Confidence by Denise Mina

Author:Denise Mina [MINA, DENISE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2022-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

15

IT WAS A GLORIOUS spring day in Rome, warm and bright outside, but not in this small, noiseless room on the first floor of the North American Pontifical College. The white stone walls stole the warmth we could see outside the long window to the balcony. Hard wooden chairs were pushed up against the wall and the window was shaded with grey net curtains.

It smelled of dust.

A young priest with thinning blond hair, a Connecticut accent and a snippy attitude picked lint off his sleeve and set out the rules: we must not call Lamberg ‘Father’. We must not ask for or accept a blessing from him. Regardless of our history with him we must remember that Eugene was a visitor to this seminary, he was not a member of the college. He was here as a pilgrim, staying in the quarters reserved for lay members who came to visit Rome. Eugene could visit with us for one hour, no more, and then we would have to go. He trusted that we would support Eugene’s return to society and pray for him at this difficult time. Everything he said was pitying and distancing. It laid out Eugene’s position as crudely as a tourist map.

Did we understand?

He had mistaken us for members of a congregation that Eugene had served at some point, people who knew him and his history and sympathised with him. Explaining who we really were would get us chucked out so we all nodded dumbly.

He left, shutting the door quietly, as if he was trapping us in there but didn’t want us to know.

We looked around at the blank walls and stern seating. Fin caught my eye and touched his breast pocket. Recorder still running. Reminded by this gesture, Bram took out his tape recorder and sat it on the table, pressed record and then left it there. Over at the window he pulled back the curtains and stepped out onto the balcony.

We followed him into the fresh air and sunshine.

We were looking down into a courtyard of potted trees arranged around a modern water feature. A low jet fell over rough rocks, encircled with a brass crown of thorns. Far away, beyond the opposite wall of rooms just like ours, peeked the pink dome and spire of St Peter’s Basilica. We were in the centre of Rome yet all we could hear was a gentle whisper of falling water amplified by the enclosed courtyard.

‘Bram van Wyk.’

Bram stiffened at the voice and turned back to the figure in the room.

They looked at each other through the open doorway as a net curtain drifted lazily between them.

Eugene Lamberg looked like an actor in his breakthrough role as a sexy priest. Fit for a man in his early sixties, he moved like a dancer, had thick salt-and-pepper hair and as good a jaw as any man could ask for. His pale blue eyes were framed with dark lashes. He wasn’t wearing a collar or cassock, just black jeans, a black cashmere sweater and brogues, but everything looked expensive and freshly laundered.

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