Carmel Power stood sullenly by while Padraig O'Kelly prodded about underneath her car's bonnet. She was in no mood to be stranded in this sleepy backwater. Sleepy backwaters weren't generally hotbeds of scandal and intrigue in her experience and where there was no scandal and intrigue there was nothing to write about. She imagined the headline: "Sheep hit by Priest's car", no, she'd put money on nothing that exciting having happened around here in the last hundred years.

That mechanic was a grumpy old goat of a man, she thought, but at least he'd stopped singing now.

"So what's the verdict?"

"I'll have to get the parts from Cilldargan."

"How long will that take?"

Padraig shrugged. "A few hours. It'll be sorted today with a bit of luck."

"And what am I supposed to do until then?"

Padraig was unconcerned by her ill humour. "Get a spot of lunch? Admire the view? You could try Fitzgerald's."

"Is there a good view to be had in there?"

"If you like the look of a glass of stout there is."

Assumpta clambered out of the cellar once again. The fuse box was dead, there was no reviving it this time. She'd have to get Peter to give it the last rights.

An involuntary shiver ran through her, like someone was walking on her grave. The memory of that electrical arc flashed through her mind for an instant. She shook it off, along with the dust on her palms.

"What can I do for you?"

She directed the question at the woman standing just inside the door. A stranger. Quite smart. Looking a bit fed up.

"Do you do food?"

"I can do you a sandwich. My electrics are shot so I'm afraid that's about all I can offer today."

The woman didn't hide her disdain all that well. "Ham and lettuce then?"

"Right you are." said Assumpta, retreating into the kitchen.


Brendan Kearney leaned his bicycle up against the pub's façade and sauntered jovially through its entrance. He nodded amicably at the pub's other occupant and then looked enquiringly around at the light fittings.

"Assumpta!" he yelled.

A muffled "What?" filtered through the closed door to the kitchen.

"Your lights are out."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Any other complaints?"

"Service is slow too."

"Well you know where you can go if you don't like it here." She answered grinning as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of freshly made ham and lettuce sandwiches, which she placed in front of Carmel.

"Peaking Ducks R Us? Good idea, I'll give them a go."

"No, I was thinking of school, don't you have lessons?"

"We're allowed lunch. Get me a glass of stout would you please Assumpta."

"Coming right up."

"Seen much of our friendly local curate today?" Said Brendan innocently.

"No, why would I have?" Replied Assumpta too quickly and to Brendan's amusement.

"Oh, no reason, just wondering."

"Just wondering what?" She spat back crossly.

"I'm concerned for him Assumpta, he's been through a lot lately, losing his Mum and everything."

She was mollified, felt quite guilty in fact, she'd not been thinking much about Peter's mother, what with one thing and another.

"And he did have quite an unusual look on his face last night." Continued Brendan, growing bold and looking Assumpta intently in the eye, hoping to read something there.

Assumpta had quite an unusual look on her face right now. But fortunately for her it was a difficult one to read, even for Brendan.

"No Brendan, I'm sorry, I haven't seen him. D'you want anything with that stout?".


The river Angel flowed idly by, far calmer than the previous evening, as if the torrential rain had never been. There was only a water mark some way up the stone supports of the bridge to hint at recent drama.

To Peter it seemed at once strangely unchanged and also permanently altered by association with yesterday's events. He felt as if its course should have shifted to mirror the changed course of his own future life, that it should be as marked as he was. Yet here it was, looking just the same, babbling gently as it always had, keeping secret all it had witnessed.

He looked up at the bridge and wondered how many secrets it had shared. The bridge was a favourite spot for many to stand and stare and ponder life's dilemmas. The river was a constant in the turbulent lives of his parishioners. A place to gain perspective perhaps, a place of quiet contemplation, rather like St. Joseph's .

Interesting that he should chose to be here now, instead of at his church.

His church.

Not for much longer.

No, not his church, God's church. Hadn't Father Mac reminded him of that often enough?

He loved that church, and the loss of his connection with it wounded him deeply. A tear came involuntarily to his eye as he grieved for what was lost, what had been and what would not now be. A future, once so certain, was now torn from him, pulled from under him like a rug, and he felt unstable and giddy in its wake. The loss of his Mother too seemed to loosen the bonds which once held him in place. Parentless, he felt untethered, cut away from his roots and free to drift whichever way the breeze took him. He had only one anchor now.

Assumpta.

And wherever she was, he needed to be. How had he ever imagined he could do without her? How bleak a future was an Assumpta-less one? A yawning chasm of nothingness. He shuddered at the mere thought and reminded himself gratefully that this was not the future he now faced.

He kicked idly at the pebbles underfoot and put off those phone calls a little longer as he wandered aimlessly further down the stream.