Chapter 7
As Father Matthew Mackie slips in at the back of the lounge, a large man in a West Ham shirt is shouting about Tony Blair.
There is a big turnout, as he hoped. That’s useful—plenty of objections to the Woodlands.
There had been no buffet service on the train from Bexhill, so he is glad to see there are biscuits.
He grabs a handful when no one is looking, takes a blue plastic seat in the back row, and settles himself in.
The man in the tight-fitting soccer shirt is running out of steam now, and as he sits down, other hands go up.
He hopes this wasn’t a wasted trip, but it is far better to be safe than sorry.
Father Mackie is aware that he is nervous.
He adjusts his dog collar, runs a hand through his shock of snowy-white hair, and dips into his pocket for a shortbread finger.
If someone doesn’t ask about the cemetery, perhaps he should.
Just be brave. Remember he has a job to do.
How peculiar to be in this room. He shivers. Probably just the cold.