Ripped (89 page)

'I
don't
like
to
remember
that
time.'
The
priest's
voice
came faintly,
a
white
thread
almost
lost
in
the
sea's
noise.
The
mist
was
all
round
them
now,
and
from
the
far
hidden
end
of
the
beach
there
was
a
sound
of
children
calling.
Father
Hurtle
turned
his
head
towards
the
sound.
'They're
playing
truant.'
Still
looking
away,
he
said,
'I
wasn't
a
success
in
Moirhill.
There
was
so
much
unhappiness.
If
you
are
ill,
you
want
the
surgeon
to
cut
with
a
steady
hand.
You
want
help,
not
pity.
I
was
full
of
pity.'
Turning
his
back
on
the
sea,
he
pointed,
seeming
in
no
doubt
of
the direction
although
the
haar
had
swallowed
the
last
of
the
landmarks.
'Over
that
way
is
where
Duns
Scotus
was
born.
I
think
of
that
when
I'm
walking
among
the
new
houses
here.'

He
moved
off
so
abruptly
that
Murray
was
taken
by
surprise.
Hurrying
in
the
mist,
he
strayed
on
to
low
rocks
covered
in
tar-coloured
seaweed
that
slithered
underfoot.
The
first
slip
taking
him
by
surprise
shook
him,
so
that
he
picked
his
way
uncertain
of
his
balance
and
by
the
time
he
caught
him
up
Father
Hurtle
was
already
seated
on
one
of
a
litter
of
concrete
slabs,
the
collapsed
remnants
of
defences
against
an
invasion.
The
half
circle
of
children
listening
to
him
had
something
odd
in
their
expressions,
something
careful,
wary,
a
little
blank
and
cautious.
'...
When
I
was
a
boy
at
school
that
was
the
word
we
used
when
someone
told
tales
to
the
masters.
I
was
just
the
same
as
the
other
boys,
I
hated
a
fellow
like
that.'
To
Murray,
it
was
strange
that
the
priest's
voice
had
altered
into
exactly
the
timbre
of
the
minister's
sermons
he
had
been
forced
to
listen
to
as
a
child
.
'For
if
you
gave
in,
you
know,
the
masters
hated
you
for
it,
whatever
they
said,
and
just
as
much
as
the
boys.
Don't
ever be
a
clype.'

The
children's
eyes
shifted
beyond
the
priest
to
question
Murray,
and
with
a
noiseless
gesture
like
a
man
shooing
geese
he
urged
them
away.
Released,
they
scattered
and
one
boy
at
a
safe
distance
muddled
all
he
had
felt
into
a
single
cry
of
animal
defiance.
At
the
sound,
the
priest
startled
in
fright
and
then
at
Murray,
as
if
he
had
forgotten
who
this
man
was
taking
the
place
beside
him
on
the
concrete
bench.

'I
can't
remember
the
name
of
the
older
girl,'
he
said.
'Poor Annette
named
her
after
her
own
mother.
The
younger
child
was
called
Urszula.'

'Was
she
named
after
anyone?'

'It's
a
Polish
name.'

They
sat
in
silence.
The
children
were
gone,
leaving
not
even
a
lingering
echo
in
the
mist.
It
was
very
quiet;
Murray
waited
for
the
other
man
to
speak;
he
was
good
at
waiting.
From
somewhere
on
the
point
behind
them
a
foghorn
began
a
melancholy
lowing.

'Not
that
the
names
will
do
you
any
good,'
Father
Hurtle
said.

'The
people
who
adopted
them
gave
them
other
names
–
to
make
them
seem
their
own.'

'More
paper
work.
When
you're
tracing
someone,
that
helps.'

'I
was
poor
Annette's
priest,'
Father
Hurtle
said.
'Do
you
think I
didn't
know
who
had
killed
her?
I
knew
his
name
and
his
face
filth
and
cruelty.
He
was
her
pimp.'
Whispering,
he
leaned
closer.
'He
beat
her
with
a
bar
of
iron.
But
afterwards
I
saw
him
walking
the
streets
of
Moirhill.
They
said
he
had
been
out
of
the
city
when
it
happened.
They
said
he
had
some
kind
of
protection.
No
God,
no
justice.
I
thought
he
was
under
the
protection
of
Satan.
But
I
was
ill
,
when
I
believed
that.
I
had
to
leave
the
city,
you
see,
because
I
was
ill.'
Murray
felt
the
warmth
of
his
breath,
and
perhaps
he
leaned
away
for
the
priest
drew
back
and
then
got
to
his
feet.
'I
can't
help
resenting
that
you
came
here,'
he
said.

I'm
sorry
,
that
should
have
been
easy
to
say,
but
Murray
sat
silent
watching
him
go,
a
black
stripe
like
a
branchless
tree,
until
he
lost
form
in
the
mist.