He wanted to do that for her.

40

The latch clicked loudly as Cormac forced the giant iron ring as far as it would rotate. The door held for a second before succumbing to the pressure of his shoulder. Its ancient hinges groaned as he stepped noisily into the empty darkness of the foyer.

The doors to the chapel were more welcoming and he passed through with a gentle swish. They were still rocking gently to a standstill by the time he walked the short distance to the little altar. He stood where only days ago, his mother’s coffin lay while ritual and ceremony sent her on her way. His mother and father had knelt on the ground, on the altar in front of him, on their wedding day. His mother knelt here last Sunday, blissfully unaware that what she had always referred to as her mortal toil was all but over. He slid into the front pew, at the end of which he could see a single row of candles. Only one was glowing, and he was glad of that. He would use it to light a candle for Maggie and spend a few moments just thinking of her. He wouldn’t pray for her, because that would make him a hypocrite. He would think of her, though. The life she led that was so very different from his own. He envied her the certainty she possessed that there was a better place than this. This little church was the centre of her universe. She was baptised here, and like him made her first confession and communion here also. After those rites of passage, this place began to mean less and less to him. It was a place he endured for one tortuous hour every Sunday. It was only made tolerable by the thought there would be a delicious roast dinner on the table as soon as he called at Lalor’s to tell his dad and Tom their worship was over for the day as well. On some Sundays, he’d show his face at the door of the church, pick up a news sheet and dash off with Harry over the hill to play football until he saw the congregation make their way towards him. No, this place did not mean much to Cormac - yet as he sat in the darkness, he realised it remained part of him. His whole history was in this place: christenings, communions, confirmations, marriages, deaths. There had even been the ordination of his uncle Damien here. Cormac watched, as an awe struck ten-year-old, as his uncle lay prostrate on the altar while the bishop called him to serve his heavenly father. Damien’s passion for Christ unfortunately did not compare to his passion for altar boys and he vanished from his parish in Armagh and was never spoken of again in Cormac’s house.

He hadn’t noticed it at the funeral, but the smell was still the same. It smelled of rotting wood and sweat, but not in a bad way - rather in a way that spoke to him of his lost innocence. He closed his eyes and inhaled it deeply into his lungs, like he was trying to store it there. He knew he was breathing it in because he’d already decided he would never return here. It was part of his childhood, but it had no place in his future.