‘We think they may have been buried in April 1981,’ Brock explained.‘You were here then, is that right?’
‘Yes, I arrived in ’76. Winnie mentioned the name Joseph. I couldn’t immediately remember.’ He tapped his head. ‘Getting to the stage where if a new name comes in an old one drops out to make room. Ha! Anyway, fortunately I keep a diary of parish matters.’ He went to a bookcase behind his desk and ran his fingers across the spines.‘Yes,here we go,1981.’
‘We might need 1980 as well, if he arrived that year.’
‘True.’ The priest brought both volumes.
‘Winnie thought some time before Christmas.’
They waited while he thumbed back through the 1980 diary, clicking his tongue, until finally his finger shot into the air. ‘Got you! Thursday September eighteenth,“08.55 Gatwick, BA 2262, Joseph Kidd 19 amp; Michael Grant 15.JK to WW,MG to AL”.Well, well, he came over with young Michael then. I do remember that morning. A fine pair of likely lads.’
Kathy was making notes.‘What does that last bit mean?’
‘“JK to WW” means Joseph went to stay with Winnie Wellington, as you know, and young Michael was taken in by Abigail Lavender, just down the street here.’
‘Is that Michael Grant the MP?’
‘Oh indeed! The star of Father Guzowski’s boys, you could say.’
‘Father Guzowski?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well. Father Guzowski is a saint,or at least he will be,I’ve no doubt of it.He was an American priest,from New York,and he went down to Jamaica to run a mission in the slums of Kingston, with the poorest and most desperate. He worked miracles in the worst of circumstances. He saved lives and brought hope to thousands. And one of the things he did was to help lift young people out of the pit and offer them a new start,a new life,overseas.They were Father Guzowski’s boys, and in New York, in Toronto, and elsewhere in London, there are people like me who met them off the planes and helped to get them a job and a place to stay.
‘It didn’t always work out, of course. They came from violent backgrounds, some of them, and found it difficult to shake that off.’
He stared at the diary entry again.‘You know, I’d forgotten that they came over together. I suppose you could say they represent both ends of the spectrum of Father Guzowski’s boys.We worked hard on Joseph, as I recall, especially Winnie, but he was only interested in fast money and girls. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been dealing drugs. And now, it seems he died a violent death. Michael, on the other hand, was younger and more malleable, receptive to Abigail’s encouragement, and very bright. From the most rudimentary education in one of Father Guzowski’s schools, he developed remarkably fast. By his early twenties he was studying at university, and a few years later he was a union official with UCATT, back here in our area. Soon he came to the attention of the local politicians, and was adopted as our parliamentary candidate.Michael Grant MP is now the member for Lambeth North.’
He said the final words with a flourish of his arm, as if proudly presenting not only Michael’s but his own triumph over life’s many obstacles, the draughty old presbytery, the recalcitrant youths, the shortage of funds. ‘You might talk to Michael about Joseph, you know.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ Brock said.
‘His constituency office is in the shop next door to the Ship.’
‘Where Spider Roach had his pawnshop? You’ll remember Spider Roach, of course.’
‘Oh indeed.’ Father Maguire seemed suddenly wary.
‘He must have been a thorn in your side. He certainly was in mine.’
‘He was a powerful figure around these parts, all right, and a baleful influence on many lives. But I hear he’s a changed man now, a great giver of charity. In point of fact . . .’ Kathy thought she detected some embarrassment here,‘. . .he paid for the repairs to the church spire last year, and donated computers to the school. A sinner’s repentance is a wonderful thing.’
He met Brock’s stony gaze.
‘Does he still come down here then?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him in years.’
‘What about his sons?’
‘Nor them. I heard they all moved out to Shooters Hill.’
‘Doyouhave anything else that might help us then,Father? Any particular friends of Joseph? Or any recollections of that night,Saturday the eleventh of April 1981? It was the time of the riots in Brixton.’
The priest thumbed through the second diary but found nothing. He couldn’t remember the surname of Joseph’s friend Walter, or anything about a third member of the group. Abigail Lavender’s husband had died and she’d moved away, but he wasn’t sure where to.
‘Maybe you could ponder on it and let us know if anything comes to mind.Would you have a photograph of Joseph?’
‘Well now, that is possible. I used to make a habit of taking a picture of the boys when they arrived, to send back to Father Guzowski. Let’s see, let’s see.We’ve been making an effort to get my papers in order.’
He bustled across to a couple of old wooden filing cabinets in a corner of the room and began searching through the drawers. ‘Here we are. It would be with these, if it’s anywhere.’
He laid a sheaf of photos on his desk and turned them over until one caught his eye.‘This would be them, I think.Yes.’ He showed a picture of two young men grinning at the camera, one tall and skinny and bow-legged with his arm around the shoulders of the other, more guarded and boyishly handsome.
‘Thank you, Father.’ Brock took the picture. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
‘I’d like it back, if that’s all right. I’ve had it in my mind for some time to write a little memoir of Father Guzowski’s boys. Somebody should.’
The path from the front door of the presbytery to the street wound around an ancient black yew tree,and as they emerged from its shelter they noticed a blue Peugeot convertible parked at the opposite kerb, emitting the usual heavy thumping bass. The side windows were tinted dark so they couldn’t see who was inside. Just then, with perfect timing, a police patrol car swung around the corner and pulled in behind the Peugeot. Two young uniformed cops got out, a man and a woman, and approached it. The woman tapped on the driver’s window and the door swung open,filling the quiet street with booming hip hop, and Mr Teddy Vexx heaved himself out. The policewoman said something to him and he reached back inside the car and turned the music off, then straightened again.She stood close in front of him,a good foot shorter,and delivered a short lecture, pointing to the no-parking sign, the double yellow line and the distance to the corner. All the time he stood there impassively, huge arms folded across the gold chains draped over his chest, staring across the road at Kathy and Brock. He was wearing a black bandana around his head and dark glasses. The constable asked for something and he reached to his hip pocket and produced a wallet, handing her his driver’s licence.While she walked away,talking into her radio,her partner was peering into the car. The rules prevented him from searching it without due cause, something suspicious he could actually see or smell, and he looked slightly comic bent to the opening, nose twitching, straining for an excuse. Vexx said something and the cop straightened sharply and said,‘What’s that,sir? Speak English,please.’
Kathy and Brock walked away.
‘I owe you a fiver.’
He chuckled.‘You’ve established a date?’
‘April 1981.’
‘Interesting. How about buying me a pizza tonight? You can tell me all about it.’
‘Suits me.’
‘Can I pick you up at seven?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
‘And I may have something interesting for you.’
‘Great, as long as it’s not rum punch.’
‘Aw, I thought you liked my rum punch.’
‘I did, but it refuses to let go.’
‘I know what you mean. I’ve got this strange limp today.’
‘Strange limp what?’