‘And this is what you talked about with Mary Cowper? This conflict between what your girlfriend wants and what your faith demands?’
For the first time in the meeting, Puckleton smiles. It’s the smile of a priest who witnesses enlightenment in a member of his flock.
He says, ‘It’s been tearing me apart. I want to keep Laura happy, but at the same time I have to stay true to myself. I’m not sure I can have both. But I needed to talk it through with someone. Mary was that sounding board. Now I don’t know what I’ll do.’
His last sentence is like a lament that could be uttered for a spouse or family member. Its sadness expands into the room.
And then the school bell breaks the spell, and everyone moves on.
*
Outside, as they leave the school grounds, Webley says, ‘Quite a performance.’
‘Wasn’t it just?’ says Cody. ‘I’ll lay bets he runs the school drama club. Hard to know what to believe.’
‘I don’t mean him, you numpty. I’m talking about you.’
Cody turns to her. Sees her arched eyebrows questioning his actions.
‘Me? What did I do?’
‘You know exactly what you did. You’re the one with the flair for melodrama. You were hoping to put on a big show here, only the set kept falling apart and the props wouldn’t work.’
‘Megan, what are you going on about?’
‘You were hoping for an Hercule Poirot moment, weren’t you? Gather everyone around the table and announce the name of the killer to your gobsmacked audience. That’s why you wouldn’t let me in on it while we were driving here. Build up the suspense, and all that. Pity it turned into a bit of a damp squid in the end.’
‘Squib. The word is “squib”. Squid are characteristically damp, so it wouldn’t be a very good analogy.’
‘Whatever. I don’t know what a squib is, so don’t change the subject.’
‘I don’t even know what the subject is.’
‘Yes, you do. I know you too well, Nathan Cody. You thought Puckleton was gay, but that he couldn’t handle it, and so he was keeping it under wraps. But then, under your expert interrogation, he would out himself. And not only that, your persistent probing would cause him to reveal that Mary Cowper was using the Bible against him to make him feel like the lowest form of life on earth. She kept telling him how disgusting and depraved his thoughts were, until one day his mind snapped and he battered her to death. And then he began to think that all forms of sex outside marriage were evil too, so he found and murdered a prostitute, and next up he’ll kill a nun for scratching her crotch, or a priest for looking at a choirboy. And while all this superb detective work was being demonstrated to us poor mortals, I was supposed to sit there all doe-eyed, wetting my knickers at the thought of learning the next important lesson on the knee of my magnificent superior officer. Go on, admit it – that’s what you thought would happen in there, wasn’t it?’
She stops for breath. Cody feels as though he has just spent a gruelling hour on a psychoanalyst’s couch.
‘Well, not exactly—’
‘Pah! I can read you like a book, Cody. You’re all the same.’
They reach the car. Cody gets out his keys and unlocks it. He says, ‘Would have been quite impressive if it’d worked, though, eh?’
Webley stares at him across the roof of the car. Shakes her head in disbelief. ‘No, Cody, it wouldn’t. I was on to you from the start. Your plan was always doomed to be a waste of time. If you’d wanted to know if Puckleton was gay or not, you could have just asked me.’
‘What do you mean? Since when did you get gaydar installed?’
‘I’m a woman, Cody. I know about these things.’
Flustered now, Cody says, ‘Well, go on then. Is he straight or not?’
Webley taps the side of her nose with her index finger. ‘That’s for me to know, and for you to find out.’
‘Megan. Megan! You can’t leave it like—’
But Webley has the car door open and is sliding into the vehicle, leaving Cody to suck up the punishment for his arrogance.
30
Saturday evening. It’s snowing again.
He likes the snow. Likes the peace it brings. It seems to muffle the unrest, the agitation. It slows hearts, mellows minds.
It will be Christmas soon. Joy to the world. Goodwill to all men.
He has the coat on again. The black one with the grey flashes highlighting the zips. It’s nice and warm. Big hood to hide his face. Big pockets to hide his hammer.
Not that there’s much chance of discovery here. He is on a quiet section of Allerton Road. There are no security cameras to worry about here, and in weather like this there are few passers-by. He is standing behind a chest-high sandstone wall, in the murky shadows created by a huge tree. If he sees anyone coming along the road, he can duck behind the wall. One time he didn’t even bother doing that. He just stood there under the tree, watching as a woman in a white fur-trimmed coat walked by, oblivious to his presence mere feet away from her. He could easily have jumped out and smashed her brains in.
But she was not his target. His intended victim is across the road, in the tiny community hall.
They will be cosy in there, he thinks. They will have the heaters on, and a small place like that will soon be warmed up. They will glance through the windows at the flurrying snow, and they will smile smugly at how comfortable they are. They will smile, too, because of their shared happiness, their common understanding. Their eyes have been opened, and they know that everyone else in that hall can see what they see.
Let them rejoice, he thinks. Let them revel in their assumed superiority. Their time will come. For one of them, their time is nigh.
He hears the piano start up. It sounds slightly out of tune, but the playing isn’t bad. And then the singing begins. O Come All Ye Faithful. He likes that one. Finds himself singing along in a whisper.
Later comes the chatter. He pictures the congregation splintering into small groups, then sipping from mugs of tea or mulled wine as they talk inane drivel about their plans for Christmas and their nauseating joy for everything in their pathetic lives.
Eventually the door opens and the voices spill out into the darkness. Bodies follow shortly afterwards, but nobody seems in a hurry. They trickle out in ones and twos, loitering in the doorway as they loudly proclaim their intentions to meet up again soon. And then everyone seems to feel the need to bless everyone else before the individuals finally manage to break away from the gravitational pull created by the concentrated mass of their like-minded acquaintances.
Some walk away. Others climb into cars and then drive off, quickly disappearing behind the curtain of snow.
And then it is quiet. It is his time.
He abandons his place beneath the tree. Moves out from behind the wall. The road is deserted. The only light he can see is the golden glow through the windows of the community hall.
He crosses the street without hurry. He has plenty of time. God is on his side. He has already proved that point.
He passes through the gateway. Walks up to the door. Reaches out a gloved hand and turns the handle. The door is not locked, and so he enters quietly and shuts it again behind him.
He was right about the warmth in here. It is almost stifling.
He is in a small reception area. There is a desk and a chair and a row of pegs on the wall. There is one coat and one hat and one scarf on the pegs.
He walks through into the hall proper. Not much here. A few tables and chairs, randomly scattered. A piano surmounted by a small artificial Christmas tree decked with too much tinsel. Gaudy paper chains are strung across the walls. At the far end of the hall, one of the tables has been covered with a paper tablecloth, bright red in keeping with the Christmas theme. On the table is a tea urn, some wine, an array of cups, and some plates of nuts, crisps and other nibbles.
There is nobody else in the hall, but from a doorway beyond the makeshift buffet table comes the so
und of crockery being washed, and a woman singing.
O Little Town of Bethlehem, she sings.
He likes that one. Finds himself humming along softly as he traverses the hall with careful, deliberate steps.
When she stops singing in mid-verse, he realises he has been detected. He halts where he is. He doesn’t want to alarm her.
She appears in the doorway. Puts a hand to her heart as she emits a small ‘ooh’ of surprise.
He sees the apprehension on her face. Quickly he pulls off his hood to reveal his biggest, most innocent smile.
‘Sorry,’ he says, showing her his empty palms. ‘I didn’t mean to shock you.’
He doesn’t move towards her. He just lets her weigh up the situation.
After a few seconds, she finds a smile of her own.
‘It’s all right. What . . . What can I do for you?’
‘I . . . I’m lost,’ he says.
‘Lost? Really? Well, you’re on Allerton Road. Where are you trying to get to?’
‘Heaven, eventually.’
She gives him a quizzical look. ‘Heaven?’
‘Yes. Sorry . . . I’m not being very clear, am I? It’s just that, well, I walk past here a lot, and I see how happy you are. All the laughing and the clapping and the singing . . . it makes me feel really good every time. I just wanted to talk to you about it. To find out a bit more. Is that all right? If it’s not – if this is a bad time – I’ll go away and leave you in peace.’
He starts to turn away from her, but she takes a step towards him and reaches out a hand.
‘Wait. You’re serious?’
‘Yes. It’s weird. I get a kind of warm feeling when I hear you all in here. I don’t know how else to describe it.’
Her own smile broadens now. He realises he has found her. He has made a connection.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks.
‘Matthew,’ he lies.
He spent a long time choosing the fake name. Had to be one of the apostles, he decided. Most of them didn’t feel right. He could hardly come in here and say his name was Judas. Matthew, though, is a good, solid biblical name.
‘My name’s Sue. Take a seat, Matthew. Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’
Sue. Not such a biblical name.
‘No, thanks,’ he answers as he slides onto the nearest chair.
Sue comes over and lowers herself onto the chair opposite him.
‘Do you know who we are, Matthew? Do you know what we do?’
‘Kind of. You’re religious people, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right. We’re Born Again Christians. Are you a Christian, Matthew?’
Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
‘I . . . I’m not sure. I think I am, but nobody in my family ever went to church. We never really talked about God and stuff. But now . . .’
‘Now what?’
‘I think I’m missing out. I feel like there’s a part of me missing. Does that sound stupid?’
She shakes her head, and there is a mistiness in her eyes that is nauseatingly patronising.
‘Not at all. I know exactly how you feel. Everyone who was here tonight has been through what you are going through right now. It takes some of us longer than others to realise what we’re missing. The sad thing is that some people never realise it at all.’
Hallowed be thy name . . .
‘So . . . what is it we’ve all been missing?’
‘God. We were all missing God. But when we find Him, it’s the most beautiful, perfect thing. That’s why we’re all so happy here, Matthew. We’ve found God. And I think you’ve found Him too.’
‘Do you think? I mean, is it okay to find Him now, even if I didn’t believe in Him before?’
‘It’s perfectly okay. In fact, I’d say it’s better than okay. Because what it means is that you’ve made your own mind up. You’re not believing because your parents believe, or because you’ve been brought up that way. You’re doing it because you know it’s right. And that has to be the best type of believing of all, don’t you think?’
He makes a show of mulling over her words. In reality, her sanctimonious attitude makes him want to puke.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . .
‘I suppose so. But what if . . . what if someone does bad things before they find God? What happens then?’
She nods sagely. She has an answer, as he knew she would.
‘That’s the best part. You can repent. The Lord will cleanse you of your sins. You get a second chance, a new life. That’s why we’re called Born Again Christians. You can start all over again.’
On earth as it is in heaven . . .
‘And what if you do bad things after you’ve been reborn? Is that still okay?’
‘Well . . . what exactly do you mean?’
‘I mean, what if you become a Born Again Christian, but then you do another bad thing?’
Her smile fades a little. He suspects some of her self-assuredness goes with it.
‘God is forgiveness. God is love. If you truly have Him in your heart, then you will do everything you can to follow the path of the righteous. But, yes, sometimes we make mistakes. We’re only human, and so we can’t always be as strong as we’d like to be.’
Give us this day our daily bread . . .
She continues: ‘But God is always there for us. He shows us what is good. We just have to listen to Him. When we fall by the wayside, we have to be honest about it and promise never to go that way again. If we can do that, we will be forgiven.’
‘Do you ever fall by the wayside?’
The big question. The gigantic question. The most important question this woman will ever have to answer.
‘Well . . .’
She smiles, shrugs. It’s not an answer. Not a proper one. For a question of this gravity, it’s an insult of a reply.
His mind searches for a way to edge her towards the truth without unsettling her. Her answer has to be supplied without duress.
‘I think I would,’ he says. ‘I think I would do something wrong, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be forgiven.’
‘Why do you say that? Why do you have such lack of faith in yourself?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I don’t have much confidence. I don’t think I could be as strong as you are. If you never do anything wrong, you don’t have to worry about being forgiven.’
She seems amused by this, which would irritate him immensely if it were not part of his plan.
She lowers her voice, as though trying to prevent God from overhearing. ‘I’ll let you into a secret. I’ve done a few bad things in my time.’
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us . . .
‘But not recently? Not since you were born again?’
She nods. ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’
‘Seriously? What kind of bad things?’
Sue pulls away from the table a little. It’s too invasive a probe from a stranger.
‘Let’s just say they’re things that God might not have agreed with.’
He tries to appear mildly curious rather than disappointed by her reticence.
‘So why did you do them, then?’
She chews her lip as she struggles with her answer to this one. He suspects that she has spent many hours wrestling with her conscience on this matter.
‘Different reasons, I suppose. Sometimes because it seemed the right thing to do at that moment, even though I regretted it later. Other times because I was just weak, and I gave in to temptation.’
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .
‘And then what? How did you fix it after you did something bad like that?’
‘I prayed. I asked for forgiveness.’
‘As simple as that? But . . . how do you know He listens to you? How can you be sure that He has forgiven you?’
‘Because that’s what t
he Bible teaches us.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s not easy. It’s not like washing your face when it’s mucky. You have to really mean what you say when you ask for forgiveness. You can’t just carry on doing bad things, and then pray once a week to be made pure again. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘But . . . but you said you did more than one bad thing. You carried on doing them even though you knew they were wrong.’
A twitch of her upper lip tells him she’s becoming irked by the direction this is taking. Well, good. She said it herself: it’s not meant to be easy. She should practise what she preaches.
‘Yes. But I also said that I’m weak. As humans we’re all weak. God knows that, and He makes allowances for it.’
She affixes her most beneficent smile again. ‘You have a lot of questions, and that’s good. Would you like to come to one of our meetings to discuss it with other members of the group?’
Her words swim past him. He is focusing on what she said before that, about God making allowances. About Him knowing and accepting the mistakes of His flock.
He wonders where the allowances were for him. He wonders why everything had to be just so, from such an early age. Why wasn’t he allowed to make mistakes, even back when he was far too young to avoid them? Why did he have to be punished for things that weren’t even his fault? He couldn’t help getting sick or wetting his bed or picking up head lice. Where was the understanding then?
And this woman – this smug bitch in front of him – what makes her think she gets off scot-free? She knew what she was doing. She knew it was wrong. How is it fair that she gets into heaven so easily, while he gets beaten and teased and humiliated and made to feel like a piece of shit under someone’s shoe?
‘I think you’re wrong,’ he says.
He sees the momentary puzzlement. ‘Er, I’m not sure what—’
‘About being forgiven. I don’t think God has forgiven you. You’re wrong.’
The smile disappears. The bewilderment gives way to irritation. She laughs. In his face.
‘You seem very sure about that.’
‘Yes. I’m very sure. One hundred per cent certain.’
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 18