Page 35 of Reinventing Cato
“It’s unusual to see a priest your age.”
“I’m only a few years short of the average. Seventy.”
No laugh from his unappreciative audience of one.
“Why did you want to be a priest?”
Now Cato wished they were back on the subject of Mike’s wife. “Because I like people. I like helping make things better for those in need. I know there’s no magic answer to most problems. I can’t save someone who’s dying from cancer. I can’t make some people see sense. I can’t… Well, there’s more that I can’t do, than I can. Are you religious?”
“No, I don’t have time for any of that nonsense. Tell me one thing. How are you supposed to understand what it’s like for someone if their relationship breaks down when you’ve never been in a relationship yourself?”
The bitterness was clear in Mike’s raised voice. Cato thought fast. What would be priest-worthy?
“I agree. You’re right. It’s difficult to fully understand any problem unless it’s something you’ve experienced. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Priests are good at listening and sympathising. We’re trained to be aware of what to say, but I think they—we—should be allowed to have relationships and to marry.”
“I’m not talking about homosexuals. That’s not right. Don’t agree with those shenanigans.”
Wanker! Zip your lip, Cato.He didn’t want to get dumped in the middle of nowhere for arguing with a homophobic twerp.“What actually happened to your wife?”
As he’d hoped, the wordwifewas enough of a lure and Mike was off again. His perfect, beautiful, wonderful wife had moved out and was now living with an estate agent in Bolton—who presumably had perfectly ironed boxers—but she’d soon come to her senses. Cato half-dozed as Mike kept talking. And talking.
~~~
When Vigge came out of the bathroom, having deliberately lingered to give Cato time to fall asleep, he swore. No Cato, He should have seen that coming and he hadn’t, despite Cato’s comment about cadging a lift. Vigge was ready to try and explain his silence, and now it was too late. It served him right. He really hadn’t expected Cato to leave. Not in the middle of the night.
There seemed little merit in staying, so he packed up and left. Though not without checking at the desk that Cato’s namewasSmith. Vigge did it under the pretence that he was confirming the room was paid for. It was the same woman behind the desk and she made no secret of what she was thinking. But he didn’t give a damn. He’d never see her again.
It was only as he pulled back onto the motorway, that he wondered if Cato was still hanging around at the services, trying to persuade someone to drive him south. Was he…safe?
No point thinking about it. He wasn’t in the car with him so that was that. Except, that wasn’t that. Vigge was worried. He’d feel better if he knew Cato was okay. Less guilty. The more miles he drove down the motorway, the more annoyed with himself he became.I’m a coward.What the hell had he been so afraid of? The first time in a long while that he’d been attracted enough to someone to act on it, and he’d freaked out.
The journey gave him plenty of time to think about what he’d done. Plenty of time toregret it. How much longer was he going to continue to pretend to be happy with his life? An empty house to come home to, no one to talk to about something other than work, no one to eat with, to have fun with, no one to share his bed. That wasn’t going to change until he came out. Properly out. Not just out when he felt like it. Not just telling himself he wouldn’t deny his sexuality if he was asked. No more thinking that was enough.
It wasn’t.
He’d had a chance and he’d messed up. But he was a policeman. It was his job to find people. He could find Cato. He could put things right.
~~~
When Mike dropped him off in Wembley, Cato saw yet another flaw in his decision to leave Vigge in the middle of the night. Where the hell was he supposed to go now? Nowhere was open and the ground was covered in snow, though at least the stuff was no longer falling from the sky.
Then it was. Thick flakes fluttering down. Torn between misery and laughter, Cato slung his bag over his shoulder, tucked his hands in his pockets and started to walk. He found a bus stop for the night service to Trafalgar Square, but had to wait a long while. By the time a bus arrived, he was tired, freezing cold and miserable, and even more pissed off with both himself and Vigge.
He should have made Vigge talk to him, made him tell him what the hell was wrong.Bit late now to consider there might actually havebeensomething wrong. What if he’d been in pain? Or freaked out? His stomach churned. Well, he’d never know now, would he? Even if he felt the need to check, all he had was a first name and police rank, assuming Vigge had told the truth, but no one was going to give out information about a serving police officer.So stop thinking about him!
The bus took ages to get to central London, by which time he was warm and dry again, but not in any better a temper. It was still too early for the interview so he found a McDonald’s and bought a coffee and a muffin with jam—as much as he could face at that time of the morning. As he ate, Cato checked for messages and found only one, from a number he didn’t recognise, sent an hour ago. For a brief moment, Cato thought it might be from Vigge. Except the guy didn’t know his number.
When he read the message, Cato felt as if his heart had stopped. He had to read it again before he could convince himself he’d not made a mistake.
If you take this job, or tell anyone about this message, a member of your family will die.
What the hell? Was it a not-funny joke? But if it wasn’t a joke… He gulped.Fuck, fuck, fuck!Now he wished he’d finished his breakfast before he’d read the text. His appetite had vanished.
He typed a reply with shaking fingers.Who is this?Then deleted it. It was a waste of a question because they weren’t going to tell him. He tappedWhy?hesitated, then deleted that. They were no more likely to tell him why than who they were. He tappedIs this a joke?and pressed send. Then sat and stared at the screen, only to find a moment later that the message hadn’t been delivered.
Who wouldn’t want him to take this job? He’d told just about everyone he knew about being headhunted by NASA. Showing off.Twat!It was by sheer force of will that he hadn’t mentioned it over Christmas because he knew his family were sick of hearing about it. But no one in his family would have done this.
Once he’d calmed down—slightly, and he was thinking more clearly—hopefully—he tried to figure out who it might be. It didn’t have to be someone he knew, though they’d have to have access to his number. Maybe it was someone who wanted the job. A competitor? Or someone who was jealous and wanted him to fail? One of his colleagues, his students, a friend-who-wasn’t?
