Deception (18 page)

A full house in Blackbridge Parish Church was something that McNish had not experienced at any time during his fifteen-year tenure and a full house it was going to be. This was mainly due to a large contingent of the boy’s friends and classmates coming from the High School over in Livingston where he had been a pupil. Although it was still the school holidays, the boy’s death and the circumstances of it had been reported widely in the local papers and on local radio and television. This had added a show business element to the death. People wanted to say that they had known Ian Ferguson, the boy on the television. Even a tenuous connection with fame was better than none.

McNish considered the prospect of a sea of faces before him with mixed emotions. He felt nervous but he also felt that he shouldn’t be after so long in the job. After all, all he really had to do was convince everyone there that the boy’s life had been worthwhile and that the Almighty had had a damned good reason for allowing a rat to half bite his foot off and give him a fatal disease into the bargain.

The thought sent him scurrying to the sideboard in the dining room where he took out a half-full bottle of vodka – it didn’t taint your breath - and took a large swig from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held it there for a moment, unconsciously seeking solace from the touch of his lips on skin, even if it was his own. He looked out of the manse window at the church across the street. It was a grimy, ugly, brick-built building in need of urgent attention from a competent builder, attention that it wasn’t going to get, at least not until it had changed hands and become a carpet warehouse or disco or whatever churches like his became these days. McNish took another swig and put the bottle back in the sideboard. Breakfast was over.

He waddled through to the bathroom, his bare feet at ‘ten to two’ and turned on the hot tap in the basin, keeping his hand under it while it gurgled and splashed away the airlocks of the night and eventually started to run hot. He washed, shaved and attempted to persuade his spiky grey hair into some kind of order but, as usual, it defied his best efforts and continued to stick out at odd angles making him look as if he’d just had a bad fright. He struggled into his vestments, reflecting from the tightness across his belly that he was still gaining weight thanks to a diet dominated by take-away food. Finally he put on his glasses and bent over to tie his shoes – large, sturdy Doc Martin affairs - the incongruity of which, he relied on his vestments to hide – and felt his diaphragm push up into his throat, bringing on an episode of heartburn. He went back to the bathroom to find the indigestion tablets.

With the taste of peppermint doing battle with regurgitated vodka, McNish left the manse and crossed to the church where he checked his watch and saw that there was still an hour to go. He acknowledged the cleaner who was polishing the edge of his pulpit and went through to the vestry to sit down and read through his crib notes. These he had made after an awkward visit to the Fergusons’ house to convey his sympathy and make arrangements for the funeral. He didn’t know the family at all and making conversation had been difficult, although it had emerged that he had baptised Ian some thirteen years before.

As far as he could gather, that was the last time any of them had been in church and now, today, as if by some stroke of bloody magic, they would expect him to speak knowingly about their son as if he’d been popping in and out of the manse all his life.

McNish concluded that there was very little to work with in the notes he’d made. The boy had been thirteen, not particularly bright in class, not particularly good at sports; not particularly good at anything was the real bottom line, but a joker – that at least would be useful. He had no hobbies but he liked pop music . . . his favourite band was . . . damn, where was the bit of paper with the band’s name on it?

McNish was foraging around for it when he was joined by the church organist for the service. She was Miss Pamela Sutton, a retired music teacher from the neighbouring village. ‘Lost something, minister?’ she asked cheerfully.

Miss Sutton was always cheerful and it annoyed McNish intensely. He bit back the reply that sprang to his lips and edited it until it became, ‘Yes, Miss Sutton. I’ve lost the name of a pop group.’

‘Didn’t know you were into pop music, minister.’

McNish sucked in breath through his teeth breath for he had known that she would say that. He wanted to shake the woman until the rose tinted spectacles fell from her eyes and she saw life as it really was.

‘No, it was the name of the Ferguson boy’s favourite group, Miss Sutton. Ah, here it is.’ McNish removed the small piece of paper from between the pages of a prayer book and squinted at it from several angles before asking, ‘Can you make out what that says?’

‘T . . . Travel, I think.’

‘Is there a band named, Travel?’

‘No idea, minister. Not my scene, as they say.’

The church officer arrived and then the elders who were going to act as ushers today. McNish went through the seating arrangements with them and helped increase the stack of hymnbooks on the table by the door by putting back the ones he’d removed some weeks before because they were too worn and tatty. ‘Needs must, Miss Sutton,’ he said when he saw the organist grimace at the state of them. She held one up like it was something her cat had brought home.

The mourners started to arrive, in dribs and drabs at first but then in ever increasing numbers until downstairs was full and the upstairs galleries were opened up. McNish watched what he felt were a motley crew arrive. Very few appeared to have bothered with traditional dark clothes and black ties. Many of them looked as if they were visiting a supermarket. There was even one woman in an orange shell suit. He was acutely aware of the change to the church’s acoustics that such a large number of people were making. The normal echo that gave his voice an edge of gravitas had been dampened down to nothing. He would have to speak up to make himself heard.

The hearse arrived and the coffin was brought slowly into the church on the shoulders of pallbearers to be followed by the boy’s family, huddling together for comfort. McNish waited until they had settled in the front pew and nodded to them self consciously before looking up at the congregation. For the first time, he saw that they were all looking intently at him and he felt intimidated. What were they thinking? Nothing friendly, he feared. He was looking at a sea of blank, expressionless faces.

‘
We are gathered here today to give thanks for the life of Ian Ferguson,’ he began. ‘Let us begin by singing the 23
^rd
Psalm, The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not want.’

McNish felt a sense of relief when the organ music swelled and the sound of shuffling feet and throats being cleared directed attention away from him. He found it increasingly difficult to look at the congregation and recognised that he was having a panic attack. He started to suspect they all knew that he was a phoney.

In an effort to get a grip on his emotions, he concentrated his gaze on a window at the back of the church, the one that had been boarded up with chipboard after a yob had thrown a beer bottle through it a few months earlier. The music died, the congregation sat and he began again. ‘Today our hearts go out to Ian’s family as they struggle to come to terms with their tremendous loss. It would not be natural if they did not find themselves full of questions as they start to face up to life without him because there will be a great gap in their lives and they will miss him and his laughter and great love of joking. I would say to them that, because answers are not immediately obvious, does not mean to say that there are none. It may well be that we as yet are ill equipped to understand them. That makes them none the less valid and we must put our trust in the Lord and his decisions.’

McNish paused when he felt sure he’d heard the word, ‘bollocks’, being murmured, followed by muted shushing. He swallowed and managed to convince himself that it had been his imagination. He continued, ‘Ian, like many of his contemporaries, had a great love of pop music and was a big fan of Travel.’ He glanced up from his notes when he heard a murmur of unrest and saw the family looking at each other in puzzlement. Something was dreadfully wrong and he had to pause again, feeling all at sea and embarrassed because he knew not what.

He became aware of loud whispers coming from the front pews on the other side of the aisle from the family and realised that they were being aimed at him. He concentrated on the lips of one girl who was wearing bright red lipstick and leaning forward in her seat, mouthing the word . . . T.R.A.V.I.S.

‘
I’m sorry, the pop group
Travis
,’ he continued. ‘My knowledge of pop is more than a little suspect at the best of times.’

The reaction to his joke would not have been out of place at the Cenotaph at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. The silence brought a cold sweat to his brow. The congregation were clearly against him but he steeled himself to struggle on, feeling that the next item might win them round. ‘As Ian was taken from us at such an early age we are going to break with the traditional service at this time to listen to Ian's’ favourite recording of . . . Travis. Some of his classmates have brought along a CD player and will play the song for us.’

Two High School pupils, a boy and a girl, wearing school blazers and exuding the air of being responsible young people, moved out from the end of a pew and were escorted by an elder to a position to the right of McNish where they set up the player. They got up, folded their hands behind their backs and stood there with bowed heads as the music started.

McNish kept his eyes firmly fixed on the boarded -up window as the sound of Travis singing, ‘You’re driftwood, floating on the water,’ filled the church. He felt his buttocks clench and his toes curl under his feet in total embarrassment as the awful irony came to him.

McNish fudged his way through to the end of the service and joined the family in the first car behind the hearse for the short trip up to Canal Field Cemetery. He could feel their disappointment at his dismal performance although they said nothing – maybe
because
they said nothing. He desperately wanted everything to be over but he knew there was a bit to go yet. There were so many following along behind on foot that there would be a considerable wait by the graveside before the actual burial could commence.

McNish found himself a clod of earth to concentrate his gaze on while people gathered round the site of the excavated grave. The coffin sat on two rough wooden supports over the hole until such times as they would be removed and it would be lowered down into the opening by the council gravediggers with relatives holding symbolic cords.

The fading of murmured conversation told him that everyone had now arrived and were now waiting for him to begin. He took up stance beside the coffin and began reading the burial service. ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to . . .’ He froze in abject horror when he saw a rat jump up on to the lid of the coffin and sit there staring at him. Several mourners screamed and two women turned to flee in blind panic.

For McNish, it was the final straw. He lost the place completely and a red mist swam before his eyes and he swung out at the creature with his prayer book, shouting – almost screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Fil-thy – fuck-ing thing! Get to fuck out of it, you verminous little bastard!’

The frightened animal leapt from the coffin and ran off through a gap that opened up in front of it as if by magic as people leapt out of its way.

McNish, totally out of control, threw his prayer book after it along with another volley of abuse. Worse still, he lost his footing on the wet grass and tumbled backwards to fall down beside the maw of the waiting grave. His vestments rode up exposing his Doc Martins to public view as he clutched desperately at one of the wooden coffin supports to prevent himself sliding into the hole. Council workers rushed to his aid and hoisted him back on to his feet where he stood, breathing deeply and staring down at the earth, his ears burning.

‘Can you go on, minister?’ asked a voice at his elbow.

After a few more deep breaths, McNish nodded. Someone tentatively handed him his prayer book, as if not wanting to come too close. The book itself was badly torn and covered in mud. ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live . . .’ he continued.

McNish was acutely aware of being given lots of space as the burial came to an end and people turned to leave. The family in particular were avoiding him so he chose to walk back to the manse on his own, rather than ride in the car in deafening silence. He recognised that he was now going to be the main topic of conversation at the family gathering, which he had pointedly not been invited back to. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The only thing he wanted right now was a drink, several drinks, as many as it took to stop the pain inside his head.

The remains of the vodka bottle in the sideboard lasted less than a minute and was followed by a frantic search for another which he felt sure was somewhere in the house but just for the moment, he couldn’t think where. He knew that he’d put it somewhere where that damned nosy cleaner wouldn’t come across it, but just where exactly that was . . .
He remembered now. He’d put it under the artificial straw in the Christmas crib, which was stored in the small back bedroom. He staggered through and retrieved it from under the baby Jesus to greedily slug from it before returning to sit down in the dining room at the table and going over in his mind all that had happened that morning. Christ! There had even been photographers there, he remembered. They had been hanging back, keeping in the background but he distinctly remembered seeing the long lenses of their cameras when the car had turned in through the cemetery gates. His nightmare was going to be all over the papers. ‘A fucking rat,’ he murmured. ‘A dirty little fucking rat.’