Peter sighed as the crisp English air buffeted his face. He was home.
Was he?
He wasn't sure where home was anymore. It had been Ballyk…up until a few days ago. He couldn't stay, not when she would be there. Peter wasn't stupid; he knew the effect she had on him. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he crumbled, and he wasn't risking her life for his own selfish desires.
He'd made a deal, and he intended to honour it. If that meant leaving Ballyk and his friends, then so be it.
He scoured the crowds for his brother's face, but came up empty. He took a few steps further out into the carpark, until a voice caused him to turn around.
'Peter!' It was Mark, Peter's older brother. Peter smiled when he saw him, and the two hugged. 'Welcome home,' Mark greeted him, his eyes searching Peter's face. He didn't like what he saw. 'What happened, Peter? Why are you back?' he asked, the smile falling from his face. Peter just shook his head.
'Long story, Mark,' he sighed, looking at his feet, then back up at Mark. Mark knew when to drop a subject; he'd just get it out of Peter later. Peter would need to talk, and Mark would be there when he did.
'Ok. Car's over here.'
Her eyes still felt heavy, but she forced herself to open them again. She was warm and comfortable, but she knew something was wrong. She willed her eyes open.
The window she recognised from last time was still there, as were the curtains. The painting definitely told her she wasn't in her bed in her room. She turned her head slightly. There was a chair in the corner, but it was empty. What was going on?
'Peter,' she whispered. She tried to speak louder, but her throat was dry and sore. She swallowed a few times, trying to moisten it. 'Peter,' she tried again. Peter would know what was going on. Peter…
Memories came flooding back to her: the river, walking down by the lake…the Chinese Food Fair…the lights, the fuse box…
She tried to wiggle her fingers, but she couldn't. Something was holding them together, and tightly. She tried lifting her hand to examine it, but her body screamed resistance. She couldn't move.
'Peter!' she cried hoarsely, the panic rising through her chest. 'Peter!'
She heard footsteps. Peter…
A blonde-haired lady rushed into the room. 'It's ok, it's ok,' she said soothingly, rushing to Assumpta's bed. 'You're ok.'
Assumpta stared at her, her eyes wild. 'What…' she stumbled out, her mouth refusing to work as she commanded it.
The nurse smiled gently. 'You've had an accident,' she said calmly. 'You're lucky to be alive.' This information did nothing to quell the panic that had risen to Assumpta's throat. She felt her stomach revolt, the muscles in her stomach and chest doing sommersaults.
'Peter,' she moaned, before she started dry-reaching. The nurse put her hand on her arm, patting it carefully as Assumpta convulsed.
'Mrs McGarvey, Mrs McGarvey, please relax. You're ok, everything's ok,' she said, hitting the button for help.
Mrs McGarvey?
Leo…
Assumpta felt wild, the panic threatening to overwhelm her. The nurse continued to talk, but Assumpta didn't hear a thing.
Mrs McGarvey…
She let the panic overtake her, the darkness enveloping her.
Leo paced at the foot of Assumpta's bed. I should have been here. I should never have left.
He'd taken the nurses' advice and gone home to shower and get some sleep. She'd be ok, they'd told him. If she woke, they'd tell her he'd be back soon, but they didn't think she'd wake again today.
Clearly, they had been wrong. A full-blown panic attack, they had said. Half an hour later, when the doctor was satisfied there'd been no permanent damage to her heart, he'd left with strict instructions to keep her lightly sedated for the next few hours. She needed to rest.
Leo continued to pace. He'd grilled the nurse for every piece of information he could before she'd escaped into a back room. She was reluctant to tell him what she'd said, and he knew why.
Peter.
Leo sat on the chair, his head in his hands. He needed time to think. Rest. He needed to plan this, and plan it carefully. He was determined he wasn't going to lose the woman he loved again, but he felt strangely like it was a fight he'd already lost.
Peter pulled at his black jacket, straightening it as he stood in front of the door to the old building. Its once familiar shape now felt alien. It was like it knew he didn't want to wear it; he had betrayed it, and all it stood for. It knew that just days ago, he was ready to discard it forever.
I want to do this, he told himself. I made a deal.
He took a deep breath and walked through the Bishop's door into a small office where a receptionist sat. Bishop O'Connell was a good Bishop, he knew; he cared about his flock, and looked after the priests under him. Peter knew why he was here; Father Mac had obviously felt it necessary to alert the Bishop to Peter's recent…behaviour. Peter knew what lay ahead, and had mentally prepared the necessary words.
I am committed to the Church, Bishop O'Connell. I apologise for my recent behaviour, Bishop O'Connell. Three bags full, Bishop O'Connell. He mentally berated himself for the last one. The Bishop was no Father Mac, but he still needed to convince the Bishop that he was ready to be a priest again. That he'd decided to return to Manchester to get away from…temptation. That he was ready to recommit his life.
Who was he kidding? He'd run away from the only woman he'd truly loved - and a town he had grown to call home - because he'd made a deal with the Creator for her life.
Yes, that would go down like a lead balloon. Peter knew he could never say that to the Bishop, to anyone.
The receptionist interrupted his thoughts. 'You can go in now,' she said with a smile. He smiled back and headed towards the door. He pushed it open to reveal a large office, not unlike Father Mac's. The large, ornate wooden desk sat in one corner, several seats congregated around a small table in another. The walls were covered with pictures of saints.
'Ah, Father Clifford. It's nice to see you again,' the Bishop said, warmly shaking Peter's hand. The Bishop was older, in his seventies, but his eyes were bright, and his smile genuine. Peter smiled shallowly, all the mental preparation he had gone through flowing out of him like the river in Ballyk.
Ballyk.
He shook the thought from his head and followed the Bishop to the seats. 'Tea?' the Bishop asked, smiling at Peter. Peter nodded.
'Yes, thank you, your Grace,' he replied, and the Bishop picked up the phone. 'Two teas, thank you, Margaret. Thank you,' he said into the receiver. Peter looked over at the chest against the wall nearest him. There were photo frames, but he couldn't make out the pictures. Some were colour – taken recently, obviously – and some were black and white.
'My family,' the Bishop explained, noting Peter's observation. Peter smiled and nodded. 'My brother and his wife with their children, my sister with her family,' he said, waving at the photos. He smiled at Peter. 'They remind me why I'm here,' he said, his eyes keen. Peter shifted uncomfortably; he felt as if the Bishop's keen eyesight could pierce his very soul. A benefit, he supposed, when dealing with unruly subordinates - like himself.
'Father, I'm sure you're at a loss as to why I've called you in to see me today,' the Bishop began, sitting down. Peter put on a smile.
'I assume, your Grace, that Father MacAnally has spoken to you in regards to my departure from Ballykissangel,' he said, watching the Bishop's reaction. He merely nodded.
'Yes, that is true.' The Bishop remained silent. Peter took the opportunity to begin his platitudes.
'I can assure you, Father, that I am wholly committed to my vocation. I did have a rough patch, but I think it's only strengthened my resolve to be the best priest I can be,' he started, when he noted the Bishop's amused expression. Peter stopped, taken aback.
'You are not the first priest, Father, who has felt the call of love,' he said, his eyes piercing Peter's soul, yet again.
'Yes, your Grace.'
'Father, I haven't called you here to scold you,' the Bishop said gently. Peter looked up at him. 'You're not a school boy, you're a grown man. I completely understand your problem. Even the strongest of us have our moments,' he admitted. Peter just stared at the Bishop, the walls around his heart in danger of crumbling. Peter took a deep breath and steeled himself, a motion which did not go unnoticed.
'I want to be a priest, your Grace,' he said quietly. 'No matter what anyone has told you,' he added, his voice steely. He dragged his eyes up to the Bishop's. 'I have made my decision.'
The Bishop merely looked at him, meeting Peter's gaze.
'You don't necessarily need the church to devote your life to God, Father.'
Peter felt like a speeding train had just crashed into his chest. He stared at the man in front of him. He knew. Somehow, he knew. He knew about the deal he'd made with God. He felt his eyes begin to burn, and he looked away, trying to compose himself. There was a knock at the door, and the receptionist appeared with the tea. Peter used the few seconds she needed to pour the tea to compose himself. When she'd gone, he looked back over at the Bishop.
'Yes, your Grace,' he replied, his face a mask. The Bishop frowned slightly.
'Hmm. Well, I'm more than happy to have you back. Things have been rather hectic since you left. It's been three years, yes?' he asked.
'Almost two years,' Peter replied. One year, ten months and fourteen days.
The Bishop nodded. 'I believe you get on rather well with teenagers, Father.'
Chapter Three coming soon. Any feedback greatly appreciated.
