‘She’s dead too?’
Skinner nodded. ‘Has been for years. She passed away when Alex was a baby.’
‘That must have been like a light going out of your life.’
‘I suppose that losing your mother always is, but in truth that light started to fade a few years before.’
‘Why was that? Was she ill for a long time?’
‘No, she died suddenly. The fact was, she had a drink problem in her middle years, Jim. I don’t mean she was scrabbling around in the garden shed for the last bottle of Red Biddy or anything like that, but she started in on the gin-and-tonics around lunchtime, and was quietly hazed for the rest of the day. With that, she stopped going around, and her friends, other than the one or two closest, stopped coming around. The singing stopped too; latterly, the house was like a mausoleum.’
‘How did your father deal with that?’
‘It broke his heart, but there was nothing he could do about it. I remember him once trying to persuade her to see the doctor about it: she bit his head off, and he never mentioned it again.’
‘The mausoleum, Bob,’ Gainer asked, quietly. ‘Who was entombed there?’
‘My brother.’
The Archbishop’s eyebrows rose. ‘You had another brother? When I read of Michael’s death earlier this year, there was no mention of a third.’
‘There was none, only Michael. She was mourning his memory.’
‘Ah. There was a schism, then.’
‘That’s a fine Presbyterian way of putting it, Jim,’ Skinner murmured. ‘There was a fucking big bust-up, not to put too fine a point on it. My brother was no saint, but he was sinned against too, even though I didn’t know it or appreciate it at the time. If you read of his death, you’ll maybe recall that he spent the second half of his life in a Jesuit hostel in Greenock.’
Gainer smiled. ‘In the care of Brother Aidan, the Irish leprechaun monk?’
‘That’s the guy. Michael went to live there after relations between the two of us broke down completely. Initially, it followed a period of treatment for alcoholism, but later, and for most of his time there, it was entirely voluntary.’
‘There was more to it than that, surely.’
‘Maybe, but that was at the heart of it. My father never came right out and told me, but I reckon now he was protecting both of us from ourselves when he arranged for him to take shelter there. Michael would have drunk himself to death, or into prison, eventually.’
‘And you?’
The policeman frowned. ‘And me? Let me put it this way, Jim. I’ve had to defend myself on many occasions in my life, but my brother Michael is the only person I’ve ever physically attacked in a blind, murderous rage.’
‘Why?’ The question was whispered.
‘I was protecting my mother . . . or that’s what I told myself. In truth, I could have called my dad. He was in the house at the time, and he’d have dealt with it in his own way. But I didn’t, I just went berserk, and filled him in until the old man heard my mother screaming and hauled me off. Do you know the really shameful thing? Until recently, it didn’t bother me. I felt no remorse, no guilt.’
‘And what brought you to feel it?’
‘Michael’s death did; that and the discovery that he did feel remorse. He’d changed, as I learned from old Aidan, yet I never saw him again from that day on, nor did my mother. The schism, as you put it, was the end of her happiness. One son was gone, and she could never look at the other in the same way. No wonder she went on the piss.’ He looked at the ceiling. ‘I drove her to it, Jim. I led her to break my dad’s heart.’
‘I see,’ murmured the Archbishop. ‘This is a hell of a guilt trip, isn’t it?’
‘Justified, the way I see it.’
‘It’s gone far enough, though. From what you’re telling me of Michael, you had plenty of help in breaking your mother’s heart. The other side of the coin is that you helped rescue him. I know the story, man; when I read about it in the press I called Aidan. He told me the truth, at least as much of it as he knew. Whatever his weaknesses of the flesh, your brother died in a state of grace, with his soul cleansed, and you were the catalyst that triggered the process. Like it or not, my unbelieving friend, you were God’s agent.’
‘I doubt if He’d think so.’
‘I’m one of His vicars on earth and I’m telling you He does. He’s forgiven me, so why not you?’
‘What does He have to forgive you for?’
‘All my little everyday sins, my son, and some big ones too. Back then, not long after you were having your confrontation with your brother, you know how I spent my free weekends?’
‘Selling the
‘Would that I had. No, my hobby was beating the shite out of Rangers supporters, and getting across their women when I had the chance. I was a gang leader in Glasgow. The Dublin Reds, we used to call ourselves, and we were feared. I was a tough boy, and nobody crossed me.’
‘So what happened to save you?’
‘Much the same as happened to your brother. In my case God’s agent was a priest called Brendan McCarthy. He ran a youth club, and one night, there being no Proddies handy to bash, my crowd went in there for a ruck. Father McCarthy told us to behave ourselves; I, being an idiot at the time, squared up to him. Did he whop me? Did he ever. He’d been army light-heavyweight champion or some such; he kept on knocking me down, and I kept on getting up. The rest of the Dublin Reds were long gone, but I wasn’t going to run. Finally, he really nailed me. I came to with him leaning over me, saying, “Do you realise, boy, that this is what’s going to happen to you for the rest of your fucking life, unless you come over to the side of the righteous?” He was persuasive, that fellow: I left my gang and joined his. He taught me how to box properly, and he made me doorman at the club. But he also taught me the ways of the Lord, and left me wanting nothing but to be like him.’
Skinner looked at him. ‘Do you still box?’
‘Nah, these days I turn the other cheek. I’m not the boy I was then, any more than you are. Bob, if you want a penance from me, then here it is. Put flowers on your parents’ grave and move on from there. You have no reason for shame, and no reason to be taking your remorse out on your colleagues.’ He paused, taking a long breath. ‘Always assuming, of course, that there’s no other underlying cause for your ill-humour.’
The DCC took a long slug of his Becks. ‘And why should there be?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. But I do know this. When you spoke earlier of the pleasure that you take in family life you spoke entirely of your children. Neither then nor at any other time since we’ve been speaking did you mention your wife. I remember a time, Bob, not so long ago, when her name peppered your conversation. Maybe I’m wrong, but I see this as a significant omission.’
Skinner shifted in his seat. ‘With respect, Your Grace, it’s entirely likely that you would be wrong. In this area at least, I might know more than you.’
‘Ah, so I am right.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘Hah!’ Gainer laughed. ‘You’ve just implied that, as a priest, I can’t be expected to understand the nuances of what happens between man and woman. Leaving aside the raw experiences of my secular youth, throughout my priesthood I’ve been exposed to those very nuances, formally in the confessional, and informally in conversations such as this. You know this perfectly well, yet you try to sidetrack me. That tells me that you can’t lie to me, yet you can’t bring yourself to admit that I’m right. If this means that you simply don’t want to get into this area, fair enough, but that’s all you had to say.’
‘What’s your view on contraception?’ Skinner asked suddenly.
‘In line with that of the Holy Father,’ Gainer replied instantly. ‘But why do you ask me that?’
‘I wanted to knock you off balance, that’s all,’ said the DCC amiably. ‘But I see that I can’t. Sarah and I have known better times, Jim. How can I put this?’ he asked himself aloud. He thought for a few seconds then reached a decision. ‘Try this. Since you’re a marriage-guidance guru as well as everything else . . . you’re a veritable hypermarket of counselling services, my friend . . . you’ll probably appreciate that there, as in all areas of life, communication is everything. There have been occasions when Sarah and I have been unable to communicate properly with each other. Most of the time the fault has been mine, for not listening to her and considering her needs.’
