Purged

by Peter Laws

Matt waited for the usual polite response to the mention of the word sabbatical. Something along the lines of, ‘Oh … and what are you doing in that time, hmmm?’ And he’d reply cheerfully, oh just a book about how belief in God is a psychological construct, not an external reality. More sour cream? Instead, when Chris made no response Matt added, ‘I guess Seth told you that I’m not with the church any more.’

  Chris winced. ‘What on earth happened? Why’d you leave?’

  Matt flicked a piece of rice from his plate through the air. ‘You must really think I’m going to hell, now.’

  Chris said nothing.

  ‘I don’t mind, by the way, if you do. It’s your opinion.’ Matt was feeling lighter and more himself now that his vicar aura was established dead. It always felt easier, once that was sorted.

  Chris ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. It made his top lip bulge out. ‘Maybe you will go to hell. Maybe you won’t. I guess only God knows that.’

  ‘That’s if God exists, of course.’ Matt took a loud chomp of a tortilla chip.

  The look on Chris’s face was nothing less than depressed astonishment, like when a man comes home to find his house has been burgled. He looked like that. That his old ‘study buddy’ would even entertain such a notion. ‘Oh, but Matt, God does exist. Believe me, he does.’

  ‘Yeah, well, let’s just get this clear. I respect your beliefs.’ Hmmm, do I? ‘But I’m just not there any more, okay? I hope you can respect that.’

  Matt spotted a flock of birds swooping across the sky. Rising and falling, rising and falling. It really was beautiful out here.

  ‘You know,’ Chris said, ‘you were the most Christ-like person in that place. You looked out for me, Matt, and I’ve never forgotten that. Ever.’ Chris reached over and put a tentative finger on Matt’s knee. ‘Which makes it very difficult to see you this way. To hear about you turning …’

  ‘You make me sound like milk.’

  ‘Turning away from him. Seeing it. Hearing it. It’s painful. Gets me right here.’ He pounded his fist into his chest. Quite hard.

  Matt tipped his drink in Chris’s direction. ‘Don’t you go worrying about me. I’m chugging along just fine.’

  Chris closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. Matt just shrugged and took in the view. That’s the thing about believers. They spend half their life with their eyes shut.

  A subject change was in order.

  ‘Anyway, Chris. Moving on. Am I finally going to get to meet your wife?’ Matt turned his head to look through the crowd. ‘Or is it how I always suspected and you just made her up to—’

  ‘Lydia’s dead.’ Chris pulled his hand back from Matt’s knee.

  Sometimes people say things in a conversation that are so deep or intense, that it’s easy to miss their importance first time round. Matt heard the word dead echo in his ears and yet he still went to grab another handful of tortilla chips. But then his hands slowed, and his eyebrows slowly moved together. ‘Oh shit, Chris. When?’

  ‘Christmas, my second year of college. You know the night when I drank too much?’

  ‘What?’ Matt just stared at him.

  ‘I’m not even sure why I came into college that day. Lonely, I guess. Lydia died the night before.’

  Silence. Long seconds of silence.

  ‘Oh, man. I’m so sorry …’

  ‘So I had to leave college, didn’t I? I had a seven-year-old son to look after.’ He ran his index finger around the lip of his plastic cup, one entire revolution. ‘She died and I had new responsibilities. She died in our flat.’

  ‘That was Hemel?’

  Chris’s eyes suddenly flickered as though Matt had just said something electric.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘I don’t like to talk about that place. I think it’s got a bad spirit or something.’ He stared off at the horizon. ‘Sometimes I think demons must have a hold over certain cities and towns. Certain postcodes. Don’t you?’

  Matt sighed and put his plate on the wall. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me that night in the pub?’

  Chris blinked, and his mouth creaked into an odd-looking grin. ‘God’s shown me how to deal with grief and all my deep wounds. And I’m helping others do the same. You see that building down there, opposite side of the lake from the waterfall?’

  He nodded.

  It was a modern-looking building, reminded him of a council office. Two floors and a car park, near the edge of the lake. It had a heck of a lot of windows, on the lakeside.

  ‘We call that Bethesda. It’s where people come for deep healing. We’re doing miracles down there. And you know, God keeps bringing me wounded hearts to heal.’

  ‘Well I’m happy for you,’ Matt said, although he wasn’t sure if he really meant it. Wasn’t it disingenuous to be pleased when people were deluding themselves? Who cheers with approval when a dementia patient shouts, ‘I’m fifteen again’? Isn’t that supposed to be the part where everybody cries at the utter loss of rationality?

  ‘You know what, Matt? I honestly don’t know how you can live a single day without God.’ He put his hand to his dog collar and pulled out a silver chain with a chunky-looking cross on it. He gripped the base and pushed it towards Matt.

  Eager to lighten the mood, Matt pulled a look of fake shock and held up his hands. ‘Ah! You keep that away! It burns, it burns!’

  Chris frowned for a second then let out a breath. ‘Well aren’t you the witty one.’ He pulled the cross close to his chest. ‘Et teneo, et teneor. You ever heard that?’

  ‘’Course. It’s Latin,’ Matt said. ‘It means I hold and I am held.’

  ‘Exactly. I hold this and it holds me.’ Chris gave a case-closed smile and slipped the cross back behind his collar. ‘So come on. What happened? Why’d you turn your back on church ministry?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I was suspended.’

  Matt turned just so he could watch his reaction. The confusion, the shock. Then a sort of eye-twinkling curiosity.

  ‘Suspended?’

  ‘The denomination kicked me out for twelve months. Which was plenty of time to decide I didn’t believe in God any more. So I never went back.’

  ‘Suspended? What did you do?’

  Matt had the impression that people round here would suddenly drop at Chris’s feet and tell them their darkest little secrets, but he didn’t feel like joining that swooning clan. ‘It’s personal.’

  Chris arched his fingers into a steeple, which came to rest on his chin like he was some wise old Kung-Fu Master. It was an oddly patronising gesture. ‘I don’t believe in personal.’

  And there she was, back again.

  It was strange because Matt could usually shake that life-changing image from his mind. The image of his dying, murdered mother. Over the years he’d learnt to switch it off as efficiently as a TV, or a radio. But it lingered on that patio like the flicker of an old film, projected on top of everything else so that blinking it away only zoomed it in. Made it more vibrant.

  Et teneo, et teneor.

  I hold and I am held?

  Shame you dropped the ball on that day, though, isn’t it, God? You useless bloody fumbler.

  Matt looked up at the slowly darkening sky and noticed sharp little lights starting to float a few metres over his head. ‘What’s this?’ Matt said. He turned and saw Seth and the fat guy, Billy, helping people light Chinese lanterns. They laughed and lifted them high. Matt noticed a few of them were crying.

  Chris swung his legs around and stood up. ‘They’re purging.’

  ‘Purging what?’

  ‘The old self. Eighteen of these beautiful people are going to be baptised next Sunday morning. They’ve become new creations. The old has gone and there it goes.’ He pointed up at the lanterns gliding silently up and drifting off into the evening sky. ‘And the new has come. Come on, let’s join them.’

  They left their plates of food on the wall and headed over to the
others, Matt grabbing a chicken goujon to take with him. All around him he could hear the striking of matches so they could fling the last of their old selves free. A golf-clap rippled out as more lights slowly lifted into the air.

  Amelia ran up with ice cream on her lips and slipped her hand into his. ‘Aren’t they pretty, Daddy?’

  Wren appeared and slipped her arm around his waist, head resting on his shoulder. She was smiling a lot. And Lucy was over by the wall chatting to Ben and some other boys, watching the lights and filming it on her camera-phone.

  While everyone cooed over the metaphysical power of cheap pound-shop lanterns Matt wondered if he was the only sane person left in the world. Which seemed like a good cue for them all to start singing some old negro spiritual: My shackles are gone, My spirit is free …

  It was just as they started clapping (on beats one and three … because white Christians never clap on two and four) that the arched studded door Matt had used before suddenly clattered open noisily. Loud enough to make people turn their heads.

  People saw who it was and started to nudge each other. Some, interestingly, slipped their sunglasses back on.

  A young-looking policeman with rimless glasses and an almost complete lack of chin appeared. He strode across the patio with a pile of white papers in his hand. ‘Pastor Chris? Is he here?’

  Chris was shielding the flame on somebody’s lantern. He turned, announcing him like they were in a kids TV show. ‘Hey everyone … it’s PC Taylor. Grab yourself a burrito.’

  Something was up because PC Taylor didn’t grab anything, he just leant in and started whispering in Chris’s ear.

  Lucy slipped her phone into her pocket and walked quickly over to Matt. She looked nervous. It was the way she always looked when a policeman turned up, as if the entire force in Britain was only ever working on one single case – the possibility of her dad, Eddie Pullen, breaking out of prison and tracking his wife and daughter down. ‘Why are they here? What’s happened?’

  Matt shrugged, ‘It’ll just be a local thing, I guess.’

  They all waited, eyes moving from the whispering policeman to the floating lanterns of rejected sin, then back to the policeman again. Eventually Taylor handed the pile of papers to Chris. Then he turned and glanced over at Matt, wriggling his nose and holding Matt’s gaze longer than necessary.

  Matt wasn’t a master at lip-reading, but it wasn’t rocket science to see the policeman lean into Chris and ask ‘who’s that?’ Then after getting his answer he turned and raised a hand. ‘I’m sorry if I interrupted your party, folks. I’ll see you all next Sunday.’ He turned to leave, raising a hand to wave.

  ‘Chris?’ Matt said. ‘Is everything okay?’

  Chris just looked up at the pink sky and the lights fading into it and started to shake his head. ‘Sorry, everyone, but gather round. I’ve got some news here.’

  People swept in quickly, taking off their glasses.

  ‘Disturbing development I’m afraid. A fourteen-year-old girl from the village has been reported missing. She hasn’t been home for two nights now. Her mum suspects she might have’ – he looked in pain when he said it – ‘hurt herself.’

  Seth screwed up his face. There was an ominous sucking in of breath from the others.

  ‘Taylor’s asked us to pray, and I think under the circumstances we ought to do that straight away.’

  Billy the youth worker shouted out, ‘Who, Chris? What’s her name?’

  ‘She’s called Nicola. Nicola Knox.’

  A few gasps. Hands to chests. Eyes closing.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know her, but some of you might,’ Chris said. ‘Taylor has copies of her photograph here. How about we all hold one and we can pray for her safe return. Okay with everyone?’

  A murmur of enthusiastic agreement.

  Matt glanced at Lucy, who was holding her mum’s hand.

  ‘Hunters?’ Chris thrust one of the sheets into Wren’s hand, ‘I hope you can muster some of that old faith for a girl in trouble?’

  She turned the sheet over and spoke to Matt. ‘Oh, look at her. She looks … lonely …’

  Matt looked down and suddenly snatched the paper from Wren’s hand. Seth noticed the grab, and frowned.

  ‘Matt?’ Wren whispered, flushing a little red. ‘What are you doing?’

  The others were slowly starting to kneel, heads bowed, hands together.

  Matt stood, paper in hand and whispered back. ‘I’ve seen this girl before’.

  ‘When we drove through the village?’

  ‘No,’ he whispered again so the others couldn’t hear. Then he took her by the elbow a few steps back. He noticed Lucy looking over, frowning.

  ‘What’s with the cloak and dagger—’

  ‘Wren, I have her picture on my phone. Someone emailed it to me this afternoon.’

  Her face dropped.

  ‘It’s a different picture, but I’m telling you. It’s the same girl.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Matt slowed the car and shifted into second gear as he spotted the police station up ahead. It had one of those old-school wrought iron lanterns above the door, with blue glass. The sort you might see in old Jack the Ripper films with a flat-capped cockney kid yelling murdah! murdah! Now that the sun had truly sunk on Hobbs Hill, the bulb in the lantern was glowing, and flickering. He pulled the car in and parked, patting his pocket just to make sure his phone hadn’t slipped out.

  Other than the distant hiss of the falls at the other end of the valley, the village centre was weirdly quiet. Okay, it was 9:30 p.m. on a Sunday night, but he at least expected people to be wandering between the pubs or couples heading home after a meal out.

  Matt and the girls had left the Purging Party just before the prayers started in earnest. The kids’ Frisbee game was cancelled. He made polite excuses, saying it was past Amelia’s bedtime, they’d had a long day, blah, blah. But really, he just wanted to get down here and show the police the email. He’d dropped the girls at the cottage and headed straight out, promising he wouldn’t be long.

  He stepped beneath the blue glow of the lantern and spotted a wooden plaque on the wall. Apparently the chief sergeant here was called Sergeant Miller. He pushed on the heavy wooden door. It creaked as it opened.

  The reception had a high ceiling but was small, and alongside each wall ran what looked like church pews. A heavy iron radiator (painted the same ill-advised green as the walls) pushed out a little heat. There was a purple stain on it where some jokey kid had probably dumped a crayon. And he thought he could smell burnt toast in the air. He stepped up to the glass partition, with the desk behind it.

  Matt went to tap on the glass but snapped his hand back instantly. Police Constable Taylor, the chinless policeman who had dished out Nicola’s photo at the Purging was in the back room. He’d left the door ajar just enough so that Matt could see he was on his knees, leaning over the picture of the missing girl. One hand hovered over her face, his fingers were outstretched.

  What the hell is he—

  Praying. He’s not masturbating, he’s praying. Must be.

  Matt waited for a moment, then gently tapped on the glass.

  Taylor’s body jerked and he pushed his heel back against the door, which slammed it shut. A few seconds later he emerged, pulling his uniform straight, pushing his glasses into place. ‘Oh. You.’

  ‘Yes. Hi, I’m Matt Hunter.’

  ‘I know that. You’re the architect’s husband.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is the Purging over?’

  ‘Almost fully purged. Now they’re praying for the missing girl.’

  ‘Well good. Cos, that’s vital, that is.’ Taylor started to nod, slow and serious. ‘I hear you don’t go in for God?’

  ‘News travels fast round here.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Well the news is true. So … Sergeant Miller … is he here? I’d like a word with him.’

  Taylor’s eyebrows crept together an
d he tilted his head. ‘And why would you want to see Sergeant Miller at this hour? Something wrong?’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Nope. He’s over the road in The Chequers pub. He heads over there after his shift.’

  ‘Great, I’ll nip over.’

  ‘Er …’ he raised a hand. ‘He’s off duty. So you’ll just need to talk to me.’

  ‘Nah, I don’t want to disturb you. Besides,’ Matt nodded over to the back room, ‘looks like you’re hard at work.’

  Taylor pushed himself up onto the balls of his feet, jutted his chin out a bit.

  ‘Besides, I fancy a pint myself,’ Matt raised a hand. ‘Thanks, Constable Taylor.’

  ‘Not a drinking man, myself,’ he called after him. ‘I prefer spirits of a different kind. You should try that sometime.’

  ‘Tried it, didn’t like it.’ Matt smiled. ‘I couldn’t handle the hangovers.’

  He stepped out before Taylor could speak. He looked up the road, each way. There was nobody else. In the distance, over the treetops, he thought he saw an aeroplane hovering. He squinted again and realised it wasn’t and for one thrilling moment his inner geek thought he was finally seeing a UFO. But as he took a few steps forward he realised it was just one more Chinese lantern. One more purge. Somebody’s old self floating silently over the village, through the gathering dark. He thought all the lanterns would have gone out by now.

  He shrugged, headed across the street and pushed his way through the doors of the Chequers, starting to realise how tired he was.

  There was a grand total of four people in there, including himself. A barmaid sat at one of the tables, eyes fixed hard on a book of Sudoku. Over in the corner sat a tiny old man with a bulging hunchback, which genuinely threatened to tear the back of his tweed jacket open in a full-on Hulk-split. He was leaning zimmer-frame-style on an Abba-themed fruit machine, his squinting face flashing in the lights as he pondered which buttons to nudge and which ones to hold.

  A TV on the wall was showing the final scenes of Smokey and the Bandit 2. The one with the elephant. It was on an obscure high-number Freeview channel; the sound was muted. And in the other corner, sitting in a wooden booth below a dangling art deco-style lamp was a man who was clearly Sergeant Miller, still in uniform, one hand clasped around a pint glass and another poring over a small pile of papers.