The Illustrated Teacher
Part 5

It occurred to Sophia that she hadn't really been naked until now. The things he'd said to her had stripped away deceptions and armour she didn't even know she possessed.

"You're cruel," she said simply, tucking a towel around herself.

"Perhaps."

"Can I have my clothes? I'd like to go now."

"By all means. They're in the downstairs closet."

Sophia ran downstairs to the first floor and found the closed in the sitting room. She hadn't even noticed it before.

Drying herself off as quickly as she could, she struggled into her clothes with wet skin. She half-expected Andrew to walk in on her, but he didn't. And when she was fully dressed, she took her coat of the peg, put it on, and stepped out into the hallway.

He was on the landing, fully clothed, leaning against the banister with his hands in his pockets. "Did I thank you for breakfast?"

"Don't bother, Andrew." She shook her head, on the verge of tears.

"You're a strong woman, Sophia. You can take a bit of truth."

"Sure I can. But I don't have to like it and I don't have to stay."

"No, you certainly don't. But aren't you the least bit interested to find out how the story ends?"

"It ends now," she snapped. "I don't need another man in my life to make me cry."

Andrew looked up at her, pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms. "I didn't make you cry, Sophia. You did. Your issues, your hurt, your shame."

She brushed past him and fled down the lower stairs. "Well, that's the ending, I guess," she called out as she descended.

Andrew looked down at her, over the banister. "No it isn't."

Sophia slammed the front door on her way out, the impact echoed along the empty canyon of the street. On the curb, she waited, hoping a taxi would drive by, but it seemed as if the whole of Soho was deserted that Sunday morning.

Not a car or a taxi or a pedestrian went by. It would have been perfectly easy to walk up to the square and find a cab, but Sophia, all of a sudden, felt exhausted.

Stitting down on the stoop steps leading to his house, she rested her head against the iron railings and began to cry.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, but a voice and a wet nose against her hand brought her out of her tears.

"Dear, oh dear. This isn't good. Not good at all!"

Sophia looked up into the face of a thin, reedy, neatly dressed old lady. She had a terrier on a leash who had decided that Sophia's fingers were of great olfactory interest. The old woman smiled kindly.

"What can possibly be so bad on a lovely Sunday morning?" The voice was fluting and gilded with an Irish accent.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," said Sophia, pulling herself to her feet. "Thanks for your concern." She wiped her face with the flat of her hand; it smelled like dog.

"Are you waiting for Father Scanlon?"

Sophia, rummaged in her pocket for a tissue. "Who? No..." Abruptly, she looked up at the old woman. "Who?"

"Father Scanlon? He must be home, because he doesn't say mass anymore. I haven't seen him at the church for almost..." the little woman gazed up, calculating on her fingertips, "...five years. But he still lives here. He likes Freddie very much." She looked down at her dog, which returned her attention with a look of adoration. "He *does*, doesn't he? He *likes* Freddie!"

"Father Scanlon." Sophia paused. "Andrew Scanlon?"

The woman smiled. "You young people are so modern these days, calling everyone by their Christian name. In my day, we'd never dream of calling a priest by his given name. But," the woman said, smiling, "times have changed. Probably for the better."

"He's a priest?" Sophia asked, incredulous.

Twittering, the old lady looked at her with amusement. "He was parish priest at Saint Mark's for almost seven years. He came to us from... oh, somewhere in the Pacific. Something...'eezia'. I can't recall now. But he was a missionary, they say." The old lady gazed up at the front of the house, over Sophia's shoulder. "Can't be easy, adjusting, can it?"

"Oh, look. There he is!" The woman raised a tiny, gloved hand, waving and smiling. He's home. Just ring the bell, dear."

"No..." said Sophia, looking up at Andrew's first floor window. He was indeed there. He waved. "I don't think so."

"Don't be shy, dear! He's a very nice and understanding man. He was very kind to me when my Desmond passed away. Look, I'll ring the bell for you."

Before Sophia could stop her, the old lady climbed the steps past her, and pressed the doorbell with embarrassing persistence. "There you were, crying your soul out on the steps, and he was in all the time," she said, jabbing the bell repeatedly. "Come on, come on," she twittered, grabbing Sophia's arm and pulling her closer to the door. "I'll introduce you and then it won't be so bad."

When the door opened, Sophia hung her head in abject humiliation.

"Father Scanlon. I found this lovely girl sitting on your doorstep weeping her heart out. What do you think of that?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Sophia watched Andrew struggle not to smile. You fucking, smug hypocrite, she thought.

"Mrs. Feeney, you know it's just 'Andrew' now. I've explained that to you."

"Och, once a priest always a priest, Father Scanlon," she said dismissively. "This poor child needs your help and was too shy to ring the bell."

Andrew cocked his head to make eye contact with Sophia. She glared at him. "That's a terrible shame," he said vaguely. "I'm just popping out to the post box, but perhaps this young lady would like to come for the walk."

"Now! There you are, child. Isn't that nice? A walk will do you the world of good." The woman prodded Sophia's arm. "Well, come along, Freddie," she baby-talked. "We've set the world to rights enough for one day."

Andrew waited till the old lady was on her way up the street. "Walkies, Sophia?'

"Honesty, Andrew? You lectured me on honesty?" she hissed.

A firm hand grabbed her arm and, closing the door behind him, he set off up the street at a steady pace, with Sophia in tow.

She held her tongue until they'd reached the corner, opening onto Soho Square. Andrew pulled a couple of letters from the pocket of his overcoat and pushed them through the slot in the mailbox.

"You're a priest! A Catholic priest! My god, that's rich!"

"I'm not a priest. I was a priest. There's a difference."

"Mrs. Feenie disagrees," snorted Sophia.

"I left the priesthood five years ago. She knows it. Everyone knows it."

"Not me, Father Scanlon." Sophia was living and she made every word a bitter slap. "Want to hear my confession?"

He looked away from her, across the park, his hands jammed into his coat pockets. His attempt to shut her out was infuriating. She tore at the arm of his coat, pulling at it. "Want to hear, Father? Oh, I know you do. Come on!"

Andrew tried to shrug off her grasp. "Sophia, please."

But she wouldn't let go. She stepped in front of him, her face inches from his. "You've just *got* to listen, Father. Because, as confessions go, this one is quite something."

He was angry now. She could see it in his expression; his eyes had narrowed and his lips were set in a thin line. "That's enough!"

"Enough? It's not nearly enough. I haven't even started," she replied. "Here it is, Father, here it is."

Sophia put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down until their lips were almost touching. "I want you to take me to that room of yours, and chain me to that cross of yours, and fuck me and fuck me and fuck me till I scream."

He stared into her eyes, anger drained from his face. Sophia released him and stepped back, breathing hard, glaring at him.

Andrew's hand flew out and caught her on the shoulder, turning her back in the direction of Frith Street. Then he shifted it, until he had a firm grasp on the back of her neck, and pushed her forward, keeping pace.

He leaned over her shoulder as he marched her up the street, and said, "With pleasure."

 

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