'Ach, maybe I'm not talking about anything.’
Father Leary allowed a short-lived smile, his eyes never leaving Rebus's. 'A bit morbid for a Sunday, John?’
'Isn't that what Sundays are for?’
`Maybe for you sons of Calvin. You tell yourselves you're doomed, then spend all week trying to make a joke of it. Others of us give thanks for this day and its meaning.’
Rebus shifted in his chair. Lately, he didn't enjoy Father Leary's conversations so much. There was something proselytising about them. `So when do we get down to business?’ he said.
Father Leary smiled. `The Protestant work ethic.’
`You haven't brought me here to convert me.’
'We wouldn't want a dour bugger like you. Besides, I’d more easily convert a fifty-yard penalty in a Murrayfield crosswind.’
He took a swipe at the air. 'Ach, it's not really your problem. Maybe it isn't a problem at all.’
He ran a finger down the crease in his trouser-leg.
`You can still tell me about it.’
`A reversal of roles, eh? Well, I suppose that's what I had in mind all along.’
He sat further forward in the deckchair, the material stretching and sounding a sharp note of complaint. `Here it is then. You know Pilmuir?’
`Don't be daft.’
`Yes, stupid question. And Pilmuir's Garibaldi Estate?’
'The Gar-B, it's the roughest scheme in the city, maybe in the country.’
`There are good people there, but you're right. That's why the Church sent an outreach worker.’
`And now he's in trouble?’
`Maybe.’
Father Leary finished his drink. `It was my idea. There's a community hall on the estate, only it had been locked up for months. I thought we could reopen it as a youth club.’
`For Catholics?’
'For both faiths.’
He sat back in his chair. 'Even for the faithless. The Garibaldi is predominantly Protestant, but there are Catholics there too. We got agreement, and set up some funds. I knew we needed someone special, someone really dynamic in charge.’
He punched the air. `Someone who might just draw the two sides together.’
Mission impossible, thought Rebus. This scheme will self-destruct in ten seconds.
Not least of the Gar-B's problems was the sectarian divide or the lack of one, depending on how you looked at it. Protestants and Catholics lived in the same streets, same tower blocks. Mostly, they lived in relative harmony and shared poverty. But, there being little to do on the estate, the youth of the place tended to organise into opposing gangs and wage warfare. Every year there was at least one pitched battle for police to contend with, usually in July, usually around the Protestant holy day of the 12th.
'So you brought in the SAS?’ Rebus suggested. Father Leary was slow to get the joke.
'Not at all,' he said, `just a young man, a very ordinary young man but with inner strength.’
His fist cut the air. 'Spiritual strength. And for a while it looked like a disaster. Nobody came to the club, the windows were smashed as soon as we'd replaced them, the graffiti got worse and more personal. But then he started to break through. That seemed the miracle. Attendance at the club increased, and both sides were joining.’
'So what's gone wrong?’
Father Leary loosened his shoulders. 'It just wasn't quite right. I thought there'd be sports, maybe a football team or something. We bought the strips and applied to join a local league. But the lads weren't interested. All they wanted to do was hang around the hall itself. And the balance isn't there either, the Catholics have stopped joining. Most of them have even stopped attending.’
He looked at Rebus. 'That's not just sour grapes, you understand.’
Rebus nodded. 'The Prod gangs have annnexed it?’
'I'm not saying that exactly.’
Sounds like it to me. And your… outreach worker?’
`His name's Peter Cave. Oh, he's still there. Too often for my liking.’
'I still don't see the problem.’
Actually he could, but he wanted it spelling out.
`John, I've talked to people on the estate, and all over Pilmuir. The gangs are as bad as ever, only now they seem to be working together, divvying the place up between them. All that's happened is that they've become more organised. They have meetings in the club and carve up the surrounding territory.’
`It keeps them off the street.’
Father Leery didn't smile. 'So close the youth club.’
'That's not so easy. It would look bad for a start. And would it solve anything?’
`Have you talked with Mr. Cave?’
`He doesn't listen. He's changed. That's what troubles me most of all.’
'You could kick him out.’
Father Leery shook his head. `He's lay, John. I can't order him to do anything. We've cut the club's funding, but the money to keep it going comes from somewhere nevertheless.’
`Where from?’
'I don't know.’
'How much?’
`It doesn't take much.’
'So what do you want me to do?’
The question Rebus had been trying not to ask.
Father Leery gave his weary smile again. 'To be honest, I don't know. Perhaps I just needed to tell someone.’
'Don't give me that. You want me to go out there.’
'Not if you don't want to.’
It was Rebus's turn to smile. `I've been in safer places.’
'And a few worse ones, too.’
'I haven't told you about half of them, Father.’
Rebus finished his drink.
`Another?’
He shook his head. 'It's nice and quiet here, isn't it?’
Father Leary nodded. 'That's the beauty of Edinburgh, you're never far from a peaceful spot.’
'And never far from a hellish one either. Thanks for the drink, Father.’
Rebus got up.
`I see your team won yesterday.’
'What makes you think I support Hearts?’
'They're Prods, aren't they? And you're a Protestant yourself.’
'Away to hell, Father,' said John Rebus, laughing.
Father Leery pulled himself to his feet. He straightened his back with a grimace. He was acting purposely aged. Just an old man. 'About the Gar-B, John,' he said, opening his arms wide, `I'm in your hands.’
Like nails, thought Rebus, like carpentry nails.
3
Monday morning saw Rebus back at work and in the Chief Super's office. `Farmer' Watson was pouring coffee
