Free Dying of the Light by Gillian Galbraith Page B

up the stairs.
    ‘We’re looking for Mr McPhail?’ the Inspector said loudly, ensuring that he could be heard above the din of the cleaning.
    ‘He’s away at the church,’ she replied, hardly looking up.
    ‘Which church?’ Alice asked.
    ‘St Aloysius, further down the road. Obviously.’
    ‘Obviously,’ whispered the Inspector as they retraced their steps down the stone stairway to the street below.

    The exterior of the church was vast but completely plain. No more than a rectangular, red-brick box with shallow slits for windows, each one positioned a few feet below the stark horizontal created by the flat roof. A structure so simplified and bereft of ornamentation as to fill any onlooker not with awe or wonder but instead with a kind of desperate depression; that humanity could waste time, money and energy in constructing anything so dull and mundane. Ambitionless. A piece of architecture either consciously subverting centuries of tradition, churches built to uplift the faithful and glorify God, or dictated by the excessive penny-pinching of a dying faith.
    Passing through flimsy, oak-effect doors, they entered a well-lit nave, its white-painted surfaces bedecked with brightly coloured tapestries, each embroidered with a fish, a lamb or a lily, as if depicted by a child. Facing them, behind the altar, a massive stone crucifix was attached to the wall, a relief of the crucified Christ carved on it and the whole sculpture lit by a raft of concealed spotlights. A circlet of barbed wire adorned Christ’s head and his eyes looked upwards seeking deliverance.
    As Alice and her companion processed towards the only occupied pews, those next to the altar step, the Inspector whispered, ‘What’s the awful pong, Yogi?’
    But he had misjudged how his voice would carry, and his last words echoed around the space – ‘Yogi… Yogi… Yogi…’
    ‘Stale incense, sir,’ Alice replied, her voice hardly audible, fearful that her words, too, would be magnified as his had been. Arriving at the step, they automatically separated, taking a side each as if they had discussed the matter beforehand. Alice’s gentle tap on the white-haired man’s shoulder made him start with surprise, dropping the rosary he had been fingering to clatter onto the floor below.
    ‘Very sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Alice began, ‘but you’re not Mr McPhail, I suppose?’
    ‘No.’ The impropriety of the question, in such a place, was communicated forcefully to her by his stern expression . The next man along, eyes clamped shut in prayer, shook his head impatiently in answer to her query, and the third one in the row did the same, her voice having carried to him. Defeated, she manoeuvred her way back through the empty pew to find the Inspector waiting for her.
    ‘Any luck?’ he mumbled under his breath.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Me neither. The bastard must have gone.’
    While they were still engaged in a whispered discussion , an elderly woman joined them and asked in a broad Irish accent, ‘Would it be Father McPhail, now, that you’re after?’
    ‘It might well be,’ the Inspector replied, smiling politely, and unconsciously adopting her brogue. ‘And where would we find him?’
    ‘Well, you’ll have to wait your turn like everyone else… he’s taking confessions at the minute. I’m number eight, so you’ll be numbers nine and ten. Keep your eyes skinned, mind, or other bodies after you in the queue will nip in before you and take your place.’
    Sitting on the hard bench, Alice watched as Eric Manson, passing the time in between bouts of fidgeting , methodically hunted down any smut available in the Good News Bible , from Susanna and the Elders to Onan and his seed. Each one was discovered in seconds, a testament to the boredom of his own churchgoing years and a retentive memory. She knew them all, of course, and a few more besides; too many masses, benedictions and complines to fill and too little reading material.
    After over an hour