Free Slip of the Knife by Denise Mina Page A

the strange, strangled falsetto she only ever used in chapel. Pete giggled at her side and she nudged his head with her elbow.
    Before the altar, the priest and altar boys formed an orderly group, processing down the central aisle, gathering the congregation in their wake. Pete ducked out of the pew as the procession came past, desperate to be near the chubby, greasy-haired altar boy who was his hero: BC, named for his grandfather. None of the family could bear to say his name since Con senior died. Baby Con’s name had changed as suddenly as the family dynamic.
    Because the boys stayed at Trisha’s on Saturday nights it would have been difficult for Paddy to insist Pete didn’t go to mass. As well as avoiding conflict with her mother she had a superstitious fear that organized religion might hold some romance for Pete in the future if she didn’t cram it halfway down his throat as a child. He wasn’t baptized and hated the dreary rigmarole of mass, but he still wanted to be an altar boy like his cousin. He wanted to be everything like his cousin. He shuffled ahead of her in the aisle, ducking between clustered families to get closer, keeping his adoring eyes on BC’s back.
    Paddy held on to his shoulder, following him through the throng, afraid of losing him.
    Ahead of them, standing between the doors, Father Andrew was holding an old woman’s hand, steering her by the wrist out of the door, dismissing her with a blessing. His eyes were on Paddy, willing her to him. He had already developed the faintly despising attitude to his parishioners that many older priests had. They were as cynical as strippers, some of them.
    Beyond the doors and Father Andrew, Paddy could see Sean Ogilvy out in the warm sunshine. Sean Ogilvy, teetering on his tiptoes to look back in for her, dressed in his Sunday suit, his dark hair receding from his face.
    Father Andrew reached across the throng and grabbed Paddy’s hand as she came past, reeling her in through the crowd. “My dear Lord, what’s this I’m reading about in your headline today?”
    “Oh, well.” She broke eye contact and tried to move on to Sean.
    “Please, God, it’s not true.”
    But Father Andrew had a firm hold of her hand. “Please, God.” He looked imploringly at her. “Please, please, God.” Then added, as he always did, “I’ll pray for you, Patricia.” He ruffled Pete’s hair. “And you, son.”
    If Pete hadn’t been with her she’d have kicked Father Andrew’s shin and passed it off as a mistake. Instead she dipped her eyes. “And I’ll pray for you, Father.”
    At the top of the steps Pete wriggled out from under her hand and ran over to Sean’s four kids. They were younger than him and therefore not as interesting as BC, but he could boss them and they loved him, especially now that he’d moved across the city and they didn’t see him all the time. Mary, the oldest, and Patrick hung on his arms, gurgling with delight at his presence.
    Around the women a puddle of children gathered, dazed from the boredom of mass, holding on to their mothers’ legs, staring at each other or trying to eat stones from the ground.
    Sean took Paddy’s elbow and pulled her aside. He looked grim.
    “Tomorrow morning, OK?” he whispered.
    “Tomorrow?”
    He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you can’t come.”
    “No, no,” she said, shaking her head, “I can come, I can come. Just didn’t think it would be so soon. There was a journalist up at my door last night asking about his release. He asked if he was going to stay with you.”
    “Shite.” Sean looked around to see if he’d been heard uttering a curse word in the chapel yard. “I need you there, you know everyone, you’ll be able to spot them in the car park. I don’t know all the faces, you know?”
    Elaine was looking at them so Paddy gave her a wave. Elaine was holding baby Mona on her hip and had Cabrini strapped tightly into a stroller. She was standing with another mother, equally