A bit far fetched? Probably... but this is how it went down in my head, so I hope it entertains you ;)

Chapter Four

Brendan took a deep breath as he pushed open the door to Fitzgerald's. Glancing around, he saw that the place was empty, as he'd expected. It was only just gone opening time, and the lunch rush, if you could justify calling it that, wasn't due for another hour or so. Assumpta came through from the kitchen, and greeted him with a smile, which he returned.

She'd always had a soft spot in her heart for Brendan, even when she was a child; she'd give all the other schoolteachers absolute hell, but she'd usually be willing to listen to what Mister Kearney had to say. Now, he was the only person who could ever get her to calm down and see sense when she was in a rage... at least, he used to be the only person; Brendan had lately noticed that Father Clifford had something of the lion tamer about him, too. But Peter had not been around so long as Brendan had, and that's why Brendan had been nominated for this task. Michael, Siobhan and Padraig all remembered the drama Connelly had caused the last time he was in Ballykissangel, but they knew that Brendan was the only one who had a hope of getting Assumpta to talk about it.

'How's the business of moulding young minds, these days?'
'Oh, grand. I've almost managed to convince them to read some of their poetry books in the ad breaks of the football on TV.'
'Well, I guess I can sleep soundly in the knowledge that Ireland's future rests in capable hands. What can I get you?'
'Just the usual, thanks.'
'Bit early for that, isn't it?'
'Ah, since when do you tell me what to do, young Miss Fitzgerald?'
Assumpta held up her hands in surrender, and got Brendan his pint. Brendan nursed it in his hands for a few moments, thinking once more over what he was going to say.

'Assumpta?'
She looked up from wiping the bar, noticing his change of tone.
'I know it must be hard for you... seeing Connelly back here again.'
She immediately went back to cleaning, trying to act normal. Was he seriously going to talk to her about this? How much did he know? How much did he think she knew?
She tried to come up with something suitably flippant to say in reply, but Brendan didn't wait.
'I know you were a child when he was here last, but I won't insult your intelligence by assuming you didn't figure out what was going on. I knew it was affecting you; I could see it in the classroom, but it wasn't appropriate for me to say anything then.'

Assumpta put down her cloth, and stood up straight to look Brendan in the eye.
'Look, Brendan, I don't want to talk about it, okay? I just want to forget it ever happened. So drop it,' she said, sternly.
'Assumpta, just listen.'
She rolled her eyes, just like she'd done countless times at school when he'd told her to "just listen". He continued.

'I never liked that Father Connelly. Oh, he acted very friendly and all, but there was always something not quite right about him... I just couldn't trust him. I think a few other people saw it too; I know Michael did.
'I don't rightly know what happened with him and your mum, but I am convinced that he was in the wrong. I thought so at the time, when the rumours were flying, and I spoke in her defence whenever I could. It's a damn shame that people around here are so bent on not speaking ill of a priest that they're willing to think ill of a respectable and kind lady, even when they knew – and I think most of them did know – that she was the victim in the thing.
'Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I'm on your side. And, if he bothers you at all, you just let me know.'

Assumpta didn't know what to say. Brendan had always been uncommonly perceptive, and he'd read this situation almost perfectly. As much as she dreaded the thought that her family's past would once again become a topic for discussion around town, she was comforted by the thought that, this time, she knew she had friends on her side.

'Thanks, Brendan.'

That afternoon, Assumpta gratefully accepted Niamh's offer to watch the pub while she got some fresh air; apparently, she looked awful, probably from lack of sleep. Fionn jumped with excitement at the sight of his lead, and the two of them set off on their favourite walk.

Their usual way home took them by St Joseph's, and Assumpta wondered whether she should go the long way round instead. But Mass was long over, and Connelly was probably gone. Maybe, she allowed herself to hope, he'd decided one night's stay was long enough, and had gone back to Wicklow. Besides, why should she let him dictate where she walked in her own town? Screw him, she thought, and tugged on Fionn's lead. Still, she deliberately kept her gaze focused on the footpath until she was past the church, and almost past the curate's house beyond.

She jumped, as Peter's friendly 'Hiya' broke the Sunday afternoon quiet. He made his way to her across the garden.
'Hi.'
When he reached them, he bent down to give Fionn a scratch behind the ears. 'Hiya, Fionn.'
Straightening up, he smiled at Assumpta, but his eyes were still filled with the same concern as the night before.
'How are you?'
'I'm fine.'
Again, he was unconvinced.
'No, really, Peter. I'm feeling better today.'
'I'm glad to hear it,' Peter said, earnestly. Noticing her shivering, he added, 'I was just gonna change and then come for a drink. Do you want to come in and wait where it's warm?'
Assumpta had never been inside Peter's house... Well, not since it had been his, anyway. She had to admit that she was curious to see it, and she was feeling very cold...
'Sure, thanks.'
She tied Fionn to a nearby post, and followed Peter inside.

Peter disappeared upstairs to change, leaving Assumpta free to look around his sitting room. Not much had changed since the last time she'd been in the curate's house, and that was years ago now. Aside from a few touches – his book on the end table, his shoes by the fireplace, and, most notably, the faint scent of him everywhere – there wasn't anything here to distinguish it as Peter's home. He hadn't even put any photographs up on the shelves. So typical of a man, Assumpta thought, smiling at the thought that, behind the collar, Peter was indeed a man – and a rather wonderful one at that.

The fire had made the room delightfully warm, and the sofa looked attractively comfortable. Assumpta sank down into it, took up a cushion, and rested her head. By the time Peter came back downstairs, her eyes were closed. He stood watching her for a good couple of minutes. It was lovely to see her so peaceful, so quiet, and so decidedly... on his sofa.

She stirred, opened her eyes, and blushed a little when she saw him standing there looking at her with that stupid cute smile on his face again.
'Sorry...'
'Don't be.' He came and sat down next to her. 'Looks like you had about as much sleep as I did, last night. I was trying to figure out how in the world I was going to survive saying Mass with Connelly this morning.'
Assumpta winced.
'How did it go?'
Peter sighed.
'It was horrible. It made me sick – watching him standing up there, all self-righteously, talking to the congregation about God's love. Like he has any clue about God's love! And these innocent people are looking up to him, listening to him, and he's just deceiving them all. I hate the thought that they're coming to us for loving guidance, and instead they're getting lies and hypocrisy. But there was nothing I could do! Connelly and Father Mac went to Brian's for some fancy lunch he'd organised, but I told them I was ill. I honestly could not stand to spend any longer around him.'

Peter's fists were clenched, and his face had gone slightly red with anger. Assumpta couldn't remember ever seeing him angry, and she felt guilty for being the cause of it.
She said, very quietly, 'I'm sorry for putting you through this, Peter.'
Peter turned and gave her a very exasperated look, like she'd just said something incredibly stupid. He reached out, and took her hand, which had been resting on the cushion on her lap. Assumpta's breath caught at his touch.
'Will you stop doing that?' Peter's voice was quiet, as he looked her intently in the eyes.
'Doing what?' she breathed.
'Apologising... acting like you've done something wrong.'
'Sorry.'
'Assumpta!'
They both laughed quietly, looking down at their hands. He squeezed her hand a little bit tighter, making her head spin.

They were startled by a crash, as someone stumbled through the front door. The smell of whiskey reached them while the intruder was still in the hallway.
'Clifford!' shouted Connelly, 'I've only gone and left my coat here!'
Peter had reflexively let go of Assumpta's hand when he heard the door, but he reached for it again, now, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
'I'll get rid of him.'
But, before Peter could head him off, Connelly was there, in all his drunken glory. Obviously, Brian had been very generously supplying beverages all afternoon.

Connelly took in the sight that was before him, and gave Peter a knowing and disapproving look.
'Ohhh, no, Clifford,' he slurred, 'let me give you some friendly advice, son. She may be gorgeous, but, I'm telling you, she's not worth it. She's a troublemaker, this one – nothing but a troublemaker.'

If Peter was angry before, now he was furious. How dare he barge into the house like he owns the place, and throw insults at an innocent woman to whom he hasn't even spoken since she was eleven years old? How the hell did this guy get appointed as a bishop?

Peter moved around the sofa so that he was only inches away from Connelly, stared him straight in the eye, and shouted, 'How dare you? I know about you, Connelly. I know you're the only one in this room who's been causing trouble. You don't fool me; so don't even try it.'
Connelly turned to Assumpta, with an amused expression.
'Oh, we've been telling stories, have we? Good idea; tell him a good sob story, get his sympathy, play the damsel in distress. That'll get him into bed.'
'Go to hell.' Assumpta tried to say it forcefully, but she couldn't keep her voice from shaking.
Connelly pretended not to hear her.
'Clever little whore, aren't you, Miss Fitzgerald? More like your mother every day.'

Before he even knew what he was doing, Peter had delivered one strong blow right to Connelly's nose. Peter was shaking out a very sore hand, Connelly was lying on the floor, and Assumpta was standing, astonished, looking between the two men.
'You've just punched a bishop.'
'I've just punched a complete bastard; that's who I've just punched.'
Assumpta looked up at Peter, eyes wide with disbelief.
'I think you've knocked him out.'
Peter nodded slowly, assessing the situation.
'Let's get out of here,' he said, grabbing the wrist of a still astounded Assumpta and leading her out the door.