Andrew watched as the smoke rolled up... and stopped. How it condensed into itself and hung in the air above the altar. How it rolled into itself in a delicate swirling ball, until the heat from below died and it dissipated. How it drifted down, back towards the altar, gently flowed over it and disappeared on the stone flags of the floor. He was too astonished to pray.
Altar tested positive for supernatural interference.
She tested several locations. Both altar and tabernacle tested positive. The confessional and the choir did not. The strongest reading was from the Sacristy, as she’d expected.
It was well past dawn by the time she’d finished and cleared up. Andy had stayed and watched. They walked back over in the companionable silence that had slowly been restored to them through the night’s endeavours. Whilst he made them both some breakfast, Maryam typed up an initial report and emailed it through to Rome. She requested permission to continue her investigation by interviewing Wyn Jones, outlining some of her concerns and in particular, her suspicion about his uncommon silence with the police.
The day had a lot of chaos in it and they were both drained. Andrew took the couch in the parlour and Maryam got two hours sleep lying on the bed in her room. First, the doorbell started ringing, and then the phone never stopped. The house began to fill up. The police leaving the scene had allowed the women of the parish in to take charge of the cleaning and cooking, and setting everything to rights. Two new priests arrived, settled in upstairs and then began to prepare rotas for an all night prayer vigil in the Church. The cleaning company finished the crime scene clear up and a veritable mob descended on the church to clean and set up for the ceremony. Maryam watched a local woman arrange a spray of pink tea roses with white baby’s breath on the side altar dedicated to Mary. On the other side, dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, she set in place a vase of crimson carnations. She confirmed that those were the flowers that were always placed there. Sometimes the tea roses were white, sometimes yellow: they were always tea roses.
‘Father Edwards, he says the Lady likes tea roses and he often smells them here. So we always try and make sure there are some fresh ones in. The florist donates them when she can. Tell me, do you know if the Fathers are well?’
When the email arrived from Rome granting her full permission to proceed with an occult inquiry, she checked with Atkins where Wyn Jones was. As she’d thought, he was back at the police station. Fred assured her that they’d send someone to pick her up and bring her over to Westminster as soon as Wyn returned. Would she like to move into a room there now? She almost said yes, then thought better of it and said she’d stay here but would it be all right if she came over for dinner that evening? She and Wyn could eat and talk then. Fred agreed and Maryam took her weary body back upstairs and slept through the chaos of the various women of the parish finally having free rein to clear out decades of Father Edwards’s smoking. They were stripping the covers off the furniture as she went past the parlour. The sight both made her smile and her heart ache: what if the old priest could never bear to return?
The four of them ate together, Fred, Maryam, Andy and Wyn Jones. The Westminster housekeepers had laid out a set of cold cuts with salads, there was warm soup in an electric tureen; breads and cheeses. Wyn had arrived back from the police station very late and was drained, as were they all. Fred had opened an excellent bottle of wine, then another, and then had brought in some port. Wyn had eaten little and drunk less. The case against him was building momentum. Everyone in the room understood that if he was called back to the police station again in the morning, he would be unlikely to return. As soon as he was formally charged, his life, his ministry, his priesthood, was gone. The press would descend and devour him whole. Fred, who had been informed of Maryam’s assessment by his own Cardinal, was on edge. He tried everything he could to deflect Maryam, defer her interviewing Wyn. Maryam put up with this until the eating was over and she felt she had enough of a measure of Wyn to proceed on her own, and quietly dismissed both Fred and Andy. This she would need to do on her own.
Wyn Jones watched the tiny woman with the grey eyes and silver hair send Bishop Atkins out of the room with a nod of her head. His heart let loose a little of the pain it was carrying. He was not sure who he’d been expecting, but he had trusted in His Lord to send him someone to help. He had not expected a fiery angel or a burning bush, but he’d been praying for some sign that he was going to get out of the hole he was now in. Looking at the calm and demure face of the woman in front of him, he prayed that good things really did come in small packages.
Maryam went straight into it, knowing that with her, unlike with the police, Wyn had no choice but to answer when he could. It was when he could not answer she was interested in, but bided her time.
‘Start from the beginning, Wyn, from when these events started. What you now realise was the beginning.’ After days of being pummelled by words, Wyn started stiffly, reciting by rote. However as she left him to it, only asking him the occasional gentle question, above all showing him her respect for him and his work, he relaxed into discussing it openly. The story was not new to her, but it was new to the man sitting in front of her and his pain, his shame and anger, was displayed clearly as he took her through the events that had led up to the murder.
‘Jason Briggs was an enforcer for a gang, the Rye Runners; enforcer, part-time leader. Depended on who was in prison at the time. He had no contact with the Church at first, but his younger brother, Brad, was in the youth group for a while. Their aunt, whom Brad lives with, isn’t home much and the boy fends for himself with Jason’s help. Brad came in one evening with another boy and stayed. He was good at singing, joined the choir, and wanted to join the football club as soon as we got it running. After a few weeks he started coming to services.’
‘And Jason objected?’
‘Not at first. At first a lot of the gang members came in and out of the youth group and the Church. But after a while, when there was nothing for them...’
‘Nothing for them to steal, or take, or to have for their own...?’
‘Yes, exactly.’ Wyn looked at her, surprised.
‘I’ve been around for a few years, Wyn. I’ve seen this situation once or twice. New priest, new activity, poor parish: everyone always checks it out to see what they can have. A few stay on, take what we offer and, in turn, start to give back: but not all.’
‘No, not all.’ In his voice was his youth and disappointment, a suggestion of bitterness. ‘Not all.’
‘Was Jason one of the ‘not all’?’
‘Yes. I’d thought... I’d thought we were getting somewhere and then... then it started to go wrong.’ Wyn had paled, his throat had caught, his fist had clenched.
‘Tell me about it.’
Initially the youth club had a slow start. Months had gone by with only a couple of boy and girls, usually grandchildren of parishioners, attending. Over the months it had begun to build, then to flourish. The choir had blossomed, bringing in many who had no contact with any Church, any faith. Older boys such as Jason had started to come in. Wyn had thought it was a sign they were reaching into the community, that there was some hope of breaking the gang cycle.
‘But it wasn’t what was going on. I didn’t notice it at first, then it became obvious. They weren’t breaking away from the gangs, they were recruiting into them. Using the youth club, the choir to gain access to kids that were usually out of their reach. The kids whose parents took them into the school yard and then picked them back up from there. The kids whose parents knew where they were, twenty-four seven. Those kids were allowed into the Church activities anytime they wanted to attend.’
‘So the gangs came recruiting for them, here, in your groups, in the choir?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was as tired as Father Edwards had looked.
‘What did you do?’
‘Discussed it with everyone, with the local community leaders, the police, with my Bishop, had a long think and prayed...
and then closed out those we felt were only there to recruit.’
The pain he was feeling was self-evident. The sense that he’d failed, that he’d somehow let down those who had come to him for help. A sharp life lesson had been dealt to Wyn Jones and he’d not enjoyed it. A bitter taste had been left, a defeat that had yet to be accepted and moved past.
‘Is that when the graffiti started?’
‘Yes. It all started then. I’d banned Jason and a few others, told them they were no longer welcome. I’d expected him to stop Brad from coming, but instead, Brad started to bring in more and more kids his own age or younger, ten year olds, eleven, twelve.’
‘Already gang members?’
‘Yes, some of the areas have their own self running mini gangs. The leaders are eleven, twelve, maybe thirteen at most. The gang itself can have seven year olds in it!’
Maryam, who had seen machine guns in the hands of ten year olds, machine guns and machetes with scalp and hair still stuck to the blade, and the ten year olds who wielded them stood silent with dead eyes... listened. You could only bear witness to some pains. Nothing you could say, or do, could make it more bearable, make it better. Sometimes listening allowed it out. In her silence, he found his voice.
‘I’ve been in gangs, Miss Michael. I ran with one back in Cardiff. It used to be called Tiger Bay, where I grew up. It wasn’t the sweetest area. There were always kids running wild, even the ones with loving Mums like mine.’ His voice lost its cultured tones, his accent more pronounced as he continued. ‘Mam took me off the streets when she lost me, when I lost myself. She sent me up valley, to my aunts. Her aunts really, my great aunts, they put me back on the straight. They let me find myself again. I thought I understood. I thought I knew where these children were coming from, what their lives were...’ His voice trailed off in despair. The tears in his eyes were not pity or sadness: they were rage.
‘I HAD NO IDEA!’ His open palm slapped down hard on the table, the bruising on his knuckles was clear to see. He needed to move, jump, to dissipate the energy in him. He stood up and kicked the chair away from him.
‘How could I have been so STUPID? So naive? How could I have done this?’
Maryam waited for him to recover, which he did, picking up the chair and setting it back to rights.
‘When I realised what they were doing, who they were targeting in the groups, I was so angry. I didn’t just ban them, I threw them out! When they argued back, I lost it. Like the money lenders in the Temple, I physically threw them over the threshold. I told Jason Briggs if he came near the Church again I’d make sure he couldn’t walk away. I’d break his legs.’
His face was ashen, tears flowing out of his eyes, his voice knotted in self-loathing.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Shortly after I’d called in the local police to help me make sense of it all. I hadn’t understood... understood what they were doing. That it wasn’t the young boys they were after. That’s why they got away with it at first and got their claws into some of them. I was blind.’
‘What were they after?’
‘The girls. They were after the girls. Courting them, buying them gifts, making them feel special. Recruiting them.’
‘For what?’
‘The gangs. They seek out girls and get them to join. But the girls aren’t treated the same way as the boys. The girls are... owned.’
‘Owned? You mean they prostitute them?’
‘Not in that sense. They don’t sell them out. But they possess them, keep them, use them. When the kids in the group started to get into trouble at home, started to skip school, go wild... I hadn’t understood what was happening, what terrible things were being done to the girls. I hadn’t known.’
‘Known what, Father Jones?’
‘That the girls were a commodity, Miss Michael. That a girl joining gangs such as the RRs, becomes... a prize. They are raped by the leader of the gang or one of the lieutenants. When they’ve had their fill of them, they are passed on down through the ranks. Sometimes the entire gang will rape them. The girls are only allowed to stay in the gangs if they accept this, accept anything being done to them. And once a girl is truly owned by a gang...’ Wyn’s voice again broke in anger and self revulsion ‘They recruit other girls in. Before I’d realised it, half a dozen of the girls coming to my group, good Catholic girls with families that adored them, protected them... they started running wild. Ignoring their parents, skipping school, running in the streets at night. But they kept coming to the group, to the choir. Their parents would come to me, begging me to help with them. I counselled them, reassured them. ‘They are still coming to the House of the Lord,’ I said. ‘They are still singing in the choir. We will reach them.’ And all the time they were there....’
‘To recruit more girls?’
‘YES!’ Wyn’s fist drove down on the table once more. ‘I found out that girls from my group were prized by the Runners. The Runners actively sought them out...’
‘Because they were virgins?’
Wyn looked shocked that Maryam had spoken such a thing, knew of such a thing. She placed her hand very gently on his fist, still held fast on the table.
‘The world has always had bad places and people in it, Father Jones. Nothing you could say would shock me or be new to me.’
Wyn pulled his hand free, stood up and turned away, pacing the room before facing a wall. His shoulders were crumpled, his heart heavy. She was sure he was praying. His breathing came under control, his shoulders straightened. Pride returned to his body, replacing the shame and rage. He returned to the table, seated himself, and allowed her to continue.
‘And this is why you threw Jason Briggs out?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s when the graffiti started, the desecrations?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it was stamped out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why were you and Jason Briggs fighting on the steps of the Church just four nights ago?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
They were at the nub of it, the rub of it. The place she had not been able to approach until Rome had given her permission. The place, if her suspicions were correct, she could never progress from or break into.
‘If I called Bishop Atkins in, could he tell me?’
‘No...’ His head dropped down, tears flooding onto his chest. ‘He could not.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘Because what had been happening between Jason Briggs and myself was happening under the Seal of the Confessional.’
Wyn Jones had cried. He had sobbed until his broken heart had rid itself of much of the poison that had been poured into it in the previous months. Maryam had sat and born witness. When his eyes had run dry, he’d risen, thanked her for trying to save him, and left her. Atkins returned within seconds, Andy Scott by his side.
Maryam didn’t hesitate in going straight to the point:
‘Why hasn’t he told the police?’
Fred sat down and poured himself another port. ‘I advised him not to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because once he tells them that Jason Briggs has told him secrets in the confessional, nothing will stop them in their pursuit of what they were. I’m trying to buy him time.’
‘How?’
‘About six weeks ago, Jason Briggs suddenly appeared in the confessional box one day and announced to Father Jones that he was a Catholic, and that he wished to confess.’
‘The police said that he had no religion.’
‘I know. Wyn didn’t believe him and advised him to discuss things with another priest or to seek support from the Archdiocese.’
‘What happened?’
‘Jason turned up back in the confessional and showed Wyn a confirmation certificate.’
‘Oh, my. How could that be?’
‘Jason’s father is Nigerian. He came and went in Jason’s life, turning up every now and then, spending time with him. Whe
n Jason was seven years old, his father visited and took the boy away for the summer, home to meet his family. During that time he was seemingly both baptised and confirmed. When he returned, his mother had finally lost parental rights of three-year-old Brad, her drug use and prostitution had taken over her life. His father could have gained custody of Jason, but he would have had to stay and deal with Social Services. His father abandoned him. Jason was also taken into care, in a different home from Brad. Jason never left it. Brad was taken in by his mother’s sister two years ago. She’d been out of the country and returned to find that not only had her sister died of a drug overdose, but that she had two nephews. Jason was fifteen and completely feral. The police had stopped trying to force him back to the care home. He lived by, and for, the gang. His aunt never had anything to do with him. It was she that sent Brad to the Church youth group, unaware that Jason was actually Catholic. She just wanted Brad off the streets.’
‘And you are sure that he was Catholic?’
‘No, that’s why we’ve been stalling. The certificates Jason showed Wyn were the right place and the right time but in a different name. They were also very clean and well kept, which didn’t speak of a seven year old child saving them all those years. Jason stated it was his family name in Nigeria and that his father had him given a Nigerian identity. It was his father’s surname. He’d claimed he’d written to his father’s family and had the certificates sent to him’
‘A tad unlikely.’
‘Precisely. We are actively pursuing it. We have a full investigation within the church, trying to track down the Bishop who undertook the confirmation. The certificate is real, we are pretty sure it doesn’t relate in any way to Jason.’
‘But you aren’t certain?’
‘No. And, until we are...’
‘Wyn is trapped in the confessional with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodness, what a mess.’ Maryam poured herself a large port and studied the colours in the depths of the wine.
‘How did he conduct himself in the confessional, Jason Briggs? Did he know what to do?’
Fragments Page 11