felt that something hinside him had died along with Mildred.

He might have turned to drink, but he didn’t. A believing soul himself and one who liked to think he lived up to the highest Christian standards, and being convinced that the time always comes when a man must answer for his sins to the highest possible judge, he knew that alcohol was never an answer to anything.

But there was a lesser crime, one for which he was convinced he would receive instant forgiveness from the deity he believed ruled over everything, and that lesser crime was a kind of civil disobedience against the flawed Priest who had so cruelly caused him such bitter grief and whose actions could never, surely, be those of an honest believer.

He would, he decided, do what the kids he taught might well do without even a smidgen of motive, and be a thorough nuisance to that Priest until the man gave up on his parish and moved another, hopefully to one where the sun never shines. He would deliver a message to the Priest, a powerful note written in his own undisguised hand and smashed through the wretched man’s front room window brazenl and in broad daylighty, not furtively and at night.

That would do it! That would release at least some of the anger he felt constantly coursing through his grieving heart.

So he created his note.

Priest, he wrote, I want you to understand what you have done. I want you to realise how you have threatened my faith in your church as a consequence of your refusal to conduct the funeral of my late wife, who was a far better and more Christian person than you will ever be. I want you to know that I have taken the matter to the highest Catholic authorities and protested both loud and long. And I want you to know that I hold you totally responsible for my present state of mind and I will seek every opportunity in the future to remind you. May you rot in Hell. From J O’Donnelly.

Then he carefully wrapped the note round a house-brick, tied it firmly with a length of string, and made his way to the Presbytery.

Then when he got there, he made his way through the gate, which fortunately was ajar so his entry through it would be soundless, and then moved silently up to a point in the front garden which was close enough to the front room window for him to be able to to launch the brick with his not inconsiderable strength straight at it.

Not caring whether he was seen, he waited for a full minute, breathing deeply, and then hurled his missile.

He heard it smash against the window, but that window, being double-glazed, withstood the assault and the brick fell harmlessly back into the garden.

But he didn’t know that. By the time that had happened he had turned and started to walk away, and anyway the noise made by the brick was enough to convince him that the window had actually smashed.

oo0oo

Sophia’s immediate reaction to the almost deafening crash was followed by her certainty that she knew what it was. Someone was furious with the Priest and had decided to take the law into his own hands, and she was pretty sure that she knew who it must be.

“Just a moment Father,” she urged, “I think I know what that was. Wait here and I’ll check that I’m right.”

Had the assault been after dark she might have had difficulty finding the missile, but it was still a summery evening, well before sunset. The brick lay where it had landed, on the grass, and quite clearly had a sheet of paper bound to it.

And on the other side of the gate, now fastened shut, stood the familiar (to her) figure of Jonathan O’Donnelly, who turned and started to walk away as if he had all the time in the world.

Which he supposed he had, because it mattered not one jot to him whether he was seen throwing the brick, apprehended for doing it, arraigned before a judge for the assault, even imprisoned for the wanton destruction of church property. His Mildred was no more, and that was his justification for what he had done.

And anyway, he had signed the note with his own name, clear as daylight, but if they came back to him and tried to extract the price of what he assumed was a broken window from him, they could lock him up for eternity before he’d pay one penny.

© Peter Rogerson 16.01.19