TWENTY
THE PRIEST
The gravelly bozzing morphed into a less than tuneful wheezing squeal of hinges that could do with an oily drink, which was immediately supplanted with a discordant whistling, not hinges straining for lack of oil but a thinly disguised Ave Maria, straining as if the Virgin Mary required a powerful laxative. The sound increased in piercing volume as it echoed in the hallway and thence all eyes, previously fixated on the map room door, swivelled to Cecelia who expounded, not so affectionately, ‘Feck me gently, it’s the bloody priest,’ said in a Father Ted, Catford accent. A suggestion of South London and Tipperary, which was much appreciated by Aedd, who followed up from behind the father and appeared to overtake the vicar of Christ to get to snooker cue?
And so it was t
