Chapter Five

'You take care of yourself, okay Tom? It was great to hear from you.'
Peter tried to sound cheerful as he bid his friend goodbye, and hung up the phone. He had helped Tom out of the lower floor of Saint Gabriel's as it burned, and the young priest from Wexford had just called with the news that he'd been released from hospital at last, almost three weeks later.

There had been only one death at Saint Gabriel's – an aged bishop who had been suffering with lung disease for a number of years. There was still a handful of victims from the seminary attack being looked after in intensive care, and quite a few in the burns unit, but it looked like they were all going to make it through. It was great news, Peter knew; they had been very blessed. Still, it did little enough to lift his spirits.

Most of the parishioners at Saint Joseph's had noticed that Father Peter hadn't been the same since returning from Dublin. He seemed quiet and defeated, slightly apathetic and even a little scathing at times. The lively glint in his eye was gone, and, it seemed, his hope along with it. Naturally, they assumed he was still suffering the effects of his traumatic experience of the attack... But, most of the time – Peter reproached himself for being so selfish – the bombing was not what plagued his mind. No, it was more to do with the shiny sports car perpetually stationed outside Fitzgerald's, and the smug owner whose presence it betrayed.

He hadn't heard from her – not a single word, since the night they'd spent together. Leo had come barging in, and she'd just run off after him, without a single glance back at the priest, confused and crumbling, that she was leaving behind. Peter had returned to Ballykissangel the next day, only to find that detestable car looking so out of place on the quaint and charming street. He learned from Niamh that, after Assumpta had spent several weeks with him in London, Leo had decided to pack up at move to Ballyk. Several weeks. So she had left, what? The day he went on retreat? His blood boiled and melted his heart at the thought of it, and at the thought of the two of them, together, now, just a few yards down the road.

Every now and then, a little voice of reason popped up in Peter's head, saying 'Maybe it's for the best. Maybe they'll be happy together. Don't you want Assumpta to be happy? And you can finally just get on with doing your job, without all this wondering about her.' Maybe the voice was right. Maybe he needed to move on. She certainly had. And Peter missed her. Sure, seeing her with Leo tore his heart in two, but not having her in his life at all would damn near kill him. He shuddered at the thought of being nothing more than an acquaintance to Assumpta, of watching her spend all her days with Leo, of christening – or, perhaps, not christening – MacGarvey children. But the thought of never seeing her smile or laugh or shout or rant ever again was so much worse. So, when Michael came around and asked very sensitively (so sensitively, in fact, that Peter was sure the quiet doctor knew the real cause of his troubles) if Peter wouldn't come for a drink in Fitzgerald's, he hesitantly agreed.

Assumpta, midway through pulling a pint for Brendan, froze momentarily upon seeing Peter follow Michael through the door. The glass overflowed, spilling Guinness all over her red cardigan. She was glad; it gave her an excuse to get out of the room. She ran upstairs to change, trying to decide what she should be feeling. The emotion that kept cropping up was guilt. She splashed cold water on her flushed cheeks, hoping to chase away the redness, and the feeling too. She had no reason to feel guilty, she reminded herself. She had done nothing wrong. Taking a deep breath, and squaring her shoulders, Assumpta headed back downstairs.

It was Michael who came to the bar to order.
'What can I get you, Doc?'
'Just two pints of lager, thanks Assumpta.'
She set about making their drinks,
'Peter and I are celebrating,' said Michael, cheerfully.
'Oh yeah?'
'He's just been telling me that the young man he rescued from the seminary has been released from hospital.' He gave a little chuckle. 'How about that, eh? Our own curate rescuing people from burning buildings! A real life hero, is he not?'
Assumpta risked a quick glance at Peter, who was sitting at a table in the far corner, staring at his hands.
'Yeah,' she said quietly, handing Michael their pints.

Assumpta managed to make herself look busy. Her eyes occasionally flickered over to Peter's table, and he always managed to avert his own gaze away from her just in time – he was well versed in that. They continued in this old game of theirs until, around ten minutes later, Leo came waltzing in through the front door. Making his way around the bar, he said loudly, 'And how's my lovely lady, this fine evening?'
Assumpta became unusually interested in her bar mat, but Leo didn't notice. He gazed smilingly around the pub, until his eyes met Peter's, and he scowled.

Moving closer to Assumpta, he said in a low but forceful voice, 'What the hell is he doing here?'
Assumpta scoffed.
'It's a free country, Leo.'
'No thanks to his kind.'
'Leo!'
Leo's fists clenched. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see the back of this trouble-maker of a priest. He had never questioned Assumpta about her feelings for Peter. Quite frankly, he didn't want to know. But he knew that something had happened between them – sure, hadn't he found them in bed together? – and he hated the priest for occupying any of the space in her head which was rightfully his own.

As he turned back to lock eyes with Peter, Leo's scowl shifted into a smug smile, as he very deliberately moved behind Assumpta, sliding his arms around her waist. He raised a meaningful eyebrow at Peter before leaning in to kiss Assumpta's cheek. Assumpta made sure to look anywhere but at Peter's face, as the guilty blush returned to her own. When she thought she could safely disentangle herself from Leo's arms without causing a fight, she looked over to see the door swing shut, and Peter's seat sitting empty across from a glum Doctor Ryan.

As Leo snored beside her, Assumpta's eyes were wide open. Try as she might, she couldn't stop her mind from replaying the same scenes over and over... the empty seat by Michael; Peter's face as she'd walked out after Leo that day in Dublin; how tightly he'd held her at the seminary, when she'd been so sure he was dead; how she'd cried when he left for retreat, telling her "This is it"; the warmth of his hand on hers the night of the protest... She couldn't leave things the way they were. After everything... he at least deserved an explanation.

Hastily, before allowing herself to think better of it, Assumpta got up and dressed. She made her way through the cold and the misty rain, in the direction of Saint Joseph's.