by Hilary Boyd
“How is she coping?” Patrick asked.
Karen held her breath.
“Well . . . better than I expected, in fact. She’s moving back to London. Oh, it all came out. Never took to village life, she said. Never took to being a vicar’s wife either, it seems. Although you wouldn’t have guessed it. So maybe all this is for the best.”
“Did she mention William?” Sophie asked, flicking a surreptitious glance at Karen.
“I asked if she’d seen him, and she said yes, they’d met up, then she went all peculiar and sort of clammed up. I said ‘Did you have a go at him?’ and she said, ‘It’s a lot more complicated than you think, Sheila,’ but she obviously didn’t want to talk about it, whatever it was, and I let her be.”
“So is he sorry?” Patrick asked.
“She didn’t say one way or the other. But she wasn’t as cross as I’d have expected her to be, given what he’s done to her.”
“Hmm . . .” Patrick said.
“So where’s he gone?” Sophie asked.
“Seems he’s camping out with this man from his distant past, Janey said. Sort of mentor character, if I’ve got that right. She was none too complimentary about him, either.”
“Why, what’s the fellow done?” Patrick asked.
“Not sure, she wouldn’t say. Just said he was ‘extremely shady.’ But then she also said he’s a do-gooder, works with down and outs on the coast somewhere . . . can’t remember exactly where.”
“Intriguing,” Patrick said, his eyes alight with the mystery.
Sheila shrugged. “She seemed annoyed that William had turned to this man when he knew full well she didn’t approve of him. More bothered about that than anything else.”
The group was silent. Karen was silent. A million questions hovered on her lips, but she didn’t ask any of them. How could she justify wanting to know where this man lived and what his name was?
“Anyways,” Sheila shook her head sadly, “from the way Janey was talking, there didn’t seem much prospect of them patching things up.”
“People always say things in the heat of the moment,” Patrick suggested. “But then they mellow later on, realize they really love each other.”
“Maybe. But she didn’t sound angry . . . can’t put my finger on it, but there seemed to be something else going on that she wasn’t telling me about.” Sheila shrugged again. “Sad, really . . .”
*
“Did you know about this guy, this mentor?” Sophie asked, as she and Karen walked home from the village hall.
“He mentioned a man a couple of times—a vicar in Putney, where they used to live—who had been part of the reason he went into the Church in the first place. Maybe it’s the same person.”
“No wonder Janey doesn’t like him, if she never wanted to be a vicar’s wife and this guy persuaded William to quit his trendy advertising job.”
“I wish I could remember his name . . . although I’m not sure Will ever told me.”
“Did he imply he was dodgy in any way?”
Karen wracked her brains to recall the conversation. But it had been around the time when she was in turmoil over Harry’s death and she hadn’t really been listening. “No . . . I know he said his church burned down.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Wow, you think this guy’s an arsonist?”
Karen laughed. “Seems a bit unlikely that you’d burn down your own church. You might burn someone else’s, but your own? That’d be perverse.”
“OK . . . well, what else would make him ‘shady’?”
“Money? Sex?”
Her stepdaughter was nodding. “Probably ran off with the candlesticks.”
They walked in silence for a time.
“If he’s working with homeless people then he’s obviously not a vicar anymore. Maybe he got defrocked, or whatever you do to bad vicars.”
“Maybe he isn’t bad, it’s just Janey doesn’t like him,” Karen sighed. “Whatever, it doesn’t help much with finding William.”
“If we google ‘church burning down in Putney’ it’s bound to mention the vicar’s name. He’ll have said something at the time, like how devastated he is, which’ll be quoted.”
“OK, but if it was a long time ago . . .”
“It’s quite a big thing, a London church burning down. I’m sure we’ll find it. If the vicar was implicated in the fire, the papers are bound to suggest that, don’t you think? And if he wasn’t, then we can check the sex offenders register.”
“Can you do that? Just put in a name and find out where someone is?”
“Not sure . . . I think you can. Didn’t they change stuff because of Sarah’s Law?”
*
A small piece in the Wandsworth Guardian in August 2001 read:
Police have arrested a local man, aged 32, in connection with the blaze that gutted the historic church of St. Barnabas, Delling Road, late on Saturday evening. Rev. Alistair Fisher, the vicar of St. Barnabas, who sustained minor burns to his face and hands when he tried, unsuccessfully, to rescue the 17th century altar tapestry, refused to comment on the arrest, but it is thought the man is known to the church community.
Sophie looked up from her laptop in triumph. “See? That must be him, Reverend Alistair Fisher.”
Karen nodded. “If it’s the right church, and the right vicar.”
“It’s the only church fire I can find in the last fifteen years in Putney. And how often do you hear of a church being gutted? It’s got to be him.”
“True . . . and obviously he’s not the one who did it. Seems like no one was too surprised by the arrest of the thirty-two-year-old man.”
“So shall we try the sex offenders register next?”
Part of Karen just wanted to leave it, to have nothing more to do with finding out some grim truth about Will’s friend. Was she really going to chase after a convicted pedophile and question him about the whereabouts of a man who didn’t want anything to do with her?
“OK,” she said, finally, unable to contain her curiosity. “Give it a go.”
For a while the girl clicked and typed and waited for the various sites to respond.
Karen sat on the bed, waiting.
“Seems like you can’t just type in a name on the register. You have to go to the police and ask them to check their database if you think someone in your neighborhood is a sex offender,” Sophie said after a while.
“Which we aren’t going to do.”
The girl glanced round at Karen. “Shall I keep looking?”
Karen sighed. “No, no point. Listen, thanks for trying, but William doesn’t want to be found, so it’s pretty dumb of me to try. Even if we did track him down, he’d probably refuse to speak to me.”
But Sophie wasn’t listening, just intently typing away on the keyboard. After a few minutes, she stopped, pointing to the screen. “Look at this . . .”
Karen peered over her shoulder.
“‘Homelessness as a New Addiction,’ by Alistair Fisher . . . he’s written an article in Pavement . . . it’s a homeless mag. Look, there’s a photo of him next to his byline.” The small head shot showed a man in his sixties perhaps, thin and balding, his expression quite stern.
They both glanced through the text, which was decrying the fact that many rough sleepers became so habitualized to being on the street, that they weren’t able to adjust to normal life, even with help. He gave Hastings as his example.
“So maybe he lives there,” Sophie suggested.
“Big place, Hastings. But Sheila said he was working in a home for down and outs, didn’t she? Can’t be that many of them.”
“You wouldn’t think so.”
Sophie sat back, turned to look at Karen, who was still standing behind her chair, bent forward to see the laptop screen. “Seems like a good sort, caring about homeless people. Wonder what it was Janey didn’t like about him?”
“His influence over William?”
“Maybe. So shall I google ‘homeless hostels,
Hastings’?”
Karen shook her head quickly. “I need to think about this. Anyway, they won’t have lists of people who work there.”
“Might do. Staff lists. Can’t hurt to pin down his location, in case you decide to check him out . . . wouldn’t take a sec.”
But Sophie drew a blank. If Alistair Fisher worked with the homeless in Hastings, there was no mention of him—although there were quite a number of centers for homeless people and drug-addiction clinics in the town.
Karen felt dispirited all of a sudden. Just forget the man, said a loud, insistent voice in her head.
“You’d probably have to go there, sniff around some of the shelters and drop-in centers.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
Sophie shrugged. “Why not? William might be working with him for all you know. It’d be right up his street. You might bump into each other.”
“Yeah, and how do I explain to William what I’m doing there?”
“You tell him straight. Actions have consequences. He has to face up to how he’s treated you, Karen.”
“He never promised me anything.”
Sophie just shook her head.
Chapter Sixteen
Karen heard Mike harrumph at the other end of the phone. It was a couple of days since she and Sophie had traced the possible location of William’s putative mentor and she’d done nothing more about it, except think about it obsessively. Now she was lying on her bed, unable to sleep.
“And you want to see William why?”
Karen groaned. “Yeah, yeah, spare me another lecture. You know why. OK, he never said he’d love me forever and run off into the sunset with me, but we had something. Really we did. I need to know where that went.” She could almost see Mike rolling his eyes.
“Can you really see a future with someone who’s just walked out on you like that, without a word. Pretty mean, no?”
“I’m not planning a future with him, I just want to have the conversation where he explains what’s gone on.”
“Right. And what’s he going to say in this conversation, eh? I’ll tell you exactly what. He’ll clutch his brow and his eyes will fill with crocodile tears, then he’ll say, ‘I’m so, so sorry, Karen. I let you down. I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t cope with life. I’m such a terrible failure. You want nothing to do with me.’”
Karen couldn’t help laughing at Mike’s melodramatic delivery.
“So now you don’t have to find him. You’ve heard what the pillock’s got to say. Put the whole bloody thing behind you and get on with your life.”
“Ha. Wish I could.”
An exasperated sigh was Mike’s response. “OK, well, if you’re dead set on it, then get on and do it. Go to Hastings, hang out with some druggies, talk to the dodgy mentor, find the tosser. But DO IT, Karen, NOW. Stop fucking around.”
She was taken aback, he was almost shouting at her.
“OK. Just get on with it. I hear you.”
“Good. Tomorrow, do it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Her stomach flipped at the thought.
“There’ll never be a better time.”
She began to say that she couldn’t go tomorrow. She was already inventing a reason—Sophie—why it would be difficult. But Mike’s insistence refused the lie.
“Tomorrow it is.”
Mike laughed. “Don’t believe you, darlin’, but at least you’re sounding like you’re thinking about it, which is progress of a sort. Sorry to be such a bloody nag, but I’ve seen you over the last few months, mooching around after a guy who’s clearly not got your best interests at heart. And it’s doing my head in.”
“Doing mine in too.”
“So sort it. Won’t be easy, but it’s got to be easier than wasting your life wondering. Ring me when you get back from Hastings.”
“Will do. And thanks, Mike.”
*
She woke Sophie at eight with a cup of tea.
“What’s up?” was the girl’s sleepy response.
Karen hovered by the door. “I’m going to Hastings this morning.”
Sophie pulled herself up in bed. “Whoa. OK. What made you decide?”
“I talked to Mike last night. He said I was wasting my life. He said I had to find William, get it over with.”
“I said that too,” Sophie pointed out.
“Yeah, I know. And I did listen. But you’re both right.”
“Will you be back tonight?”
“Absolutely. It’s about a couple of hours’ drive. I’ll try to be back around six thirty, but I’ll text you when I’m leaving.”
Sophie nodded. “And text me if you find him.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll find anyone.”
“Worth a try.”
“You’ll sort Largo out?”
“Course. Good luck.”
As Karen set off she was aware of a fluttering, churning excitement in her gut. She kept telling herself the facts: she didn’t even know if Alistair Fisher was William’s friend; she didn’t know where to find him; she didn’t know if he had seen William; she didn’t know if he’d tell her where William was, even if he had.
This is a wild goose chase.
But it made no difference to her anticipation. And at least, as Mike said, she would be doing something, not just thinking, thinking, thinking, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.
*
Hastings, on a wet October morning, was dismal, like all seaside towns out of season. The painted houses on the sandstone cliffs to the north looked precarious in the wind, the sea wild, the pebble beach almost deserted, the front blowy and cold, full of huddled, head-down anorak-clad figures, mobility scooters, dog walkers, giant seagulls with mean yellow eyes. After driving up and down the steep roads for a bit, she settled on an underground car park between the beach and the town center. Then she found a seafront café and had a cup of coffee. The whole place reminded her of Mike—although the café wasn’t a patch on his—and she wished he were here with her right now, holding her hand as she set about her strange, probably hopeless task.
Karen, organized as usual, had printed out a map of the town and pinpointed the various centers and hostels for drug addicts and homeless people, which were mostly in the New Town, west of the older part. There were seven that looked promising. She hoped someone had at least heard of Fisher, even if he didn’t work with them.
The first one was a hostel. The group of men hanging about the steps, smoking, eyed her with faint curiosity, then turned away. The man in the office—young, scruffy, bearded—looked harassed as he dragged his gaze unwillingly from the computer and waited for her to speak. When she asked about Alistair Fisher he shook his head quickly, then fired a couple of questions at her.
“Never heard of him. Is he a relative? Does he stay here?”
“No, neither. I’m . . . just looking for him. I thought he might work here.”
“Nope. Sorry. Can’t help.” He turned back to the screen.
Karen waited for a second, not sure if he was going to say any more, but when he didn’t she drifted slowly back out on to the street. What did I expect? she wondered. The cozy world of her middle-class village seemed miles away from these men’s lives. Why should the hostel guy be interested in her inquiry if it didn’t relate to one of his clients?
She checked her map for the next option, a drug-rehab center and needle exchange a few streets away. But she was met with the same response—although this time a less abrupt one, as the woman in the gray wool cardigan thought hard about whether she’d heard of Fisher before telling Karen no, and smiling kindly. Clearly everyone she asked assumed she was searching for a long-lost relative.
The next three were pretty much the same. Karen reckoned she spent, at the most, five minutes in each. They were places that obviously provided a vital service, but the buildings themselves were worn and functional, the staff either businesslike or determinedly upbeat, doing what must be a difficult job at times.
In the
last, another homeless hostel, a youngish man, a rough sleeper from the look of his filthy clothes and tattered trainers, was kicking off, hitting out at the two workers—a man and a woman—who were trying to reason with him. When he turned toward Karen, she saw his pale eyes, bloodshot and full of rage, his skin taut and weather-beaten on his sinewy frame. He waved his arm at her, then his gaze suddenly softened as if he recognized her. For a moment their eyes met and he seemed to calm down. She held her breath as he mumbled something into his scraggy ginger beard.
“Come on, mate, come and sit down . . .” The male hostel worker took advantage of the lull and began coaxing him toward the open door of the office.
And despite shaking his head, the man finally complied, stumbling as he went.
“Can’t help, sorry,” the woman said, obviously remembering Karen’s query before turning away.
Karen, thoroughly depressed by her fruitless morning, went back to the seafront and found a fish and chip shop. She sat at one of the beige Formica tables set with a round plastic tomato ketchup container and vinegar bottle, and phoned Sophie.
“It’s pointless. There are so many places he could be, if he’s here at all. These hostels are grim. The whole thing’s grim.”
“Hmm . . . there must be a better way . . . have you thought of the churches? I mean, even if Fisher isn’t a vicar anymore, he’s probably still religious. There’s going to be a church he goes to, right?”
“Right. But there are millions here. And unless he happens to be going in or out when I’m passing, it’s not going to help.”
“I wasn’t thinking of waiting for him, but you could ask someone there if they know him.”
“I suppose . . . I’ll give it a go if I see one. But I think I’ll have to come back another time. If I bother. I feel so stupid wandering around looking for someone who might not even be here, in order to find someone else who might not even be here either . . . and if he is, might not want to see me.”
Sophie laughed. “Yeah, does sound a bit dumb if you put it like that. But don’t give up yet. I’m sure you’ll find him.”