Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Is the case mounting against Norman and Andrew? Could a disgraced Graham bring about their comeuppance?
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Is the case mounting against Norman and Andrew? Could a disgraced Graham bring about their comeuppance?
Chapter Thirty: Graham
1
When I got back to the presbytery – I could no longer think of it as home – the floor was covered in post, most of which was the usual plethora of mass-mailed circulars. There were also letters from parishioners, a few supportive but some less so, some abusive semi-literate notes and a letter from the diocese telling me they had withdrawn my license to conduct services and instructing me to make an appointment to see the bishop.
After making the appointment, I phoned Brendan. I was shocked to hear about the latest story the press had published. I knew of course that Kathleen had been a prostitute: Brendan had told me the first time we met. And I knew her and Catriona worked as musicians, but her having stripped off at a concert was news to me. I asked Brendan if it was true or if the photograph had been doctored.
“It's true. The stupid bitch did take her clothes off in a Glasgow pub a while ago.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I asked her the same question. It's a long story, but to cut it short they got booked for a gig in one of the roughest pubs in the city, full of Orangemen apparently. While they were singing, they were heckled with shouts of 'show us your tits' and that sort of crap. Eventually, Kathleen snapped. You know what a short fuse she has. She stripped off and began singing folk songs about men who were impotent. Catriona said she'd been shocked at the time, and she thought they were lucky to get out. I gather Kathleen regretted doing it once she'd calmed down. Now she's really regretting it.”
“I bet she is! I can see how someone with a camera could have taken the photo and I can see how when they saw the publicity they thought it was a good idea to send it to the press. But how did they find out about her past?”
“Who knows? Just like who knows how the press found out about us.”
“How's Kathleen taking it?”
“How do you think? I really don't know how much more of this she can stand. Actually, I'm not sure how much more any of us can stand. Catriona's parents were really annoyed at first: they knew about her past, but not about the stripping. But they've calmed down now, and doing what they can. As are Rob and his mother. But, God, it feels like our whole lives are falling apart. First all the crap that happened in Birmingham, and now this.” I could hear his distress and felt useless at not being able to do anything about it.
“I wish I was there with you.”
“So do I. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When I kept my appointment with the bishop the next day the reception was frosty, to say the least. When I was eventually told he was ready to see me, he began by saying how saddened he was by my behaviour, “saddened and disappointed” he said, but long before the end of the interview he was showing his anger. There was no attempt on his part at understanding. I'd had plenty of time to think over the past few weeks and when I told him I was in love and saw nothing wrong with loving another man, he sneered. When I told him I was volunteering to leave the priesthood rather than forcing the diocese to go through the time and expense of removing me, he became sarcastic. He made it clear my behaviour had damaged the church. He also told me it was his view the government had been wrong to legalise homosexual behaviour in England. “It's against God's law, it's immoral, it's perverted and it's against human nature.”
“It's not against my nature. God made me this way,” I told him.
“That's blasphemy,” he said. He told me he'd already made arrangements to cover my services and that I had one month to vacate the presbytery. His parting shot was: “Keep away from parishioners, and particularly the kids.” When I left his office, my head bowed, I was unable to make eye contact with the staff.
Was the bishop right? Was what I called love merely lust? A curse from Satan wrapped up in glitter that mimicked the gold of God's love? Were all those psychologists right? Was what I called love merely a manifestation of my arrested development? Was my homosexuality a disease? If so, could I be cured? Did I want to be cured? And if I didn't want to be cured, did that prove the bishop was right? I was going round in circles, I was getting nowhere. Nor was I looking where I was going: when I heard the sound of the car horn I was startled out of my reverie and realised I was standing in the middle of the road in danger of being run over.
I waved a hand in apology to the innocent driver and made it safely to the pavement. Shaken by the incident, I stepped into a nearby cafe. Restored by caffeine, I rejected any notion that my love was either a sin or an illness. Still, how would I know? Perhaps I was just deceiving myself.
Enough! I thought. It was only when I saw people staring at me I realised I had been talking out loud like some tortured soul. Embarrassed, I stood up and left. I decided I must stop wasting my time on pointless theological and philosophical reflections, and instead concentrate on the practicalities of here and now. Such as: where was I going to live? How was I going to earn a living? What was I going to do with all my books and belongings? What was going to happen when my case came before the court? And most important of all: would Brendan and I be able to be together?
I realised how out of my depth I was. All my life someone else had been responsible for providing a roof over my head. From home to seminary to this parish in Birmingham. Although I was supposed to be in charge of running the parish, including its accounts, in reality I left much of that to a parishioner who was an accountant and who made sure everything was in order and all bills were paid. I had always rationalised that by saying it freed me up to do pastoral work.
The bishop had told me the diocesan housing officer would be able to help, and he gave me his phone number, so that would be a first step, but even if he could provide me with a flat or house, how on earth was I going to cope with the rent, rates, gas, electricity, phone? I felt I was suffocating under the pressure of it all. I took a deep breath. One thing at a time, I told myself, one thing at a time. First find somewhere to live, and then sort the rest out.
At least that's what I would have advised parishioners, before putting them in touch with the relevant authorities. I stopped walking so suddenly, someone banged into me and – in typical British style – we apologised to each other. How could I be so stupid? I told myself. I had all the information I needed: I gave it out to parishioners often enough when they needed help. In fact, I'd had a leaflet printed with lots of helpful phone numbers and addresses. If it worked for my parishioners, then it could work for me.
I strode towards the presbytery, determined to stop wasting time feeling sorry for myself and to begin to sort out my future. When I got there I made a list of everything that needed doing. I've always been a list maker. I found it not only ensured I didn't forget things that needed doing, it also concentrated the mind. Top of the list was: finding a way to live with Brendan. This wasn't the most immediate task, but everything I did, everything I planned, would revolve around this. Anything that meant I could not be with him would be a non-starter.
While I was considering my options and deciding what to do first, the doorbell rang. I sighed and thinking it was probably a journalist or someone who wanted to have a go at me I ignored it. Whoever was at the door was persistent: the bell continued to ring, so I rose from my chair and answered the door. It was one of my parishioners, Theresa, a middle aged widow and mother of three children, all in their late teens and early twenties.
“I need some advice,” she said. “Can I come in, Father?”
I nodded and stepped aside to allow her entry. I made some tea for us, then asked her what the problem was. I also told her that now I was being laicised there was no need to call me Father.
She smiled. “It wouldn't seem right not to call you Father: I've called every priest that, every priest I've ever met, and I'm not going to stop now. Not that I approve of what you've done, because I don't. But that's not why I'm here. Despite the – the thing you've done, I know your advice is normally sound and helpful.”
I asked her what the problem was.
“It's about my eldest, Karen. She's in a spot of bother. To be honest, it's more than that: she's got herself in a right mess, and neither of us can see any way out. I don't suppose you'll be able to help, but I don't know where else to turn.” She fell silent.
“If I can help, I will. If I can't, at least I can listen and perhaps point you in the right direction.”
She smiled nervously, pulling at the sleeves of her blouse. “Everything I say will be just between the two of us, won't it? I'd hate to think she'd find out I'd spoken to you. She's left the church, you see. She thinks it's a load of superstitious rubbish. Sorry, Father, but that's what she says.”
I laughed. “Sometimes I think that myself. It's okay, I'll treat this conversation as confidential, and if I want to share it with anyone I think can help, I'll ask you first.”
“Thank you Father. She got into a mess with her electricity bill, and they threatened to cut her off. The bank wouldn't let her have an overdraft and she was off work ill at the time, so was only getting sick pay from the social. If she'd come to me I'd have got her the money from somewhere, don't know where, but I'd have got it somehow. But she was too ashamed to come to me. I've told her she was a silly fool, I told her I wished I'd known. She only came to me in desperation. You see, when the bank wouldn't help and the social wouldn't help, she went to a local loan shark. Oh, she got the money, no problem, and paid the electricity bill, but that was when the trouble started. You see, they charge such high interest. I mean, I don't really understand such things, I don't know how they work it out. It was okay at first, but then she missed a couple of weekly payments and hasn't been able to catch up. I mean she only borrowed a bit, but with all the interest for missed payments the amount they say she now owes is almost as much as she earns in a whole year. There was no way she could pay.” She began to cry. “I'm sorry,” she sniffed.
“Don't worry,” I told her, passing her some tissues.
“Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and when she'd composed herself, I said: “I can put you in touch with someone who might be able to help with budgeting.”
She shook her head vigorously. “It's gone beyond that,” she said. “This bloke, the regular collector, she told me his name was Norman, came round one day and told her she had to pay some of the arrears, because it was just piling up, what with the interest and everything. And if she didn't, she'd be in trouble. When she asked what sort of trouble he told her that he and another bloke would come round, break in and take her property, and if she tried to stop them they would deal with her. She told them she'd tell the police, and they said if she did she would really be in trouble because they had friends in the police who would protect them. She got what she could together, which wasn't much – it was the money for the electricity and the rates and the rent, and she gave it to him. He came round the following week as usual, but she couldn't give him any more money, because she didn't have any. He told her that he and his mate would be round the following week, and perhaps they could come to some arrangement then.” She began crying again.
When she mentioned the name of the loan shark, I wondered if it was the same thug who had caused Brendan so much trauma, forcing him and the others to leave Birmingham.
After a few moments Theresa continued: “Oh God I never knew people could be so evil. Because she'd given this man the electricity money, the electricity board were threatening to cut her off again. When she eventually came to see me she told me she'd given the electricity board the small amount she'd saved up for my Christmas present. I told her that was okay, that I didn't need anything and her electricity was more important. Anyway, that's a different story. The next week this Norman and his mate came round, and she didn't have enough money for them, so they started threatening her, and one of them grabbed her and pushed her against the wall. She was screaming, but they didn't care. They told her they'd empty her house, take the bed and TV and sofa and cooker, everything, unless she paid them. She told them she couldn't.”
“I don't know how to tell you what happened next.” She fell silent, unable to look at me, letting the tears flow.
After a few moments, I said: “Take your own time and tell me in your own words. Whatever it is, I will do my best to help.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, grabbing some more tissues and wiping her face. “They offered to let her off some of the money she owed if she, if she... Oh God! I can hardly bring myself to say the words. If she would let them have sex with her. And she was so scared of what they would do, she thought they would rape her, my dear darling little girl, they threatened to force themselves on her unless she let them. And so she did. And they kept coming back. She told me that while they were doing it, they kept calling her names telling her she was a black whore and other things I couldn't repeat to anyone.” She paused, then said: “And now she's pregnant.”
She was sobbing so much she could hardly breathe and was close to becoming hysterical. No words of mine could ease the pain, but nonetheless I mouthed platitudes like “That's awful”. It even sounded feeble to me.
Somehow she managed to get some control and began to speak again. “She's stopping with me at the moment. She's scared to go back to her house, and I've told her she can stay with me as long as she wants, that my home is her home. Also, she's lost her job, and she liked her work, but when she went in she couldn't cope, and a lot of the time she rang in sick. So now she's out of work. She said she doesn't want the child, doesn't want to bring anything associated with them into the world. She's told me she wants an abortion. I haven't the heart to tell her that's a sin, and she wouldn't listen anyway. I know that must sound awful to you. I would like to persuade her to keep the baby, but I don't think I can. I'm so sorry, I know you probably think the worst of her...”
I attempted to reassure her. “I'm the last person in the world to tell you or her that abortion is wrong, the last person. You and Karen must do what you think best and I will support you, whatever you do, regardless of what the church says.”
She attempted to smile. “Thank you, Father. I don't want her to have an abortion and I'm hoping she decides to keep it. If she does, I know the baby will be loved by both mum and gran, and it won't matter to me who the father is. But how can people behave like that? How can they? How can God allow it?”
I wasn't about to get into a theological discussion; that would have been highly inappropriate and insensitive under the circumstances. Instead, I asked her about Norman, asked her to describe him. It soon became clear it was the same Norman who had attacked Brendan. I told her I knew him and that he had a reputation for being evil. I also told her that what they had done to Karen was rape, and the police could arrest them and charge them.
She shook her head, saying: “No, no, no. They told her they'd kill her if she did that. They said they had friends in the police and if she went to the police they'd know, and they'd come after her. They told her the police didn't like blacks any more than they did. Please, please don't tell the police about it, please.” She was shaking uncontrollably.
I tried to reassure her, then said: “But people like these need stopping. I know some other people who have been badly damaged by him. I intend to do what I can to stop him, but I promise I won't involve you or Karen. No-one will find out from me what happened to her, I promise.”
Before she left I gave her some information about a local women's group that could provide her and Karen with support. I also told her that if Karen wanted to speak to me, I would be available any time that suited her.
2
Concerns over my own future would have to wait. One of my parishioners was a police officer and I arranged to meet him to seek his advice on what could be done to put an end to Norman's violence, abuse and exploitation of others. If there were police officers on the take, he wouldn't be one of them: I would trust him with my life.
I had considered taking the law into my own hands. I know Christ said to turn the other cheek, but he also took it on himself to drive the moneylenders out of the temple. All sorts of crazy and unlikely schemes went through my head, all of them dismissed as impractical or dangerous. I was hoping my parishioner in the police, Charlie, would be able to help.
When I rang him asking if I could see him, he was silent for a while. Silence always seems to last longer on the phone, but eventually he said: “Okay, I owe you anyway.”
“You don't owe me anything,” I told him.
“Yes I do. If it wasn't for you I probably wouldn't still be in the police and my eldest daughter might have been sent to borstal and treated as a criminal.”
“I only did what any priest would.”
“No, you didn't. Some priests would have been vindictive, so yes I will come and meet you. But Father, don't take that as me approving of what you've done, because I don't. I don't understand how a man can go with another man. It's disgusting, especially in someone who is supposed to set an example. And if you're going to ask me to help you get off after your arrest, I'll have to refuse. I couldn't anyway: we have no jurisdiction in Scotland.”
I reassured him I wouldn't be asking him anything like that and he agreed to come round on his next day off, three days later. I really didn't owe him anything. A few months ago I noticed a few things were going missing from the church. Nothing expensive or rare, just some of the Catholic Truth Society books and pamphlets we sold, as well as things like Catholic newspapers, confirmation and first communion cards, rosary beads, pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart, plaster statues of Christ and Mary, that sort of thing. Still, they were lost income and replacing them would cost the church money. I liked to keep the church open, only locking it at night and I guessed the thief was probably a school child so I made sure I was in the church for an hour before and after the school day. Sure enough, a young girl appeared shortly after school and began filling her satchel. She didn't know I was there and she jumped when I asked her what she was doing. At first she stared at me and then, dropping her satchel and scattering its contents on the floor, burst into tears. It was Charlie's daughter, Patricia.
Try as I might I couldn't even pretend to be angry with her and when she told me she didn't want to go to prison, my heart melted. I took her home and told her parents what had happened and as expected they were horrified at what they thought was sacrilege. Charlie was also worried if it would damage his career in the police if it got out. I assured them it was just a childish prank and I wouldn't be taking any action, and that I thought the humiliation of being caught was punishment enough. I asked her if she wanted to help staff the stall before and after Mass. She beamed, asked her parents if that was okay and when they gave their permission her smile became even wider. Since then, she had taken her responsibilities seriously. I never did find out why she stole things that would not have been of use to anyone apart from other Catholics.
Brendan and I spoke on a daily basis and exchanged letters. We missed each other and at first he was worried in case he had lost me, but I did my best to reassure him that as soon as possible we would be together. I told him when that happened, nothing would separate us again. When he said “unless we're in prison” I could imagine the downcast look on his face. We still hadn't heard when we'd be in court.
The last thing I expected was a letter from Catriona, and when the day before my meeting with Charlie I received a letter with her handwriting on the envelope, I was worried in case anything had happened to Brendan. I turned the envelope over and over before telling myself there was only one way of finding out. I tore open the envelope.
After the opening pleasantries, she wrote:
I want to talk to you about something I haven't yet mentioned to Kathleen or Brendan, nor for that matter with my parents. I'm afraid of how they will react.
To put it bluntly, I know who was responsible for reporting you and Brendan to the police. I worked it out by a process of elimination. The only people who knew Brendan was gay were me, my parents, Kathleen, you – and Andrew. I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but when Brendan didn't know how he stood with you and whether the two of you had a future, he had a bit of a fling with Andrew. There, I've said it! Both Kathleen and I were worried about it, knowing what a nasty person Andrew was. It didn't last long before Brendan had had enough of him, but I don't think he knew just how vindictive Andrew could be. Even I, who had known him for a long time, didn't think he'd be this nasty. But there we are.
One thing Andrew isn't is stupid, and he must have worked out that if Brendan was gay, then me and Kathleen must be sleeping together, must be lovers. When you appeared on the scene it wouldn't have taken him long to work out that you must be sharing Brendan's bed. He has so much influence up here I have no doubt he persuaded our local bobby to initiate an arrest.
It gets worse, I'm afraid. He must also have had some contact with Norman in Birmingham. I can't think of any other way the papers found out about Kathleen's past as a prostitute. As for the photograph, I can only think of one way the press could have got hold of that. The pub we'd played at that night was full of Orangemen and probably of other far right groups. I recall reading somewhere that the National Front had links with some loyalist groups, so I wouldn't be surprised if the person who took that photograph was one of them. I've thought about it long and hard, and I doubt if Andrew knew Norman, but when Norman saw the reports about Brendan's arrest and the statement from Andrew, perhaps he sent Andrew the photograph and an account of Kathleen's past. I could be wrong, but I can't think of any other way they could have made contact.
So there we are. I want to expose Andrew but I can't just go public with my suspicions, because that's all they are: suspicions. I've got to find a way of confirming them, I'm not sure how, but I'll find a way. Also, be careful of Norman. I know Birmingham is a big city and that he lives a long way from you, but be careful. Just in case.
I read the letter several times and each time it made more sense. It made doing something about Norman even more important, more urgent and my forthcoming meeting with Charlie took on greater significance. I didn't know how much of the letter I could share with him: I would have to think about that and probably ask Catriona. I would also need to think about what Catriona could do about Andrew, though I wasn't sure what help I could be. I could see her dilemma: if she told the press about Andrew's affair with Brendan the press could twist the facts in an attempt to show that Brendan was promiscuous, perhaps even hinting that Andrew was an innocent victim preyed on by the English queer. Brendan had told me about his brief affair with Andrew and though I wasn't pleased at the time, I could understand why Brendan wanted some company, some outlet for his feelings. After all, as Kathleen had pointed out more than once, I had been messing him around.
3
In the end I decided not to share her letter with Charlie. He couldn't – and no doubt wouldn't – do anything about what had happened in Strathdubh, and I didn't need to show him the letter to discuss Norman with him.
The first thing Charlie said when he arrived was: “I hope you don't mind me saying what I did about homosexuals. It's nothing personal, but...”
Of course it was personal, I thought, but I didn't say that. Instead I reassured him. After making some tea, producing some biscuits and engaging in a bit of awkward small talk, I decided to get straight to the point.
“I can't give you details or even names of victims, because I'm bound by a promise of confidentiality, so some of this may sound a bit vague.”
He nodded. “Understood,” he said. “Probably just as well, because if I did know specifics I might have to do something with it.”
“Okay, thanks. I don't know what the law is on money lending.”
“Neither do I,” he interrupted. “That's a very specialist area.”
“But what about money lenders who threaten violence, charge excessive interest and may even bribe police?”
“Now, hold on, Father, if you make accusations of police corruption, you need to be able to back it up.”
“Sorry, Charlie. It was perhaps a hypothetical question. We both know a tiny minority of police have been known to take bribes. What if someone was a victim of extreme violence from a loan shark and was afraid to go to the police because that person had been told the police were in the loan shark's pay?”
“There's a lot there to unpick. I'm not sure how much help I can be. I don't know of any corrupt police. What I do know is that if someone has been a victim of the sort of violence you suggest, then they should go to the police.”
I didn't feel I was getting very far. “What if that loan shark also has a history of violence against other people?”
“My advice would be the same.” He asked me if I minded if he smoked. I told him to go ahead. After taking a drag, he asked: “Do you have a particular person in mind?”
I shook my head. “I can't tell you anything about victims without their permission.”
“I didn't mean that. I meant to ask if there was a loan shark you were talking about.”
I took a deep breath. “His name is Norman, sorry I don't know his other name. He used to work at that pub in Winson Green that was closed down because of drugs. And I understand he's a member of the National Front and has been involved in assaulting black people and others he doesn't like. He's often seen with another man.”
“Norman's a common name. Describe him.”
After I'd given what description I could, he told me to leave it with him and he would see what he could find out. “But,” he added, “unless someone is prepared to speak out against him, there may not be much we can do.”
After he'd left I pondered what to do, asking myself how I could protect others from Norman. After wearing out the carpet by walking back and forth in my living room I decided to ring Strathdubh. Perhaps Brendan would agree to make a statement about Norman. Probably not, but it was worth a try. As it happened, Catriona answered the phone and told me Brendan wasn't in. I told her I had received her letter.
“Good,” she said. “Since posting it I've spoken to David Fritton, asking his professional advice.”
Of course, the solicitor. If anyone would know how to implicate Andrew it would be him. I asked her what he'd said.
“Not that helpful at first, to be honest. He said if we went to the police, they would just say it was Brendan's word against his, and the police would almost certainly believe Andrew. But I pressed him. He told me that if we could find others he'd had sex with, that might help our case. But I'm not sure how useful that was. I'm sure he has had other men, but I haven't a clue how we find them. In any case, I can't see any of them risking being arrested themselves.”
“So not much further forward then.”
“That's right. What's happening at your end? Any sign of Norman causing problems?”
I told her about my conversation with Charlie. I also told her someone I knew had had problems with him, but couldn't go into details. I said I was thinking of asking Brendan if he'd make a statement to the police down here, telling them what Norman had done to him. Her response was immediate and in the negative.
“Phew, Graham. I don't think so. Even suggesting it would probably set him back. It's not just the memory of what Norman did to him, it's also the memory of the beating he got from the police down there. I'm glad I answered the phone and not Brendan or, for that matter, Kathleen. She'd really bite your head off.”
“So we're just going to sit back and let these people – down here and up there – get away with it, are we? There must be a way.”
Catriona agreed it was unfair. Before I rang off I asked her to pass all my love on to Brendan. Later that day we spoke. I didn't mention what I decided was yet another of my stupid ideas. I was a bit distracted, and he picked up on that. He wanted to know how long it would be before I would be coming to see him, and I told him soon, as soon as possible. No matter how much I tried to reassure him, I'm not sure he believed me. I can't say I blamed him, after all I'd been prevaricating for so long know.
I prayed for guidance, I prayed for the wisdom to know what to do, but it didn't make any difference. There were times during the next couple of days when I thought I was praying to a void, to emptiness. Was I losing my faith along with my vocation?
I should have known better. I had a call from Charlie, asking if he could come to see me. He had some good news.
1
When I got back to the presbytery – I could no longer think of it as home – the floor was covered in post, most of which was the usual plethora of mass-mailed circulars. There were also letters from parishioners, a few supportive but some less so, some abusive semi-literate notes and a letter from the diocese telling me they had withdrawn my license to conduct services and instructing me to make an appointment to see the bishop.
After making the appointment, I phoned Brendan. I was shocked to hear about the latest story the press had published. I knew of course that Kathleen had been a prostitute: Brendan had told me the first time we met. And I knew her and Catriona worked as musicians, but her having stripped off at a concert was news to me. I asked Brendan if it was true or if the photograph had been doctored.
“It's true. The stupid bitch did take her clothes off in a Glasgow pub a while ago.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I asked her the same question. It's a long story, but to cut it short they got booked for a gig in one of the roughest pubs in the city, full of Orangemen apparently. While they were singing, they were heckled with shouts of 'show us your tits' and that sort of crap. Eventually, Kathleen snapped. You know what a short fuse she has. She stripped off and began singing folk songs about men who were impotent. Catriona said she'd been shocked at the time, and she thought they were lucky to get out. I gather Kathleen regretted doing it once she'd calmed down. Now she's really regretting it.”
“I bet she is! I can see how someone with a camera could have taken the photo and I can see how when they saw the publicity they thought it was a good idea to send it to the press. But how did they find out about her past?”
“Who knows? Just like who knows how the press found out about us.”
“How's Kathleen taking it?”
“How do you think? I really don't know how much more of this she can stand. Actually, I'm not sure how much more any of us can stand. Catriona's parents were really annoyed at first: they knew about her past, but not about the stripping. But they've calmed down now, and doing what they can. As are Rob and his mother. But, God, it feels like our whole lives are falling apart. First all the crap that happened in Birmingham, and now this.” I could hear his distress and felt useless at not being able to do anything about it.
“I wish I was there with you.”
“So do I. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When I kept my appointment with the bishop the next day the reception was frosty, to say the least. When I was eventually told he was ready to see me, he began by saying how saddened he was by my behaviour, “saddened and disappointed” he said, but long before the end of the interview he was showing his anger. There was no attempt on his part at understanding. I'd had plenty of time to think over the past few weeks and when I told him I was in love and saw nothing wrong with loving another man, he sneered. When I told him I was volunteering to leave the priesthood rather than forcing the diocese to go through the time and expense of removing me, he became sarcastic. He made it clear my behaviour had damaged the church. He also told me it was his view the government had been wrong to legalise homosexual behaviour in England. “It's against God's law, it's immoral, it's perverted and it's against human nature.”
“It's not against my nature. God made me this way,” I told him.
“That's blasphemy,” he said. He told me he'd already made arrangements to cover my services and that I had one month to vacate the presbytery. His parting shot was: “Keep away from parishioners, and particularly the kids.” When I left his office, my head bowed, I was unable to make eye contact with the staff.
Was the bishop right? Was what I called love merely lust? A curse from Satan wrapped up in glitter that mimicked the gold of God's love? Were all those psychologists right? Was what I called love merely a manifestation of my arrested development? Was my homosexuality a disease? If so, could I be cured? Did I want to be cured? And if I didn't want to be cured, did that prove the bishop was right? I was going round in circles, I was getting nowhere. Nor was I looking where I was going: when I heard the sound of the car horn I was startled out of my reverie and realised I was standing in the middle of the road in danger of being run over.
I waved a hand in apology to the innocent driver and made it safely to the pavement. Shaken by the incident, I stepped into a nearby cafe. Restored by caffeine, I rejected any notion that my love was either a sin or an illness. Still, how would I know? Perhaps I was just deceiving myself.
Enough! I thought. It was only when I saw people staring at me I realised I had been talking out loud like some tortured soul. Embarrassed, I stood up and left. I decided I must stop wasting my time on pointless theological and philosophical reflections, and instead concentrate on the practicalities of here and now. Such as: where was I going to live? How was I going to earn a living? What was I going to do with all my books and belongings? What was going to happen when my case came before the court? And most important of all: would Brendan and I be able to be together?
I realised how out of my depth I was. All my life someone else had been responsible for providing a roof over my head. From home to seminary to this parish in Birmingham. Although I was supposed to be in charge of running the parish, including its accounts, in reality I left much of that to a parishioner who was an accountant and who made sure everything was in order and all bills were paid. I had always rationalised that by saying it freed me up to do pastoral work.
The bishop had told me the diocesan housing officer would be able to help, and he gave me his phone number, so that would be a first step, but even if he could provide me with a flat or house, how on earth was I going to cope with the rent, rates, gas, electricity, phone? I felt I was suffocating under the pressure of it all. I took a deep breath. One thing at a time, I told myself, one thing at a time. First find somewhere to live, and then sort the rest out.
At least that's what I would have advised parishioners, before putting them in touch with the relevant authorities. I stopped walking so suddenly, someone banged into me and – in typical British style – we apologised to each other. How could I be so stupid? I told myself. I had all the information I needed: I gave it out to parishioners often enough when they needed help. In fact, I'd had a leaflet printed with lots of helpful phone numbers and addresses. If it worked for my parishioners, then it could work for me.
I strode towards the presbytery, determined to stop wasting time feeling sorry for myself and to begin to sort out my future. When I got there I made a list of everything that needed doing. I've always been a list maker. I found it not only ensured I didn't forget things that needed doing, it also concentrated the mind. Top of the list was: finding a way to live with Brendan. This wasn't the most immediate task, but everything I did, everything I planned, would revolve around this. Anything that meant I could not be with him would be a non-starter.
While I was considering my options and deciding what to do first, the doorbell rang. I sighed and thinking it was probably a journalist or someone who wanted to have a go at me I ignored it. Whoever was at the door was persistent: the bell continued to ring, so I rose from my chair and answered the door. It was one of my parishioners, Theresa, a middle aged widow and mother of three children, all in their late teens and early twenties.
“I need some advice,” she said. “Can I come in, Father?”
I nodded and stepped aside to allow her entry. I made some tea for us, then asked her what the problem was. I also told her that now I was being laicised there was no need to call me Father.
She smiled. “It wouldn't seem right not to call you Father: I've called every priest that, every priest I've ever met, and I'm not going to stop now. Not that I approve of what you've done, because I don't. But that's not why I'm here. Despite the – the thing you've done, I know your advice is normally sound and helpful.”
I asked her what the problem was.
“It's about my eldest, Karen. She's in a spot of bother. To be honest, it's more than that: she's got herself in a right mess, and neither of us can see any way out. I don't suppose you'll be able to help, but I don't know where else to turn.” She fell silent.
“If I can help, I will. If I can't, at least I can listen and perhaps point you in the right direction.”
She smiled nervously, pulling at the sleeves of her blouse. “Everything I say will be just between the two of us, won't it? I'd hate to think she'd find out I'd spoken to you. She's left the church, you see. She thinks it's a load of superstitious rubbish. Sorry, Father, but that's what she says.”
I laughed. “Sometimes I think that myself. It's okay, I'll treat this conversation as confidential, and if I want to share it with anyone I think can help, I'll ask you first.”
“Thank you Father. She got into a mess with her electricity bill, and they threatened to cut her off. The bank wouldn't let her have an overdraft and she was off work ill at the time, so was only getting sick pay from the social. If she'd come to me I'd have got her the money from somewhere, don't know where, but I'd have got it somehow. But she was too ashamed to come to me. I've told her she was a silly fool, I told her I wished I'd known. She only came to me in desperation. You see, when the bank wouldn't help and the social wouldn't help, she went to a local loan shark. Oh, she got the money, no problem, and paid the electricity bill, but that was when the trouble started. You see, they charge such high interest. I mean, I don't really understand such things, I don't know how they work it out. It was okay at first, but then she missed a couple of weekly payments and hasn't been able to catch up. I mean she only borrowed a bit, but with all the interest for missed payments the amount they say she now owes is almost as much as she earns in a whole year. There was no way she could pay.” She began to cry. “I'm sorry,” she sniffed.
“Don't worry,” I told her, passing her some tissues.
“Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and when she'd composed herself, I said: “I can put you in touch with someone who might be able to help with budgeting.”
She shook her head vigorously. “It's gone beyond that,” she said. “This bloke, the regular collector, she told me his name was Norman, came round one day and told her she had to pay some of the arrears, because it was just piling up, what with the interest and everything. And if she didn't, she'd be in trouble. When she asked what sort of trouble he told her that he and another bloke would come round, break in and take her property, and if she tried to stop them they would deal with her. She told them she'd tell the police, and they said if she did she would really be in trouble because they had friends in the police who would protect them. She got what she could together, which wasn't much – it was the money for the electricity and the rates and the rent, and she gave it to him. He came round the following week as usual, but she couldn't give him any more money, because she didn't have any. He told her that he and his mate would be round the following week, and perhaps they could come to some arrangement then.” She began crying again.
When she mentioned the name of the loan shark, I wondered if it was the same thug who had caused Brendan so much trauma, forcing him and the others to leave Birmingham.
After a few moments Theresa continued: “Oh God I never knew people could be so evil. Because she'd given this man the electricity money, the electricity board were threatening to cut her off again. When she eventually came to see me she told me she'd given the electricity board the small amount she'd saved up for my Christmas present. I told her that was okay, that I didn't need anything and her electricity was more important. Anyway, that's a different story. The next week this Norman and his mate came round, and she didn't have enough money for them, so they started threatening her, and one of them grabbed her and pushed her against the wall. She was screaming, but they didn't care. They told her they'd empty her house, take the bed and TV and sofa and cooker, everything, unless she paid them. She told them she couldn't.”
“I don't know how to tell you what happened next.” She fell silent, unable to look at me, letting the tears flow.
After a few moments, I said: “Take your own time and tell me in your own words. Whatever it is, I will do my best to help.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, grabbing some more tissues and wiping her face. “They offered to let her off some of the money she owed if she, if she... Oh God! I can hardly bring myself to say the words. If she would let them have sex with her. And she was so scared of what they would do, she thought they would rape her, my dear darling little girl, they threatened to force themselves on her unless she let them. And so she did. And they kept coming back. She told me that while they were doing it, they kept calling her names telling her she was a black whore and other things I couldn't repeat to anyone.” She paused, then said: “And now she's pregnant.”
She was sobbing so much she could hardly breathe and was close to becoming hysterical. No words of mine could ease the pain, but nonetheless I mouthed platitudes like “That's awful”. It even sounded feeble to me.
Somehow she managed to get some control and began to speak again. “She's stopping with me at the moment. She's scared to go back to her house, and I've told her she can stay with me as long as she wants, that my home is her home. Also, she's lost her job, and she liked her work, but when she went in she couldn't cope, and a lot of the time she rang in sick. So now she's out of work. She said she doesn't want the child, doesn't want to bring anything associated with them into the world. She's told me she wants an abortion. I haven't the heart to tell her that's a sin, and she wouldn't listen anyway. I know that must sound awful to you. I would like to persuade her to keep the baby, but I don't think I can. I'm so sorry, I know you probably think the worst of her...”
I attempted to reassure her. “I'm the last person in the world to tell you or her that abortion is wrong, the last person. You and Karen must do what you think best and I will support you, whatever you do, regardless of what the church says.”
She attempted to smile. “Thank you, Father. I don't want her to have an abortion and I'm hoping she decides to keep it. If she does, I know the baby will be loved by both mum and gran, and it won't matter to me who the father is. But how can people behave like that? How can they? How can God allow it?”
I wasn't about to get into a theological discussion; that would have been highly inappropriate and insensitive under the circumstances. Instead, I asked her about Norman, asked her to describe him. It soon became clear it was the same Norman who had attacked Brendan. I told her I knew him and that he had a reputation for being evil. I also told her that what they had done to Karen was rape, and the police could arrest them and charge them.
She shook her head, saying: “No, no, no. They told her they'd kill her if she did that. They said they had friends in the police and if she went to the police they'd know, and they'd come after her. They told her the police didn't like blacks any more than they did. Please, please don't tell the police about it, please.” She was shaking uncontrollably.
I tried to reassure her, then said: “But people like these need stopping. I know some other people who have been badly damaged by him. I intend to do what I can to stop him, but I promise I won't involve you or Karen. No-one will find out from me what happened to her, I promise.”
Before she left I gave her some information about a local women's group that could provide her and Karen with support. I also told her that if Karen wanted to speak to me, I would be available any time that suited her.
2
Concerns over my own future would have to wait. One of my parishioners was a police officer and I arranged to meet him to seek his advice on what could be done to put an end to Norman's violence, abuse and exploitation of others. If there were police officers on the take, he wouldn't be one of them: I would trust him with my life.
I had considered taking the law into my own hands. I know Christ said to turn the other cheek, but he also took it on himself to drive the moneylenders out of the temple. All sorts of crazy and unlikely schemes went through my head, all of them dismissed as impractical or dangerous. I was hoping my parishioner in the police, Charlie, would be able to help.
When I rang him asking if I could see him, he was silent for a while. Silence always seems to last longer on the phone, but eventually he said: “Okay, I owe you anyway.”
“You don't owe me anything,” I told him.
“Yes I do. If it wasn't for you I probably wouldn't still be in the police and my eldest daughter might have been sent to borstal and treated as a criminal.”
“I only did what any priest would.”
“No, you didn't. Some priests would have been vindictive, so yes I will come and meet you. But Father, don't take that as me approving of what you've done, because I don't. I don't understand how a man can go with another man. It's disgusting, especially in someone who is supposed to set an example. And if you're going to ask me to help you get off after your arrest, I'll have to refuse. I couldn't anyway: we have no jurisdiction in Scotland.”
I reassured him I wouldn't be asking him anything like that and he agreed to come round on his next day off, three days later. I really didn't owe him anything. A few months ago I noticed a few things were going missing from the church. Nothing expensive or rare, just some of the Catholic Truth Society books and pamphlets we sold, as well as things like Catholic newspapers, confirmation and first communion cards, rosary beads, pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart, plaster statues of Christ and Mary, that sort of thing. Still, they were lost income and replacing them would cost the church money. I liked to keep the church open, only locking it at night and I guessed the thief was probably a school child so I made sure I was in the church for an hour before and after the school day. Sure enough, a young girl appeared shortly after school and began filling her satchel. She didn't know I was there and she jumped when I asked her what she was doing. At first she stared at me and then, dropping her satchel and scattering its contents on the floor, burst into tears. It was Charlie's daughter, Patricia.
Try as I might I couldn't even pretend to be angry with her and when she told me she didn't want to go to prison, my heart melted. I took her home and told her parents what had happened and as expected they were horrified at what they thought was sacrilege. Charlie was also worried if it would damage his career in the police if it got out. I assured them it was just a childish prank and I wouldn't be taking any action, and that I thought the humiliation of being caught was punishment enough. I asked her if she wanted to help staff the stall before and after Mass. She beamed, asked her parents if that was okay and when they gave their permission her smile became even wider. Since then, she had taken her responsibilities seriously. I never did find out why she stole things that would not have been of use to anyone apart from other Catholics.
Brendan and I spoke on a daily basis and exchanged letters. We missed each other and at first he was worried in case he had lost me, but I did my best to reassure him that as soon as possible we would be together. I told him when that happened, nothing would separate us again. When he said “unless we're in prison” I could imagine the downcast look on his face. We still hadn't heard when we'd be in court.
The last thing I expected was a letter from Catriona, and when the day before my meeting with Charlie I received a letter with her handwriting on the envelope, I was worried in case anything had happened to Brendan. I turned the envelope over and over before telling myself there was only one way of finding out. I tore open the envelope.
After the opening pleasantries, she wrote:
I want to talk to you about something I haven't yet mentioned to Kathleen or Brendan, nor for that matter with my parents. I'm afraid of how they will react.
To put it bluntly, I know who was responsible for reporting you and Brendan to the police. I worked it out by a process of elimination. The only people who knew Brendan was gay were me, my parents, Kathleen, you – and Andrew. I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but when Brendan didn't know how he stood with you and whether the two of you had a future, he had a bit of a fling with Andrew. There, I've said it! Both Kathleen and I were worried about it, knowing what a nasty person Andrew was. It didn't last long before Brendan had had enough of him, but I don't think he knew just how vindictive Andrew could be. Even I, who had known him for a long time, didn't think he'd be this nasty. But there we are.
One thing Andrew isn't is stupid, and he must have worked out that if Brendan was gay, then me and Kathleen must be sleeping together, must be lovers. When you appeared on the scene it wouldn't have taken him long to work out that you must be sharing Brendan's bed. He has so much influence up here I have no doubt he persuaded our local bobby to initiate an arrest.
It gets worse, I'm afraid. He must also have had some contact with Norman in Birmingham. I can't think of any other way the papers found out about Kathleen's past as a prostitute. As for the photograph, I can only think of one way the press could have got hold of that. The pub we'd played at that night was full of Orangemen and probably of other far right groups. I recall reading somewhere that the National Front had links with some loyalist groups, so I wouldn't be surprised if the person who took that photograph was one of them. I've thought about it long and hard, and I doubt if Andrew knew Norman, but when Norman saw the reports about Brendan's arrest and the statement from Andrew, perhaps he sent Andrew the photograph and an account of Kathleen's past. I could be wrong, but I can't think of any other way they could have made contact.
So there we are. I want to expose Andrew but I can't just go public with my suspicions, because that's all they are: suspicions. I've got to find a way of confirming them, I'm not sure how, but I'll find a way. Also, be careful of Norman. I know Birmingham is a big city and that he lives a long way from you, but be careful. Just in case.
I read the letter several times and each time it made more sense. It made doing something about Norman even more important, more urgent and my forthcoming meeting with Charlie took on greater significance. I didn't know how much of the letter I could share with him: I would have to think about that and probably ask Catriona. I would also need to think about what Catriona could do about Andrew, though I wasn't sure what help I could be. I could see her dilemma: if she told the press about Andrew's affair with Brendan the press could twist the facts in an attempt to show that Brendan was promiscuous, perhaps even hinting that Andrew was an innocent victim preyed on by the English queer. Brendan had told me about his brief affair with Andrew and though I wasn't pleased at the time, I could understand why Brendan wanted some company, some outlet for his feelings. After all, as Kathleen had pointed out more than once, I had been messing him around.
3
In the end I decided not to share her letter with Charlie. He couldn't – and no doubt wouldn't – do anything about what had happened in Strathdubh, and I didn't need to show him the letter to discuss Norman with him.
The first thing Charlie said when he arrived was: “I hope you don't mind me saying what I did about homosexuals. It's nothing personal, but...”
Of course it was personal, I thought, but I didn't say that. Instead I reassured him. After making some tea, producing some biscuits and engaging in a bit of awkward small talk, I decided to get straight to the point.
“I can't give you details or even names of victims, because I'm bound by a promise of confidentiality, so some of this may sound a bit vague.”
He nodded. “Understood,” he said. “Probably just as well, because if I did know specifics I might have to do something with it.”
“Okay, thanks. I don't know what the law is on money lending.”
“Neither do I,” he interrupted. “That's a very specialist area.”
“But what about money lenders who threaten violence, charge excessive interest and may even bribe police?”
“Now, hold on, Father, if you make accusations of police corruption, you need to be able to back it up.”
“Sorry, Charlie. It was perhaps a hypothetical question. We both know a tiny minority of police have been known to take bribes. What if someone was a victim of extreme violence from a loan shark and was afraid to go to the police because that person had been told the police were in the loan shark's pay?”
“There's a lot there to unpick. I'm not sure how much help I can be. I don't know of any corrupt police. What I do know is that if someone has been a victim of the sort of violence you suggest, then they should go to the police.”
I didn't feel I was getting very far. “What if that loan shark also has a history of violence against other people?”
“My advice would be the same.” He asked me if I minded if he smoked. I told him to go ahead. After taking a drag, he asked: “Do you have a particular person in mind?”
I shook my head. “I can't tell you anything about victims without their permission.”
“I didn't mean that. I meant to ask if there was a loan shark you were talking about.”
I took a deep breath. “His name is Norman, sorry I don't know his other name. He used to work at that pub in Winson Green that was closed down because of drugs. And I understand he's a member of the National Front and has been involved in assaulting black people and others he doesn't like. He's often seen with another man.”
“Norman's a common name. Describe him.”
After I'd given what description I could, he told me to leave it with him and he would see what he could find out. “But,” he added, “unless someone is prepared to speak out against him, there may not be much we can do.”
After he'd left I pondered what to do, asking myself how I could protect others from Norman. After wearing out the carpet by walking back and forth in my living room I decided to ring Strathdubh. Perhaps Brendan would agree to make a statement about Norman. Probably not, but it was worth a try. As it happened, Catriona answered the phone and told me Brendan wasn't in. I told her I had received her letter.
“Good,” she said. “Since posting it I've spoken to David Fritton, asking his professional advice.”
Of course, the solicitor. If anyone would know how to implicate Andrew it would be him. I asked her what he'd said.
“Not that helpful at first, to be honest. He said if we went to the police, they would just say it was Brendan's word against his, and the police would almost certainly believe Andrew. But I pressed him. He told me that if we could find others he'd had sex with, that might help our case. But I'm not sure how useful that was. I'm sure he has had other men, but I haven't a clue how we find them. In any case, I can't see any of them risking being arrested themselves.”
“So not much further forward then.”
“That's right. What's happening at your end? Any sign of Norman causing problems?”
I told her about my conversation with Charlie. I also told her someone I knew had had problems with him, but couldn't go into details. I said I was thinking of asking Brendan if he'd make a statement to the police down here, telling them what Norman had done to him. Her response was immediate and in the negative.
“Phew, Graham. I don't think so. Even suggesting it would probably set him back. It's not just the memory of what Norman did to him, it's also the memory of the beating he got from the police down there. I'm glad I answered the phone and not Brendan or, for that matter, Kathleen. She'd really bite your head off.”
“So we're just going to sit back and let these people – down here and up there – get away with it, are we? There must be a way.”
Catriona agreed it was unfair. Before I rang off I asked her to pass all my love on to Brendan. Later that day we spoke. I didn't mention what I decided was yet another of my stupid ideas. I was a bit distracted, and he picked up on that. He wanted to know how long it would be before I would be coming to see him, and I told him soon, as soon as possible. No matter how much I tried to reassure him, I'm not sure he believed me. I can't say I blamed him, after all I'd been prevaricating for so long know.
I prayed for guidance, I prayed for the wisdom to know what to do, but it didn't make any difference. There were times during the next couple of days when I thought I was praying to a void, to emptiness. Was I losing my faith along with my vocation?
I should have known better. I had a call from Charlie, asking if he could come to see me. He had some good news.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.