'The Saviour' by Fiona Burnett
Five hours ago, his memory was awash with his mothers tears. They had stood in the small-hedged garden, his mother and three older brothers, he had turned to wave at them and the small shabby bungalow where they had lived, as he strode down the lane his large hand felt for the photo he always carried with him, his fathers. Stopping he looked at the older version of himself. Tearing it in half he threw part behind him and put the other half back into his pocket.
“Well, Davy boy! How’s it going?’
“Y’know’.
Six months ago a meeting like this with this ginger haired, ‘King of Ireland’. Would have brought trembling to the body of Davy McKinley.
“You dropped this”
Davy met Brendon’s eyes and breathing deeply blessed him. Confused Brendon coughed and held out his hand, it had money in it.
Davy had been called, to bring the word to a foreign country. The weather was hot; Several times Father Davids hand went to his throat to undo his top button, before remembering with a self-satisfied grin that he was wearing his dog collar. Although he was in the middle of a throng of people, nobody had barged him, he had respect, and he was Immaculate. He mouthed the word to his reflection, enjoying the sensation of his lips meeting. The voices of another country breathed past him, smiling he strode forward joining the melee. This was freedom, this was England, in the summer of 1976.