by Bill Hussey
‘Hi. Morning.’
‘Jesus, Jack, have you slept here? You look like shit.’
‘Is Jamie with you? Have you dropped him off somewhere?’
Again, that strange, but genuine concern. Considering her reaction yesterday to his questions about Jamie, she was surprised he had the balls to ask again.
‘Yes, at his grandad’s.’
‘The video Doug Winters gave us is no good. Too hazy.’
‘Can I take a look?’
‘No point. It’s … defective. I’ll see if Manny can work his magic with it.’
‘Jack, I’ve been thinking things through and …’
As he ejected the tape, his mobile rang.
‘Hello? Oh, yes, I … Hello? Damn these things! See if I can get a signal outside.’
Holding the phone out in front of him, as if he were checking a radiation leak with a Geiger counter, he moved away down the corridor.
Dawn slipped the tape back into the VCR, rewound two minutes of film and hit the play button. The scene was of the large lecture hall at the university: all dark wooden panelling and oil portraits of dead chancellors. The camera focused on an elderly man, dressed in black and purple robes and bent over a lectern.
‘… so, the Transfiguration Story, whether mirroring the Resurrection or not, was seen as the objective deification of Christ. Man-God seen by mortal eyes. Questions?’
A hand shot up.
‘Sir, Raphael’s depiction of the Transfiguration poses some questions. Specifically, the unusual scene of the Apostles trying to exorcise a possessed child. Why do you think the artist added in this unscriptural image?’
‘I’m not here to talk about artistic interpretations, Miss. Yes, you there.’
A whey-faced boy, barely out of puberty, squeaked, ‘Professor, may I ask in what sense you see the Transfiguration as miraculous?’
‘Well, I am inclined to agree with St John Chrysostom. It was a condescension to man. The miracle wasn’t the sudden explosion of Light from Jesus. The real marvel was that he managed, throughout his life, to suppress his divinity and allow it to be shown only for a moment on the mountain. Yes?’
‘Simon Malahyde, first year theology. If that’s true, Professor, then may I advance a playful sociological argument? Let’s turn the Transfiguration story on its head. Use it as a metaphor for man’s own nature.’
There was a soothing quality in the modulations of the speaker’s voice that was also somehow mocking. The camera stayed fixed on the aged academic.
‘What do you mean?’ he said, arranging his notes.
‘I’m talking about man’s transfiguration, the unveiling of his true self.’ A few heads turned towards the unseen speaker. ‘Just as Jesus suppressed his godliness when he walked the earth, I suggest that society is the lowlands where man suppresses what he is. But sometimes man will trek into the mountain and reveal his pure, primal urges.’
‘I’m a theologian, not a sociologist,’ the professor flustered. ‘But there’s certainly no suggestion, in the interpretation of the Fathers, that …’
‘It’s not a serious theological point. But we all have moments when lust, brutality, self-interest master us. When we feel freed from the constructs of artificial morality. It is these everyday anti-transfiguration stories that interest me.’
‘To suggest petty human evil is in some form the antithesis, or dark equivalent, of Christ’s revelation of his Goodness …’
‘But cumulatively it is equivalent. The odd sheep will sometimes break off from the flock and become the wolf. The mild-mannered secretary who listens to her boss’s complaints, day in day out, until, one morning, she snaps and thrusts a letter opener into his face. The schoolteacher who resists for decades until the day he finds himself alone in the storeroom with little Johnny. The learned academic who, five years ago, left a young cyclist to bleed to death after a hit and run …’
The professor grasped the lectern. Colour drained from his face, leaving it the sickly white of cottage cheese.
‘We all have our dark transfiguration,’ Simon continued. ‘You know what I mean, Professor, when we see our morals die in the rear-view mirror.’
The old man, trying not to stare at the speaker, stuffed his notes into a folder.
The camera turned.
A tall, well-built man stood at the centre of an embarrassed group. Sunlight glanced through the lancet windows behind him and dazzled the camera. Then the lens re-focused. Simon Malahyde was dressed in black, his dark hair hanging down to his shoulders. His body remained very still while he spread out his hands before him, making a sweep of the entire room. There was something hypnotic in the gesture, and it was only when he turned to stare into the camera that Dawn focused upon his face …
A chill ran the length of her body. Her hand cupped her mouth.
Don’t be stupid, she told herself, there’re a hundred explanations for what you’re seeing. Of course he has a face …
The figures in the background paintings could be made out, as could the expressions of the students sitting around Simon Malahyde. His body, the folds of his long coat and his powerful white hands were caught in every detail. It was only his face that remained indefinite. Whether she skipped ahead or paused the tape, the image was always indistinct: a blur of flesh-coloured pixels. There was the hint of features, but only in what appeared to be a flurry of motion trails. It was like a picture of a fast moving animal that the camera shutter had been too slow to capture.
‘What on earth is it?’ she asked, as Jack re-entered.
‘Technical problem, like I said.’
He slipped past her and pressed the eject button.
‘I don’t know much about video footage, but I’ve never seen interference localised like that before.’
Jack seemed preoccupied as he moved around the room, drawing back the blind and sorting papers on his desk.
‘Jack, we need to talk …’
‘I’ve contacted the Brookemoor police; they’re allowing us access to the Home.’
‘So, do you think there’s a connection between the disappearances?’ she asked.
They were driving towards the Lincolnshire town of Brookemoor-upon-Fen. She was at the wheel, while he went through an early report into the disappearance of Father Asher Brody. When he didn’t answer, she said:
‘On the face of it, there doesn’t appear to be a connection. Brody left Crow Haven in ’95, when Simon was ten years old. Father Garret told us Simon was never brought to church, and it’s unlikely they had any contact after Brody retired. But doesn’t it beggar belief that, the week Simon disappears, a priest who might’ve known him as a child vanishes as well? Maybe we should talk to Garret again.’
‘Can you pull over?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Pull over.’
‘Jack? What’s the matter?’
The blood that gushed from his nose was striking against his chalky skin. She pulled the car to a stop on the hard shoulder. He jumped out. Blood sprayed over his shirt and across the passenger window and bonnet.
‘Jack, what is it?’
‘S’nothin’,’ he said, nasally. ‘There’s a toilet up there. I’ll get cleaned up.’
He stalked off towards a concrete block of lavatories. She remembered how he had looked whilst at the Malahyde house the day before yesterday. Perhaps he was ill. She gripped the steering wheel: perhaps that was why he had finished with her.
It was cold outside, but the car felt stuffy. She opened the window and was refreshed by the slipstream of a passing lorry. A dull buzz droned from Jack’s jacket on the back seat. She looked towards the toilets but there was no sign of him. As she lifted the jacket a piece of paper fell from its inside pocket. She retrieved it, and was about to answer his phone, when she noticed the initials in one corner of the paper: JH. It was the cartoon Jamie had given him.
She jumped as Jack opened the door. His face was clean but the blood was drying in brown blemishes on his collar. She
unfolded the drawing and held it out to him.
‘Do you know what a psychological fugue is?’ she asked.
He slipped into his seat, passed a hand over his face and took the cartoon from her.
‘It’s a sort of trance,’ she continued. ‘Something horrible happens to you, so your mind flees from it. My mind was in a fugue until recently. When you said … When you lied and told me that you didn’t want to be a father to some other man’s bastard … I was so disgusted I couldn’t see beyond my anger. But I’ve been doing some thinking. You wanted me to hate you, didn’t you?’
‘I wasn’t lying.’
It was a half-hearted attempt. She could hear the defeat in his voice.
‘Don’t bullshit me, Jack. That first night, when we played happy family, you could have let me send Jamie to bed. You didn’t act like a man who sees kids as a burden. And if you hated him, why did you get so involved? In his hobbies? His football? Just to get in my knickers? Then why didn’t you claim your prize? And then there’s this concern for J. You’re worried how the break-up affected him, aren’t you? I can’t believe I didn’t see it all straight away. But the lie was too painful to examine. And it was a lie, don’t deny it. That’s why you had to tell me over the phone. That’s why you can’t look at me now. You’re a pathetic liar.’
‘Dawn. Listen …’
‘I’m not even sure I want to know. The fact you used Jamie as an excuse … It sickens me. But these lies, they’re damaging our work. So what do we do?’
Cars zipped past, rocking the body of the Range Rover. Tiny white silhouettes of wind turbines spun in the valley below, like toy windmills.
‘I lied,’ he said, staring at the drawing, ‘because I didn’t want to hurt anybody.’
‘Worked like a fucking charm, five gold stars, you dickhead … For Christ’s sake, just tell me why you really said those things.’
‘I can’t. I don’t expect you to understand. But I can’t tell you the truth.’
‘Jack, I’m sorry for whatever pain you’re going through, but you need to face up to some things. You hurt me. You’ve hurt Jamie. That’s something I never thought I’d be able to forgive. Maybe I still won’t. But you have to tell me what’s going on.’
‘If I tell you everything, would you believe it? Sometimes even I don’t believe it. And it’s dangerous for you to know. Tomorrow morning, I’m putting in for a transfer. When it’s over, when the case is finished, you won’t have to see me again.’
She shivered, but maintained the defiance in her voice.
‘What could be dangerous about us being together? Do you have a maniac ex-wife or something?’
‘It’s just dangerous. Take it on trust. A friendly warning then,’ he said, responding to her derisive laugh. ‘I care for you, and for Jamie. I wanted you safe, and the best way to make sure of that was for you to hate me. So that you’d stay away.’
Jack refolded the cartoon and gave it back to her.
‘Makes no sense,’ Dawn said.
‘I hope it never makes sense. It’s for your own good.’
‘Don’t be so fucking patronising. I can figure out what’s best for me, but I can’t make decisions like that based on nothing.’
‘Fine. I’ll make the decision for you. I will be bad for you. Bad for your son …’
‘Bullshit, I don’t get a say?’
‘No.’
‘This is something to do with your mother, isn’t it? Just a guess,’ she said, seeing his surprise. ‘Intuition, maybe. When you spoke about her, there was something … What happened to her?’
‘I’ll be gone soon. No more questions. Please.’
‘This is insane. You’re insane. If you make this decision now, I can’t ever have you back, you know that? I couldn’t base anything on that kind of uncertainty. It wouldn’t be fair on Jamie. Or on me.’
He said nothing. She started the car. They drove in silence.
Fourteen
Anne Malahyde kept her vigil by the door to the sealed room, as she had every day since Peter’s death. There was no reason to now, but it was a habit of seventeen years and such things aren’t easily given up. Beyond the door was the huge room in which he had died. She pictured the bed frame and drip-feed stand, laced with spider webs, illuminated by chinks of light straining through fissures in the bricked-up windows. Often, down the years, she had imagined his voice calling again from beyond the door:
Ahh-nnne. Plleeeasch. Aych need hurr.. Ahhnniiee. Pleeeasch …
Those pleas came night after night during the last months of his life. Cries that chipped away at the soft corners of her soul, leaving it sharp and brittle.
She prayed for the doctors to take Peter away, but his wealth had allowed him to indulge a selfish caprice. Instead of rotting in some state of the art hospital, he had decided to wither away at home. A private doctor and four nurses were hired. The latest equipment was borrowed at staggering cost and, through his connections, Peter obtained the newest experimental drugs, some of which had not been licensed. But not everything had gone his way. By the time that his nose had been eaten back to its skull snub, she’d had him moved from the main house and was refusing to share his agony.
She had been heavily pregnant with Simon during those long last months. Often she would have nightmares in which the shrieks of the dying man would pierce the amniotic sac. That the unfinished child would burst from her, slick with blood and mucus, and demand that they visit its father. The man without a face, whose screams echoed from inside the bricked-up room. But the child had moved very little inside her.
From the doctor’s reports, she knew the full horror of Peter’s death. Despite the precaution of the sealed windows, the light had stripped the skin from his body. His eyes had putrefied, shrinking in their sockets. His nose, lips and tongue, eaten away with deliberate industry. Unable to bear his ugliness, she had left him to face his miserable death alone.
Since Simon’s revelation to her a week ago, she understood what the guilt of that abandonment had done. It had narrowed her world, focused it entirely on asking for forgiveness. That focus had been so unbending that she had been blind to what had happened to her son. She had not realised that, when he was just a child, Simon had been taken away. Had that been the priest’s message to her all those years ago? That her child was a changeling? That, at ten years old, he had been impregnated by things that were dead?
Grief and shame had blinded her. And now grief and shame for Simon’s fate drove her out of the house. Drove her to seek penance.
She had lived behind glass for half her life. When she had not been watching the door, she watched the forest. Remotely, she observed its cycles: the budding and falling leaves, the flourish and fade of the foxglove and bluebell, the span of the December moth from chrysalis to membrane and husk. With glass and brick between them, the wood had been a familiar friend, but now it seemed alien and threatening. Always whispering; always moving.
She reached the gate. The weeping figures looked down. They frightened her just as much now as the first time she had seen them. Peter had chided her – ‘silly scaredy-cat’ – but the story he told, in the early days of his illness, of the gate, and of the man who built it, had only added to her unease.
‘I don’t see ghosts,’ she said aloud, her voice terrifying her.
She walked out of the tree-tunnelled drive. Before reaching the village, Anne took the headscarf from her coat pocket and put it on. That raw wound on her scalp, inflicted six days ago, might raise awkward questions if it was seen.
A line of pensioners, queuing out of the Post Office, watched her pass, regarding her as if she were a spirit that had no business appearing in the weak autumn daylight. Geraldine Pryce, headmistress of the primary school, called out a startled greeting, but Anne did not respond. Before she knew where she was, she found herself standing before the door of the Old Priory.
‘I told you to stay at home. What are you doing here?’
‘Why won’t you
answer your phone? I’ve been calling for two days.’
Father Garret poured a stingy measure of scotch and passed it to Anne Malahyde. When he had opened the door, she had been on the verge of hysteria, babbling about needing to get inside; that she felt the sky pressing down. To his knowledge, she had not left the house since Peter Malahyde’s death. He supposed that quitting it suddenly had shaken her. She was as jittery as a dog full of fleas. Even if you discounted the fact that she’d been alone in that house all those years, he supposed that her madness was understandable. Six nights ago, her ‘son’ had flipped reality on its side and shown her its paper-thin edge.
‘I’ve been … busy,’ Garret answered.
Busy … Oh, yes. Very busy. On Friday, I murdered Oliver Godfrey. I was to have murdered Asher Brody too, but he eluded us. Tonight I must keep my appointment with young Mr Lloyd. But he will be the last. Then the promise will be kept. Must be kept.
‘You said you’d help me,’ Anne said.
‘And I have helped you. I took care of everything. Nobody’ll ever know what you did.’
‘But I want them to know. I have to tell them everything. The police. Can’t you understand? I need to do penance.’
‘You need to keep calm, Mrs Malahyde. You must stay at home and behave exactly as we discussed …’
‘No. I need punishment. For abandoning Simon, for not seeing; for letting them take him. I should suffer.’
‘You have suffered, my dear. Suffered dreadfully. I don’t like to see suffering. As far as the murder is concerned, your conscience should not be troubled. Remember what I said on Monday night? You didn’t kill Simon. You killed an abomination. Simon has been dead for seven long years.’
‘I know all that. I know it wasn’t Simon. But I did kill him, by neglect, all those years ago. I didn’t see what happened to him. Didn’t protect him. Please,’ she snatched at Garret’s arm. ‘Please. How do I do penance for that?’