Wittin dragged his open-palmed hands down his face before speaking over his fingertips. ‘Mary’s first child was his?’
Shep nodded.
‘You couldn’t make it up. Lucy Magnal wasn’t the result of a one-night stand at the dancing in the city, for which Mary was forever repenting, always in the church. He’d lost his daughter.’
‘A daughter he had no right to.’
‘None.’
‘The first grave on the right when you leave the church.’
‘He attacked me by persecuting my wife. I beat him. Last time I saw Finnegan, he was on the floor, nose and spirit broken.’
‘And he took it out on your son.’
‘Well, he tried.’
Clouds pulled away from the moon and they saw each other clearly as the first flake of snow fell between them and landed on the grave. It melted and was replaced at once by another, and another. Both men looked away. The flakes were dense and thick, like ghost ash from a distant pyre, whispering through the leaves, where they lodged, collected and rendered the trees Christmassy. Sound was brought to ground. Neither man spoke as the snowfall cleansed and calmed.
The snow stuck and formed a layer over the flattened ground of the murder. It would have been easy to believe that nothing had happened, had the snow not continued to melt on the mound that covered the body, forming a niveous iris around a sharp black pupil.
‘Listen, you’re probably not all the same,’ said Shep. ‘Nonetheless, I don’t have any need. Why don’t you go?’
Wittin left.
Shep knelt.
The cold and the wet soaked into his trousers. He bent to be closer to Douglas. The image of his son’s twisted body filled his head. He was scared and shaking as his fingers dug into the ground. His lips parted to say he was sorry.
23
Rebecca looked out of the window for the umpteenth time. There was still a space where their car used to be, matt against the glittering frost on the rest of the road. She closed the curtains, fixing them so that they hung straight, and walked the floor, agitated. She pulled open the drawer on the bedside cabinet. It was empty. So was its companion on the other side of the bed, as well as the drawers in the dresser and the desk. She rifled through the spare bedding in the wardrobe and scoured each of the shelves, behind the iron and the hairdryer, room-service menus and laundry bags.
Downstairs, she hit the reception bell harder than she had intended and jumped at the sound it produced. She jumped again as the door behind the counter opened and Glen Masson rushed out.
‘What’s the matter; is everything okay?’
‘Yes – yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit it so hard. I’m so sorry, it was silly of me.’
‘Please, that’s okay,’ he said, raising his hand to calm Rebecca, dismissing her apologies and making time to gather himself. ‘Goodness, you had me going.’ His concern was replaced by his natural desire to be of help as he came around the counter. ‘I’m glad it’s nothing serious, that’s all. I think maybe that’s the loudest the bell’s ever been rung.’
‘I’m so—’
‘You tested it,’ he said. ‘At least we know it works under pressure.’
‘You’re very understanding.’
‘Nonsense. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘Well, you see, Shep, my husband, he’s been away for quite a while now and I was getting concerned and I didn’t really know what to do with myself and so I was looking for a bible, so I could read or maybe pray, because praying always calms me, and I—’
‘You couldn’t find a bible?’
‘Yes.’
‘There isn’t one, I’m afraid.’
Rebecca was flummoxed.
‘But I thought you had to …’
‘No.’
‘But what about the Gideons, don’t they still give them to hotels?’
‘Possibly, but they haven’t made it this far yet. There’s a church just across the street. You could pray there, if you wrap up warm. I don’t think it’s ever locked.’
‘I don’t know. What if Shep comes back?’
‘You could leave a note,’ said Glen, ‘or I could listen out for him, if you’d like, let him know where you are. Whatever, I don’t mind.’
Rebecca was struck by Glen Masson’s genuine manner, his untroubled stare and the soft, blemish-free complexion.
‘I’ll think about it. Thank you for your help.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘It’s why we’re here. Just ring if you need us.’ He pinged the desk bell on his way back around the counter. ‘And I’ll be sure to get bibles, for those who need them. I have to admit, it never crossed my mind.’
Smiling, yet liking him a little less for this comment, Rebecca went back upstairs.
Crossing the room, she opened the curtains again and looked up the street. She was challenged by the fact that the lights of the church were on and that even after all she had been subjected to within those walls, its call remained. She drew and restraightened the curtains. The church lights remained visible through their fabric.
A few minutes later, wearing a scarf, hat and gloves, she put a note on the bed and left the door unlocked. Toggling her duffle as she strode down the corridor, she turned left out of the hotel and walked up the street towards the church, with purpose at first, but losing confidence with each step that took her closer.
She had forgotten that they lay together. She stood paralysed as the steeple towered over her. Fresh flowers had been placed on every grave that lined the path, some in matching vases, others in pots; simple bouquets laid on the ground or showy presentations bound with ribbon in individual plastic reservoirs that had turned to ice. They were another way of excluding her. She knew what had been at the back of Finnegan’s mind when his impassioned bleating had cajoled a grieving community into the collective burial. He wanted her to know that she wasn’t one of them, didn’t belong to his congregation. She had never been thankful that her son was not one of the names on the headstones that stood out as crisp as the day they were carved.
Rebecca’s walk to the church door was like passing through a revenant playground. Each name evoked the sound and spirit of the child interred, and she could hear them. Their fear and confusion and innocent questioning of what had happened and why not everybody was there, the class being incomplete.
She stepped inside. It was warmer than she could remember it ever being, enhancing the incense, wood polish and candle smoke; smells familiar to most churches, here entwined into a blend as singular and distinct to this village church as malt whisky was to its distillery. Stopping at her old pew, she put her handbag down and genuflected. But something stopped her taking her place. She wanted to sit, to kneel and pray. She couldn’t. The succour she sought wasn’t there. She was swamped by the vicious memories of Finnegan’s rage. A rage that had poured from him undiluted until the day she could take no more and had walked that aisle for what she believed would be the last time. Beaten by the past, Rebecca picked up her handbag and turned to leave.
‘Don’t go.’
She caught the scream in her throat. She clamped her lapels closed around her neck with one hand and held onto the pew for support with the other. The voice echoed until there was dead silence.
‘It’s me. Over here.’
Deborah moved out of the transept into the nave, briefly backlit as she passed in front of the burning candles, so that Rebecca could see her.
‘Deborah?’
‘Hello, Becky.’
They met at the front pew.
‘You look nice,’ said Deborah.
‘Thank you.’
‘I never thought I’d see you again.’
Rebecca looked uncomfortable under Deborah’s scrutiny. Deborah took hold of her and hugged her.
‘How did you find out so quickly?’<
br />
They both knew what they were talking about.
‘John called, early yesterday morning.’
‘That surprises me, I must say.’
‘His duty, I suppose.’
‘Just arrived?’
‘No. We made the journey yesterday, arrived late last night.’
‘You’ve seen the house?’
Rebecca pointed. ‘You were lighting candles. I hope I didn’t interrupt your prayers?’
‘No,’ said Deborah. ‘No. I was just lighting candles.’
The flames danced in Rebecca’s eyes.
‘Don’t count them, please.’ Deborah moved to obscure the candles from her view and Rebecca believed she knew how many there were.
‘Will you sit with me?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Why?’
‘Company mostly. Is that okay?’
‘That sounds nice.’
They sat on the front pew. Rebecca loosened her coat and laid her bag beside her.
‘How have you been?’ she said.
‘Off the rails mostly.’ The look Deborah gave her left Rebecca in no doubt that this was the truth. ‘You?’
‘Unhappy; trying not to be, for Shep mostly.’
‘He still blames himself?’
‘Hates himself. Always will.’
‘I never understood why. None of it was his fault.’
Rebecca didn’t answer. They sat for a while. She was conscious of Deborah’s attention.
‘You’re still so beautiful, you know that? I so wish I had your looks.’
‘You do. You just don’t have a Shep, the peace of mind that brings. He could have walked away from us both. Maybe that would have been best, all three of us going our separate ways.’
‘What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘I’m not fit for much really. I try and look after Shep. I pray every day. We live opposite a church. It’s not as nice as this, but I feel safe there, unjudged.’
‘What do you pray for?’
‘For what happened the other night. Now I’ll be praying for forgiveness.’
‘You’ve got nothing to ask forgiveness for, Becky.’
‘You never did judge people. I liked that about you.’
‘How’s your eye? You’re not wearing your patch.’
Rebecca slid her wedding ring off her finger as Deborah traced the scar. Raising the ring to her eye, she tapped against glass.
‘It sees no evil.’
She smiled as Deborah withdrew.
‘It would be my party piece.’
‘Shit, Becky, I’m so sorry. And you think you need forgiveness?’
‘What I prayed for was more than an eye for an eye.’
‘You got your wish. He must be listening.’
Rebecca took Deborah’s hand. ‘It wasn’t a wish, Debbie, it was a prayer, and he’s always listening.’
‘Why do you think he waited so long?’
‘That’s for him to know.’
‘Well you deserved the answer; we all did.’
Deborah slid her fingers between Rebecca’s, rough against their stony smooth. Rebecca stroked Deborah’s knuckles, still open and red from the burning night’s activity.
‘Debbie, do you feel any better?’
‘I feel relieved. I sense a future.’
‘Does that make you feel bad?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Me neither. But it doesn’t make me feel good.’
‘Feeling good; remember that?’
Deborah’s gaze was drawn to the blues of the stained-glass window, the rippling seas at the foot of the cross, fishermen hauling loaded nets of glinting fish, so many they were close to being swamped, killed by their bounty.
‘He made wishes,’ said Deborah. ‘Douglas, I mean.’
Deborah felt Rebecca’s fingers tense around hers.
‘You wouldn’t be spiteful?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I’d rather not have found out.’
‘What kind of wishes?’
‘Silver ones, shaped like boats, made out of sweetie tinfoil. They were all together, in a dip between the roots of my Jenny’s tree. Freaked us out at first, knowing he’d been there.’
‘Us?’
Deborah looked away. She tried to take her hand back, but Rebecca held it, her grip firm and supportive. Deborah relaxed, grateful she hadn’t been released. She stared at the floor, rearranged the dust with her feet.
‘Sabbath,’ she said quietly, into her chest, as if trying to keep it to herself. ‘I went with Sabbath.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘You wouldn’t.’ Deborah’s voice shrank to a whisper. ‘She was a wise little girl who understood; listened.’
‘Was?’
Deborah nodded. ‘She’s gone.’ She let Rebecca place an arm around her, bring her close. ‘We all need somebody, Becky. I was alone.’
‘You sound embarrassed. You shouldn’t be.’
Deborah sniffed as she smiled at Rebecca.
‘I’m not. She helped.’ She took a breath to steady herself. Sitting back, she released it in weary expiration. Rebecca took her arm from around her as her breathing steadied. ‘I didn’t realise she would go so soon, when I found his wishes at Jenny’s tree. I got used to her being at my side. But she wasn’t. And she didn’t come when I called. I knew she was gone.’
‘You don’t need her any more.’
‘I know. But I liked her.’
Rebecca slipped her wedding ring back on.
‘Jenny’s tree. He liked Jenny, I remember that.’
‘Really?’
‘He said she was nice to him, used to leave him sweets, in his desk. He liked sweets as well. What little boy doesn’t?’ She shared an uncertain smile with Deborah, who responded with one of her own and almost instantly tried to hide it when Rebecca continued. ‘Or little girl? She was the only one he talked about.’
‘That feels weird, sorry.’
‘It shouldn’t. We spent a lot of time together, when he was younger. Even when other people stopped coming to visit, you came, with Jenny and John, for much longer.’
‘He changed.’
‘I know. He was never easy. I didn’t blame people.’
‘He got worse.’
‘Much worse.’
‘What he did to you.’
‘What he did to Alice.’
‘To them all,’ said Deborah.
‘I saw that, of all people, the cursed creator. He was my fault. It was my fault. Why do you think I pray?’
‘No. Nobody thinks that, about you or Shep.’
Rebecca held Deborah’s hand tightly for a moment before letting it go. Her good eye showed she didn’t believe Deborah. There was compassion in it as she turned Deborah’s face to hers.
‘It’s okay to blame me. I brought him into the world. Everybody else is without sin.’
‘Did you ever love him?’
Deborah waited. Unable to read her, she took Rebecca’s silence to be a no.
‘In a way, I envy you. It must be easier not to have those feelings hooked into your heart, straining your flesh.’
‘Why would you say that? Don’t you think I know I should have? It makes what I did worse, Deborah. You hated him for surviving. I should have loved him for the same reason, rejoiced, not been tormented.’
Deborah didn’t know how to respond. The strangeness of the exchange made her falter. She didn’t want Rebecca to suffer any more because of what she might say.
‘Anyway,’ said Deborah, ‘he made wishes.’
‘You know what he was wishing for, don’t you? The girl who liked him: the one who was nice to him at school.’
‘The “one” who was nice. God, that sounds so p
athetic.’
‘Deborah, don’t blaspheme.’
‘I find it hard to do anything else in this place. Surprised you’re here at all, the way you were treated.’
‘One priest can’t be used to blame a whole church.’
‘Where we live, here, so small and so far from everywhere else, they are the church.’
Rebecca didn’t try to contradict her.
‘Strange,’ Deborah said, ‘being here together again.’
‘It is. As you said, it’s a long time since I was welcome.’
‘Feels strange being here at all.’
‘Seven years,’ said Rebecca.
‘I can’t remember most of it, not the details anyway. Only the way I’ve felt; which is what I wanted to forget.’
‘Praying for his death kept me going; was my purpose. He was thirteen the day he survived; twenty the day he died.’
‘We knew,’ said Deborah.
Rebecca turned to her, curious as to what she meant.
‘“It’s my birthday” – his last words. As if we needed reminding.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘His last words. If he died in a fire.’
Deborah couldn’t retract what she’d said. She couldn’t avoid Rebecca’s question.
‘Shep was right, wasn’t he? He knew straight away.’
‘It was at the school. It wasn’t planned. We didn’t know he’d be there.’
‘Deborah,’ said Rebecca, suddenly anxious, ‘is he really gone?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘I saw it. We all did. We all buried him.’
Rebecca’s face softened with relief.
‘So Shep’s safe?’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
‘He went to the school. Someone left a note.’
Deborah considered the otherwise empty church and knew who’d left the note; the only one who felt guilty.
‘He’s safe.’
‘I told him not to go. He wouldn’t listen. Shep knew best, as usual. He’ll come back, and we can go home, because he’s gone.’
The Wrong Child Page 16