Reprobation

by Catherine Fearns

  As always, her caustic tone softened at the end. Helen sighed inwardly. These tricks and manipulations no longer worked on her.

  After the congregation had shuffled out into the cold and into their own private nightmares, the nuns made their way to the dining room, which they nostalgically called the Refectory. They took it in turns to cook, and nobody was particularly looking forward to tonight’s effort, a beef stew by Sister Frida. But they sat together in amicable quiet, the twelve of them, the twelve apostles of Margaret Mills, murmuring appreciation at the food steaming in front of them, and waiting for the Deaconess to take her place at the head of the table. At the other end was Sister Mary, the Deaconess’ official deputy, rubbing her hands together in gleeful anticipation of dinner. Now approaching the age of fifty, she had entered the convent fifteen years ago, having received a calling to the monastic vocation shortly before the end of her medical studies. Thanks to Mary’s energy and expertise, the Order was able to care adequately for the elderly nuns, plus the odd pregnant or drug-addicted waifs and strays that landed on their doorstep. She was a gossip and a glutton, but everyone appreciated her burly, jovial presence in such severe surroundings. Next to her were Sisters Josephine and Anke, who had arrived at Argarmeols seven years ago on secondment from a Calvinist Order near Antwerp and had never left. They barely spoke, other than to each other. Sister Alice had taken the veil after being widowed, and Sister Frida had also apparently been married, but was now so pious that she rarely left the chapel other than to cook. Other than Helen, only Mary had taken the veil as a young woman. As for the Deaconess, her journey to Sisterhood remained something of a mystery to all of them; she spoke a lot, but rarely about herself.

  Helen was usually seated next to the Deaconess; as a university lecturer and a bringer of revenue to the Order, she was accorded a special veneration. Furthermore, the Deaconess far preferred her company to anyone else’s. Opposite Helen were Sisters Elizabeth and Elsie, the two most elderly nuns. The Order effectively operated as a retirement home; with only Helen, Margaret and Mary of working age. Helen looked at the women who had become her family. They didn’t wear their veils indoors when they were together, and apart from Margaret and Helen every head was white or grey. The scent of carbolic soap, old lady and unwashed wool. They were supposed to be an evangelical Order, to spread the word, to convert people, but nobody from the outside had taken the veil, or even come close to considering it, since Helen ten years ago. Apart from a relatively tiny but loyal local congregation, the only real interest in the place nowadays came from desperate people seeking short-term refuge, or chancers pretending they were desperate, or people with obvious mental instability, or journalists seeking a story. A TV crew had once pitched up and requested making Argarmeols Hall part of a reality documentary on the modern cloistered life. Margaret had sent them packing with a spectacular brutality that had become legendary amongst the Sisters. But without interest or support from the public, without any true relevance in the world, they all wondered how long this place, this little anachronism, could continue.

  The ladies straightened in their seats and bowed their heads as Margaret swept in and began grace. ‘Dear Lord, we thank you for this food we are about to enjoy. We thank you for each other, for our community, for your love. We pray for the poor victims murdered within our community; we pray for their families, and we pray that God helps them to understand why they had to die in such a way. Amen.’

  The Sisters began to eat, murmuring approvals and assents.

  ‘Terrible business with the bodies on the beach and now the church,’ ventured Sister Hazel from the other end of the table. ‘Do you think they are connected, Deaconess?’

  Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a loud ‘Pardon?’ from Sister Elizabeth, who was very deaf. Margaret placed a hand on Elizabeth’s arm and leaned in.

  ‘The bodies, dear. On the beach and in the church, the murders.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Sister Elsie benignly.

  Sister Mary came to her aid, changing the subject through a mouthful of roast potatoes. ‘That was quite a sermon today, Margaret. Really got them going!’

  ‘It was nothing to do with getting them going, Mary. I meant every word, as always. These are portentous times, I think we all feel it. A change is coming, perhaps even the Great Tribulation. I feel as if, unlikely as it seems, our Order is needed more than ever in the world.’

  ‘Oh Margaret, that’s a bit dramatic isn’t it?’ chuckled Mary.

  ‘Pardon?’ contributed Sister Elizabeth.

  Margaret visibly rolled her eyes and turned to Helen, signalling that group discussion was over and that they should talk amongst themselves. In a hushed voice she said:

  ‘What is happening to you at the moment, Helen? Yesterday Sister Mary needed to use the car to deliver some boxes for the Salvation Army clothing drive, and it wasn’t there. Did you know she has been having to hire a van! In the past you always told us where you were going. You haven’t really been going to see your mother, have you?’

  Helen looked at her plate, feeling a childish insolence. Margaret continued, looking out at the other nuns with a hushed voice.

  ‘I know you haven’t, because I telephoned her. She and I had such plans for you here. I mean, we have such plans for you here. You are to be the future of this place, my dear. After everything that happened to you… they do say that the best Sisters are those that bring with them to the cloister some grievous sin to expiate. And with your sin, you are going to be the most wonderful nun. You are the most wonderful nun.’

  Helen continued to look down and eat in silence. She had, of course, chosen this life in order to be constantly reminded of her grievous sin, and yet it still irritated her to be constantly reminded of it. It is only what you deserve, she told herself again.

  ‘There has been talk, you know,’ continued the Deaconess. ‘Some here feel that you are no longer fully participating in the community. That you might be questioning your faith. Tell me, how is your faith, Sister?’

  Helen felt she needed to offer something, at least.

  ‘I am working through some issues, it’s true, Margaret. Sometimes I feel that my faith is stronger than ever, at other times I feel I am losing it completely.’

  ‘Then talk to me. It doesn’t have to be like last time, in the retreat. Although having said that, I would like to go there soon, and check on the renovations. I’m hoping we can start painting soon. I’d also like to discuss the finances of this place with you, Helen. You’re the only one who can help me. I mean, look at this lot.’

  ‘They’re wonderful,’ said Helen, looking at them, and noting with bitter amusement how the Deaconess was able to flit effortlessly from questions of mortal sin to interior decoration. Helen meant what she said, too, because these quiet ladies had become her family.

  ‘Yes, yes, wonderful and all that, but if we don’t get new blood we are finished here. There’s only you and I who are even of working age and bringing in salaries. I have a lot on my mind too you know. It’s by no means clear that our grant from English Heritage is going to continue. And if we don’t find some new recruits – and I had hoped you might be able to bring one or two in via your position at the university, as I brought you in. Our grant from the United Reformed is truly hanging in the balance. It’s supposed to be conditional on conversions.’

  Helen pulled and twisted and stroked at her wooden cross as Margaret continued, wishing she would stop.

  ‘You are being tempted, you know. And that’s no bad thing – Jesus was tempted. Can’t you see, Helen? The signs – how much clearer do they need to be? An actual Satanist came here! I know who he is you see, I looked him up. A Satanist, within our grounds, and you went for a walk with him for goodness sake! You’re on the brink, Helen, I’m telling you. Turn back to God.’

  Then she softened. ‘This is a huge moment for you, this could be the test you’ve been waiting for your whole life.’ Now Margaret was gripping her ar
m on the table and staring at her, and Helen felt she had no choice but to look back.

  ‘Thank you, Deaconess. I will bear it all in mind. And I will pray.’

  But tears were welling in her eyes and she could sit there no longer. She abruptly pushed back her chair and stood up to leave, too quickly, so that everyone stopped to look. And then she gasped in shock as the cross on which she had been pulling suddenly broke free from its necklace of wooden beads. The cross fell on to her plate and became soaked in beef stew, while the tiny beads scattered, rolling across the room in all directions. The Deaconess stood up too, pushed back her chair in anger, saying, ‘Well, I… I never did!’ before plucking the cross from Helen’s plate and drying it, urgently, on her napkin. She looked at Helen incredulously, almost with disgust, and made a point of not handing the cross back. The other Sisters sat motionless in wary silence. Helen wavered, looking around, wondering whether to start picking up the beads and then unable to bear it any longer. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, excuse me,’ she said, and left the room at almost a run, heading straight for the phone in the living room. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, just do it.

  She sat on the armchair in the living room, took from her pocket the scrap of flyer on which Mikko had scrawled his mobile number, and in one movement took the old-fashioned phone and dialled the number. A voice answered, over the top of a lot of background noise, and she could hear the thud of drums and guitars and loud voices in the background. ‘Yo. Mikko.’

  ‘Mikko. It’s Helen. OK, I’ll come with you. To the south of France. When you’ve finished your tour.’

  ‘Yes! I knew it. I will arrange everything, Sister Helen, and I will see you at the airport. But do me one favour – lose the habit, just for a couple of days. I’m not saying you have to wear a bikini, although you can, be my guest you know, by all means.’ Suddenly he shouted to someone in the background ‘Hey fuckheads, be careful with those fucking guitars… Sorry, we’re just loading out. Those guitars are my babies, you know – but… just to get some fucking vitamin D, you know?’

  Later, there was a knock on Helen’s door. It was Sisters Josephine and Anke, in their dressing gowns, smiling kindly and holding Helen’s repaired cross and necklace. ‘Here you are, my love,’ said Josephine. ‘We collected up most of them and re-strung it for you.’ Helen’s eyes filled with tears as she took the cross and clutched it to her chest. ‘Never mind the Deaconess, my dear,’ said Anke. ‘She loves you. We all love you. We want you to be happy here. It’s alright to waver, you know. We all do. God understands.’

  Helen was overwhelmed by their small kindness, and she longed for one or both of them to come forward and hug her, to have some human touch other than the Deaconess’s threatening hand on her forearm, or Sister Mary’s sweaty and exuberant shakes of her shoulders. But she knew that neither of them would. It just wasn’t done here.

  That night in bed, she knew she would again dream of falling. The Bible was filled with stories of falling; the house built on sand that falls with a crash; the seed that falls on rocky ground; the Great Falling Away. And all these allegories meant the same – spiritual descent, apostasy, an abandonment of God. As she waited for the sleep that refused to come, she tossed and turned and writhed and her hands slipped down towards her thighs and this time she allowed herself not to stop.

  12.

  St. Cuthbert’s Hospice consisted of a large red-brick Edwardian manor house, flanked by single-storey modern wings, all standing in a large leafy garden on the edge of Croxteth Country Park. Run since the 1960s by Franciscan friars, it functioned in odd harmony with the National Health Service in a similarly effective anachronism to the Roman Catholic schools’ arrangement with the Department for Education. In some ways it was comparable to the Sisters of Grace; a minor stately home donated to the church, a place where the spectre of death was constant and questions of destiny were foremost in people’s minds. Whereas at Argarmeols Hall death meant fear and judgment, here there was care and compassion.

  Swift shuddered as he and Quinn pulled into the car park.

  ‘I hate these places,’ he said, too flippantly.

  But Quinn said, ‘Actually this place is really lovely. My uncle was here so I’ve been before. They do a great job.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I just mean, it’s terrifying, isn’t it. Can’t really get me head around it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They walked towards the entrance, passing a little shrine to St. Cuthbert in white marble, around which several bunches of fresh flowers had been recently place. ‘So this place is run by Franciscan friars? What is it with nuns and monks in this town?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Quinn smiling, ‘Liverpool is full of believers. Anyway this is a proper hospital though, apparently it’s the state of the art palliative care centre in the North West. You see, boss, religion can put itself to good use.’

  They went to the Reception desk, and Swift immediately felt a lump in his throat at the meaning of the place, but was surprised at how kindly the atmosphere felt. Father Anthony came around the corner with hand already outstretched to greet them, and when he took Swift’s elbow with his other hand and looked into his eyes, Swift had a sudden urge to burst into tears. The Sisters of Grace made a statement with their overly-traditional monastic uniform, and Father Anthony also made a statement but in the opposite direction. Instead of a habit he wore jeans, trainers and a grey zip-up hoodie, under which he displayed a Liverpool football shirt onto which he had somehow fashioned a dog collar. He took them down a wide corridor to his office, past a brightly decorated living area where a few visitors were seated in family groups. There were children, amongst the patients as well as the visitors, and some of them looked desperately sick. Swift could hardly bear to look, and he marvelled at the strength of people, the terrible things with which they were able to cope, the crosses they had to bear.

  Swift and Quinn sat down in Father Anthony’s office, and he bounced down onto his chair on the other side of the desk. He had a kind yet jovial Irish accent tinged with Liverpudlian after decades spent at St Cuthbert’s. ‘So detectives, I’m only sorry it took me so long to contact you about this. I didn’t spot it myself, it was one of our families who saw his picture in the paper and sent it to me. Unfortunately one of the families had found this man a bit of a nuisance, this Andrew Shepherd, and that’s why they remembered him.’

  ‘A nuisance?’

  ‘Well. I’ll start at the beginning shall I? I just feel horrible about this, we would never have guessed. I mean, do you really think it was him? Anyway.’ He put out his hands, paused to gather his thoughts. ‘Andrew Shepherd started coming here six months ago. We have a volunteer programme, we have about fifty regular volunteers in fact. There are all sorts of things people can get involved with – cooking, entertaining, massage, beauty treatment, fundraising, and so on, it’s a very important part of our set-up. Anyway, Andrew Shepherd applied to be on the befriending scheme. His CV said he had done it many times before, said that he had a counselling qualification, and so on; and he did provide references. But since his Criminal Records check was clear, and we needed befrienders quite urgently, I have to admit that we didn’t check those references. He seemed such a lovely man, it didn’t seem to matter.

  ‘His role was to come in for three hours a week during visiting time, to chat to patients that didn’t have visitors. And he was very reliable. But… he turned out to be a little strange, unfortunately.’

  ‘You said he was a nuisance?’ asked Swift.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. For starters, he was very picky, which is not really in the spirit of things here. He seemed only interested in talking to certain patients. Now, obviously there are situations that are too traumatic for some people to cope with, I understand that, but this was something else. He wanted to be with those who were closest to death, and in particular those who had almost died, you know, had near-death experiences. He was bothering people when they were with their families, que
stioning them, making them upset. I began to think he had some sort of a death fetish. Then the final straw came in the visitors’ lounge one day when he started harassing this poor child who was terribly ill and who we’d almost lost the week before. He was urging the girl to draw what she’d seen when she was… when she almost died. Thrusting paper and crayons at her. He became very forceful about it and we had to almost drag him away. I believe he took the drawing with him as well. That was the family that spotted him in the newspaper. How could you forget his face after such an upsetting incident?’

  ‘So why did you allow him to continue coming?’ asked Swift.

  ‘We talked to him immediately, of course, about his behaviour, and he was terribly apologetic. But you know, these places are very difficult, some people take a while to learn how to cope. So we gave him a chance. And then – and this is the main reason we allowed him to stay – he had become very close to one particular patient, Lily Taylor. She doesn’t have any visitors at all, it’s quite sad really, and she became very attached to him – she needed him in fact. So we allowed him to continue coming on condition that he only spoke to her. And that was easy to enforce, because she can’t leave her room, so he just went in there. As I say, I feel terrible, and I suppose with hindsight maybe I should have spotted that he… well, he had some sort of agenda of his own.’

  ‘So this patient, this Lily Taylor, is still alive?’

  ‘Yes, she’s just clinging on. It’s a miracle really, we almost lost her several times over the past few months. Obviously we haven’t told her that he’s a murder suspect. But she doesn’t seem to miss him, hasn’t been asking about him, which is also very strange. As if she knew he wasn’t coming back.’

  ‘Father Anthony, would it be possible for us to speak to her?’

  He thought for a moment, breathing deeply and gazing into the space above their heads.