Riven

by A J McCreanor

  So far so good.

  Chapter 18

  The heavy sleet meant that Robertson needed to reach forward and switch on the windscreen wipers. He had parked in the shadows across from the car park and sat in his car watching the road. He began rotating his wedding ring, first one way then back, as if the metal were somehow burning his skin. He pulled it off and dropped it into the glove compartment. He waited until he saw his wife Margaret’s old Volvo approach and turn into the car park. He saw her get out of the car, lock it and walk, head down against the sleet, towards the building. She paused to pull down the brim of her hat and pull the belt of her raincoat tight before disappearing into the building. When he was sure that she was safely inside, Robertson put the car into gear, edged it out of the layby and drove off in the opposite direction.

  *

  Inside the hall, Margaret Robertson chose one of the wooden seats in the second-to-last row. Heard the scrape of the legs against the rough of the wooden floor. It was a cold night out and just as bitter in the empty hall, so cold that she could see her breath mist in front of her. She pulled her coat around her and settled herself. On the wall to her right a framed Bible verse reminded her of what she already knew, that women were not permitted to speak during meetings; instead they had to have their own meetings, where they could speak freely to one another. 1 Corinthians 14:34–5: Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.

  The other men, women and children would arrive soon. She fingered her Bible, kneaded the worn leather cover with her hands. Waited. After a few minutes the others began to arrive. First came Mrs Harris, her red velvet beret damp with rain, her sensible heels clicking on the wooden floor. She was followed by her daughter-in-law Jennifer, her bobbed hair swinging out from under a blue beret, her advanced pregnancy obvious. The others arrived in ones and twos, all nodding hellos and complaints about the cold weather. The actual meeting would not begin for another five minutes.

  Mrs Harris sat in the row in front of Margaret, settled herself then waited for Jennifer to do the same. Only then did they turn to Margaret. ‘I read about the latest murder in the Chronicle. Dreadful. The poor man – he worked up at that school, didn’t he? The school for . . .’

  Margaret kept her eyes on her Bible. ‘That’s right, Watervale Academy.’

  Mrs Harris tutt-tutted loudly. ‘Awful business altogether.’

  ‘Awful,’ Jennifer echoed, unfastening her coat and patting her bump.

  Margaret’s eyes darted to the bump before quickly looking away.

  Mrs Harris leaned towards Margaret. ‘Your Ian will be kept busy with the murder. I expect all the police will. Do I remember your Ian doing outreach at that type of school sometime last year or the year before?’

  Margaret nodded. ‘He did visit some of the schools, and we had a couple of children who said they’d be interested in coming to a few Bible classes, but most of them weren’t in the least bit interested. Not even in Sunday School.’

  ‘Still, if he can get even a few along, it would make a big difference to their lives. It’s a godless world and we have to do our best to help them. It’s our duty.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘A few more souls saved and you can’t put a price on that, can you?’

  Margaret kneaded her Bible, knuckles white, nails bitten to the quick.

  Mrs Harris tutted again. ‘Awful that the poor man died like that after spending a lifetime trying to help those children.’

  Margaret looked at the floor, wished the meeting would begin. ‘He wasn’t at the school at the time. He was in his house. It might not be related to the school at all.’

  ‘But still, those types of children.’ Jennifer adjusted her beret and patted her hair. ‘Scary, I’d call them.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Godless. They are lost souls.’ She patted her bump, cooed, ‘But you’ll be okay.’

  Margaret stared ahead. Sat in silence for the remaining minutes.

  Then the meeting began.

  About halfway through the sharing, Margaret did something that she had never done before. She opened her Bible, cleared her throat and read aloud. ‘Matthew eighteen, verses twenty-one and twenty-two: Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.”’

  She closed her eyes, prayed that the Lord would forgive her for doubting her husband. Prayed that He would take the doubt and suspicion that plagued her and return her to His fold. She kept her eyes closed as some of the men shared, nodded in silent agreement with whatever concern was raised. Finally, when it was over, she opened her eyes.

  Mrs Harris stood at her elbow, disapproval etched on her face. ‘I wonder why you didn’t wait for the women’s meeting, Margaret, when you could have spoken out?’

  Margaret stared at the floor.

  ‘It would have been more fitting. Sometimes, Margaret, we have to fight our ego, not give in to it.’

  Margaret swallowed.

  Jennifer kept her voice light. ‘Is Ian picking you up tonight?’

  ‘No, he’s working.’ Margaret’s fingers worried at the leather again.

  Mrs Harris leant in close to Margaret, patted her shoulder stiffly, rested her hand for a minute. ‘A wonderful man you have there, Margaret. See now that you look after him well. You are a very lucky girl. What else would you have done at your age?’

  Margaret hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but the words tripped over themselves: ‘I need to speak with an elder.’

  Mrs Harris drew her hand back and frowned. ‘I’m not surprised, after your show tonight. I think maybe you should go and speak with someone about your attitude. Maybe one of the women?’

  Margaret shook her head.

  ‘Then you’d better make arrangements to have a meeting with an elder. Perhaps Ian could come with you? That might be more,’ she paused, ‘appropriate.’

  ‘No, it’s not about what happened tonight . . . I mean Ian won’t be there. I need to speak with someone alone.’

  ‘You want a meeting with an elder, without your husband being present?’

  Margaret nodded and bit her bottom lip. ‘It’s a private matter.’

  Mrs Harris and Jennifer stared at her. At last Jennifer spoke. ‘Go see Elder Morrison.’

  Outside, Mrs Harris turned to her daughter-in-law. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I’m guessing that there might be problems in their marriage. Five years married and no children. Even at her age, she could have hoped for a couple of kids.’

  ‘You don’t think . . .?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That she’s thinking about a divorce? I mean, all this secrecy about seeing an elder and it being a private matter. What on earth could she say in private that she couldn’t say in front of Ian? Unless it’s about Ian.’

  Jennifer kept her voice low. ‘Margaret always wanted kids, no reason she shouldn’t be able to have them and yet here they are, all this time and nothing.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Doesn’t it seem odd to you?’

  Mrs Harris looked back through the open door. Margaret Robertson was sitting with the Bible open on her lap. Her mouth was moving, her eyes closed. ‘That girl’s the odd one – Ian Robertson’s a lovely man.’

  Inside, Margaret hunched over the verse, the words already memorised, as if, by saying them, she might make them become concrete in the room. And things would be fine again between her and her husband.

  ‘Luke six, verses thirty-six and thirty-seven: “Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful. Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.”’ She breathed deeply and began again, giving special emphasis to the phrase ‘forgive and you will be forgiven’.

  Finally, when the caretaker stood in the doorway and flicked the lights on and off, she closed the Bible, stood and made her way out into the f
reezing cold evening.

  Chapter 19

  The lecture theatre was filling up. Wheeler sat in the front row, looked across the room, saw Imogen, waved to her and waited while her friend made her way towards her. Imogen squeezed into the seat beside her.

  ‘Is your new date not coming?’ Imogen scanned the crowd. ‘I thought Carol said you were meeting him for a drink earlier on this evening?’

  ‘God, do you two tell each other everything?’

  ‘Pretty much – we’re colleagues, remember. Unlike you and your chums at the station, we’ve loads of time to gossip instead of working. So, did you meet him?’

  ‘I did meet him for a quick drink.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s a friend of his who’s giving the talk, so he’s gone off to have a quick good-luck chat beforehand.’

  ‘Lecture.’

  ‘Aye, well, whatever.’

  ‘It going okay then? He’s not a nutter, a psycho or a miso?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Misogynist.’

  ‘It’s early days yet. I only met him an hour ago. His name’s Paul and he’s a psychologist.’ Wheeler was aware of the seats filling up; the theatre was busy. ‘He seemed okay.’

  ‘Just okay?’

  ‘Well, not an obvious nutter but as I said, it’s early days.’

  ‘Damned by faint praise.’ Imogen sounded disappointed.

  ‘Okay, you old romantic, it was like he was on his best behaviour. He seemed a bit reserved.’

  ‘You want to see him on his worst behaviour on a first date?’

  ‘Uh huh, if it’s him being congruent,’ Wheeler nodded, ‘otherwise it’s just an act put on to impress me.’

  ‘Fair enough, although some folk would be happy if a guy was out to impress them,’ she paused. ‘There’s someone standing in the doorway staring at you. That him?’

  Wheeler looked up, smiled and waited as Paul Buchan made his way towards them.

  ‘Good body,’ muttered Imogen, ‘nice shoulders, long legs.’

  ‘You’re gay, remember?’

  Imogen smiled. ‘But not blind, so what’s your point caller?’

  Buchan reached them as the lights dimmed. ‘Took a minute to order us a bottle of Pinot Grigio for the end of the lecture. It’ll be hellish to get served when everyone’s streaming out at the same time.’

  ‘Nice one.’ Imogen sat back in her seat.

  Wheeler smiled and hastily introduced them before the lights flickered, telling them that the lecture was about to begin.

  A few seconds later a man walked to the front of the theatre. He was small and wiry, his dark hair swept back from a tanned face and brown eyes glittered with intensity. He cleared his throat before beginning. ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you all for coming out on such a cold and miserable night. My name is Dr Matthew Barnes and I’m from the Keenan Institute.’ He glanced around the audience as if hoping someone would recognise the name. No one stirred, so he continued, ‘The Institute came into being last year and it will be, I hope, a place of sanctuary for troubled young people who have suffered neglect or abuse in some form in their young lives. At present we only have one facility, based in London, but given time, we hope to expand and have centres across the UK. As you may know, the local prison, Barlinnie, is overcrowded. This is a situation that is echoed across the UK and Europe. But I don’t believe it has to be this way. I believe that many of the inmates have had a poor start to life; they were born at a distinct disadvantage. I am talking about severe neglect. I believe that we, as a nation, have created a society that is exclusive, in that we systematically exclude those who are the most vulnerable and most in need of our help. Children and young people are often left to cope alone – they are not parented properly nor are they supported. Often they grow up feral, having to fend for themselves. This in turn makes it difficult for them to find a place for themselves in society. They have no choice but to move outside of its perimeters, often turning to drugs, prostitution and crime. In time these children become homeless, or are incarcerated and then the spiral of crime continues.’

  Wheeler was aware of the silence in the room. Matthew Barnes held the audience’s attention by force of will, his passion evident.

  Barnes continued, ‘I’d like to present a few thoughts about the issues and dangers of neglecting children in our society. Or if you like, more of the same-old-same-old, the nature versus nurture argument. I believe this is a crucial area and one which is woefully underfunded, so then afterwards,’ he paused, smiling, ‘I ask you for your money.’ A ripple of laughter spread around the room. Then the lights went out.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s begin right at the beginning.’ He pressed a switch and the screen beside him flickered into life. An image of two brain scans flashed onto the screen, one brain noticeably larger than the other. Barnes crossed to the screen and pointed to the smaller of the two. ‘This brain belongs to a child who was severely neglected from birth. The child’s brain has much less tissue.’ He pointed to the other scan. ‘In this image, the larger brain belongs to a child with a normal upbringing – that’s to say a child who wasn’t neglected, a child who had their needs met. Notice the increase in both the size of the brain and the amount of brain tissue.’

  Wheeler sat in the dark, listening to Barnes speak. She listened to the statistics and the theories about neglect and the proven link to delinquency. She thought about her own upbringing, a mother who had loved both her and her sister. Her father had died too early in her life for her to have any memory of him, but their mother had made sure they had everything she could manage to give them. The old adage had applied: they’d everything they’d needed but maybe not everything they’d wanted.

  ‘And then there are these . . .’ Barnes continued his lecture. Wheeler watched another set of brain scans, thought of Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson and the other kids from Watervale Academy and wondered how a scan of their brains would match up against her nephew’s. She wondered if the Watervale kids even had enough resources to cope with the world. Her nephew had been feted all his life. And from what Wheeler had seen, instead of this making him stronger, he had become an indulged brat.

  ‘So, you see,’ Barnes continued, ‘children tell us from a very young age how much they are struggling to make sense of the world that we have created for them. And if they, literally, don’t have the brain power,’ the two disparate brain scans flashed again on the screen, ‘if they don’t have the brain power,’ he repeated, ‘due to neglect or abuse, to process the world they live in, then what chance do they have?’

  Silence.

  ‘University? Unlikely. A meteoric career? Doubtful. Successful relationships?’ He peered at the audience. ‘What do you think their chances would be?’ He looked around the room, waited. No one offered an opinion. ‘So, they learn to create their own smaller worlds, often outside of society. They become outsiders. We have created a sub-society of outsiders because from birth these children are massively disadvantaged. The question is, now that we are aware of this,’ he slammed his fist on the desk, his voice rising, ‘what the hell are we going to do about it?’

  Silence.

  Finally the lights went up.

  Applause.

  Wheeler sat, like most of the audience, wondering the same thing. What was to be done to help children who were so ill-equipped to deal with their surroundings?

  Buchan turned to her. ‘Maybe we need to distil the lecture, let it settle for a while. Matt gets very passionate about the neglected weans and their needs.’ He glanced at the doorway; people were filing out and making their way to the bar. ‘Glass of wine?’

  They followed him into the bar in silence, pausing only to write their cheques and leave them in the huge bowl with the rest of the donations. A pile of leaflets outlining the work of the Keenan Institute were stacked next to the bowl. Imogen took two and passed one to Wheeler.

  ‘Pretty heavy stuff in there.’ Buchan led them to a table w
ith a cardboard place setting which had Paul Buchan scrawled on it. Beside it a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. He poured three glasses.

  Imogen took hers. ‘Heavy but interesting. I honestly didn’t realise that the scans would look so different. I’m shocked at the difference in brain sizes. How can those kids cope?’

  ‘Many don’t – those are the ones Matt wants to help, before they move outside of society.’

  ‘And into crime,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘And maybe onto the Bar-L?’ Buchan leaned against the bar.

  Wheeler sipped her wine, aware that Imogen sounded upset. She wondered if it was because Imogen’s partner Alison was pregnant and the responsibility of giving a child a good start was playing on her mind.

  Buchan touched her elbow. ‘You look miles away. Glad you came?’

  ‘Of course, yeah,’ Wheeler nodded. ‘Bit of a wake-up call, that’s all. Not that I hadn’t read up about stuff like that before.’

  ‘But Matt’s passion really sells it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It made me think about my own childhood, how we were brought up, fed, clothed and looked after pretty well. Then there are these kids who are trying twice as hard with half the resources. It just seems so unfair.’

  ‘Excuse me, need a loo break,’ announced Imogen, draining her glass.

  ‘I hope it hasn’t put a damper on our evening,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘You said you were in the middle of a big case at the moment.’ Buchan topped up all three glasses, emptying the bottle.

  ‘Not a damper. I think it’s just reminded me of the reality some of the kids in our city are facing – not that there aren’t some little shites out there, but, those images,’ she gestured to the lecture hall, ‘they make me uneasy.’

  ‘But you help those kind of kids, don’t you?’

  Wheeler stared into her glass. ‘I’m not sure. At least we don’t always help them, not all the time. Sometimes there’s no time to find out much about their background. It’s just process them, place them in the system somewhere and then it’s onto the next case.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on yourself,’ he touched her arm, ‘really. I think you probably do a lot of good for the kids you come into contact with.’ He smiled at her, tried to lighten the mood.