Peter stood at the door of the Community Centre and glanced at his watch. It was 8:55am. The boys would arrive at any minute. Peter planned to strip back the walls first; he'd been down to the local hardware store and picked up everything they needed for the first few days. He fingered the walls; thirty years of dirt and grime and innumerable layers of paint were not going to give up easily. The boys would have their work cut out for them. Peter didn't mind; it would be good for them, and maybe they'd take more of an interest in the place if they invested some of themselves in it.

Well, he hoped they would. The centre was so...quiet. It left Peter with too much time to think; something he didn't enjoy. Thinking was the last thing Peter Clifford needed to do at the moment.

His thoughts were disrupted by the sounds of scuffing shoes. He took a few steps down the stairs, where the boys met him.

'Father,' the chorused, and Peter smiled.

'Good to see you, lads.' He motioned towards the door. 'Let's get started.'

The boys traipsed inside, clearly less than enthusiastic. 'Thought you said we were painting,' the older boy said when he saw the tins of paint stripper.

'In order to paint, one must first strip the walls,' Peter explained. The older boy narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Peter held out his hand.

'Peter,' he said. The boy looked at his hand for a few tense moments – Peter practically held his breath – and then shook it.

'Michael,' he replied.

'Nice to meet you officially, Michael,' Peter said. He reached out his hand to each of the other boys, who each shook his hand, offering their names: James, Liam, and Jonno.

'Well, this isn't going to be easy,' Peter admitted. 'But if we work hard, we'll get it done quickly.' He gave each of the boys a paintbrush, a paint removing tool, and a can of paint stripper, before showing them how to use it. They got to work fairly quickly, the boys plainly resigned to their fate, and by midday they had almost finished stripping back the bottom of one wall. Peter was impressed, and brought out some juice for them all.

He'd been watching Michael. He was obviously the leader of the group, and the other boys clearly deferred to his judgement. Peter knew if he was going to crack anyone, it would have to be Michael first. Well, he'd at least start with Michael. If he proved to be too much of a tough nut, he'd move on to the other boys and work from the bottom of the pecking order.

Michael had wandered over to the storage room and grabbed a football. As Peter watched, he started kicking it up on one foot, losing control only after a minute of solid ball-work.

Peter smiled and wandered nonchalantly over to the storage room. Michael was still kicking the ball around, ignoring Peter, when he missed slightly and it went sideways. Peter reacted instantly, kicking it straight back up at Michael, who caught it with the top of his foot, and looked over at Peter. Peter motioned at him to pass the ball, which Michael did.

If Peter hadn't been sweating from the hard work they'd been doing that morning, he would have started then. He knew he needed to make this good; his reputation was at stake. He kicked it up several times, bouncing it off both feet, silently praying he wouldn't make a stupid mistake and completely ruin the opportunity before him. He continued kicking the ball until he kicked it above his head and gently headed it back to Michael. Michael caught it again, and stopped, looking at Peter.

'You play, Father?'

'Peter, and I used to, yeah,' Peter replied, trying to maintain his uninterested look. 'You're pretty good,' he said. 'Do you play for a local team?'

Michael shook his head. 'Nah.' Peter raised an eyebrow. Michael shook his head. 'Got kicked off. For fighting,' he admitted, starting to play with the ball again.

'Ah.' Peter saw his opportunity. 'Do your mates play?' He motioned over at the three boys, who were standing around talking.

'Yeah, we all used to,' he said. 'Fighting,' he said in answer to Peter's unspoken question, rolling his eyes.

'How'd you like to play futsal?' he asked. Michael looked up at him.

'Futsal?'

'Yeah. I want to start up a team. We'll train here a couple of times a week. There's a local tournament that runs most of the year we can enter,' Peter said, trying subtly to gauge Michael's reaction, and failing. Michael had perfected the art of teenage impassivity.

'Maybe,' he replied, kicking the ball around again. Peter shrugged.

'I'm hoping to start training next week. I'll let you know,' he replied. Michael nodded.

I can't do more than that. It's up to you now.

Peter let the boys go an hour later; they had worked hard, and they were tired. He sat on the steps of the community centre, his spirits buoyed by the morning's events. A futsal team would definitely get people back in the door, and the local boys were definitely football fans – he'd seen them in the varying colours of the Manchester United and Manchester City teams. Not his team, but he'd take anything at the moment.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. His talk with Mark last night had been good, but sleep had still evaded him. He had mused over what his older brother had said. I don't believe a God of love would ever punish a man like that. Peter shook his head. If this wasn't punishment, then what was? Peter's heart ached constantly; her face filled his mind at least a million times a day. Her face filled his dreams, and his nightmares. He longed for the beautiful rolling hills of Ireland; for the quiet, winding roads; for the quiet community; for his friends…

He realised it was more than Assumpta he missed; it was everything, and everyone. Brendan's keen eyes and quiet voice; Siobhan's passion for animals; Padraig's stupid jokes. Niamh's kind words and honesty. Ambrose's passion for the law. The refuge of Fitzgerald's. Her…

He shook his head, willing the tears to stop. He punched the wall beside him with his hand. The tears flowed freely these days, and it drove Peter mad. He could barely contain his emotions. He felt himself get instantly and irrationally angry at nothing; he'd struggle to contain himself when he thought of her. He put his head in his hands.

He was losing his mind.

A set of feet appeared in front of him, and he looked up to see the concerned face of Sam.

'Let's talk.'

Peter sat on the grass under a tree in a local park Sam had taken him to, only a few minutes from the church. The ground was cool but dry; Peter watched as the leaves on the old, weathered trees twirled in the wind. He had reluctantly followed the priest, and only because he didn't really have much of a choice. He wasn't interested in talking to anyone else. He'd felt better after talking to Mark, but he knew he needed to push her out of his head. He needed to work on forgetting her.

'Peter, I haven't known you for very long,' Sam started. 'But even I can see when a man is not who he used to be.' Peter sighed to himself; damn that heart on his sleeve. Sam turned his head and looked at the young curate. 'I don't want to pull rank on you, but as your Priest, I think you need to talk.'

Peter looked down at the piece of grass he was twirling in his fingers, saying nothing.

'I've spoken to several people who used to know you. They described a keen young man, a passionate young priest. Someone who loved life and loved people. I don't see that in your eyes, Peter.'

He stopped, debating whether or not to play his trump card; he wasn't sure he wanted Peter to know. Another look at Peter's face told him he was going to have to. 'I've also spoken to your brother.' Peter turned to look at the older priest, who met his gaze. He felt a flash of anger, but it subsided almost straight away. He realised he wasn't really that surprised. He had a feeling that under the warm exterior, Sam was a man who got what he wanted.

'Then I guess you know what's wrong,' he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice. Sam sighed.

'Why don't you explain it to me?'

Peter sighed. 'What is there to explain? I loved her. I love her,' he corrected. 'I can't stop thinking about her. I don't even know how she is. She was alive when I left the hospital…' Peter trailed off, willing his voice to hold. 'I thought leaving would help…' he said, his voice strained. Sam put his hand on his shoulder.

'Why don't you call her?' he suggested quietly. Peter's head whipped around.

'Why?'

'Maybe it would put your mind at ease,' Sam said. Peter shook his head.

'No. I can't.'

'Ok. Is there someone else you can ring? Someone you trust, who can at least tell you how she is?' he asked.

Brendan.

Brendan had been the last person he'd spoken to when he'd left. Not on purpose; Brendan had clearly suspected something and headed him off at the road. He remembered the conversation clearly; about the only thing he remembered from those emotion-filled days. Brendan had asked him what he should tell the others. Peter had offered a trite reply: 'A man's gotta do?' He'd told Brendan where he was going; he still wasn't sure why. Maybe, subconsciously, he'd wanted to keep a link to the town. But Brendan, as far as he knew, hadn't made any effort to track him down. He had assumed that meant everything was ok; he was sure Brendan would contact him if anything had happened. At least, he thought he would…

'I could call one person, yes,' Peter said hesitantly. Sam smiled at him.

'Piece of mind,' he said reassuringly.

Peter wasn't so sure.

Another short chapter. Hope you like it. I think we're more than a third of the way through now...but we'll see.

As always, any and all feedback greatly appreciated. Your feedback really does help!