uncertainty. Take me into their comforting arms. I thought that maybe Jesus would do it. I discovered, however,
that I was wrong. Jesus was lazy. He took too many things for granted. It was like he was thinking: It's enough just to be
here. To sit on the cross doling out would-be sympathetic looks. While you yourself did all the work. It wasn't enough, I'm
afraid. I'm sorry, but it simply wasn't enough for me.
Nobody bothers with religion any longer. Huddled shapes raggedly, sparsely embroider the black depths of the cloisters, idling
outside by the rainswept granite gables, shambling about like they're already dead. Stray mongrels loiter aimlessly by the
rusty churchyard gates, drooping moss clings to ancient defeated Marian shrines. Clergymen appear weighed down by guilt, shuffling
obsequiously through streets, full of shame. A lot of them have been convicted of the same crime as Strange.
The priest I dealt with was kind, considerate. But he looked drained and impossibly tired. Somewhat abstractedly, he informed
me that persistence was all I required. Persistence and time, he assured me, smiling unconvincingly. I felt sorry for him,
but still drifted out in the middle of his homily.
It was a windswept day on Harold's Cross Road. The rain was blowing in swathes towards the city as I stood there clinging
to the churchyard railings, my entire body shuddering violently, tears mingling with raindrops as they coursed down my face.
—Be mindful that, having exercised your will contrary to that of God and chosen iniquity, you alone will be responsible for
the consequences! I heard and became afraid.
But in the end I didn't care. I knew I no longer had any choice. I simply had nowhere else to go.
—Yes! I cried. And yes again!
A woman was observing me. I glared at her: Don't dare come near me!
I was lathered in sweat. Thick saliva had gathered on my lips. I felt like turning and spitting at the church. Extremes of
heat and cold went surging through me, warm blood cascading from my nostrils.
—Redmond, I heard, softly whispered on the wind, you know you can trust me. I'll look after you. Till the very last pea is
out of the pot, till the angels quit the hallowed halls of heaven.
For the first time in years I felt that I belonged.
—Thank you, I answered happily, as my voice was carried off on the breeze and I applied the sodden crimson hankie to my face.
Contrary to what might have been expected in the circumstances, finding myself in a state of what can only be described as
near-delirium.
When I looked again the woman was gone, the bus plashing onwards towards the golden, lit-up city.
All that summer I prayed and prayed, to one I now knew in my heart wouldn't fail me. A reassuring lightness had entered my
heart and I gradually began to feel the enormous weight lifting from my shoulders. I was so grateful I cannot begin to tell
you. It was such a dramatic renewal of the spirit that I found myself gradually beginning to give serious consideration to
the possibility that one day Catherine and I might actually get back together again.
Even to the extent of composing a letter:
To Catherine and Imogen, from Redmond, your ever-loving husband and father. For the first time today I found myself thinking:
maybe we'll leave the outlands behind. Maybe we'll come back to the place that together we knew so well. Do you think that
might happen, Imogen? Maybe you'd ask your darling mother.
I don't know exactly why I scribbled out 'father' when I was signing the letter. Scored it out and pencilled in 'Auld Pappie'.
It just seemed such a natural thing to do, really, much more representative of the emotions I was feeling: I wanted to be
warm and secure and tender, and to let her know exactly how things were. I wanted her to call me Pappie, you see. Also it
was a definitive way of bidding goodbye at long last to my so-called 'visitor'. Something that was definitely a long time
overdue.
that I was wrong. Jesus was lazy. He took too many things for granted. It was like he was thinking: It's enough just to be
here. To sit on the cross doling out would-be sympathetic looks. While you yourself did all the work. It wasn't enough, I'm
afraid. I'm sorry, but it simply wasn't enough for me.
Nobody bothers with religion any longer. Huddled shapes raggedly, sparsely embroider the black depths of the cloisters, idling
outside by the rainswept granite gables, shambling about like they're already dead. Stray mongrels loiter aimlessly by the
rusty churchyard gates, drooping moss clings to ancient defeated Marian shrines. Clergymen appear weighed down by guilt, shuffling
obsequiously through streets, full of shame. A lot of them have been convicted of the same crime as Strange.
The priest I dealt with was kind, considerate. But he looked drained and impossibly tired. Somewhat abstractedly, he informed
me that persistence was all I required. Persistence and time, he assured me, smiling unconvincingly. I felt sorry for him,
but still drifted out in the middle of his homily.
It was a windswept day on Harold's Cross Road. The rain was blowing in swathes towards the city as I stood there clinging
to the churchyard railings, my entire body shuddering violently, tears mingling with raindrops as they coursed down my face.
—Be mindful that, having exercised your will contrary to that of God and chosen iniquity, you alone will be responsible for
the consequences! I heard and became afraid.
But in the end I didn't care. I knew I no longer had any choice. I simply had nowhere else to go.
—Yes! I cried. And yes again!
A woman was observing me. I glared at her: Don't dare come near me!
I was lathered in sweat. Thick saliva had gathered on my lips. I felt like turning and spitting at the church. Extremes of
heat and cold went surging through me, warm blood cascading from my nostrils.
—Redmond, I heard, softly whispered on the wind, you know you can trust me. I'll look after you. Till the very last pea is
out of the pot, till the angels quit the hallowed halls of heaven.
For the first time in years I felt that I belonged.
—Thank you, I answered happily, as my voice was carried off on the breeze and I applied the sodden crimson hankie to my face.
Contrary to what might have been expected in the circumstances, finding myself in a state of what can only be described as
near-delirium.
When I looked again the woman was gone, the bus plashing onwards towards the golden, lit-up city.
All that summer I prayed and prayed, to one I now knew in my heart wouldn't fail me. A reassuring lightness had entered my
heart and I gradually began to feel the enormous weight lifting from my shoulders. I was so grateful I cannot begin to tell
you. It was such a dramatic renewal of the spirit that I found myself gradually beginning to give serious consideration to
the possibility that one day Catherine and I might actually get back together again.
Even to the extent of composing a letter:
To Catherine and Imogen, from Redmond, your ever-loving husband and father. For the first time today I found myself thinking:
maybe we'll leave the outlands behind. Maybe we'll come back to the place that together we knew so well. Do you think that
might happen, Imogen? Maybe you'd ask your darling mother.
I don't know exactly why I scribbled out 'father' when I was signing the letter. Scored it out and pencilled in 'Auld Pappie'.
It just seemed such a natural thing to do, really, much more representative of the emotions I was feeling: I wanted to be
warm and secure and tender, and to let her know exactly how things were. I wanted her to call me Pappie, you see. Also it
was a definitive way of bidding goodbye at long last to my so-called 'visitor'. Something that was definitely a long time
overdue.
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