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“It’s like I told the police, Ignatius,” Liam replied. “It was early morning. And I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I did see someone running from the church, but he was disappearing over the ridge in the direction of Lisnaglass.”
“Just one man?” Sweeney asked.
“I saw only one,” Liam told him.
“Lisnaglass is full of Unionist louts,” someone observed. “So you didn’t see who it was?”
“No, I didn’t.” Liam was almost certain that the culprit he had seen running from the church was Michael Carrick, but he saw no reason why Michael, of all people, would have given Father Padraig so severe a beating and carried out such vandalism in the church. By the time the police interviewed him he had convinced himself that he had been mistaken. He had also decided that even if it had been Michael, he could not have informed against him. Michael Carrick, everyone knew, was going to marry Caitlin MacLir, and Liam could do nothing that would destroy the happiness of a woman he hopelessly fawned on, like a devoted pup.
“You weren’t at the burying, Padraig,” Sweeney remarked.
“No, in all conscience I felt that I was unable to be there, Ignatius,” Padraig replied. “The burying, as you called it, was not a Christian one. And the graveyard at Killyshannagh is no longer consecrated ground. As a priest I felt that I could not honestly take part. However much I loved Finn MacLir. It was not the way I wanted to see him go.” A feeling of having been cheated by God Himself strengthened insuppressibly in Padraig’s breast. “But it was Finn’s own wish.”
Padraig’s words were like rocks tied to his ankles that sunk the priest in Sweeney’s estimation.
You could have put on a suit, Sweeney thought, forgot you were a priest for a few hours, and come to the funeral of the man who rescued you, raised you, paid for your education. You’re a sanctimonious hypocrite, Father Padraig. You deserved that hiding. I’d love to give you one myself. Sweeney walked away, disappointed and disgusted.
The general conversation in the MacLir house splintered, as those present addressed their neighbours rather than the group at large. Jim Patterson, finding himself with no one to talk to, caught the eye of Clifford Hamilton in the far corner of the dining room. Clifford, in a tailored black suit and white shirt, was leaning against the wall between the window and the bookcase. Jim Patterson crossed the crowded room and joined him. “How are you, Clifford?”
“Can’t complain, Jim. How’s yourself?”
Manolis Aligizakis 