Fear of the Fathers Page 4

  She started off at a sedate pace, breathing rhythmically, and reached the end of the road without succumbing to a coronary. Considering their rustiness, her legs felt surprisingly springy. She upped her pace slightly and sped on with confidence, her system becoming clearer with every blood-pumping inhalation. She’d almost forgotten the joys of running and its mentally cleansing effects; she vowed that she would keep it up and go out at least four times a week.

  After a mile she’d had enough: her lungs were bursting, her legs had gone scarecrow, and her pulse was thumping faster than Michael Flatley’s feet. It didn’t matter that she was in the middle of a busy street – she had to stop. She collapsed onto a bench and lay face up with her eyes closed, oblivious to the passing world. Every mouthful of air felt like an icy stab to her chest. What had possessed her to go for a run? Never again, she thought. Never again.

  “Are you alright?” said a familiar voice.

  Stella opened her eyes. Looking down on her was the priest from outside the supermarket. “I…I’m…fine,” she stammered heavily.

  “Good,” said the priest. “I’m glad to hear it. It’s just that you looked to be quite distressed. That’s twice in two days.” He gave her a kindly smile.

  Stella dragged herself up to a sitting position and steadied her breathing. “I haven’t been running for ages. I think I might have overdone it just a tad.”

  “Just a tad, eh?” he grinned.

  “Yes,” said Stella, finding herself reciprocating. “Why are you here anyway? Are you stalking me Father Cronin?”

  “Ah, so you remember my name then. I suppose that’s a good thing. And no, I’m not stalking you, I just happened to be passing. It is a thoroughfare after all.”

  Stella stood up. “Well, thanks for your concern. But I’d better be heading back home.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” said Cronin. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to grab a coffee. I’m new around here, and I don’t really know anyone. Unless of course you’re too busy?”

  Stella’s instinct was to pretend she was. But looking into Cronin’s warm eyes she felt unable to lie. And what would be the harm? He was hardly going to hit on her, he was a Catholic priest. “No, I’m not busy,” she said. “I could do with a drink and a sit down. I hope you like Starbucks, because that’s all there is in Chiswick.”

  Stella grabbed a table at the back of the busy café while Father Cronin got the drinks. Her pulse was just about back to normal and she was thinking about how nice it would be to have a smoke. Unfortunately, she’d left her cigarettes at home, so she was going to have to sit it out. And besides, standing outside like a social pariah was never appealing.

  “There you go,” said Cronin, returning with the drinks. “One hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “No, thank you Stella, for coming here. You probably have better things to be doing than humouring the clergy of a Saturday afternoon.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Stella, prodding at a marshmallow. “My social diary hasn’t exactly been full of late.”

  Cronin eyed her thoughtfully. “I sense that you’ve been through some sort of trauma. Divorce maybe? A death in the family?”

  Stella continued to play with her drink.

  “I’m sorry,” said Cronin. “I’m being too nosy.”

  “No, don’t apologize,” said Stella. “I don’t mind. I was just thinking, that was all. It was a death.”

  Cronin sipped his coffee. “Family?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. It was an old friend of mine. An ex-boyfriend to be precise. Except he wasn’t really an ex when he died.” She shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

  “Ah,” said Cronin. “I shall pry no more then.”

  “It’s not like that, it’s just difficult to explain. Although I suppose, in a nutshell: I loved him; we split up; we got back in touch; I realized I still loved him; he died.”

  “It must have been awful for you,” Cronin sympathized.

  “Yes, it was. The worst thing was that I never got a chance to be with him properly again. We were reunited under extreme circumstances, and just didn’t have the time to really tell each other how we felt. I guess if we’d had the opportunity for that then I wouldn’t feel quite so bad. Even though he’s dead, I just feel like there’s still something hanging in the air between us. There doesn’t seem any way that I can make my peace with the situation.”

  “Of course. It’s a common phenomenon. Making your peace is extremely important. But it’s more about making peace with yourself than anybody else.”

  Stella gave an ironic laugh. “That’s exactly what he would have said.” She took a sip of hot chocolate and luxuriated as the warm liquid trickled slowly down to her stomach. Father Cronin was having a soothing effect on her. She didn’t know what it was – perhaps his reassuring smile, or his anodyne voice – but he made her feel safe, and she felt comfortable opening up to him. She couldn’t believe that she was saying so much to a man she hardly knew.

  “He must have been an exceptional man,” stated Cronin.

  “He was, most of the time. He had his moments though.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly happened to him?”

  Stella thought for a moment. “He was shot. But I can’t tell you much more than that I’m afraid – it’s classified information”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said Cronin. “But I won’t press you.” He drank some more coffee. “What about the funeral? Did you not have a chance to say goodbye then?”

  “That’s part of the problem. There was no funeral.”

  Cronin raised his eyebrows. “No funeral?”

  “No. His body was stolen from the mortuary. God knows how, or why.”

  “Very odd,” Cronin mused. “Sounds very Burke and Hare. I didn’t realize bodysnatching still went on in this day and age.”

  “Well, seemingly it does.”

  “And there’s been no sign of the body since?”

  “None whatsoever. There’s just nothing for the police to go on.”

  “Well, I can see why it’s so difficult for you,” said Cronin. “What about a memorial service? Wouldn’t that help?”

  “Yes. I’ve thought about that. I’ve been trying to arrange something with his brother. But there’s a problem.”

  “Oh. What’s that?” asked Cronin.

  Stella sighed. “They didn’t get on, for one thing. The other being that their parents were murdered at roughly the same time as Stratton. His brother put the blame squarely on him. He doesn’t seem interested in remembering Stratton at all. It’s a case of good riddance as far as he’s concerned.”

  Cronin shook his head. “That’s a real shame,” he said. “But perhaps all is not lost. I can help you organize a service if you like. I can also have a word with his brother. He might be better disposed towards a priest.”

  Stella was about to answer when she caught sight of someone glancing over at them. Two tables down to the right a man was sitting reading the Daily Telegraph. He was Mediterranean-looking, wore a suit, and had dark brown hair greying at the temples. He had arrived just after she had sat down. When Stella returned his gaze he quickly went back to his paper.

  “Something wrong?” asked Cronin.

  “No. Well, I don’t think so.” She lowered her voice. “I just had the feeling we were being watched by some guy. It’s probably only paranoia. I’m always suspicious – it’s an unfortunate side-effect from years of duty.”

  “Oh yes. You said something about classified information earlier. What exactly do you do?”

  “It’s more a case of what I did,” she said. “I used to be in Special Branch, protecting government ministers and the like.”

  “Sounds very exciting,” said Cronin.

  “Yes, I suppose it was. But I’m out of it now, and that’s that.”

  She was thankful that Cronin didn’t press her any further on the subject. Instead, he asked h
er some more about Stratton and the possibilities of organizing a memorial. He seemed very interested in Stratton, and asked her plenty of questions about how they’d met, what sort of person he was, and what he was into. Stella put his inquisitiveness down to genuine concern and a desire to bring forth any latent emotions she was harbouring. He was a fantastic listener, and talking to him was proving a cathartic experience.

  After another hot chocolate Stella decided it was time to leave, or more importantly – time to go home for a cigarette.

  “Thank you very much for the chat, Father,” she said, as she left her seat.

  “It’s been my pleasure,” said Cronin. “I feel like I’ve made at least one friend around here now. I’ll be in touch with you about the memorial service.”

  “Yes, of course. Do you have a pen?”

  Cronin produced a silver biro from his pocket. Stella wrote down her number on a napkin.

  “Thank you,” said Cronin. “And remember, if you need to talk in the meantime, you can find me just down the road at Our Lady’s. Pop in whenever you like.”

  Stella thanked him again for his kindness and left smiling. Cronin followed her out.

  A minute after their departure, the Mediterranean picked up his paper and wandered out onto the street. He found a quiet spot and made a phone call.

  Chapter 10

  The sun sank into the horizon, a perfect pink semicircle surrounded by faint wisps of cloud. Stratton sat in the lotus position on a tree stump at the edge of the wood, looking out over the moor. By his side Titan sniffed the air inquisitively. It was chill, and a light frost was beginning to form.

  Stratton smiled as he took in the panorama, losing himself in the vast expanse of unbroken tranquillity. He’d been living in the woods for nearly three months and every afternoon he came to the same spot to think and reflect.

  His thoughts were currently with Stella. He wondered what she was doing, and whether she was happy again. He hoped with all his heart that she was getting on with her life. It was probably cruel not to let her know the truth, but telling her would have been far too dangerous. Only Oggi and his three lieutenants knew that he was alive, and he wanted to keep it that way. There was a whole world of trouble waiting for him beyond the fringes of the moor. A world of questions and assumptions that he wasn’t ready to deal with.

  Titan strutted out into the open, nosing the ground for scent. Stratton watched him for a while. The panther still fascinated him after all this time. He seemed happy enough in himself, but Stratton was beginning to wonder whether life on the moor was enough for the big cat, and whether it was becoming unsafe. Sooner or later – when enough livestock had been taken – men would hunt him down, and either kill him or capture him. A zoo was no place for his friend. Stratton had been contemplating the situation for some time, and an idea had occurred to him. A plan that might kill two birds with one stone.

  As the last light faded over the moor Titan finished his territorial rounds and Stratton walked with him back to base camp. The wood was darkening by the minute, but Stratton had trod the route so many times that no illumination was needed.

  In the distance, amidst the trees, he saw a flicker of orange, signifying that Oggi had lit a fire. The biker attended to the daily tasks of outdoor living with gusto. Stratton got the feeling that, despite his protestations, he was actually enjoying the fugitive lifestyle. Although he suspected that much more time in the wilderness was going to prove testing for their friendship. They couldn’t stay out here forever, but what could they do? Oggi was Britain’s most wanted man, and Stratton was supposed to be dead.

  “Mutton yesterday, mutton today, and blimey, if it don’t look like mutton again tomorrer,” said Oggi, as Stratton walked into the small clearing.

  Stratton laughed. “It’s come to quoting The Hobbit now has it?”

  “Well, anything to pass the time.”

  Stratton continued to chuckle to himself – with his mammoth size and wild hair and beard, Oggi did indeed remind him of a troll.

  “I’m making a stew,” Oggi said triumphantly. “I’ve used the last of the veg that the boys brought us. It should last us for a good few days. Hopefully by then they’ll be back with some more.”

  “Yes, hopefully,” said Stratton. “If not, then we’ll just have to survive on what we can find in the forest.”

  “Don’t even think about it Ray Mears. It might look appetizing on the telly, but I don’t expect the reality is half as good. Neither of us are survival experts. We’ll probably end up eating something poisonous – and it might not affect you Mr Messiah, but us mortals have a slightly weaker constitution.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

  “What?” said Oggi. “Ray Mears, or Mr Messiah.”

  Stratton grinned. “You know which one.”

  “Well, you do have Messianic tendencies: healing the sick, rising from the dead etc.” Oggi paused. “I tell you what we could really do with though – some fish and some loaves. And maybe you could turn this stagnant water into wine. I’m dying for a drink.”

  “Maybe the boys will bring you some,” said Stratton. “That’s the least of our worries at the moment though. We can’t carry on living out here much longer. The weather’s getting warmer and soon the woods will be crawling with people in the daylight. It’s only a matter of time before someone discovers us.”

  “I guess so,” said Oggi. Much as he disliked life in the woods, it was better than prison. After the initial hardship he had inured himself to the harsh realities of life on the run. He and Stratton had dug out an underground shelter, and with the help of his boys had made it habitable. It was four feet deep and twelve feet square with a mattress at either side. There were a couple of low chairs, a table for eating, and a large supply of candles. At the front they had installed a makeshift chimney for an indoor fire. The roof was a wooden framework covered with a tarpaulin, earth and leaves. You could walk within two feet of it and not know it was there.

  “The stew smells good,” Stratton complimented. “You’re becoming a bit of a dab hand at al fresco cuisine.”

  “Well, when needs must,” said Oggi. “I’ve got to admit though – I’d give my right arm for a good curry and a pint of lager. When the lads come next I’m going to send them off for a takeaway.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” agreed Stratton. “I could do with one myself.”

  Half an hour later Oggi declared the stew to be ready and dished some out into bowls. Sitting on logs opposite each other they ate in a hungry silence next to the fire. Stratton finished quickly and spooned himself a second helping.

  “Better not have too much,” said Oggi. “That’s all we’ve got.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure fresh supplies will be arriving in the next few days. We won’t starve – I promise you. Besides, I don’t think you’re going to be wasting away any time soon.”

  Oggi ignored the last comment and helped himself to some more stew. Men had been beaten for less in the past, but he was used to Stratton’s cheek and accepted it in the playful spirit that was intended. Whatever Stratton might say or do, Oggi knew that there was always an underlying respect. And, if he was honest, he quite enjoyed the badinage that went on between them. Most people were too scared to share a joke with him.

  Oggi finished his food and gave a contented burp. “So,” he said. “It’s pretty clear that we can’t stay here much longer. What are we going to do?”

  “I’m working on it. But to be honest, our options are limited. Ideally it’d be best to get out of the country. Unfortunately, every port and airport is going to have your picture. The only other thing is to find a safe house. But again, that’s going to be difficult with the police watching all your known associates like hawks. I’m surprised they’ve managed to get food to us without being followed.”

  “You’d probably be a lot better off without me holding you back,” said Oggi.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Stratton shaking his head. “
I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. You and the boys brought me back. I’m not going anywhere until you’re sorted as well.”

  “But still, it might just be easier if I handed myself in. I’m going to be a wanted man for the rest of my life otherwise. There’s no real freedom in that is there? Whatever happens in the future, I’m always going to be a prisoner in some respect. At least if I hand myself in I can do my time. I might not even get that long a sentence if they consider the circumstances properly. I could be out in ten years.”

  “Perhaps,” said Stratton. “But I wouldn’t bank on it. You’ve killed a cop; and whatever he did they’re still going to come down hard on you. I know he was a dirty paedo, and you know he was dirty paedo, but he was awarded medals for bravery and they’ll just cover it up. There’s no way that the truth will come out – it’ll just be buried. You’ll rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

  Oggi lit a cigarette. “I thought you’d be all for me coming clean. The truth will set you free and all that. I’ve committed a crime, so maybe I should do my time. At least I won’t be running any more.”

  Stratton lowered himself to the ground and stretched out with his back against the log. “You’ve already come clean as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “You’ve admitted your crime. But if you really want to go and face some kangaroo court then that’s your business. Personally I don’t think having you put away for the rest of your life is going to help anybody. If you feel that you should pay some sort of penalty, then devote your life to something useful.”

  “How can I devote my life to anything? I no longer have a life.”

  “There’s always a way. I still need your help for a start.”

  Oggi laughed. “So you keep saying. But I don’t think you really need anybody’s help.”

  Stratton leaned back with his arms behind his head. “Of course I do. Contrary to your little asides – I am not a Messiah. I’m not all powerful and I can’t turn water into wine. It was you who brought me back from the dead remember. As far as the symbols go, eventually you’ll be just as capable as me at using them.” He paused. “Where’s all this come from anyway? It almost sounds like you’ve grown a conscience from somewhere. A few months back you wouldn’t have dreamed of handing yourself in.”