been a Catholic priest. And that it had been my supposed resentments towards this fellow, having grown up with my peculiar history in a âsmall repressed Irish country townâ, which had prompted my actions. How uninformed can you possibly get.
When nothing, in fact, could have been further from the truth. I wasnât even remotely interested in his visitor, and I certainly bore no animosity towards him or his clerical colleagues, for any âdamageâ inflicted on me, or anything else. There was only one reason why I had followed them into the kitchens that evening and it had nothing to do with visitors at all. It was Mukti I was after, Mr Clever Clogs Mukti, steering conversations to get people to catch themselves out, yes, Mr Entrapment Mukti â treacherous fucking Indian bastard!
Anyway, even at a distance youâd have had toâve been blind to think it was a Catholic priest. For a start his suit was light charcoal grey, so although he was a clergyman, he had to be either Methodist or Church of Ireland â one or the other. In any case, as I say, that poor unfortunate fellow was irrelevant. He, unhappily, happened just to get in the way, and thatâs probably the thing Iâm most regretful about of all.
But, anyway, as I say, âlittleâ Mukti went on blathering. Except with this laughably squeaky voice now â it made me double up every time he opened his mouth â ever so reasonably explaining it all to me, with his diminutive dollâs hands gesturing as he did his best to sound intelligent. Notonly had the clergyman not been a Catholic priest, he continued patronisingly, but he had come to St Catherineâs to visit his brother, who was an alcoholic.
â An alcoholic? I choked â pretending to be concerned â deciding to play him at his own game. In fact, scarcely listening.
â Yes, he went on, an alcoholic with very severe problems indeed, every bit as bad as yours, Mr Christopher McCool. And Iâm sure that his brother has a lot more to do than come around institutions looking out for his troubled relative without finding himself in mortal danger. Would you have anything in particular to say to that?
No I hadnât, I assured him. What could I possibly say, I said. It was disgraceful what I had done to them both â without question.
â I am deeply, Dr Mukti, deeply remorseful over what I did. I implore your forgiveness. I am abject, craven, ashamed of myself.
And that is exactly what I would have gone on saying if, quite unexpectedly, I hadnât seen him smirk. And cover his face with his cupped chocolate-coloured hand as he whispered:
â Marcus Otoyo was right. You really are quite the freak, aren ât you? But not in an amusing sixties kind of way. Oh no.
I went cold all over as soon as I heard that, my muscles stiffening and the hairs on my neck beginning to bristle. Then I found myself responding bitterly.
â Excuse me, Dr Mukti: would you mind repeating what you said just now?
â Repeat it? he replied, provocatively confronting me.
I began to become aware that I had responded too eagerly. Small though he was, Mukti was still clever and had lost none of his dexterous artfulness. Already I could see the eager glint of perceived advantage in his eye.
â Yes, I said, repeat it, please, if you wouldnât mind.
His reprised smirk undermined me again. As did his suave and patient demeanour. The high-pitched tone had all but vanished now from his voice.
â You must be imagining things, Christopher, he said, because you see, I didnât say anything at all.
I had become extremely agitated now and was fumbling awkwardly, without success, for words.
Eventually I said:
â Well, vuh-vuh-very well, thatâs fine, but Iâm sorry you did not, only that there was a smuh-smuh-smirk on your face when you were saying it.
Now he was making me stammer â something I did rarely, only when I
When nothing, in fact, could have been further from the truth. I wasnât even remotely interested in his visitor, and I certainly bore no animosity towards him or his clerical colleagues, for any âdamageâ inflicted on me, or anything else. There was only one reason why I had followed them into the kitchens that evening and it had nothing to do with visitors at all. It was Mukti I was after, Mr Clever Clogs Mukti, steering conversations to get people to catch themselves out, yes, Mr Entrapment Mukti â treacherous fucking Indian bastard!
Anyway, even at a distance youâd have had toâve been blind to think it was a Catholic priest. For a start his suit was light charcoal grey, so although he was a clergyman, he had to be either Methodist or Church of Ireland â one or the other. In any case, as I say, that poor unfortunate fellow was irrelevant. He, unhappily, happened just to get in the way, and thatâs probably the thing Iâm most regretful about of all.
But, anyway, as I say, âlittleâ Mukti went on blathering. Except with this laughably squeaky voice now â it made me double up every time he opened his mouth â ever so reasonably explaining it all to me, with his diminutive dollâs hands gesturing as he did his best to sound intelligent. Notonly had the clergyman not been a Catholic priest, he continued patronisingly, but he had come to St Catherineâs to visit his brother, who was an alcoholic.
â An alcoholic? I choked â pretending to be concerned â deciding to play him at his own game. In fact, scarcely listening.
â Yes, he went on, an alcoholic with very severe problems indeed, every bit as bad as yours, Mr Christopher McCool. And Iâm sure that his brother has a lot more to do than come around institutions looking out for his troubled relative without finding himself in mortal danger. Would you have anything in particular to say to that?
No I hadnât, I assured him. What could I possibly say, I said. It was disgraceful what I had done to them both â without question.
â I am deeply, Dr Mukti, deeply remorseful over what I did. I implore your forgiveness. I am abject, craven, ashamed of myself.
And that is exactly what I would have gone on saying if, quite unexpectedly, I hadnât seen him smirk. And cover his face with his cupped chocolate-coloured hand as he whispered:
â Marcus Otoyo was right. You really are quite the freak, aren ât you? But not in an amusing sixties kind of way. Oh no.
I went cold all over as soon as I heard that, my muscles stiffening and the hairs on my neck beginning to bristle. Then I found myself responding bitterly.
â Excuse me, Dr Mukti: would you mind repeating what you said just now?
â Repeat it? he replied, provocatively confronting me.
I began to become aware that I had responded too eagerly. Small though he was, Mukti was still clever and had lost none of his dexterous artfulness. Already I could see the eager glint of perceived advantage in his eye.
â Yes, I said, repeat it, please, if you wouldnât mind.
His reprised smirk undermined me again. As did his suave and patient demeanour. The high-pitched tone had all but vanished now from his voice.
â You must be imagining things, Christopher, he said, because you see, I didnât say anything at all.
I had become extremely agitated now and was fumbling awkwardly, without success, for words.
Eventually I said:
â Well, vuh-vuh-very well, thatâs fine, but Iâm sorry you did not, only that there was a smuh-smuh-smirk on your face when you were saying it.
Now he was making me stammer â something I did rarely, only when I
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