‘So, praying help?’
She looked confused and disappointed as she stared at him, her coat still toggled up.
‘Shep, you’ve been smoking in the house.’
‘Still am, but only here, in the conservatory.’
‘But the rules. Why didn’t you go outside?’
‘I didn’t want to.’
She was wary and unsure as she studied him. Her fingers twisted within themselves like snakes.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘they’re your rules.’
‘But Shep—’
‘I’m going back.’
‘But you agreed. Besides, if it was a fire …’
‘There’ll be remains, something to identify. There has to be a burial.’
The lounger creaked as he leant forward to put his cigar stub in the ashtray.
‘Rebecca, I need to apologise.’
‘But—’
‘To him. That’s where I’ll find my peace; if there’s any to be had.’
She was shaking her head, and the eyes that implored him not to go were already flooding.
‘Come here.’
He took her in his arms, tried to calm the quivering, stall the hyperventilating. Lowering his voice to console her, his words were almost a croon. He couldn’t disguise the dread that weighed each word down.
‘Believe me, Becca, I’m not thrilled at the prospect of returning to the village. You could stay here.’
Her arms tightened around him.
Wittin didn’t know where else to go. He walked through the village knowing he wasn’t required. Last night had been the end. He hadn’t stopped them. They had confirmed the death of their belief. What he had tried to do to Deborah felt like the death of his. It was easy to imagine his church in flames. When he got to the Evans’ house, John Cutter was there, in uniform, dropping things into evidence bags.
‘Find anything?’ said Wittin, half expecting to be ignored, not really wanting an answer.
Looking up, Cutter motioned him to the aluminium ladder that was lashed to the sole remaining stanchion, the only access into the pit.
The ground retained the heat of the fire. Wittin squelched through warm puddles of rainwater, and his shoes and trouser hems were soiled with ash slurry by the time he’d negotiated his way to Cutter.
Cutter didn’t ask where Deborah was.
Wittin didn’t tell him.
Cutter had one of his hands behind his back. He wore a cracked sneer, which held menace in the light of last night’s events.
‘Guess who?’
He thrust a skull into Wittin’s face. His manner was playful, but he lost most of the sneer. Wittin pulled away. The skull had survived the fire but was cracked and black. A metal cross had fused to it, melting into the nose and eye socket. Cutter polished the surface of the cross with his sleeve, a grim Aladdin, quickly revealing a silver shine.
‘Finnegan,’ he said. ‘Your predecessor.’
Wittin stared at the skull. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Alas, poor Padraig?’ Cutter said. ‘It’s nice that you finally meet, don’t you think?’
Cutter’s gaze was glassy and unreadable, his face set. He flipped the skull into the air and caught it, his fingers through the eye sockets as though he was preparing to bowl. He moved aside as Wittin made to leave, revealing the charred remnants on the bedsprings. Wittin looked elsewhere and fought the urge to vomit. Drawn to look again, he tried to focus on Finnegan’s skull, which was preferable, searching the cross for the Celtic pattern, dents, sooty shadows in the image of Christ, anything but the thing on the bed.
‘Who is it?’
‘I’ll be telling them it’s their boy,’ said Cutter.
‘What?’
‘I called his parents. They’re on their way.’
‘You knew where they were?’
‘Always have. This day’s been coming. I owed them the courtesy.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re next of kin. Besides, we used to be close.’
It was Cutter’s casual tone that upset Wittin more than his intentions.
‘John, don’t you see how wrong this is?’
Cutter grinned. ‘And last night was right?’
Wittin felt the ground burning the soles of his feet.
‘What did she ever see in a man like you?’ he said.
Cutter’s expression clouded.
‘Well at least that knocked the smile off your face.’
Wittin held his place as Cutter closed the gap between them and put his face right up close.
‘Don’t you presume to judge me, or so help me God I will make you regret it.’
‘How could I not? I saw you kill that boy. I witnessed you discarding your wife when she needed help.’
‘Yes, I did kill that boy. Everybody who was in that glade knows, and they all helped; he helped.’ Cutter gestured to the remains on the bed. ‘And they were glad.’
‘I know, dead children.’
Cutter bristled and left no distance at all between himself and Wittin.
‘Understand this. One priest disappeared and no questions were asked. It could happen again, believe you me.’ Wittin creased as Cutter punched Finnegan’s skull into his stomach. ‘She left me.’
He was still folded around the skull that he held to himself like a rugby ball as he watched Cutter spread a clean tarpaulin over the substitute remains.
‘You didn’t say who it was.’
‘We’re going to need another postman.’
Wittin cursed as he watched the tarpaulin tighten and heard the zip of cable ties as Cutter worked around the bed.
Seven years earlier
Ed Munson heard the clump of her wellingtons first. Three or four steps into the shop, they stopped. She was at the end of the sweet counter, her attention flitting from chocolate to candy to bon-bon to marshmallow as she worked her way along. She liked the liquorice twirls with the aniseed jelly in the centre but her granny wouldn’t allow her to have those before school because they made her teeth black. Muchis thought this was unreasonable but was happy to forget that she was the only child allowed to have sweets before school at all; one of her granny’s many indulgences.
‘Muchis that, Mr Munson?’
He told her. She pursed her mouth and creased her nose in consideration before pointing to another item.
‘Muchis that, Mr Munson?’
He told her.
Some mornings she could go through practically all he had to offer. But this morning she quickly settled upon a red box of chocolates tied with a golden ribbon on a high shelf above the rows of sweetie jars.
‘Muchis that, Mr Munson?’
‘How much was it yesterday?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Did you have enough?’
‘No.’
‘And have you got the same amount of money today?’
‘I think so. A wee bit more maybe.’
‘Well I’d say you haven’t got enough again. Anyway, that’s way too big a box of chocolates for a wee lassie like you.’
To Munson’s surprise, Muchis spun away from the confectionery and crossed the shop. She pointed at a gift set of soaps and creams he had ordered in for the coming Christmas. He’d been thinking along the lines of a last-minute present or stocking filler.
‘Muchis that, Mr Munson?’
‘Well, that’s expensive.’
‘More than the chocolates?’
‘No.’
‘Have I got enough?’
She was hopeful as she approached the newspaper counter. She opened her clammy hand for Ed Munson to count the warm coins.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid not, darling. But tell me, what are you wanting with a box of smellies like that? I
thought sweeties were your thing.’
‘For my granny. It’s her birthday.’
‘When?’
‘I’m not sure, soon though. My daddy sent a letter. He said I should be thinking about what I want to buy her.’
‘Oh, I see. And you want to help her stay all glamorous?’
Her face lit up at this suggestion and she nodded so hard her hat slipped and her face disappeared behind her shifting curls. Munson waited as she swept them aside to look at him.
‘You really want the smellies?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Okay. Do you want to save?’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
Muchis frowned. ‘How?’
Ed Munson took his pad from beside the till and turned to a fresh page. He put the price of the gift box at the top of the page. Alongside, he printed her name: eleanor souter.
‘See this big number?’ he said.
‘Uh huh.’
‘That’s how much the smellies cost. Show me your money again.’
He took five silver coins from her.
‘That’s fifty, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘So if we take fifty from the big number, that new number is how much you still need to pay. We can do it a little bit at a time.’
‘But what if—’
‘Don’t worry.’
Ed Munson came from behind the counter, retrieved the smellies and put them behind him, above the cigarettes and tobacco.
‘That’s yours. I won’t sell it to anybody else, I promise.’
She stared at it as if she’d won a prize.
‘Thank you, Mr Munson.’
‘Don’t mention it. And you still have enough for a wee mix-bag. You want to pick?’
She ran to the big tray of sweets starting at a penny.
‘Muchis that, Mr Munson?’
Ed Munson laughed to himself and enjoyed filling her little paper bag. When she had finished and paid him, she fixed him with an inquisitive stare.
‘Should I tell my granny that you think she’s glamorous?’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘if you like.’
‘Okay. You want a cola chew?’
‘No, I won’t, thank you. You enjoy them.’
‘I will. Bye, Mr Munson.’
‘Bye.’
She put a chew in her mouth. Her wellingtons dragged across the tiles. She straightened her hat as she walked out of the door into the still-falling snow.
15
Deborah inspected herself in the mirror and was surprised she had the cheek to grin. She was Friday-night clean in Sunday-morning clothes. Her skin shone and her hair was brushed tight into a precious-metal ponytail that bounced from side to side as she walked through the village.
The overhead bell rang and heads turned as she pushed through Munson’s door and walked the length of the sweet counter looking for the fruit-flavoured chews that had been Jenny’s Friday treat. Something about her made Ed Munson wave payment away when she took out her purse.
‘Thanks, Mr Munson.’
‘No bother, Debbie. Good to see your old self back in the shop.’
‘You think my old self still suits me?’
‘Aye. It always did.’
‘Maybe I’ll try it again for a wee while.’
‘Aye, you do that, see how it goes.’
Deborah’s attention was caught by the box of smellies, dust free and gleaming above the cigarette display.
‘It’s a shame she never took them.’
‘It is. She couldn’t, they weren’t paid for.’
‘I thought …’
‘By Muchis.’
‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘I like that you still call her that.’
‘Eleanor doesn’t feel right, not to me.’
‘People still pay?’
‘Times over, every month.’
‘It’s strange, what we do.’
‘To keep them here?’
‘Yes.’
‘The money. It goes into the “smelly” box.’ Ed Munson indicated a plastic sweet box with a slot cut into its lid, a quarter full with notes and coins. ‘It helps fund a bursary, for a writer. Keeps Kerr here for me.’
Deborah lifted her chews from the counter.
‘Some good did come.’
‘Not enough.’
‘No, never enough.’
They were both relieved to hear the door chime as another customer entered.
‘Thanks again,’ she said, holding the chews up as she gave Ed Munson a small wave.
She could hear them already as the door closed behind her and she stepped back onto the pavement, the customers and assistants rushing to Ed Munson and asking about every word they’d already heard. ‘Well now, what do you think of that? … Almost back to her old self … Some change, right enough … Maybe John will take her back now, do you think?’
All it had taken was for that boy to be dead.
Cutting across Main Street and alongside the hotel took her out of their sight. Wrapping her coat around her against the shadow cold, she soon worked her way down to Marsh Lane, passing the length of the long side-walls of village homes, avoiding being seen. The brittle vegetation crisped underfoot as she crossed the corner of the marsh to the break in the fence that led into the school grounds.
Walking anticlockwise through the small circle of trees, keeping as much distance as she could from the fresh grave, Deborah made her way from six to twelve o’clock, towards the furthest tree: Jenny’s. It was the tallest, spindliest tree, but Deborah also thought it was the prettiest. It stood slightly apart, as if late to join or eager to leave. An uncertain tree was how she considered it. An almost belonging, half smiling, bending in its boots and wholly necessary kind of tree. It even had its own smell, a freshness that the others had lost as moss and other growths had colonised the damp and light-deprived trunks of her classmates.
Sabbath was already sitting at the base of the tree when Deborah arrived. The girl looked up.
‘How did you know this was the right tree?’ Deborah asked.
‘You must have told me,’ said Sabbath.
‘I suppose.’
‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’
‘Surprised, after last night. Today feels different. I do.’
‘I know what you mean. It’s okay, though, it’s not like you’re late. I just thought you’d come here at some point.’
Deborah sat next to her.
‘Jenny was late leaving the house on the day it happened.’
‘How so?’
‘She had a hissy-fit, completely out of character, about her brand-new boots.’ She smiled at the recollection. ‘Little-girl boots; red with white soles and laces and white fur around the top.’
‘They sound nice.’
‘They were. She didn’t want to wear them. John was having none of it. “You’re going to school in your new boots, young lady,” he said, “or you’re not going at all. It’s up to you.” They were the last words he said to her as he left for work.’
‘That’s sad,’ said Sabbath.
‘It’s a shame, because he loved her so much, and he told her often.’
‘He should have told her that morning.’
‘I know. But there was something about Jenny that day, a defiance we hadn’t seen before. She wouldn’t tell us who’d picked on her. John couldn’t cope with it, so he left. I liked it, so I gave in. She sat on the stairs for ten minutes and I was thinking about valuable school time ticking away, so I let her change back into her old black and too-tight boots, reasoning with her that the red ones would take a while to get used to, that sometimes a thing in the shops looks just the ticket, but when you get it home it suddenly looks too big or bright to belong in your
life. It was just a matter of giving them time, breaking them in. I wish I’d stood my ground, like John did.’
Sabbath put her hand over Deborah’s.
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘He made me pay as though it was; still is.’
‘Don’t let him. Got any coins?’
‘Know what? I do,’ said Deborah, pulling loose change from her purse and showing it to Sabbath. ‘Ed Munson wouldn’t let me pay for Jenny’s sweets. The way he looked at me made me feel pretty again.’
‘You are pretty,’ said Sabbath in a matter-of-fact kind of way.
‘Thank you.’
‘So make a wish then.’
Deborah looked through the trees at the boy’s grave.
‘I don’t know what to wish for any more.’
‘There must be something, but don’t tell me, or it won’t come true.’
‘Okay.’
When she got up, Deborah was faced with her past wishes. Each was a coin pushed into the cracks in the bark of the Jenny-tree; coins that Deborah now rubbed with her fingers, counting the years, weighing the regret, until a chill passed through her body like a charge. The protruding edges were shiny and polished, sly winks from someone else. Someone else who might be behind her, watching her hand poised over the coins, unsure as to whether she should run or stay.
Sabbath was gone.
‘Hello?’
Nothing.
‘I’m not leaving,’ she said, surprised at the strength in her voice and how quickly she had made up her mind. ‘You should come out. I’d like to meet you, know what you thought about when you were here.’
It was absolutely still. The harder she searched, the more her eyes de-focused and her vision swam, forcing her to blink. There was no one there apart from her. She sighed as sunlight broke through and a breeze blew the sinister out of the trees, along with skeletal leaves, down feathers, dried grass and the glint of a tumbling sweet wrapper that caught in the frayed hem of her jeans. The moment she saw it Deborah knew who had stood here and run his fingers over her wishes. The wrapper was folded into a perfect silver sailing boat.
Breathless, she gripped the Jenny-tree for support.
Deborah sat at the base of the tree, her back against the trunk as she chewed her way through the fruit sweets that had been Jenny’s favourites. Jenny wouldn’t eat them. Looking at the nine silver boats she held in her hand, she knew that now, nobody would. He had left them in the shelter of a trough between two roots of the Jenny-tree. How long ago, she could only guess. Maybe he’d sat where she sat, enjoying the same citrus tang that made her salivate. Now that the feeling of invasion had passed, she was curious as to what he would have thought. She had no exclusive claim on this tree, this patch of land, or the feelings evoked by it. Deborah felt calmer. She was letting go.
The Wrong Child Page 10