Not a bone in Marick’s body was suited to the church. When a man comes late to God, looking for answers, pulpits and hymns aren’t always what he requires.
‘It’s not working out, is it?’ The Deacon spoke with his back turned and his soft, leonine hands clutched together. ‘We’re happy to write you a reference. There’s an opening at The Public over the road, we’ve heard. Hospital chaplain. Might suit you better.’
Marick reached behind one ear and wound down the tiny dial. Even if not in full proclamation mode, the Deacon’s voice could scud off the stone of the high-vaulted church vestibule and cause Marick’s hearing aids to squeal replies of their own.
It was working out, Marick wanted to respond, if working out meant refraining from bringing down the walls in a trumpet of doubt. Marick could promise to fall back into godly line, but he suspected the Deacon’s mind was made up, convinced by the rumours and complaints whispered under archways. This, Marick realised, was it.
The walk from the church’s basement to the hospital’s administration block was short, and downhill. Marick took a breath in and set off – he and his stocky workhorse body, his eggshell hearing, his thick, dark hair that defied the meticulous middle part Marick aspired to. Organ-song faded out behind him, and several crows circled in the stilted summer air above, as though they were timekeepers on some great astronomical clock.
The white blast of daylight was a surprise, and Marick blinked in its glare. Under his arm was a cardboard box containing his belongings: a Bible, several notebooks, vestments. He filed through the cathedral gates. A car shot by, too fast for the speed limit and too heavy on the horn, and his step caught.
He suspected he resembled a detective in a miniseries who had cleared out his desk in shame, and he hoped none of the clerical staff were standing in the church grounds, taking the opportunity to catch a few morning rays and watch…
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