The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery)

by Alison Joseph

  ‘What do you and Col know about it that’s so scary, then?’

  Sam chewed her lip. ‘Nothin’. I already said, din’t I?’

  ‘Sam, you and Col are both panic-stricken about it. You must tell me —’

  ‘I can’t.’ There was a surprising force in her voice. ‘Don’t ask me, OK?’

  ‘But Sam —’

  Sam’s hands were working in her lap. ‘I’m saying this once, right? If I tell you, if I tell anyone, it’ll just get worse. Much worse.’

  Agnes glanced at her. ‘Sam, if you’re in danger, I need to know. You’ve wriggled out of everyone’s grasp, your mum, your stepfather … I’m all you’ve got.’

  ‘That’s your bleedin’ choice, then, innit.’

  Agnes put her foot down and pulled out into the fast lane, only to find herself braking suddenly behind a Mondeo. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she shouted, ‘if you want to tootle along at seventy-five get back into the bloody middle lane.’

  That evening she settled Sam into the hostel, then went home. She put all her clothes into a bag ready for the launderette and ran a hot bath with Givenchy bath foam. She sank into the warm bubbles, feeling the dirt of the forest dissolving, the wood-smoke smell being washed away. She watched the white foam caress her skin and wondered, once again, how Bill stayed so clean.

  Chapter Four

  ‘I’ve brought you a bacon butty,’ Agnes announced at nine thirty the next morning as she arrived in the office. ‘Mustard?’ Julius asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Agnes replied.

  ‘All this forest air must be agreeing with you,’ Julius said, unwrapping his sandwich. ‘Usually you don’t even speak until at least ten thirty.’ He eyed her suspiciously. What are you doing with those files?’

  ‘Oh, just checking something.’

  ‘Becky Stanton’s file, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was just curious —’

  ‘Agnes — it’s not as if there’s anything you can do.’

  ‘Coffee?’ Agnes brought two mugs over and sat down at her desk. She began to flick through the file she’d taken from the cabinet. ‘She was from Essex — the family live just outside Chelmsford,’ she remarked to Julius. ‘One brother. She’d left home once before, ran away last November. Then she did it again, not long ago, and ended up with us.’

  ‘Agnes, I’m not that interested.’

  Agnes began to scribble notes down with a very scratchy pencil.

  ‘Agnes —’ Julius looked across to her. ‘I’m not sure it’s any of our business.’ The pencil scratched away. ‘After all, she’s dead now, and she wasn’t even our responsibility, and I’m sure the police know what they’re doing …’ The pencil noise stopped short.

  ‘Sam knows more than she’s letting on. Which means she’s in danger too.’ There was more writing, then Agnes went on, ‘And Col’s in it with her. They’re behaving like cornered animals at the moment. I’ve brought Sam back just to give her some breathing space. Don’t you see, Julius? I’ve got to find out what happened to Becky because it could happen to Sam too.’

  Julius fingered the crucifix at his neck. ‘You really are St Rose of Lima, aren’t you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure I carry quite the same scars,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Only in your mind. And while you’re taking responsibility for the whole world, you’d better phone Michael Reynolds. There’s a message from Mary, at Social Services, on your desk.’

  Agnes searched her desk. ‘This one?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently, he was really pushy with them, quite unpleasant.’

  ‘How odd. He was all sweetness and light with me. Well,’ she added, ‘Sam’s got to meet him. I’ll get on the case.’

  Julius watched Agnes as she stood and gathered up her coat. ‘It’s not that I don’t support you,’ he said, as she paused by the door.

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  ‘Just — sometimes — give yourself some peace, that’s all.’

  Agnes opened the door. She looked at Julius, hesitated, then turned and went out. He heard her footfall on the wooden steps up to the church, heard the creak of the church door, the faint crunch of her feet on the drive as she went out into the street.

  *

  Mike Reynolds answered straight away.

  ‘Hello, it’s Sister Agnes.’

  ‘Oh. Good. Good,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we might meet,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Yes. Fine. You haven’t — um — those social workers …’

  ‘Which social workers?’

  ‘I wondered whether you’d been speaking to them.’

  ‘We do liaise, yes. How else would I have this number?’

  ‘It’s just — I was rather hasty with them. Bit of a mistake, I thought afterwards.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ve known worse. Are you free later on today?’

  ‘Um, it’s tricky. Hang on. I can do this evening, if you don’t mind meeting me here at my office. Got a pen? I’ll give you the address. Six-ish OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ Agnes said, writing down an address in Whitechapel as he dictated it. ‘See you there.’

  Agnes replaced the phone box receiver. ‘Bit of a mistake,’ she heard again. Why would he think that? If nothing else, she thought, he’s a strategist. He must have a game plan. But then, she thought, looking at the address he’d given her, you would have a plan, if you’d gone to all the trouble to contact your long-lost daughter. She turned over the card she’d written on. ‘New Naughty Miss,’ it said, next to a sketch of a pouting young woman. ‘All submissive services.’

  Agnes felt suddenly angry, suddenly filled with the impulse to dial the number and say, ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’ Only, of course, she thought, pocketing the card, leaning hard on the heavy phone box door to open it, that’s just the point.

  Popping into the newsagents to make some photocopies, she paused in front of the window. ‘Body-to-body massage,’ said a card. ‘TV. All services,’ said another. ‘For sale, buggy with rainhood, £25.00,’ said the next. Agnes found herself wondering whether ‘buggies with rainhoods’ was a code for some bizarre sexual practice.

  ‘I mean, is it just me?’ she asked Athena later that afternoon over chocolate éclairs. ‘Am I an innocent abroad, and is everyone else happily booking themselves in for sessions of bondage and massage and caning and — and whatever you care to name?’

  Athena giggled. ‘Neither, poppet. You are far from innocent, and most people aren’t booking themselves in for anything because most of us are rather stupidly wandering around in the forlorn hope that our fantasy partner will simply turn up by sheer chance.’

  ‘So who’s going to visit these naughty young misses, or whatever they really are?’

  ‘Oh, just men, darling, no one we know.’

  Agnes went to her kitchen to refill the teapot. ‘The thing is,’ she said, returning, ‘it’s not OK at all, is it? It’s not just that women freely offer these services and men freely take them up. It’s not about freedom really, is it? It’s about coercion, and corruption, and dependence and — and people’s lives being ruined. Women’s lives.’

  ‘S’pose so,’ Athena said, muffled with éclair. ‘But what can you do?’

  Agnes stood in the middle of the room, teapot in one hand. A burst of afternoon sunlight lit up the soft white of the walls, the muted green and blue of cushions and bedspread. She thought of Shelle at the hostel, Col at the camp, Sam, any of the other young people she’d encountered over the years.

  Athena wiped cream from the corner of her mouth. ‘Sweetie, you can’t worry about everyone.’

  Agnes blinked, shook her head. She brought the teapot to the table. She balanced the tea-strainer on a cup, then said, ‘There’s this man at the camp. He told me that Becky, the one who was killed, and her friend Col, were involved in something to do with the past. You know, when you believe yourself to be someone else in a previous life?’

  Athena’s eyes widened. ‘That’s amaz
ing —’

  ‘It’s not part of my tradition, it’s not something I’ve thought about before …’

  ‘No, really, that’s amazing because —’

  ‘But they seem to think it’s true. Scared themselves silly, apparently, and now Sam’s whispering to Col about it and won’t tell me anything. And I thought I saw a horsewoman in the woods the other night —’

  ‘If you’d just let me finish,’ Athena broke in at last, ‘it’s amazing because Nic does that. I mean, exactly that. It’s his thing.’

  ‘Sorry — who — what?’

  ‘The man in the gallery. The lovely one. I read his leaflet. His workshops aren’t drumming at all, they’re all about regression and memory.’

  ‘I don’t quite — who — which lovely —?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘You mean Mr Ponytail? I thought you’d never spoken to him and you don’t trust ponytails anyway?’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s always an exception.’

  ‘So you have spoken to him?’

  ‘No, but now I can. This is wonderful, sweetie. A perfect opportunity.’

  ‘Perfect for what?’

  ‘Well, to have a little chat with him.’

  ‘Athena, we’re talking about a murder.’

  ‘Well, obviously, I’ll leave out that bit. But, poppet, you need to know more about what your baby abseilers were up to, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but, surely, you can’t just go bowling in and start up a conversation about some kids out in a forest.’

  ‘Oh can’t I? Just watch me.’

  *

  The office of Alborina Holdings was on the first floor of an old warehouse, large areas of which seemed to be empty. Agnes stepped through the dingy doorway and was almost mown down by a rail full of floral yellow dresses emerging from the lift, with two hurrying young Bengali men behind it.

  She walked up the stairs to Mike’s office. The door was ajar, and Agnes could hear a phone conversation going on. She sat on the edge of a worn pink sofa and picked up a trade magazine about paper products.

  ‘That’s not my problem, though, is it?’ Mike was saying. ‘If you ask me, the guys over at Majorwell need something up their jacksie before they’ll see things our way.’

  ‘Supermarkets to favour recyclables,’ Agnes read.

  ‘So he said I was heavy, did he? He hasn’t travelled, mate. Any more of this arsing about and he’ll find out what heavy is. Yeah, see ya.’ Agnes put down the magazine and stood up as Mike came to meet her, one arm outstretched, the other smoothing his thin blond hair.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he smiled, shaking her hand. ‘Some people just aren’t hungry enough these days. Now, where shall we go? There’s a fairly decent pub on the corner, or we can venture towards the City in search of something posher if you like?’

  ‘The pub’ll be fine,’ Agnes said, as Mike led the way down the stairs.

  ‘So, are you a real nun?’ he asked.

  ‘Real enough,’ Agnes said. ‘We just don’t tend to wear habit anymore.’

  ‘Shame,’ Mike said, holding the front door open for her, and she felt suddenly irritated that he should presume to have a view on how she dressed. What a shame your suit is only polyester instead of linen, she felt like saying. What a shame you chose that cheap-looking pale blue shirt this morning. She tried to put these hostile thoughts to one side, thinking, as they approached the pub, that it must just be nerves, wondering, as she watched Mike fight his way to the bar, what Sam would make of him.

  ‘So, how is Sam?’ Mike asked, as he brought two drinks to their table.

  ‘Oh, you know. OK,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Enjoying London?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or isn’t it London?’

  Agnes smiled as warmly as she could. ‘You know I can’t tell you where she is,’ she said.

  He smiled back. ‘No, of course. Sorry. It’s just that when it’s your only daughter …’ His face clouded, and Agnes felt sorry she’d been so evasive.

  ‘It must be tough,’ she said. ‘But now, you’re here.’

  He looked up. ‘If she wants me, yes.’

  ‘What made you decide now? And how did you track her down? And how did you lose contact with her in the first place?’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a long story. Well, she’d been on my mind ever since, really. Since she was born. Forever, really. I’ve never regretted anything so much as losing her, although I have to say, it takes two. Her mother was pretty — feckless, in those days. Still is, stupid cow, letting Sam run off like that …’

  ‘How did you get involved with her mother — Linda, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d been around with her for a while … She was a bit of a tart, really, but I was young, and she was easy … I wanted out, but then she found she was pregnant. I thought I’d better stay. I was barely out of my teens. My mum said I’d regret it.’ He swigged at his beer. ‘’Course, she was right, in the end. Linda was off with other men soon as she’d got her shape back. Hurt my pride, you know. After a few months I’d had it. Moved away for a bit to work out what to do. When I came back, they’d gone. Been rehoused.’

  ‘She doesn’t have your surname.’

  ‘No, she thought of taking mine, Linda did, but after all those kids from different fathers —’ He shrugged. ‘Whittaker’s her own name. Must be easier in the end.’

  ‘And how did you get back in touch?’

  ‘Oh, that was easy. Her sister lives near me in Harlow. I called on her one day. It must have been about eighteen months ago.’

  ‘Linda’s sister?’

  ‘Yup. She’s lived there for years. We kept in touch.’

  ‘What made you decide — I mean, when did it occur to you to get in touch?’

  Mike sighed. ‘You see, Agnes, I’d never let go. I’d always thought of myself as Sam’s dad. And one morning, I woke up and everything seemed really kind of simple. And I thought, that’s it, then. You are her dad. Why wait any longer? And that’s when I talked to Annie, Linda’s sister, and then she told me about the new love of Linda’s life. Some things never change, do they, Agnes? If the bleedin’ Terminator himself was to walk through those doors, you can bet your last half-crown that Linda’d be simperin’ along behind him in her best kit. And Annie told me that he’d been dishin’ it out to Sam, and that kind of sorted it for me really. So I talked to some helpline thing, and they told me the procedure.’

  ‘So you contacted Social Services?’

  ‘Yeah. Annie told me what to do. Where they were, which area to get in touch with. I did all that. The rest you know.’ Mike picked up a beer mat and flipped it over. Agnes, sipping her drink, watched him. Something felt too easy about all this. Why now? she wondered. Why this easy belief in his right to be Sam's father? But then, she thought, people need their fathers. People need to know who they are. It must be better for Sam, she thought, that Mike wants to be back in her life. A real father.

  Without warning, a memory flashed into her mind. Warmth and scratchiness; of being nestled up close, watching flames leaping in a huge fireplace. Long, pale fingers turning the pages of a book, a rare, leather-bound edition of Cuvier’s Natural History. Papa. Reaching out to trace the raised blue veins on the back of his hand, allowing her own fingertips to touch the rich, yellowing paper with his.

  ‘Of course,’ Mike was saying, ‘those social workers don’t seem that bothered.’

  Agnes gulped her drink. ‘Social workers?’ she mumbled. ‘They’re very over-worked, you know.’

  My own father, she thought, wondering how she’d begin to describe him, the man who had wafted unpredictably in and out of her life, provoking unbearable feelings of love and loyalty only to abandon her when some new business project, or mistress, called him away. She blinked as Mike flipped the beer mat again.

  ‘Another drink?’ Mike was saying. The pub suddenly seemed unbearably noisy.

  ‘I’d better go, thanks all the same.’
r />   Outside the pub they shook hands.

  ‘I’ll tell Sam I met you,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m sure she’ll want to see you soon.’

  Mike held her gaze. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘Oh, God, I hope so.’

  Agnes walked briskly away from him towards the Tube, descending the station steps, breathing in the humid air with relief. She found a seat on the platform. Really, it was unfair of her, she thought, to allow her own confused memories to cloud her judgement now. Mike seemed a nice enough man, and compared to Sam’s current set-up, might prove to be a very good thing for her. In the end, it was up to Sam; she was the one who had to decide. Agnes shivered in the sudden breeze of the approaching train.

  *

  ‘Well,’ she said to Sam the next morning, ‘I might as well take you back to the camp, if you want to go. It’s going to be a day or two before we can arrange for you to meet Mike.’

  ‘What was he like?’ Sam said, crunching breakfast cereal. ‘Is he rich, and is his house nice, and has he got cable telly?’

  ‘He’s very keen to meet you,’ Agnes said. ‘And I’ve no idea what his house is like.’

  ‘And how old is he, and what does he look like?’

  ‘He’s about thirty-seven, he’s got blue eyes —’

  ‘Like mine?’

  Agnes looked at Sam’s eyes. They were a soft grey, not the sharp blue she remembered from her meeting with Mike Reynolds.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘like yours.’

  *

  The blackened kettle was steaming tepidly on its bed of warm ash. There was a jangle of abseil harness as Jeff descended from a tree and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Any tea?’ he asked, giving Sam a hug.

  ‘I can’t get this fire going,’ Paz replied.

  Jeff knelt by the stones and prodded at the bits of wood under the kettle. Rona appeared from her bender and nodded at Agnes.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Agnes asked.

  Rona sighed. ‘We’re all still reeling. And the Press don’t help. But, you know, we’ve got the eviction coming up.’

  ‘Have you got a date?’

  Jeff sat back on his haunches. ‘Not officially. But one of the locals, Sheila, one of her daughter’s mates was down the job centre and they’re recruiting security guards round here. And that means they’re gearing up to get us out, right? And it’s like, we’ve got to get full on.’