Father Confessor (J McNee series) by Russel D McLean Page B

sarcasm.
    Walking down the hall, I heard the voices low and angry.
    Didn’t recognise anyone right off.
    How long since I’d socialised with the boys and girls in blue?
    Most of them would cross the street rather than say hello. Some sense of betrayal over my departure. Like I’d broken more than just one man’s nose.
    In the first few months going private, maybe I’d burned more bridges than I thought. But I’d been full of anger, past caring about such things. Not seeing the road ahead.
    Maybe this evening would salve some bruises. Heal some rifts.
    Or maybe not.
    I was barely in the room when a bullish man whose name I couldn’t recall looked at me, and said to Susan, “Not your boyfriend.”
    “I just want to know –”
    Sooty was there in the room. Still the same intimidating presence I remembered, his hair shaved down to the bone. He stepped forward, gently nudging the bull to one side, and said, “He’s still breathing, McNee. Your wish didn’t come true.”
    Sooty and I used to drink together on Friday nights. We hadn’t talked since I left. Except that one time in the interrogation room. My fault more than his, of course. I take responsibility for my own behaviour, the way I treated people.
    Like I said, I hadn’t smelled the burning wood of those bridges at the time. Or hadn’t given a shite if I did. And there was nothing I could do to change any of that.
    I said, “I’m not here to cause trouble. Lindsay and I had been working on –”
    Sooty always had a temper, a violence that raged just beneath his skin. This evening, he couldn’t hold it back. He roared as he stepped towards me.
    We embraced violently as he rushed me out into the corridor.
    I tried to push him away.
    My feet went off the ground.
    I cracked back against a wall, my spine twisting.
    Muscles spasmed.
    I beat down on the back of his head. Fists bouncing off the flesh of his neck.
    Heavy fists pounded my sides. Aiming for the kidneys.
    For whatever they could slam.
    The world broke into areas of dark and light.
    Shapes lost cohesion.
    There was a rush of sound, like a violent sea trapped in a shell, echoed in my skull.
    I was aware of other people around us. Some of them were yelling. I couldn’t make out the words.
    The pounding stopped. It was sudden and unexpected.
    I tried to remain on my feet. Wound up slipping down the wall, my legs folding, concertina style.
    I took deep breaths.
    Sooty was crouched next to me. Holding up fingers.
    “How many?”
    I turned my head away.
    He said. “Maybe its best if you go outside for a smoke, huh?”
    I said, “We should grab a pint sometime. For old time’s sakes.”
    He said nothing. Just stood up.
    I saw Susan standing a few feet away. Her eyes met mine and I tried to figure her expression, but she turned away too fast, her arms folded.
    Hurt worse than ten-pound punches to the kidneys.
    ###
    The thing with giving up smoking is that sometimes without it, you’re left at a dead end. It’s a great time killer.
    Cigarettes: the procrastinator’s pal.
    I read somewhere that when the smoking ban hit, people started striking up relationships because of shared ground outside where cold weather and sharing of lighters led to romance.
    Smirting , they tried to call it.
    Buzzwords. The bane of the modern world.
    But whatever labels you wanted to use, the smoking ban brought people together. Smoking can be good for relationships.
    More than that, it’s a damn a good exit strategy. Need an excuse for a sharp escape? Smoking works. “Just stepping outside.” Words more magic than “abracadabra”. Didn’t really matter how long you were gone, either.
    So, aye, there was part of me wished I still sucked on the cancer sticks. Even if I knew the risks.
    Because, simply walking out of that ward, with no other excuse, I felt like I was giving up. Admitting defeat. I had no excuse, no reason to present as a mask. I was merely slinking away after having my arse handed to me.
    In the elevator,