Читать книгу After the Lockout - Darran McCann - Страница 7

Stanislaus sorted through the great ring of keys to the parish properties as he walked, coming to the correct key just as he reached the Parochial Hall. Someone had cleaned up around the side where Aidan Cavanagh had been sick. There were no windows smashed. In fact they looked clean – but if there was one thing broken or one item not put back where it was supposed to be … He opened the door of the hall and walked into the middle of the floor. The place smelled of bleach and soap powder. The chairs were stacked neatly to the side. The floor was mopped and clean, except for the muddy footprints he himself had just left on the not-yet-dry floor. He removed his shoes and went to the store cupboard to look for a mop. After he had cleaned up his mess, he locked the front door of the hall after him and sat on the steps to pull on his shoes. Hearing someone coming, he looked up the street and froze when he saw it was Victor Lennon.

‘Morning, Your Grace,’ the Victor fellow said.

For the first time since he was a child, Stanislaus seemed unable to tie his laces. He abandoned the knot and started again. Lennon did not stop as he passed, and Stanislaus left off warring with his laces to watch him disappear up the road. Where was he going, so early in the morning? Or coming from? He wore the same ragged uniform and still had his suitcase. He hadn’t been home yet; where had he been? Stanislaus looked back to his laces, tangled stupidly, and methodically set about undoing the tangle.