Peter, March 1998

"Don't say that," Assumpta said gently, uncharacteristically gently.

Peter thought she'd never looked more beautiful, her auburn hair lit up by the early spring sun.

He was angry though. More angry than he'd been for a long time; angry at the hoaxer, angry at people's gullibility, angry at the church for exploiting it. He had also been angry at Assumpta for equating this charade with the normal duties of a priest, but when priests went along with pantomime like this he could see why she felt that way.

"Why not? It's how I feel… It's how you feel isn't it?"

All morning his anger had been mounting against the very institution he was meant to serve, leaving in its wake a sense of disillusionment and disappointment. What was the point of the sacrifice and the pain of it all, of his vows, of the loneliness, when this was how the church operated?

"It doesn't matter how I feel. Having a belief is a different matter…"

A belief? A belief in what? In God, yes, but right now, in the church? In the priesthood? Everyone else, the church included, was just out for what they could get, so why was he denying himself when no one else was?

"Right at this moment I'm not sure what I believe in. People? Me? … You?"

He looked at Assumpta, still radiant, always radiant, and felt his love for her burn fiercely in his chest, matched in intensity with his anger at the church. For months now, he and Assumpta had seemed to have worked out a way to be friends, to have fun together without crossing the invisible line which kept them apart. Sometimes, for him at least, it felt like he was having to hold a tidal wave back, but that was the price of the vocation, the orders were holy because they were costly. For her, he still didn't know if she was able to truly see past the priest, if she felt at all how he did; sometimes he thought she did. Sometimes he'd catch her eye and it would feel that there was a reflection in them of his feelings, but then he'd shake his head and it would be gone. Now, as he looked at her, unusually quiet, he thought he saw that ripple behind her eyes, but his anger bubbled up again and the moment passed.

"Excuse me," he said, turning on his head and leaving her to watch him go.


Assumpta, April 1998

Assumpta looked up at Peter expectantly, pushing a stray hair back behind her ear. He looked nackered, he'd look nackered for weeks. She realised that she was probably as physically close to him as she'd ever been; she could reach out and hold his hand like he'd held hers, or touch his face, and no one would see, no one would know.

She hoped that he would say that they needed to talk; surely they did need to talk?

"I'm a priest"

Peter's familiar refrain. Of course he was a bloody priest, but what the hell was he doing then? If he was a priest, then he needed to be a priest, and she needed to get away from him; he was driving her crazy.

"That's fine. Be a priest."

What else could she say? She raised her arm, meaning to push him away, but thought better of it, not wanting anymore physical touch, and got into her van.

She drove slowly back to the pub, her mind on overdrive. She parked the van and sat, frozen, in the drivers' seat, her head on the steering wheel.

Assumpta knew that things had been hard for Peter recently, that the incident with the chip fat and the statue had been a moment of crisis for him. She'd watched his eyes get redder and his demeanour slump over the ensuing weeks and that he didn't have the fight in him to oppose Quigley's plans for the wood showed just how low he'd got.

She had to admit that there had been moments recently when she'd wondered if he might leave the priesthood altogether, so despondent had he become. These moments always left her feeling conflicted. Of course, she wanted to see him happy, she knew he had a genuine vocation to the priesthood and, in so many ways, he was the very best priest she'd ever known, but, equally, there was a part of her who yearned for a Peter out of the dog collar and free of the vows, a Peter she could love freely.

Tonight, in his car, as he'd held her hand, she'd seen his struggle, his emotion, and for a moment, again, she'd allowed herself to wonder if he might chose life outside the church, life with her.

But no. He was a priest. That was what he wanted, more than her, even with his crisis of faith. She took a deep breath and opened the van door to go back inside. Tomorrow things would have to change; she needed to get away from him and find herself again.