Lifting the lid, he bent to examine the contents of her desk: exercise books covered with harpooned hearts and Raffique’s initials, pencils, a geometry set in a tin case, Wrigley’s, perfume, cherry lip balm, a small purse containing two sanitary pads, a photograph of Raffique on the Golden Gate Bridge, and a woollen scarf.
Holding the scarf to his face, Dog Evans chewed gum as he defaced her books. Turning the photograph into confetti, he tossed it into the air, declaring Alice Corggie and himself man and wife, spitting saliva and gum all over Raffique’s desktop. He sniffed as the pieces fell. The smell was strengthening. Taking her perfume, he retreated to the storeroom, locking himself in. Jamming Alice’s scarf into the gap at the base of the door and taping over the ventilation holes sealed him in. Emptying the bottle of perfume over the stench of yesterday’s piss, he settled into the corner, unzipped, wanked, wiped, rezipped and fell asleep.
24
Although Wittin didn’t recognise the woman who faced him down the aisle, a taper in her hand, two rows of candles in front of her, he knew who she was before the door closed behind him. She paid him no attention until he stood beside her.
‘One for each child?’ he asked.
‘And their teacher, Mr Corrigan; each with an apology.’
‘They’re dead. Who are you apologising to?’
‘I’m apologising from.’
‘You remember their names?’
‘And what they looked like, how they laughed and screamed, who cried and who fought, who was pretty, who was handsome, who waved from a horse; how all of their parents looked at me in the days after they died.’
‘I pity you.’
‘You should.’
Wittin examined Rebecca’s face in the candlelight.
‘What?’
‘You don’t look how I expected.’
‘You thought the dog’s bitch would be ugly?’
‘That’s ugly language and it’s not what I meant.’
She held him with her eye until he conceded.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘it is what I meant. I’m sorry.’
Rebecca blinked, turned away, lit the last candle.
‘You don’t look much like a priest.’
‘How do you know I am one?’
‘You look lost, and the worse for wear. This place affects us all.’
Wittin considered his condition, collarless and bloodstained.
‘Well, you’ve your husband to blame for the blood.’
‘Really?’ Rebecca couldn’t stop herself from smiling. ‘My Shep did that to you?’
‘I’m impressed you find his actions and my situation amusing, bearing in mind the events that have passed.’
‘He has a thing for priests. You’re the second one he’s hit to my knowledge. You must have upset him.’
‘I accused him of abandoning his son.’
Rebecca extinguished the taper between her finger and thumb. She put it back and made the sign of the cross in front of the candles. He saw her lips move in silent prayer. Then they spoke to him.
‘I would have hit you,’ she said, blunt and unequivocal. ‘You deserved it. Although you spoke from a position of ignorance, that is no excuse for passing poor judgement upon a good man. You assumed too much whilst knowing too little.’
‘But he did abandon him. He left him.’
‘He didn’t leave me. I needed him. Our son neither wanted nor needed either of us. Shep wanted him.’
Wittin took a few steps back from her certainty; tired, impatient, irritated, and yes, she was right, lost.
‘So it was okay,’ he said, ‘to leave him? I mean – that passed as right, leave a child to fend for himself?’
‘Shep didn’t. He wasn’t. You don’t understand.’
She was so sure of what she was saying it destabilised him and he knew he was struggling.
‘Seriously, don’t give me the you-don’t-have-children speech, let alone dead children; because I’m so fucking beyond it I couldn’t tell you. This place is all-consuming misery.’
‘What do you expect?’
Rebecca was being serious. She wanted to know. Wittin approached her.
‘Some celebration, about what they were, when they were here, the good years they had. For everybody’s sake, in some small way, bring them back and make their lives important. Christ rose from his grave to give meaning.’
‘When he was allowed to.’
‘What?’
‘When he was seen to have risen.’
‘What?’
‘The stone wasn’t rolled aside to let Jesus out, it was to let witnesses in. The women had to see it, the empty chamber, to believe he had risen. To believe the miracle the resurrection had to be witnessed.’
‘You’ve snapped,’ he said. ‘In here.’
He jabbed at Rebecca’s temple. She continued to make it clear for him, calm and convinced.
‘They had to see him in his grave. Now they can celebrate what could have been.’
‘Are you insane, woman? They killed your son.’
‘They had to.’
Speechless, Wittin had to walk away. Rebecca crossed herself and apologised to the candles once more before following him. He stood at the foot of the altar steps, arms hanging loose at his sides, staring at the window as if he had no idea who it was or what it was supposed to mean. He liked the colours. Rebecca ascended the steps and stood in front of him, filling his vision. She looked down upon him and spoke.
‘I needn’t seek the shelter of insanity, Father. I have the shelter of my faith. You do have souls to tend, however few. You should wash and dress to attend them. They will need you. When you feel you’re ready, I’d like you to hear my confession.’
He almost laughed at the suggestion, quickly dismissing the idea as ridiculous to the point of blasphemy. She remained straight-faced, waiting for his answer. He was compelled to be honest.
‘I don’t feel worthy or capable any more,’ he said. ‘I’m humbled by the strength of your faith. How can you?’
‘Without my faith, where would I be?’
‘Where I am.’
Rebecca stepped down and stood together with Wittin, facing the same way.
‘Looking up at him,’ she said.
She left him at the altar. He followed her progress along the gospel walkway to the confessional. Watching her step inside, he felt his cheeks warming. He looked up at the window and saw sacrifice in death and began to understand. Rubbing the stubble on his chin and noticing the cold skin of his exposed neck, he genuflected, crossed himself and headed to the vestry.
‘I want to see her room again. I need to.’
John Cutter was caught off guard by the question and her appearance. It was the Deborah Cutter he remembered.
‘You can’t stop me, John, it’s our house.’
‘I know, I built it for you.’
Years of emptiness hit him like a branch across the back of the head. He felt a sudden weakness in his legs. His fist tightened around the door handle she had chosen.
‘Please, come in.’
Deborah’s hand brushed John’s arm as she entered her home. He didn’t pull away. She took in the disarray of the counter, the full sink, the bough on the mantelpiece, the whisky bottle and glass next to the single bed, pushed against the wall. She crossed to the bed and turned back to John.
‘How long?’
‘Since you left.’
‘Why?’
‘Not really something I could put into words Debs.’
She smiled at the abbreviated form of her name and the tacit admittance of violence in the place of those words.
‘Something you put into actions?’
‘I’m not proud.’
‘You were never a violent man.’
�
�You know that’s not true.’
‘Not to people.’
‘It’s always been in me. You saw it, two nights ago.’
‘You never hurt me.’
‘I scared you. I scared Jenny.’
Deborah didn’t deny it.
‘What were you scared of?’ she asked.
‘Everything I couldn’t prevent.’
John Cutter broke eye contact, walked to the stairwell and pulled the drape aside. Deborah followed.
‘The light works,’ he said. ‘I changed the bulb.’
Deborah looked up into the gloom. ‘You were up there?’
‘Had to talk to somebody, after what I did.’
‘Why not me? I was there, you saw me. I know you did.’
‘I wanted her to know he was gone; it was me killed him.’
‘Why?’
‘I made her a promise. It was important she knew I’d kept it.’
Pulling on the light cord, Deborah lit up the landing and the two bedroom doors. She saw the brackets.
‘Our lovely door, John, all your work.’
‘My doing – worse behind it. I didn’t want to go back in, even by accident, or if I was drunk.’
‘Or missed me?’
‘I determined not to.’
‘And you have been determined.’
John either ignored her last comment or had no response. He pointed upstairs.
‘You want some privacy? I’m happy to stay down here. In case you want to say something private.’
‘About you?’
‘About anything. Now that it’s over.’
Deborah appeared to be scrutinising the landing but he could tell there was something else on her mind.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘I met Becky. In the church. She lost her eye.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t notice.’
‘She’s still pretty, though. She got a new one, it’s glass.’ Deborah hesitated. ‘She’s glad he’s dead, John.’
‘Who isn’t?’
She twisted the ends of her hair between her fingers.
‘Shep, maybe. Becky said Shep’s at the school.’
‘Why? How would he know?’
‘I don’t know how, or who, but he went there.’
John Cutter became agitated. ‘Shit, Deborah, why didn’t you tell me this straight away?’
‘I don’t know.’
He strode to the fire and took the bloodied bough from the mantelpiece.
‘Where are you going with that?’
‘The school, where else?’
‘You’re not going to hurt Shep?’
‘I don’t intend to, no.’
‘What then? Why go?’
‘If he’s at the school, he knows that what I told him today was untrue.’ John Cutter took his coat off the radiator. He took his cuffs from his police belt. There was a clink as they hit the gold in his pocket. ‘I’m going to be honest with the man. We were friends.’
‘What’s going to happen to you, to us all?’
‘I couldn’t say any more. Everything’s changed.’
He gave the club to Deborah to hold as he buttoned up.
‘I have to ask you a question. Was it you that set fire to the house?’
‘Why?’
‘Deborah.’
‘So what if it was? Does anybody care?’
‘Have you told anybody it was you, in as many words?’
‘No, why?’
‘Don’t. And deny it if anyone says it was. You saw the Evans’ house burning and you went to watch. Give me time to try and get a story out.’
She handed the club back to him.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There was someone inside.’
‘Please, John. That isn’t funny.’
‘I know.’
Deborah blanched. She wound her fingers tight through her hair, pulling it straight, pushing a blonde twist between her teeth. She chewed on it, shaking her head.
‘It was Nugget.’
She shuddered and started to fall. John caught her, thinking she was going to a full faint. He held her. She was unsteady. Beads of sweat formed on her nose just below the line of freckles she hated and he thought was the prettiest thing about her face.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe you. He can’t have been. Why would anybody be in there, what reason? It’s ridiculous.’ She shrugged herself out of his grip and away from him. ‘What are you doing, saying something like that? I thought you were being nice.’
‘There was money, lots from what I’m told. He wanted to get it before anybody else found it. You know what he was like with money.’
‘The money,’ she said. ‘Little boats.’
‘Little boats?’
‘All over the floor. But why didn’t he come out?’
‘Lynne said he popped a handful of pills as he left, took whisky with him.’
‘She knows?’
‘He never came back.’
‘But that doesn’t mean he’s dead.’
John Cutter took the small crown of gold teeth from his chinos and held it out in his palm. Being in his pocket had brought it to a shine. Wet hair fell from her mouth as she looked upon the gold, disbelieving.
‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘You’re not going to spew?’
She moved closer, riveted.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘His fucking head, Deborah, he’s dead. It’s why you didn’t set fire to the house.’
She recoiled at his sharpness and kept twisting her hair. Carefully he put his arm around her.
‘Come here.’
He guided her over to the bed. He sat beside her. He hid the teeth in his hand, knocking it against his knee as he thought.
‘He always was a greedy fucker.’
‘I really didn’t know he was in there.’
‘How would you? I told Shep his remains are the boy’s. Now he knows different. I need to get him on side.’
Deborah frowned at the proposal.
‘You think people won’t find it hard to believe?’
He patted her on the leg before standing.
‘They don’t need to believe, they need to accept. I think they’ll want to, don’t you?’
‘Even Lynne?’
‘She helped shovel him in. None of us are safe and none of us can talk.’ He paused. ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’
‘He’s gone, though. It was worth it.’
He rolled the gold in his palm. ‘I’ll see Lynne.’
‘Why?’
‘Explain things, give her this.’
‘Will she want it?’
‘It’s Nugget’s nugget.’
‘I suppose,’ she said.
‘He wouldn’t want it buried.’
John Cutter dropped it back into his chinos, clinking through handcuffs. Looking back from the door, he gestured awkwardly to the rest of the room. His throat glued up, words sticking.
‘You know where everything used to be. Some of it might still be there. The fire’s ready to go. Like I said, there’s a new bulb. Jenny’s room hasn’t changed.’
‘The cat?’
‘Still there.’
Deborah wrinkled her nose.
‘It doesn’t smell.’
‘How?’
‘It’s desiccated.’
She nodded, sucking on a rat tail, picking at the seam of her jeans. She tried more than once to speak. The words that came out when she managed were scared.
‘You want me gone when you get back?’
‘Might not be back – depends on Shep.’
‘Do you?’
‘I … I’ve mistreated you. I’d
welcome you allowing me the chance to make amends.’
John Cutter opened the door and left, leaving Deborah inside. He hoped she would still be there when he came home, to their home. He got into his car, close to terrified at the mere possibility.
Seven years earlier
Sandy Corrigan sat in his car with the hot air blowing on the windscreen. He tried the wipers. They were still frozen in place. He almost reached for the scraper and de-icer on the passenger seat but chose instead to open the glove compartment and fight through the contents until he found the remains of a damp packet of cigarettes. Putting one between his lips, he waited for the dashboard lighter to pop out. He applied it to the end of his first in months, sucking hard, needing it to light. Smoke jetted from his nostrils, filling the car. He cracked the windows. It crossed his mind that it might be quicker to walk to the school than it would to wait for the car to defrost. He sucked again and lit another with the glowing tip. He would be late. Only by minutes, minutes he needed, minutes without Dog Evans. The simple act of making this decision eased the tension in his neck and lessened the headache. He took his hat off as the interior warmed.
Just on nine o’clock, Sandy Corrigan stamped his boots clean outside Munson’s. Ed Munson picked up a packet of the chewing gum Sandy had favoured since he had quit smoking and placed them on the counter.
‘Running late, Sandy.’
‘Only a few minutes, they’ll live. Twenty please, Ed.’
Sandy’s request stopped the flow of Munson’s chat. He placed his hand over the gum.
‘You’re back on them?’
‘Afraid so. For the time being, anyway.’
‘What happened?’ Munson replaced the gum with a packet of smokes.
‘A pupil, if you’ll believe that.’
‘Shep’s boy?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Mutterings,’ said Munson. ‘You know how parents can be. Exaggerations, I would imagine.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Who muttered?’
‘Struan was in early on. He was the loudest, but others have said similar.’ Munson leant towards Sandy Corrigan, lowering his voice in case another customer entered and overheard. ‘I love kids, Sandy, I really do, and not just my grandson. I even feel bad saying this, but I can’t warm to Shep’s boy.’
The Wrong Child Page 18