The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

  The dining room table still held copies of the newspapers whose headlines covered the news of the explosion which had killed Colin. She hadn’t been able to read past the first sentence or two in each one and didn’t know if she’d ever be capable of reading the complete articles. She didn’t want to discard them, however; in a strange way they connected her to him, as if she had been beside him when the tragedy occurred.

  She peered out the window. She would have to dress. Maybe if she wore something colorful, Father Goodwyn wouldn’t notice her gray mood. No, nothing but clown makeup could disguise her pale and drawn face. She pulled on jeans and the first blouse her fingers touched. He was scheduled to come by before lunch, but he was late, and no wonder: It was raining hard, the precipitation pummelling the pavement. She liked Neil Goodwyn. He reminded her of Colin, not in his looks, because Colin had been younger and taller with blue eyes instead of brown, but in his manner, his gentle regard for her. And he never used platitudes. Sometimes he just kept her company, helped her consume leftovers from the fridge, or watered the many potted plants people had sent in sympathy. During his time as a Royal Army chaplain, he’d been subjected to all the elements and stresses that his soldiers had – exhaustion, sandstorms, and extreme cold – hence his weathered face. He had seen men injured and killed and claimed that each loss had added another grey hair and another wrinkle, thus giving him a permanent way to remember them. His faith had somehow survived it all, and she reminded herself that she didn’t have to pretend to be strong with him when she wasn’t. She had asked him once why he came to see her so frequently. “The Bible tells us to ‘rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn,’” he said. “I don’t like to think of you grieving alone.”

  Today he came in with a smile, some digestive biscuits, and an offer to make tea.

  She should have made a fresh pot already but had been too preoccupied. “All of Britain considers tea a miracle drink,” she told him. “Maybe if you make it, it really will be. And digestives – is the name supposed to make me feel less guilty for eating cookies?”

  “Yes,” Goodwyn smiled. “Tell yourself they’re good for your system.” They retired to the sitting room with their snacks and cups. “Jenny, people often try to process what they’ve seen by focussing on one image above all others. Often the worst. Have you?”

  Her throat tightened. “I wish – I wish I had amnesia!”

  “It’s unlikely that you’ll ever forget what you saw, but over time other memories – more positive ones – will be stronger. For now, it may help to share what shocked you so much.”

  She took a deep breath. “The blood. I think that image is burned into my brain. They had cut away his shirt, you see.”

  He nodded. He had been shocked the first time he had seen a severely injured soldier with his uniform stripped away.

  “He had blood on his face, too, on his forehead and cheeks and nose.”

  “And you wiped it away.”

  “Yes. It was silly, I guess, and useless. It didn’t help him in any way.”

  When Goodwyn replied, his voice was soft. “Jenny, there are times when the human touch is holy. I believe that was one of those times, because love motivated you.” He waited while she wiped her eyes. “You’re in a sort of war zone. I think having some leave could help.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “You’re alone still. I’d like to think that you were experiencing fellowship of some sort.”

  “It’s hard to feel connected to other people. Time seems to swallow me.” She took a bite of the digestive: good oat flavor but it would have tasted better dipped in chocolate.

  “Perhaps we need to speak about your choices.”

  “What choices?”

  “Isolation or companionship. Isolation may feel safe, but it’s not. In God’s world, healing can’t take place in isolation. We are meant to be connected with each other. That was one very positive thing about my time in military service. The men I served were part of a unit, a community. When crisis came, we supported each other. All personalities, all differences, disappeared.”

  “How did you stand it? So much death, so much grief?”

  “Because I saw hope as well. And courage was there, and honor, trust, and love. Colin was courageous. When I conducted memorial services, I often quoted John 15, verses 12-14: ‘Greater love has no one but this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ It’s as appropriate for Colin as it was for those young soldiers.”

  “Was he – was he – ”

  He waited.

  “Afraid,” she whispered.

  “In my experience there’s often no time for fear. Events happen too quickly for us to absorb anything other than what is most urgent.”

  Unable to respond, she nodded her thanks.

  “Today, Jenny, my focus is on you. You and your healing.”

  She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what healing means. I wouldn’t mind feeling less tired, but I don’t see how I can be happy. And even if I could, I’d feel too guilty.”

  “My purpose is not to make you feel happy when you’re not but to encourage you to experience life even while you are sad. You see, time does not heal by itself, particularly in the case of emotional wounds. Time simply gives us the chance to allow healing to take place, much as soil allows seeds to root, sprout, and grow. Healing requires an action on our part.”

  “Like the farmer who plants the seeds.”

  “Exactly, yes. And there’s another element. Healing doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Seeds are planted in a specific environment. Your healing environment needs to be an experience, and that means involving others.”

  “But I still love Colin,” she objected.

  “Yes, and he still loves you, but I’m not speaking of finding a substitute for him. Love can come from many sources. I want you to know how much love still exists in your world, and in order to do that, you’ll have to stop hiding yourself away. I believe your family hoped you’d go back with them to Texas for a bit.”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I would have been too far from Colin.” She tried to explain. “This flat – it reflects him. The high ceilings, because he was tall. The books on the bookshelves because he was educated and had an inquisitive mind. Even the bay window, because he always wanted to know what was going on in the world. And his things are here. This flat is my home. I’m safe here. And I was loved here.”

  “I’m glad you still consider it home. I’d not like you to take any major decisions at the minute. I know, however, that Colin’s mother would welcome you for a visit.”

  She hesitated. It would take energy to pack and travel, but Joanne’s country home in Kent had always been a place of renewal. She had loved visiting with Colin, but she had also visited sometimes without him. Maybe there she wouldn’t look for him in every room, and Joanne wouldn’t expect her to be cheerful. “Yes, I could go to Kent.”

  Father Goodwyn nodded his agreement, finished his tea, and after a short prayer, left her to make the arrangements. She rang Joanne first, then Beth, and last, Simon. As she packed her suitcase, she thought about the things she would not miss: the emptiness she felt when visitors departed; washing clothes for herself and not for Colin; making meals for one.

  CHAPTER 10

  Three was an important number, Alcina thought. When she and Tony had married, they had swapped rings three times during the ceremony. They had worn crowns of flowers and exchanged them three times. Tony had thought the white blossoms beautiful on her dark hair, and she had laughed, laughed in the middle of the ceremony, to see fragile flowers on his thick locks – she knew what sinewy strength he had. They had drunk three times from the cup of wine. Then they had begun their journey into marriage by walking three times around the altar. She sighed, thinking of where their steps had taken them since that happy day.

  The number had a new significance for her now: Three years it had been, three long years, since Tony had been sent away. Since s
he had been forced to work to survive. Someone should pay.

  Scott, her husband’s employer, had been killed in prison. He had paid. It gave her a measure of satisfaction to know that the man who had led her husband astray was dead. Ena: one. And the police detective who had been killed by the bomb. Someone had made him pay, not for his part in Tony’s conviction, but it had been payment nonetheless. Duo: two. But there needed to be tria: three. Perhaps the detective’s wife, the one who had testified against Tony, that weak fount of tears who had swayed the jury, could be struck down.

  Three lives lost for the injustice done to Tony? Only one of the three remained unscathed, but she could change that. They had exchanged no vows at their wedding, she and Tony, their presence in the church speaking for itself, but she made one now: I will avenge you.

  She felt lighter, freer, stronger. Her anger, like a laser, was now focussed. She smiled, remembering the literal meaning of her name: “strong-minded.” She would have to be, but she had always been good at payback. Of her three sisters, Cecilia had been the worst. Alcina had never been far from her sharp tongue and constant criticism. So when Alcina had lost weight and begun to attract attention from boys, she’d seduced Cecilia’s fiancé. The sweet part hadn’t been the sex – he was an inexperienced and ineffective lover – but knowing that she could destroy Cecilia’s world any time she chose. That gave her power she relished.

  What would Tony think? He’d not try to dissuade her. He had always had his own ideas about right and wrong.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jenny traveled to Kent in a daze. At the station in West Hampstead she had turned the wrong way off the lift and been puzzled by the barred passage until someone had touched her shoulder and redirected her. She had then tried to pay better attention, locating the right platform and taking the train through St. Pancras. Colin’s mother, Joanne, had met her at the station in Ashford.

  The first few days in the cocoon that was Kent were peaceful. It was comforting to be where Colin had been. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk about him,” Colin’s mother, Joanne, said when she arrived. She hadn’t wanted to talk, just to wander through the grounds, remembering earlier visits when Colin had walked with her and named each type of tree. He had known them all. Now only the members of the pine family maintained their greenery, the stately Douglas firs like captains of the forest leading a scraggly team. Winter had robbed the deciduous trees of their leafy personas, but she recognized the oaks from their bark and low branches. Hawthorns were smaller, the sweet chestnuts’ shiny dark green leathery leaves had yet to appear, and the statuesque walnuts, which came into leaf later than other species, were still awaiting their spring flowers. Poplars? Sycamores? They were there, but without Colin’s discerning eye, she couldn’t identify them.

  Otherwise Kent promised the bloom of spring. When she walked to the duck pond, she passed the honeysuckle adorning the arbor. Mallards and mandarins enjoyed the quiet water, their feet moving so gently under the surface that ripples could scarcely be seen above. She wished that she could glide through life as easily; for her even the simplest things were difficult. She could only sit still; but when she did, rabbits came to the water’s edge.

  Paths led to the pond, but she couldn’t see where they trailed away. The forest was uncharted territory, as was the life that lay ahead of her, and she found herself in a kind of paralysis. If she made a cup of tea, it grew cold before she remembered to drink it. If she brought a book with her, not a page was turned nor a word read. She had no plans for the future and couldn’t conceive of any except to dress, eat, shower, sleep. It was winter in her spirit, cold and inhospitable to development of any kind.

  If she stayed away from the cemetery, it was easier to deceive herself, to think that Colin was involved with a case in London and couldn’t be with her for a while. She slept in his room. It was a man’s room, with dark paneling covering one wall and framing the windows on the other. Bookshelves which held mementos as well as books. Some had been pushed aside to make room for something Colin had brought with him, his mobile phone or car keys. Now only the space remained.

  When she opened the wardrobe door, a few dress shirts and ties peered out at her; not his preferred ones, or he would have taken them with him, but still his. She was glad Joanne hadn’t disposed of them. Fresh towels lay in a neat stack for the bathroom down the hall, and a man’s long terry robe was folded next to them.

  In the evening over dinner, she confessed that she still expected Colin to come home.

  “That’s what I missed most at first,” Joanne answered, “after Cam died. He’d always find me straightaway, kiss me, and then announce: ‘Joanne kissed me!’ It was a paraphrase of a Leigh Hunt poem.” She laughed lightly. “It embarrassed the children, but that didn’t stop Cam. He had such zest.”

  Jenny listened, wondering how Joanne managed to talk about her husband without crying. Waiting for her own tears to stop was like waiting for drought in rain-soaked London.

  “The day came when he seemed much weaker than usual. I bent over and kissed him, and he whispered those three words: ‘Joanne kissed me.’ They were the last he spoke to me. Then he slipped away.” She paused. “For the first time I’m glad Cam is gone, because he didn’t have to bury his son.”

  “I’ve wondered – if Colin thought of me at the end. Or if he died too fast. And then I wish that he did die too fast, so he didn’t feel any pain or fear. I’ll always wish I’d been able to tell him one more time how much I loved him. In the hospital, he was already gone when I saw him, but I talked to him anyway.” She dug in her pocket for a Kleenex. “I wish I’d been better to him.”

  “It’s normal to have some regrets, but Jenny – he was so happy with you.”

  “Happier than with Violet? I’m afraid of the answer, but I have to ask.”

  “He and Violet had more unhappy years than happy ones,” Joanne said. “The happiness he felt with you was a result of mature love. You shared the same values. You wanted the same things in life. He was looking forward to everything that lay ahead for the two of you. I understand what you mean, though. I wanted to see his hair turn grey.”

  Joanne’s salt-and-sand hair was held loosely in place by a barrette at the nape of her neck. “He wanted children so badly,” Jenny said. “He wanted to be the kind of father for them that his father was for him. We were trying to start a family. Maybe if we’d had more time – ”

  “Oh, Jenny, we’re all Goldilocks when it comes to time, aren’t we? Either we have too much of it or too little. It’s never just right. But I like to recall Cam, his expressions, his laugh. It helps to remember.”

  Jenny sighed. “I think it hurts to remember, because mostly I remember Colin’s death. I can’t seem to focus on his life.”

  “That will come,” Joanne said, “but you can’t rush it, and you can’t fight it. Let each day bring what it will.”

  That night Jenny dreamed that it all happened differently. The young officer who took her to the hospital wasn’t silent, uncomfortable, devoid of details. He was talkative and encouraging. “DCI Sinclair’s been hurt, but it’s all minor,” he said. “He’ll be fine, really. You’ll see.” And at the hospital, Colin was sitting up and smiling when she entered the treatment room. He had lots of scratches and was polka dotted with small bandages. She cried with relief.

  In the morning she wanted to hold onto the dream, not face the reality. She snapped at Joanne over breakfast and then burst into tears when she should have apologized. In the afternoon her sobs chased the chatty squirrels away, and at dinner she dropped one of Joanne’s china cups. Instead of fussing, Joanne put her arms around her and cried with her. It was Colin’s birthday.

  CHAPTER 12

  Simon Casey had had a bad feeling about this raid from the off but hadn’t been able to put his finger on why. The team was ready. All were experienced. Each man knew his job. The suits in CID had given him what appeared to be good intel and free rein with the plan. His men were fully
briefed. He rechecked his Five to be sure that the mags were loaded and seated.

  There had been reports of gang activity in the area. They were going after two gang members with guns and ammunitions in a third-floor flat. They’d done this sort of dig-out many times. He tapped his mag again.

  He’d been up since 3:00 a.m. The team had left Leman Street at 4:30. Suspects should be asleep when they hit the door. He was tired, but the adrenalin was pumping and would keep him alert.

  The stairs creaked under Davies’ weight. They’d recced the plot and knew the entire estate was in disrepair. Broken glass, empty cans, and cigarette butts littered the pavement, and the steps were sticky in spots. Everything reeked of old rubbish no one had bothered to bin. Entry wouldn’t be a problem. Sometimes a Hatton round, a 12-gauge shotgun round, was used to shoot locks and hinges off locked doors, because it disintegrated on impact instead of ricocheting like a bullet. This morning, however, the enforcer would do nicely.

  The staircase would have been dark even in daylight. When Casey’s boot hit the step, it gave way, turning his ankle. An exposed nail beneath the step caught his calf above his boot. Pain raced up his right leg. Bloody hell! When he grabbed the railing to pull himself up, it came out of the wall. Cursing under his breath, he dragged himself to the landing, swept the broken bottles out of the way, and propped himself against the wall.

  The sound of the enforcer splintering the paper-thin door told him the entry was under way. He heard the members of his team bellowing, “Armed police! Armed police! Don’t move! Don’t move!” Then screams which seemed to last forever. He knew none of his team had fired; the suspects must be frightened. To a man his team were large, heavily armed, and clad in black. Helmets covered their faces when they made entry. Their own mums would be afraid. Shouts of “Clear! Close! Out!” echoed.

  Clenching his teeth against the pain, he inspected the damage. Between the probable sprain and the sutures he would require, he’d be out a while. He slapped a field dressing on the laceration and gracelessly struggled under the four-and-a-half stone of gear to stand on his good leg.