by Jane Casey
‘Oh yes. I remember it very well, and I remember Kate. I saw them four or five times.’ She sighed. ‘Poor woman. I read about it in the paper but I didn’t realise it was her until yesterday. The name – I recognised it but I couldn’t quite remember her. Then I checked my files when Georgia rang me, and of course it all came back.’
‘Was there something in particular that made them stand out?’
She hesitated, flexing and rubbing her small hands as if they were stiff or cold. ‘Well, every child is different, and every parent is different. That’s the first thing to know. So there’s no typical family that walks through my door for help. Some people are very accepting and positive. Some people want me to be wrong about their child. They get angry when they hear a diagnosis. It’s understandable.’
‘Was Kate angry?’
‘She was when she came. She was annoyed that people weren’t taking her seriously. I remember her sitting in your chair while Chloe played in the corner here. She had tears in her eyes, talking about how she’d struggled on Chloe’s behalf.’
It felt strange to think of Kate sitting exactly where I was, in a room that probably hadn’t changed much in twelve years. A large wooden doll’s house stood in the corner Raina indicated. The furniture inside was jumbled up, the dolls upside down or poking out of the windows. I imagined a small Chloe playing with it while her mother talked about her, complained, wept a little. Would the child have noticed? Or would it all have gone over her head?
‘Is that normal?’
‘Oh yes. Many people find it hard to get the system to acknowledge their child’s needs. It can be frustrating.’
‘So why did Kate stand out?’
‘It was a combination of things.’ Raina smoothed her skirt, pursing her lips. Lines fanned out from her mouth. I couldn’t begin to guess her age but she looked at least seventy at that moment. ‘Do you know Chloe’s medical history?’
‘No.’
‘It was a difficult birth. A forceps delivery, in the end. Chloe was in neonatal intensive care for some time afterwards. Birth trauma can have a permanent effect on a child, or it can kill, or it can have a negligible impact. Kate was very concerned about Chloe’s development, always, and she felt the medical establishment were much too casual about the effect of the traumatic birth on her child. She was a nurse, you see, so she was familiar with how doctors and nurses spoke about patients, and parents. She didn’t trust any of them.’
‘Was she right to be concerned about Chloe?’
Raina pulled a face. ‘It’s hard to say. By the time I saw her she was certainly struggling with gross and fine motor skills. She found it difficult to communicate and to concentrate. She struggled to make eye contact. She was very shy and lacking in confidence as well as social skills. But I wasn’t sure that it was attributable to the traumatic birth. Kate wanted to find labels for Chloe’s condition. She had done a lot of research and she wanted me to say that Chloe was going to be permanently affected by what had happened to her. Chloe was … borderline. I believe that’s what I said in my report.’
‘Why would she want you to say Chloe was more incapacitated?’ Georgia asked.
‘Because of money. You can claim extra funding with a firm diagnosis. But also because sometimes parents just want someone else to see what they see. And sometimes it’s to know why. If you know why your child isn’t what we think of as normal, you can be angry about that specific thing. If you can’t find any specific reason for your child to be different from other children, you might worry that it was your fault.’ Raina frowned. ‘With Kate, though, it was almost an obsession.’
‘Did you ever meet Brian Emery, Chloe’s dad?’
‘Never. I asked if he could sit in on what turned out to be our last session but he didn’t come. Kate told me he was in denial about Chloe’s condition. I felt – and I may have been misjudging her – that she didn’t want him there. She was traditional about it. She had given up work as soon as Chloe’s problems became apparent. I remember her saying it was Brian’s job to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, and it was her job to cook the food and look after Chloe.’ Raina shrugged. ‘Old-fashioned. I told her she was selling herself short and she didn’t like that at all.’
‘Was that why they stopped coming?’
‘They didn’t come to an appointment one day. I called, left messages. No answer. Then I got a letter from another practitioner saying he had taken Chloe on as a patient and asking for my notes. That was that. I hoped Kate found what she was looking for.’
‘So you thought it was more about Kate’s needs than Chloe’s,’ I said.
‘Definitely. She needed Chloe to need her. I had the impression that she enjoyed the attention she got because of Chloe being as she was. Ordinary wasn’t good enough for her. She wanted extraordinary, even if it was in a negative sense of the word.’ Raina sighed. ‘Most parents want their children to be normal. To fit in. Kate was the opposite.’
‘But she wanted Chloe to stay in mainstream education.’
‘Yes, she did. You see, if Chloe had been in a special school, she wouldn’t have stood out at all. In a mainstream school, with neurotypical children, she was the centre of attention. So much pity from the other parents, so much kindness, so much help when she needed it.’ Raina narrowed her eyes, looking very wise. ‘Kate was very good at appearing to be helpless, when she was really quite a capable person.’
‘Would you describe her as manipulative?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ Raina smiled. ‘That’s not always a bad thing. Many very successful people are able to influence other people’s behaviour.’
‘And in Kate’s case?’
The smile held for a second, then disappeared. ‘In Kate’s case, I was concerned. I wrote back to the psychologist who took over from me, confidentially, to share with him my findings about Chloe. I told him that I felt Chloe was capable of more than Kate allowed. I felt it was likely to cause problems in their relationship as Chloe got older; that lack of independence, of freedom – it can suffocate, you know? It can cause resentment and heartache for no good reason. I wanted them to be able to rely on each other. It’s like two trees growing together.’ She knotted her fingers together. ‘It’s much better for them to be pruned so their branches don’t tangle. Then if one sickens or falls, the other can continue to thrive. But pruning is hard on the trees. If we asked them, they would prefer to be tangled together.’
‘Did you say that to Kate Emery?’
She nodded. ‘The last time I saw her. She said she wasn’t going to sicken. She said she would never let Chloe down. And I said that wasn’t the point. I told her she couldn’t know what the future was going to hold.’ Raina gave a long sigh. ‘It gives me no pleasure at all to know that I was right.’
13
The Church of the Modern Apostles was a square, cream-painted building set back from the South Circular Road. It looked like a former bingo hall. A billboard outside read ‘Christians: Keep the Faith … But Not From Others!’ I walked up to the main door. It was uncompromisingly closed, with a padlocked chain wound around the handles inside the door. I stood on the steps for a moment, looking at the cars glittering in the strong morning sun. I recognised Oliver Norris’s Volvo beside a van with a What Would Jesus Do? bumper sticker, so I knew I was in the right place.
There had to be another way in.
At the side of the building, I found another door, this one with a ramp leading up to it and a sign that read ‘OFFICE’. This door opened easily and I found myself in a narrow corridor decorated with posters. You are not too bad to come in – you are not too good to stay out. It smelled musty, like a school locker room. The best things in life aren’t things. My footsteps sounded uncertain on the tiled floor and I made myself walk confidently. It’s hard to stumble when you’re on your knees. Derwent would have liked that one.
That, in itself, was a good reason for not letting him come along.
There was a murmur of vo
ices coming from a room at the end of the corridor. I walked down and tapped on the door.
‘Come in.’
I recognised the deep, warm voice immediately. Gareth Selhurst was standing in the middle of the room, facing a desk where a woman was working. She was in her thirties, with threads of grey in her dark hair. Her hands were poised above the keyboard of her computer: I had interrupted them in the middle of some dictation, I guessed.
‘Can I help you?’ This time Selhurst sounded sharp and distinctly less welcoming.
‘DS Maeve Kerrigan. We met on Sunday.’
‘At Oliver’s house. I remember.’ He was shorter than I’d expected now that I saw him standing up, but the hair was magnificent, a white mane swept back from a high forehead. ‘It’s official business, I take it.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You’ll want to speak to Oliver.’
‘Actually, I’d like to start with you.’
His eyebrows drew together. ‘Me?’
‘I have a few questions,’ I said firmly. I glanced down at the woman, who was watching us closely, her mouth hanging open. ‘Here, or in private. Whatever you prefer.’
Mr Selhurst preferred to talk in private. He led me down the corridor to a small, spotless kitchen. I waited for him to offer me a cup of tea or a glass of water, but he looked around as if he’d never been in the kitchen before and wasn’t sure how any of it worked. He folded his arms and leaned back against the counter.
‘We can talk here. I can’t give you much time, I’m afraid. I’m needed elsewhere at ten.’
‘That’s fine.’ I took out my notebook and sat down on a stool in the corner, beside a table with a chipped laminate top.
‘I really don’t see how I can help you anyway, if it’s about Oliver’s poor neighbour.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘I met her. Briefly.’
‘Once? More than once?’
He pulled a face. ‘More than once.’
‘Twice? Three times?’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘She came to worship with us once. She wasn’t ready to hear God’s call, I’m afraid.’
I waited, my eyebrows raised.
‘She found it hard to let go of her preconceptions. To lose herself in talking to Christ, our saviour.’ He smiled. ‘We are an evangelical church, Miss Kerrigan. We sing and make music. We pray out loud. When the spirit moves us, we pray in tongues. Christ is a very real presence in our gatherings. He heals us, he speaks to us and through us. He walks ahead of us and we follow in his footsteps. He cleanses us of our sins and our faults when we beg him for salvation. When he dances, we dance.’
‘And Kate didn’t dance.’
‘No. She was full of doubt and confusion. The devil had a firm grip on her.’ His lip curled. ‘She wore immodest clothes. She questioned many of the things we see as truths, such as a man’s place as the head of his family. She, of course, had a broken marriage. I pointed out to her that if she had come to God earlier, she and her husband could have stayed together, in the proper relationship between man and wife. The head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband, and the head of Christ is God, as St Paul said.’
I was very glad Derwent wasn’t there to hear that. ‘It’s not a very popular opinion in this day and age.’
‘This godless age,’ Selhurst thundered, slipping into preacher mode. ‘At least in our spiritually bankrupt country. There are countries in the world where the word of God holds sway, where people have turned to him for help in times of need. It is my constant prayer that the same feeling will sweep over this nation, this once-great Christian country, and wash all of the unworthy away. The bible tells us that a great flood happened before. There are many recent prophecies that it will happen again, that a wave will come and destroy the south of England. It’s sheer arrogance to think it won’t, that we can behave as we wish without angering God.’ He leaned forward. ‘You’re not married, I see.’
‘No.’
‘Are you a Christian?’
‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ I said.
Selhurst physically recoiled. ‘Well, that’s not quite the same thing.’
‘I’m sure it’s not.’ I checked my notes, secretly pleased to be the embodiment of all that was unholy. ‘So Kate came to church here on one occasion.’
‘I asked her not to return until she was ready. She was a disruptive influence. People were inhibited by her presence. It’s a small congregation, still, but then the church hasn’t been here for very long. In a group of fifty, one discordant presence stands out.’ Selhurst shook his massive head. ‘We must leave our earthly concerns behind when we enter the house of God. Lose ourselves in the Lord. We must not be self-conscious in the presence of God, but conscious only of him.’
In other words, she had interfered with the collective hysteria that Selhurst relied on to make his congregation feel euphoric.
‘And she never returned.’
‘No.’
‘You said you’d met her more than once. Did you speak to her after that?’
‘I went to her house a number of times, with Oliver. Kate was reluctant to speak to me, but Oliver convinced her.’ He shook his head again. ‘There are none so deaf as those who will not hear. As I explained to Oliver, it can take many visits before a heart is opened to God, but it was worth fighting.’
‘Even though Kate wasn’t really interested.’
‘Kate wasn’t the only one we were concerned about.’
It took me a second. ‘Chloe? But she’s—’
‘She was never baptised. I prayed and prayed for Kate to see that she was stopping her daughter from receiving the greatest gift there could be. God was waiting to help her, his arms open wide, and Kate was stopping her from going to him.’
‘And does Chloe want to be baptised?’
‘Kate said she did not.’ He closed his eyes for a second and sighed. ‘I always left her house exhausted, feeling I had battled hand to hand with the devil. Do you believe in evil, miss?’
‘Yes, I do.’ I said it without hesitation, and meant it.
‘Kate was full of evil. I saw it in her, and I heard it.’ He leaned forward. ‘I know evil.’
‘When you say she was evil—’
‘No!’ He slammed his hand on the counter. ‘I said no such thing! I said she was full of evil. The devil was strong in her. He countered my arguments. I am but a man and although God was with me, guiding my path, he was stronger than me.’ He leaned back, apparently drained, and murmured, ‘But I would have succeeded. I know I would. God conquers all. Jesus cleanses us of all our sins, no matter how dark.’
‘What’s all the shouting about?’ Oliver Norris was standing in the doorway, crisply dressed in a polo shirt and chinos. He was looking at Gareth. ‘Practising for Sunday?’
‘I was talking to this lady about the devil,’ Gareth said gruffly, pointing at me.
When he saw me, the colour drained from Oliver’s face under his tan. ‘It’s just a simple prayer ceremony. It should help.’
‘Help who?’ I looked from him to Gareth, who was rolling down his shirt sleeves as if they were his main concern.
‘We conduct special ceremonies now and then for people who are very much in need of prayer. There will be one on Sunday. I think Oliver assumed I was speaking about it.’ Gareth smiled at me. The preacher was gone: the man remained and he was gentle, normal – pleasant even. ‘It’s very effective. Of course Kate will be on our mind and in our hearts.’
‘Did you want to talk to me?’ Oliver had shoved his hands into his pockets and was tensing his arms so his triceps flickered.
‘Please,’ I said, standing up. ‘I won’t take up too much of your time.’
‘Take her through to the main hall,’ Gareth said. ‘Show her where we worship. I think she’d find it interesting.’
Oliver looked as if he wanted to argue but he nodded. I foll
owed him, heading in the opposite direction from the office. He held open a door for me and ushered me through. I found myself on a red-carpeted platform facing a huge room about half-full of gold-framed chairs. It felt more like a convention hall than a church to me, but then I was used to pews, statues of saints, banks of candles, the Stations of the Cross and the red glow of the sanctuary lamp. This had two projection screens and a pair of chairs on the raised platform, with a keyboard and drum kit on the right. There were big loudspeakers on either side of the platform and a soundboard at the back of the room. Oliver flicked some switches and lights went on at the sides of the room and all the way down the centre.
‘This is where we have our services. We dim the lights in the main body of the church when they’re going on, of course.’
I walked to the centre of the platform and looked out, imagining a sea of faces focused on me. There were no distractions here – no pictures, no aphorisms. No banners promising eternal life. Here you were alone with your God and your fellow worshippers, abandoning yourself to religious bliss. Or damnation, depending.
‘What’s that?’ I pointed at a large square structure below the platform, in front of the first row of chairs.
‘That’s where we carry out baptisms and other ceremonies.’
‘In it?’
He nodded. ‘Total immersion. It symbolises rebirth, whether that’s in Christ or in good health or simply a fresh start. All our members are baptised once they’ve repented and placed their faith in Jesus, even if they were baptised as children. It’s a wonderful celebration that unifies the whole church.’ His voice was toneless, as if he was reciting something he’d said before but his mind was elsewhere.
‘Mr Selhurst said you have a small congregation.’ I stepped down and started walking along the aisle, Oliver following me as if he couldn’t let me get too far away.
‘Small but growing. We have over thirty regulars but the door is always open if anyone else wants to join us.’