The Weight of Angels

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘Follow up what?’ I said.

  The man made a sort of pout as if he was reviewing all the things that might be worth following up. He shrugged. ‘Am I right in thinking you’re a minor?’ he said, suddenly swinging round to face Angelo.

  Angel put his feet down on the floor from where he’d been resting them on the edge of the coffee table, his boot soles an inch from the dinner plate abandoned there, scraps congealing. ‘Me?’ he said.

  ‘He’s fifteen,’ said Marco. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, since you spend so much time over there and since you were there tonight and since both your parents went over separately, leaving one of them in the house with you at all times, once the discovery was made, I think you’re a very interesting person to us, Master McGovern. Wouldn’t you say?’

  Angelo started to speak but the sergeant interrupted him: ‘Anyway, Mrs McGovern, as you were saying?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You were telling me your neighbour informed you what had happened. Carry on.’

  ‘She told me a baby had been dumped,’ I said. And at last I saw some of the merriment die down in the sergeant’s little eyes. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘No, she didn’t, she said she heard a noise that might have been a kitten, that she hoped it wasn’t a baby. It’s such a horrible idea, as cold as it’s been, so lonely and dark.’ The constable looked up at me and gave me a tiny smile. If it was just her she might have said something kind but, with a glance at her boss, she went back to taking notes again.

  ‘Your neighbour was right, Mrs McGovern,’ the sergeant said, still grinning.

  My stomach started to churn. I had eaten a Toblerone in the car, then missed my dinner and a high sourness prickled in me. ‘How old?’ I said.

  ‘Not as old as we’d like,’ he said. ‘Not old enough to be one of the monks.’ I could feel the room start to slide and roll, making me think of dark wine swirled in a stem glass.

  ‘Wait a minute – what?’ said Marco. ‘Why would you think it’s a monk, if it’s a baby?’

  The sergeant gave a fake frown. All of his faces were fake, I was beginning to see. Grins and winks and this the biggest act of all. ‘It’s not a baby,’ he said. ‘Like I just told you. Your neighbour hoped it wasn’t and she was right. So.’ He beamed at us all. ‘That’s a relief, eh? Not that it’s ever a happy day when you find human remains where they shouldn’t be.’ He sobered briefly, then turned back to Angelo and gave him a wink. ‘You’re fifteen, eh? Well, we need to wait and see what the pathologist says about how long it’s been in the ground. But I’d say you’re off the hook, boy.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Although the youngest child killer I can think of offhand was – what – eight? Eight and a half? So, unless the body’s older than seven years, all bets are off.’

  I stared, speechless. I had come back to Howell Hall the next morning to look over the treatment room that was going to be mine and to see where I thought would be good for art therapy. Dr Ferris, on her way out, had introduced me to her husband, the other Dr Ferris, and all he could think of was the drama at the abbey. When he heard we lived across the lane from it, staring at it, and that the cops had come and questioned us, he sat me down in the staff kitchenette and got everything out of me. Even managed to make me repeat what the sergeant had said to Angelo. He’d be fantastic in a counselling session.

  ‘But no child of eight I’ve ever come across in the literature has buried their victim and kept it quiet for years,’ he said, tapping his temple with his pen as if he was trying to shake a memory to the surface, like when you want the good bits in the muesli.

  ‘You’re freaking Ali out, Dr F,’ said the kitchen assistant who had come in, supposedly to get a cup of tea, but really to look me over.

  ‘Oh, you’ll soon get used to me,’ he said, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth and batting his hand down. ‘I’m harmless, aren’t I, Hinny?’ He gave me an impish smile and a little shoulder shrug, then spun round, the lino squeaking under his trainer soles, and marched off. I gazed after him. He was short and shaped like a pouter pigeon, his chest straining at the buttons of his shirt so that tufts of chestnut hair poked through the gaps, his bottom sticking out so far that the flaps of his hairy tweed jacket gaped. His corduroy trousers swished like Star Trek doors with every step.

  I was still watching the corner he’d disappeared around when Hinny snorted. ‘Say it,’ she said. ‘Just say it. I know what you’re thinking.’

  I turned and looked into her dancing eyes. She was bubbling with laughter, hugging her cup of tea to her chest as she leaned against the counter. ‘They’re an odd couple, aren’t they?’ I offered.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘I’m no expert, but I’ve hung around enough hairdressing salons,’ I said. ‘That is not a heterosexual person.’

  Hinny beamed at me. ‘You’ll fit right in here, Ali,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the great mysteries. They’ve got a kid, you know. Dido.’

  ‘Ha!’ came a voice from the other doorway. The little kitchenette sat between the two wings, a long way from the catering kitchen where the meals were prepared and where Hinny could have got a perfectly good cup of tea. The newcomer had arrived from the modern side, what I thought of as the hospital side. He had a green tunic on, short sleeves showing off an array of amateur tattoos and a couple of stretchy bandages around each wrist.

  ‘This is Lars,’ Hinny said. ‘Lars, Ali. “Ha” what?’

  I nodded at him. The tunic looked like a uniform but Lars had the scrawny look of a user, and when he smiled I saw that most of his molars were missing.

  ‘Ha – that’s the face of someone who’s just met Dr F,’ he said, sitting down. ‘What do you reckon, then?’

  ‘Are you . . .?’ I said.

  ‘Charge nurse,’ Lars said. I thought he’d missed me glancing at the bandages but he peeled them off and showed me his forearms. I tried to take it in my stride.

  ‘Misspent youth,’ Lars said.

  Hinny snorted. ‘Yeah. I reckon he got that to help him in his gynaecology exams.’

  ‘Can’t you get them removed?’ I said. Female genitalia were bad enough but the other tattoo was a swastika dripping blood from its sharpened points.

  ‘They help some of the right wee radges believe I know what I’m on about,’ he said. ‘But Dr Ferris makes me cover them. Cannae let the cheque books see them.’

  ‘Cheque books?’

  ‘Mums and dads,’ Hinny told me. ‘You’re an awful man. But it’s true enough. Some of them never even visit.’

  ‘They pay us to care so why would they care too?’ Lars said.

  ‘Right.’ Hinny drained her cup and put it into the sink. ‘Better get the lunches on. Anything special, Larry Lamb?’

  ‘Same as yesterday,’ Lars said. ‘I reckon Drew could move on, but the doc wants her on replacements till after the next group so that’s three.’

  I didn’t know whether I should pretend to understand, ask what they meant or keep out of it, since I wasn’t nursing staff. But Lars saw me trying to look invisible and, after Hinny had gone, he gave me another smile. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, if he’d see a dentist.

  ‘The doc’s a great believer in hi-cal replacements,’ he said. ‘She’d keep the girls on shakes till discharge if she had her own way. I reckon they need to get back to solids and eat in the dining room before we say goodbye.’

  I didn’t know if I should have an opinion so I said nothing.

  ‘But your head must be spinning,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you come in for the change? If you sit through a change once or twice you’ll be all over it. You’ve got your slots, eh? I saw them on the master. It’s a well-oiled machine. Say what you like about Dr F, he can weave a chart.’ I felt as if I was going to cry. This was insane. I didn’t have a clue what anyone was talking about, and when someone worked that out, I’d be arrested. ‘Hey?’ said Lars, solemn suddenly. ‘Are you okay?’ I plastered a smile on and nodded. ‘Shite y
ou are,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m fine.’ He waited. ‘Dr Ferris was just a bit intrusive.’

  ‘Dr F,’ he said. ‘Else we’d never know who you were on about. You’d think they’d go first names but, oh, no.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Dr Ferris and Dr F. Got it.’

  ‘And what is it that’s wrong again?’ he said. His eyes were the sort of no colour at all, like most people’s eyes, but they had something.

  I looked away. ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten what it was like, hanging around psychiatric professionals.’ My voice was shaking but I managed to make it sound careless enough to pass.

  ‘You’ll have to try a bit harder than that.’ I pretended I didn’t know what he meant but when he carried on, ‘Look over there, a squirrel,’ I gave up and laughed.

  ‘Rough time at home, to be honest,’ I said. ‘We live right where that body was found.’

  ‘The remains?’

  ‘I suppose that’s more accurate,’ I said. ‘Or maybe it’s just bones.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Lars. ‘I’ve got a pal on the force. On the team. What else?’

  I shrugged but those no-colour eyes kept staring at me. ‘Ocht, I think I’ve been that wound up looking for work I can’t unwind even now I’ve got some,’ I said. ‘And there’s money worries, and a teenage kid . . . You name it.’

  ‘That’s four good reasons right enough,’ Lars said. ‘What’s wrong, though? I’m not making chit-chat, Ali. I’m really asking.’

  I wondered if my face was changing colour. For sure, I could feel a prickle of sweat on the back of my neck and my top lip. He was going to keep picking and picking until I gave in.

  ‘This job,’ I said at last. ‘My experience is ten years ago in Australia and I’ve forgotten everything. What slots? What’s a change?’

  Finally he seemed to believe me. He sat back. ‘Just ask,’ he said. ‘Time slots are your appointments. And shift-change meetings. The daily catch-up. Nothing mysterious and nobody thinks you’ll know before you’re told.’

  ‘And what’s a PVG?’ I said. ‘Dr Ferris talked about it.’

  Lars frowned at me. ‘You’ve done that, though. The doc said it was in and it’d be back any day.’

  ‘Right.’ It must have been one of the forms I’d filled. There had been a sheaf of them. ‘And the chart?’

  His frown cleared. ‘Just the timetable. Who’s at Group, who’s at indies – individual therapy sessions. Who’s at relaxation, activity, off-site, structured tasks, and now you – personal care and art. The doc’s a genius at getting twenty people in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘Twenty-three, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Twenty-three beds?’

  ‘We hold two for emergency admissions. Pretty much keeps the rest of the ship afloat, what we can charge the local authority to let them use an acute bed when they’re overloaded.’ He put a hand on his heart, while snapping the bandage back into place on top of the swastika. ‘God bless the NHS,’ he said.

  ‘So that’s twenty-two,’ I said.

  He snapped the other bandage back and smiled, his sharp eyes softening. ‘And Miss Boswell, of course.’ I frowned and shrugged. ‘Sylvie.’

  Alone in the staff toilet, I wiped a paper towel over my face and it came away dark with sweat. I had thought Dr Ferris was the worst of it, smirking and hinting but Dr F’s interrogation had caught me completely by surprise. And then there was Lars, his X-ray eyes and his soft voice asking me over and over what was wrong. I held the paper towel under the cold tap, squeezed it out, then pressed it against my neck, cheeks, forehead.

  I wanted to run, but I had spent three hundred pounds now, on this and that, and Marco had told me what he was getting at the builder’s yard. Minimum wage for fifteen hours a week, time and a half if he did Sundays.

  I lugged my mobile table into the little room that was going to be mine. Dr Ferris had called it the flower room. I could live with that. It had a sink and nearly enough plugs; I could bring in a rug and a humidifier, and put in some pink bulbs. There were bars on the window but I’d cover them with something. I was scared that my kit would have dried up but I’d forgotten how careful I was when I packed it up that last day at Face Value. I’d screwed the lids on so tight I could hardly shift them now and I’d pressed Blu Tack over all the nozzles. Some of the cosmetics looked tired, but I blotted them off with a tissue, and in the end it was only a few of the cream blushers I had to admit were past using.

  As I spread the bed with a towel and a knee roll, then laid a blanket over the foot end, I even started to feel a bit of excitement burbling inside me. This was something I knew how to do, and the patients of Howell Hall needed it more than most of the lunching ladies that used to fill my books. I took a look round before I left and could almost kid myself that things were going to be okay.

  And then there was the art. The room I’d been told I could use wasn’t so far from the flower room but it wasn’t all mine. It had ‘group’ in it in the morning, Dr Ferris had told me. ‘Group’. They all said it. Like ‘church’ or ‘school’, like everyone should know what it meant. But it was free in the afternoons, if I could set myself up over lunchtime. I pushed the door open and slipped inside.

  My pulse lifted just a little, like a kite with a sudden breeze getting under it. It was unmistakable. A ring of seats marooned in the middle of an ocean of beige carpet, the chairs low and square, no arms, upholstered in the kind of two-tone weave that doesn’t show stains. Around the walls there were ‘breakout spaces’. The phrase came back from nowhere and jolted me. In one corner beanbags; in another two upright chairs facing each other inches apart; in a third there was a pile of vinyl mats, like gymnasts land on, at least a dozen, maybe with a pea underneath. A screen was pulled over the last corner. I didn’t want to think about what was behind it. I had never heard of any kind of ‘group’ where someone went away and hid behind a screen.

  There were no cupboards, I noticed. I would have to ask Dr Ferris where I was supposed to keep the art supplies between classes. If she said my treatment room had to be for storage too I’d need a trolley to ferry things back and forth. Would my thousand pounds have to cover it, or could I ask for one? Surely there would be trolleys. This was a hospital, after all. Tiny, stuck out in the middle of an army training range and staffed by people as weird as the patients, but a hospital.

  The police were still at the abbey. They had set up a kind of a canopy, dark green like from a garden centre, and a few of them were trying to huddle underneath it for shelter, shoulders rounded and heads ducked. But the rain was coming in sheets from the side, cold and merciless, and they might as well have been out in the open along with the press that had gathered. A couple of them, TV types, had golf umbrellas up over their hairdos but the spokes were bent like drawn bows and the nylon segments bowed, like boat sails and, as I watched, one of the crew sheltering a cameraman lifted the brolly too high, trying to peek out from under it, and suddenly it was gone. Inside out, tugged from his hand, and careering away across the ground, dodging the police tent and cartwheeling over to where the hard-hatted cops and docs were busy at the base of the walls.

  A policeman followed it, clapping on his own hard-hat with one hand and leaning back as the wind carried him faster than he’d bargained for, every step making a splash. The water was rising again.

  I felt like laughing. The umbrella had blossomed, I couldn’t help thinking, gone from a bud to a bloom and got free. Then the policeman caught up with it and stamped down, cracking the handle. He shouted something back to the press, waving his arms, his face screwed up in anger, or maybe just from the rain.

  I gave up waiting for a break and got out of the car to scurry up the path. Stupid. It never even occurred to me that any of the press would give me a second glance, but I’d only just closed the front door when the first of them hammered on it.

  ‘Mrs McGovern?’ came a woman’s voice. And still I didn’t twig. I thought it
must be someone who knew me. I opened the door and peered out. There were four, all drenched, one with a kind of plastic tent over a camera and three with mikes covered with sandwich bags and recorders under their Gore-Tex jackets.

  ‘Have you got a quote, love?’

  ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘How’s your son?’

  That came from the only woman in the bunch. Tall and trim, she was wearing the wreck of a perfect blow-dry and her face was streaked black and pink as mascara and blusher coursed down. But what melted me was the state of her feet. Good patent shoes ruined and mud splattered up her ankles.

  ‘Jane Brown,’ she said. ‘Record.’

  ‘Who do you think it is?’

  ‘How did you feel when you heard?’

  ‘Did you see it being buried?’

  ‘Is he in or has he managed to stay at school?’ Jane Brown shouted, over the voices of the other three.

  And the rest were on their way over the road too, splashing and skidding in the muddy ruts of the track.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ I said to her, over their heads. ‘How do you know my son?’

  I ignored the other three, who were jeering and whining as she pushed her way to the front. ‘Can I come in?’ she said.

  ‘Why are you asking about An— about my son?’

  ‘Angelo?’ she said. ‘You can let me in or I can tell you out here.’ She slid her eyes to the side. The other reporters, even more of them now, had quietened to listen.

  I stood back and she nipped inside, like a little terrier down a rabbit hole, before I could change my mind.

  ‘Bloody Nora!’ she said. She took off her coat, kicked her shoes onto the plastic mat, and before I knew what was happening she had stripped off her tights. ‘Don’t suppose I could hang these over a radiator?’

  ‘Mantelpiece in front of the gas fire,’ I said, determined not to apologize for the lack of proper heating. ‘How did you know my son’s name?’