Free Unholy Dying by Robert Barnard Page B

around the floor with Gary until someone complained.
    â€œI had a letter this morning,” she said, launching straight into the matter that was occupying her thoughts. They turned to look at her. A letter was sufficiently unusual in their lives to arouse interest.
    â€œThe Social cutting your benefits, I suppose,” said Tracy.
    â€œNo. From the office of the Bishop.”
    â€œThe what ?”
    â€œThe office of the Catholic Bishop, in Leeds.”
    â€œDidn’t know the Catholics had bishops,” said Vicky.
    â€œWhat’s a bishop when he’s at home, anyway?” asked Tracy.
    â€œHe’s a high-up in the Church, ignorant,” said Julie.
    â€œOh! It’s about your priest bloke!” said Vicky. “You said he was in trouble.”
    â€œYeah, it’s him. They want to talk to me about him. And they’ll pay me ten quid for my travel expenses to Leeds.”
    The other girls chortled.
    â€œThey must be crazy,” said Tracy, contemptuous of all open-handedness, though accepting it herself. “Go for it, girl. It’s one-eighty on the train.”
    â€œI know. I’ll have to go. Can’t pass up the chance. But what’ll I say?”
    The other two girls’ experience of life was if anything even more limited than Julie’s. But it gave them set answers to every situation.
    â€œLie and lie again, like you was in court,” said Tracy.
    â€œI don’t mean that. I don’t have to. He’s innocent.”
    The other two just laughed.
    â€œWe believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,” said Vicky.
    Julie turned on them, genuinely irritated.
    â€œNothing happened. I don’t go for older blokes. You know who fathered my two.”
    â€œWe know what you’ve told us,” said Tracy. “Haven’t had the pleasure of either of the young men. I haven’t met them either.”
    This time they all three laughed.
    â€œI go for young blokes. Anyway, even if I had wanted to, he’s a priest. Catholic priests don’t.”
    â€œWhat d’yer mean, ‘don’t’?”
    â€œThey don’t have sex.”
    â€œAnd birds don’t fly,” said Vicky. “And politicians always tell the truth. And them down at the Social just want us to get everything we’re entitled to.”
    â€œThey don’t. I mean, priests don’t. They’re celibate. It’s part of their oath, like.”
    â€œWell, if all priests were celibate, what’s this inquiry about that they’re paying you to go and lie your socks off at?”
    Julie caught a glint in the eye of one of the older customers at the Washeteria. Friend of that cow Doris Crabtree. She blinked at the other girls, and the subject was changed until, when they had all finished and were on their way home, Tracy said, “Come in and have a coffee,” and in Tracy’s flat, which bore a depressing similarity to her own, they sat around the kitchen table and looked at Julie.
    â€œSo what am I going to say at this inquiry?”
    By now the other girls had had their laugh and treated the question seriously.
    â€œIf what you say is right, then you just tell the truth. As they say: ‘You’ve nothing to fear.’ ”
    That was Vicky, who still had wisps of naïveté left.
    â€œBut you know what they do in court,” protested Julie. “They throw questions at you, and tie you up in knots, and make out you’ve said the opposite of what you meant to say. That’s why I don’t nick things in shops—I’d rather die than land in court. It’d be like having my dad going on at me all over again.”
    â€œBut this isn’t a court, is it?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Julie, scrabbling in her pocket for the letter. “They call it a committee—investigating allegations against Father Pardoe of St. Catherine’s. But you can see it, can’t you? A long