by Rachel Green
“You and your sight,” said Winston, laughing. “I swear, you predict death for everyone. You should have a stall on the market.”
“Don’t be facetious.” Julie stood and backed away. “Go and greet your lady, Winston. Treat her right.”
“I always do.” Winston laughed and slapped her bottom as she turned to leave.
“Watch it!” Julie swivelled to hold a finger up at him. “You’re not too old to spank.”
Winston’s grin grew broader. “Is that an offer?”
“Not in your wildest dream,” said Julie.
“I have some pretty wild ones already.” Winston laughed and rose, his eyes already fixed upon the girl from the betting office.
Chapter Eight
Reverend Mackenzie looked at his watch and sighed. How long did it take for the emergency boarding company to arrive? It had been almost three hours now. It was possible, he thought, they’d had a bigger emergency to deal with that had taken all of their resources. A gas explosion at the local council building had blown out all the windows, for example. Or a break-in at the local burger restaurant, where all the food had to be eaten before it went cold.
He examined the back door. The police had broken the lock off but there was no other damage. It was lucky it was an old door, he supposed. One of the modern doors with bolts that came out of the sides would have taken the whole frame out. As it was all he had to do was bodge up the holes with something and put the screws back in.
It was dark by the time the knock came on the front door. The police officer standing guard had long gone and when Purvis answered, easily done since the door swung open by itself, he was confronted by an amiable man with a peaked cap and a walrus moustache.
“All right Guv?” he said, consulting a clipboard. “Two doors an’ a window?”
“Just this door actually.” Purvis tapped on the frame. “I’ve fixed the back door and there was nothing wrong with the window.”
The man looked up, his smile fading. “You’ll have to let me be the judge of that, sir.” He noticed the dog collar and the state of Purvis’ hands. “Sorry, Father. They didn’t mention you’d been attacked.”
“What?” Purvis followed the man’s glance to his hands, stiff with Superglue and sporting several attached matchsticks at odd angles. “Oh this? No. I had a bit of an accident while I was mending the back door. Do come in. May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”
“That’s kind of you Father.” The man pulled out a tape measure and checked the size of the front door. “This is standard,” he said. “It won’t take a jiffy.”
“Milk and sugar?” Purvis raised his voice as he headed into the kitchen.
“Milk and two.” It went quiet as he went back to the van, returning with a piece of plywood big enough to slot into the frame and an electric screwdriver. “I’ll be with you in a jiffy,” he said. The noise of the tool was drowned by the noise of the kettle boiling and Purvis wondered if he’d ever use his front door again. It might be better to just paint over the board in-situ and call it a day. He hadn’t come into the house that way in years.
“That’s the front done.” The man with the moustache appeared at the back door and walked straight in. “Is that my tea? Ta.” He took a sip as he inspected the repair job. “It should hold,” he said, “but you can never tell until the moment you put the screws in.”
“I’ll do it now, while you drink your tea” said Purvis, “in case it doesn’t hold. Then you can board it up anyway if it’s no good.”
“If you say so, Father, though I am on the clock here.”
“It’s Reverend, actually. I’m C of E, not Catholic.” Purvis struggled with the screws in the lock receiver. “You couldn’t just whack these screws in for me, could you?” He nodded to the huge, battery driven screwdriver hanging from the workman’s belt.
“Not if my life depended on it.” He took another sip of his tea. “I put those screws in and you get broken into again I’m liable, aren’t I? There’s no way I’m letting you claim against my insurance for the sake of a quick screw.”
“I see.” Purvis spared him a glance. “Well you carry on watching me struggle and I’ll be done in a jiffy.”
“Right-o Father. Reverend, sorry. What about the window?”
“The window?”
He referred to his clipboard again. “Says here that I’m supposed to board that up an’ all.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the window,” said Purvis. “You’ve always been able to fiddle it open with a screwdriver.”
“You had to tell me, didn’t you? Now if you get broken into again you’ll say ‘I told John Noakes how to fiddle the window catch’ and they’ll be round my gaf quicker than you can say ‘Rozzers’.”
“I won’t, honestly.” Purvis jammed a teaspoon under the window catch. “There. Look, it can’t be opened from the outside now. I promise I’ll call a locksmith tomorrow and have it sorted out.”
“I’ll have to trust you, what with you bein’ a vicar.” He gestured to the door with his half-empty mug. “You going to try that then?”
“The door? Yes, of course.” It clicked closed under Purvis’ gentle pressure and the screws held against his tugging. “Is it too much to ask if you can give it a shove from outside?”
“Yes Reverend.” He took another swig of tea as he put the mug in the sink, then picked up his clipboard and made a couple of adjustments to the work sheet. “If you could just sign here,” he said.
“What am I signing?” Purvis scrawled his signature where indicated.
“Just to show that I carried out the work detailed and that you declined to have the rear of the property boarded up.”
“Fair enough.” Purvis stood back and opened the door. “If you could just give it a shove then.”
“Not on your nelly.” The man plucked his pen from the Reverend’s fingers. “I’m off, mate.”
“I thought you said you would.”
“No mate. You asked me if it was too much to ask, to which I replied, yes it was.” He made a pretence of lifting his cap. “Good evening to you.”
Reverend Mackenzie watched him go, his fingers tapping against the brass fittings of the newly repaired lock. It’d hold, wouldn’t it? At least until he could get a locksmith out tomorrow.
* * * *
Valerie ran her fingers along the wall, feeling the irregularities of the brickwork despite the regulation layer of emulsion every year for the past twenty. The door frame was set directly into the stone; a skim of concrete testifying to the recent addition since it was unpainted and would remain so until the following summer. She debated blocking the camera. They’d taken everything from her: belt, bootlaces, rosary…but there was always something to smear a camera lens with, be it nasal mucus, blood or excrement. She unfolded onto the bunk, lacing her fingers behind her head to give herself a slight barrier against the dubious cleanliness of the pillow. The police didn’t even have a good reason to arrest her, so it would be twice as embarrassing when they discovered she was a nun.
They’d fingerprinted her as a matter of course, the ink pads stained from years of being topped up by budget-conscious stores clerks and leaving the sheen of indelible ink watered down with spirits over her fingers. She’d already tried to clean them using the single-tapped sink and one-inch cake of rendered soap, but it was too ingrained to be shifted without an alcohol wipe or sugar soap. She wasn’t worried: there was nowhere she could recall that her fingerprints could be found, save at the convent and the home of the Reverend Mackenzie. Everywhere else, until she’d been ejected this morning, she had worn the latex gloves with the alternative finger prints.
They certainly wouldn’t be able to connect her to the thirty-two redemptions she’d undertaken in the past five years.
At least they hadn’t stripped her.
Content to remove anything she could use to hang herself, they had left her with the rest of her clothes, though they had put the bag containing the scalpel and jeweller’s tools in a locked box in the care of the desk sergeant.
She stared at the ceiling of the eight by four room, amazed that cells used for criminals were so much larger and more comfortable than those she was used to in the convent. It was ironic, really. If you were nearer to God the sparser your living conditions, then Hell must be a pit of luxury.
A shutter in the door slammed open. And a bearded face peered in. “Quarter?” it said. “Looks like you’ve been sprung already.” There was the sound of a key turning and the door was pulled open. “Out you come, lass.”
Valerie stood up, smoothing the folds from her clothes as she followed him past the rest of the cells to the front of the station. At least one of the others was occupied, as the resident banged on the door, shouting obscenities as they went past.
He led her back to the public area where she saw the Reverend Mackenzie waiting, slouched in a seventies style vinyl-covered chair. He straightened up when he saw her, but didn’t stand until she’d signed the paperwork and retrieved her belongings from the desk sergeant. Only when she was released past the final gate did he stand politely to receive her.
“Miss Quarter,” he said, holding out his hand. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”
“Yours was the only place I could think of to go,” she said, checking through her belongings and signing to say she’d had them returned. “Thank you for coming to bail me out.”
“It was no trouble.” Purvis’ smile faltered as he caught the desk sergeant’s eye. “I wish I’d been at the house when you arrived. It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble.”
“I’m sorry I broke in.” Valerie stowed her belongings into her pockets and began to thread laces back into her shoes. “I didn’t cause any damage. The police might have done a bit, though. Someone must have seen me climbing through the window and called the police.”
“I suppose so.” He stared at the sergeant, saying a silent prayer he wouldn’t offer the information.
Valerie stood up. “I wish I knew who,” she said. “I could forgive them.”
Purvis bit back his confession when he saw the look in her eyes. This looked to be a forgiveness he didn’t really want to be on the receiving end of.
“At least they brought me to you,” he said. “God moves in mysterious ways.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Especially when I put you down as my next of kin and asked for you.”
“I see. Not entirely serendipitous then.” He opened the outside door onto the Laverstone streets, waving goodbye to the sergeant as Valerie stepped out. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve left the convent,” she said. “My path and theirs have diverged, though I still follow the path of the righteous, naturally.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. They began to walk away from the police station and Purvis pointed toward a café that was still open. “Shall we take tea?”
“Thank you, yes. I’ve no money, though. They didn’t leave me with much.”
“Poverty is a virtue, they say.” He smiled and led her across the street. “Though in the real world, the lack of it seems to lead one away from God, rather than toward Him. How can I help?”
“I don’t know, Reverend. I remembered how friendly you were last year when I was researching the town, and hadn’t really got much further than that. Do you need a housekeeper?”
“I’m afraid the diocese wouldn’t stretch to one,” he said, “much as the house could do with it. The church too, though Mrs. Peabody does her best with her hip.” They reached the café and he pushed open the door, standing to one side so she could squeeze past.
“It was worth asking.” Valerie sat at the first free table. “If you think of anywhere that would employ an ex-nun, I’d be grateful.”
“I shall put my thinking cap on,” he said. “Tea?”
“Darjeeling please.”
“Right.” Purvis went to the counter, returning several minutes later with two large cardboard cups and two stirene boxes. “You must be famished,” he said. “I know I am.”
“The police fed me,” she said, opening the container anyway. “I’ve always heard jokes about prison food but it was far better than we had at the convent.” She bit into her burger. “They say that every one of these costs the earth an acre of tropical forest.”
“And worth every tree.” Purvis wiped sauce from his chin with the cheese-encrusted napkin. “About that job you were looking for,” he said.
“Yes?”
“They’re hiring staff here.”
Chapter Nine
Winston stood as Pennie approached, holding out his hand to guide her to the seat he’d saved. She smiled and sat, pleased he looked better in a suit than he did in an oily jumper.
“You came,” said Winston, relieved he’d taken the trouble to find a chair that wasn’t sticky with beer and old gum. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
She took the drink he pushed toward her, looked at it and put it down again. “You only live once,” she said. “I thought I might as well.”
The momentary cloud that crossed Winston’s face at the mention of living once, faded as he forced out a smile. The music increased in volume. “Tell me all about yourself,” he said.
“What?” Pennie cupped a hand to her ear.
“Tell me.” Winston waved his hands as if he were drawing out her soul. “About you.”
“Me? There’s nothing to tell.” Pennie shuffled her chair forward and he leaned in, gazing at the rings on the table so his ear was closer to her mouth.
“I was born in Blissford,” she began, naming a town about twelve miles away, “and grew up there. My parents were pretty well off and sent me to Saint Leonards.”
“Boarding school?” Winston was surprised. “What parent sends a child off to boarding school?”
“Ones that want their children to get on in the world,” said Pennie. “Boarding school gives one a healthy start on the rungs of the ladder. I went up to Cambridge from there and took a degree in economics.”
“I took a degree too,” said Winston, “only I got caught and they made me give it back.”
“Very droll.” Pennie flashed him a terse smile. “I do admire a man who makes jokes at my expense.”
“That’s good,” said Winston, missing the sarcasm. “Do you want another drink?” He shook his glass to emphasize the point.”
“Another?” Pennie looked pointedly at the untouched rum and coke. “I’ll have a Chablis, please, a seventy-four for preference.”
“A what?” Winston cupped his ear again. “A jubbly?”
“Chablis.” She saw his face crease in confusion. “Dry white wine.”
“You really are posh.” Winston grinned and began to thread through the dancers toward the bar, detouring to the gent’s on the way.
Pennie watched him go, debating whether to stay in the hopes of discovering hidden facets to the man, or cut her losses and be home in time for The Late Show.
“Where’s Winston?”
Pennie looked up at a woman in black leather. She was classically beautiful, her long hair swept back into a knot, and the faintest application of make-up dusting her pale features. Despite the heat in the club and the leather pants and waistcoat, the woman didn’t seem to be perspiring at all. Pennie wondered what her secret was. “He’s just gone to the bar,” she said. “Would you like to sit down and wait for him?”
The woman looked toward the press of people at the bar. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Tell him Gillian was looking for him, would you?”
“I will.” Pennie looked up into Gillian’s dark irises and suppressed a shudder. Whatever business th
is woman had with Winston it was unlikely to be pleasant. “How did you know he was with me?”
“That’s his hat.” Gillian nodded toward a battered trilby. “He doesn’t go anywhere without it. He must think a lot of you to take it off.”
“I―I suppose he does,” Pennie said, “but we only met this morning.”
“And he took his hat off already?” Gillian raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you the lucky one?” She winked and strode away. Pennie lost sight of her within seconds and looked around to see if her date was returning.
By the time she had a glass of house white in front of her, another three women had stopped and asked after Winston, two of them obviously sisters. She wondered what sort of man Winston was, to have such attractive women ask after him.
“I have to use the ladies,” she said when he sat again, suddenly fearful that compared to all these girls she didn’t measure up. Not that she needed to. She was saving herself for Mister Spenser―Chase, but it didn’t hurt to be attractive. She was only thirty two.
“Sure,” he said, tapping his fingers against a tall glass of cola. “They’re right over there.” He nodded toward the far side of the dance floor. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, rising and holding out his hand, “Take my hand and I’ll lead you to the promised land.”
“Eww.” Pennie stood without his help. “Where did you learn that one? Presbyterian Pick Ups?”
He grinned. “Something like that. When I was a boy my uncle considered himself a bit of a ladies man. He was, too, or so it seemed to me.” He guided her expertly through the crowd clustered around the dance floor. “Isn’t it natural that I should pick up some of his moves? Don’t think of them as bad chat-up lines, think of them as a tribute to a great man.”
“When you say it like that I guess it’s not so bad.” Pennie made several running steps to avoid being trampled by a youth with three pints of lager held in a triangle of glasses between his hands. “What happened to him?”