Sarah followed the nurse back to the duty room where Sister Roche, with her hand over the mouth-piece of the phone said, “It’s about Mr McKirrop.”
Sarah, feeling puzzled, accepted the receiver. “Hello, this is Dr Lasseter. How can I help you?”
“Hello Doctor. This is Father Ryan Lafferty. I was wondering how Mr McKirrop was?”
Sarah put her hand up to her forehead in anguish as she remembered the name from McKirrop’s admission sheet and the request that he be kept informed. “Oh I’m sorry,” she said. “How awful, I should have telephoned you earlier. Mr McKirrop died yesterday morning. I informed the police but I clean forgot about you, Father. I’m most terribly sorry. You didn’t see the television report?”
Lafferty could tell that Sarah’s distress was genuine. He said as gently as he could, “Actually, I don’t have a television.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Sarah, “but that’s no excuse anyway. I don’t know what came over me I really am most...”
Lafferty tried to assure Sarah that no great harm had been done before asking, “I don’t suppose that he regained consciousness at all then?”
“Well, yes he did,” stammered Sarah, feeling both embarrassed and ashamed at her oversight. “That is to say, no he didn’t...”
“I don’t think I understand,” said Lafferty.
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah who had now gone into an apologetic spiral. “It’s sort of debateable really. The official view is that Mr McKirrop did not regain consciousness.”
“And the unofficial view?” asked Lafferty, bemused by it all.
“I think he did for a short while,” said Sarah weakly.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear of his death,” said Lafferty. “I hope he has an easier time in heaven than he did on earth.”
“Quite so,” said Sarah.
“Thank you Doctor.”
The phone went dead and Sarah replaced the receiver. She still feltangry with herself.
Lafferty let out a weary sigh and stared balefully at the telephone in front of him. He felt utterly dejected. McKirrop had died without his getting a chance to speak to him so he was nowhere nearer finding out the reasons behind the stealing of Simon Main’s body. He had read just about every book he could find on the subject of black magic and satanic ritual. He was staring into space when the cleaner, Mrs Grogan came in and put down a cup of tea beside him. She had her outdoor clothes on.
Lafferty looked at his watch and said, “You’ll be off then, Mrs G?”
“Yes, Father see you tomorrow.”
Lafferty watched Mrs Grogan close the garden gate and wave to him. He lifted his hand in reply before turning to the book lying behind him on the table: Scottish Witchcraft by Nicholas A. Macleod. Having failed to find anything of use in the general academic works on satanism, Lafferty had decided to investigate the possibility that the reason for Simon Main’s exhumation might be related to some local or regional ritual or ceremony. There was precedent for this in that many towns and villages around the country had fairs or customs of their own which dated back to pagan days.
John Main pulled on his leather jerkin and checked that he had his keys in his pocket before setting out for his second evening of pub crawling in a row. John McKirrop’s unforeseen death had given him a new idea so he had decided to put his idea about asking around the spiritualist community on hold for the moment. The down-and-out’s death had been reported on television so the cemetery story would briefly be news again. People would talk about it in pubs. In these circumstances anyone who knew anything might be encouraged to say something, if only to impress. Main had set himself the task of visiting every pub within a one mile radius of the cemetery in the hope of picking up some gossip.
The tenuous logic behind this was that outside this circle it would be more likely that another cemetery would have been chosen. This assumed of course, that some — if not all — of those involved in the crime lived in the same area. If this was so — and it was a big ‘if’ — someone else within this circle might know something — even a rumour would be a start. Last night had yielded nothing. That left tonight and maybe tomorrow night before public interest started to wane and the story was forgotten again.
Main walked into the Cross Keys Bar and found it half empty. It was obviously a working man’s pub. Three tables were occupied by domino players and two men in dungarees were playing darts in an alcove through the back. Not exactly the kind of place to find satanists, thought Main but what did satanists look like? Christopher Lee? Peter Cushing? What did they wear? Black silk capes? If they did, there would be no problem finding them.
“What’ll it be?” asked the barman as Main reached the bar counter, still looking around him.
“Half of lager,” said Main. He would have preferred a large gin but the night was young and there was a long way to go.
“There you go,” said the barman, putting down the drink in front of him. Main paid him and decided to push things along. “I see McKirrop’s dead then,” he said.
The barman looked blank. “Who’s McKirrop?”
“That old down-and-out who tried to stop the body-snatchers. It was on the telly.”
“Body snatchers?” repeated the barman who Main had decided was not rocket scientist material.
Another customer joined in. He said to the barman, “You know, Brian, these bastards who dug up the kid’s body in the cemetery up the road.”
“Oh aye,” said the barman.
“Sick bastards,” said the other man.
“Aye,” said the barman.
No one else responded. Main finished his drink and left. He fared no better at the second bar or at the third. He ordered a gin and tonic at the fourth, partly to break the monotony of half pints of lager but mainly because he was feeling fed up. An unwelcome shaft of realism was starting to penetrate the clouds of his obsession. Maybe this was a stupid idea. If he were honest with himself, it was the act of a desperate man who had run out of ideas. It was time to see reason; time he pulled himself together, went back to work and started to pick up the pieces of his life. Main read all this in the bottom of his empty glass while he leaned on the bar counter. It was the first time his resolve had wavered, and he didn’t like the feeling. It was very close to hopelessness.
“Same again?” asked the barman.
Main looked up and shrugged. “Why not.”
Shortly after eleven, Main found himself in the lounge bar of a pub called the Mayfield Tavern. He’d lost count of the number of pubs he’d been in that evening and with each failure he’d become more and more depressed. His alcohol intake had reflected this and he was far from sober although not overtly drunk. The alcohol, as alcohol always did, had merely exaggerated his mood. His lips were set tight and his eyes reflected the unbearable sadness he felt.
To the barmaid he was just another face at the bar, a man in the corner drinking quietly and keeping himself to himself, just another sad man. The world was full of them.
The bar seemed to have a wide mix of customers, unusual in this day and age, thought Main. Most pubs attracted allegiance from one sort of customer rather than another. Here, there were two tables occupied by students; they looked scruffy but their voices gave them away. They were obviously going on to a party and were trying to decide what they should take along in the way of drink.
“Not that rat poison you brought to Mandy’s!” said one boy to the long-haired youth who was collecting the money. “I was shitting through the eye of a needle for a week.”
“That was the thought of the exams — not the bloody wine,” said the collector.
“Don’t mention exams!” exclaimed one of the girls who, despite an elfin appearance, was drinking pints of beer. “I haven’t done a thing.”