by Lizzy Barber
But it’s actually Michael who seems to be sorry. He places a hand on mine, and the skin between his eyebrows pinches into a frown. ‘I know you must think me a coward, and a let-down, for not pursuing this further, or telling the police or anyone else. But you have to understand: Rebecca and Hugo are my life. We’re happy here, and each unremarkable day that goes by takes us away from that time; from Father Paul.’
‘I don’t think you’re a coward,’ I say slowly, letting his hand rest on mine. And it’s true. I can see where he’s coming from. Is it really that different from what I was trying to do, before I started looking? We’ve both been trying to distance ourselves from our past.
I want to say more, but there’s a sudden pelting of footsteps down the stairs, and then a little dark-haired body comes hurtling towards Michael’s lap. ‘Daddy!’ he says gleefully, his head buried into his father’s chest.
‘Hello there, little one.’ Michael ruffles his fingers through Hugo’s hair, and plants a kiss on the top of his head. I can see the love in him, in the way he holds his son, protectively. I can see that nothing is worth risking him for.
Rebecca appears in the doorway. ‘Mike, you said you’d take Hugo for the evening,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to finish reading that report.’ Her eyes flick from me to Keira, her unspoken dismissal heavy in the air.
Mike raises a curled fist to his mouth and clears his throat. ‘Sorry, Becs, you’re right.’ He gives us an apologetic shrug. ‘Girls, can I give you a lift to the station?’
I can’t help feeling disappointment that it’s all over, but one look at Rebecca and I know we’ve long outstayed our welcome. Besides, I have what I came for: Mike has told me what he knows, even if he hasn’t given me the conclusion I was hoping for.
In the car we’re awkward, our truncated conversation tangible in the silence. As we pull into the station, Mike catches my eye in the wing mirror. ‘I’m sorry … about Rebecca. It’s nothing against you personally, it’s just that she’s scared about dredging all that old stuff up again. She’s very protective of Hugo. She handled everything at the time so remarkably well, but I think, in the back of her mind, it really affected her.’
I tell him it’s fine, that I understand, that my mum is the same, and I reach blindly for the door handle.
But just before I close the car door behind me he calls me back. ‘Rosie, you have to believe me when I say these are dangerous people we’re dealing with here. I know you want to find out what happened to your sister, but if I’m right, if Father Paul really is involved, then you have no idea what lengths they’ll go to, to keep that secret. I know what it’s like, at your age: you think you know everything, that you’re invincible. But you’re just a child. If you get involved with The Lilies, you could get hurt.’
‘I understand.’ I nod, push the door shut behind me.
What he doesn’t know is that my decision’s already been made. If I want to know if The Lilies took my sister, I’m going to have to find them myself.
ANNA
23
The low, repetitive beat continues. A muffled voice travels in from outside, insistent but indistinct.
‘Mamma, what should we do?’ My instinct is to reach for her, to let her lead me, as she always has done, but my ties prevent me.
Her eyes dart from me to the door to the attic window, her whole body pressed against the wall, like it’s keeping her upright. Even from across the room, I can see she is trembling. ‘We have to stay here,’ she says. ‘He’ll go eventually.’
‘We can’t hide up here for ever, Mamma. We have to do something. Shouldn’t we call the police?’
‘Be quiet!’ The snap in her voices shocks me, and I am silent.
The banging continues. I try to strain my ears to make out what the sound is, but it’s too far away, too hard to hear clearly through the padlocked door. Mamma begins to pace; fists balled, hitting her temples like she’s either trying to block out the noise or smack an answer into herself. Words muttered under her breath. I realise she is praying.
After what seems like an age, the beating falls silent. Mamma, her face slicked with sweat, gives a sob of relief and sinks against the door. ‘He’s gone.’ She presses her palms together, looks heavenwards. ‘I told you, Anna. You must have more faith.’
She stays like that, unmoving, the only sound her panicked breathing slowly reaching equilibrium. I say nothing, hoping this will be my chance: to convince Mamma to set me free, to give us a chance to escape him. But then I hear the click of a bottle cap, see her pouring the viscous green liquid onto a spoon. ‘Oh, Mamma, please no.’ I can’t help the whimper in my voice as she moves towards me.
‘Hush now, honey. It’s been a long day, for both of us. Why don’t you get some rest?’ I squirm away from her, but I can’t stave off the metal butting between my teeth, or the medicine trickling down my throat. Mamma takes a flannel and wipes almost tenderly at my mouth, where I can feel rivulets of green running down my chin. ‘There’s a good girl,’ she soothes, her voice as syrupy as the medicine. ‘Trust in me. I’ll protect you. I won’t let him get you.’
I wake panting, and for a moment I’ve forgotten where I am. I see the beams of sunlight creeping their way across the bed sheets and it comes back to me: the attic.
The air is heavy with heat. I am soaked in my own sweat, blood pulsing in my ears. How long have I been here? Is it two days? Three? My world has turned upside down.
I suck my cheeks in, seeking out moisture, but tasting only the acrid remnants of the medicine that gums to my teeth and the roof of my mouth. I try once again to loosen the fastenings on my wrists and think I may finally feel some sort of give, when I hear footsteps outside the door, followed by the telltale sound of the padlock, and I force myself to stop. If I am going to free myself, Mamma has to be with me, not against me: I can’t let her think I’m trying to escape.
When the door opens, I almost weep with relief when I see she’s carrying a tray with a glass of water on it. I fall on it as she props me up and I gulp down the cool liquid, but before I’m even halfway through she pulls the glass away. ‘Careful now, you’ll make yourself sick.’ Her tone is brusque, and there is something in her manner that seems closed now, shut off. She won’t make eye contact with me. She sits, stiffly, in the wicker chair, and pulls her Bible onto her lap. The arrival of Father Paul has destroyed whatever openness we cultivated before. We’re back to square one.
She draws a forefinger around the Bible’s sharp corners and listlessly flicks the tips of the pages, then stops, opens the book fully. ‘I thought, seeing as you missed church yesterday, that we’d do some Bible study today. It’ll be good to take your mind off being ill.’ She begins to read, and I recognise the chapter almost instantly: the parable of the sheep and the goats, from Matthew: ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
Her voice gathers its familiar intoning lilt, and slowly I start to piece together the days. If church was yesterday, Sunday, then today is Monday. That means I’ve been here more than two days. How much longer can she keep me here, acting like her story was a dream, like Father Paul was never here? I know I have to break through this fantasy. If Father Paul came once, he’ll come again, and I have to get her to free me before he does, if I have any chance of saving us both. I have to make her go back; to confront what happened. If she faces it, maybe she’ll let me go.
‘Mamma,’ I say tentatively, when she pauses between readings. She doesn’t answer. ‘Mamma, tell me what happened once you left your father’s farmhouse?’
Her eyes don’t move from the page. ‘Why do you want to know that, Anna?’ she says. ‘It’s not important.’
I clear my throa
t, trying to break a path through its claggy dryness. ‘Please, Mamma. It might help me understand.’
‘Understand what, Anna?’
‘What happened between you and Father Paul? Why does he want you to go back to The Lilies? What does he …’ I choose my words carefully, ‘what does he want with me?’
She huffs, but remains silent.
‘I have a right to know.’
For a moment I think she’s going to turn and leave me here. She rises, looks to the door, then back at me.
‘Let the wise hear and increase in learning …’ I say. I direct my gaze at the Bible in her hands. Reluctantly she sits, placing the book on the floor beside her. ‘Let the wise hear and increase in learning and …’ I prompt, hopefully.
‘… and the one who understands obtain guidance,’ she finishes, nodding wearily.
‘Try, Mamma. Try and help me understand. What happened when you left your father’s house? Where did you go?’
She closes her eyes, gathering her thoughts as I cling to the silence, waiting for her to fill it. ‘There was only one place I could go: Mason. I walked out of that house, gathered everything up from the porch, and never looked back. It was pitch black outside. I walked an hour, maybe two, stopping every once in a while to set down my bags and suck the breath back into me. It was the middle of August, and even in the depths of night the heat clung to your face like you were breathing through cheesecloth. His parents’ house was near the church. I remembered the way. I must have given them the fright of their lives when I knocked on their door. When they saw who it was, they sent for Mason. By then I was crying so hard I could barely tell my right from my left, but he put his arms around me, held me till I was quiet, and told me, “You have a new family now.”’
Mamma lets out a sharp laugh, like a cat scratching its paw against a tree. ‘I went from being a daughter to being a wife overnight. We moved into an apartment close by. Mason found a job at a local bank, and I managed to bring in a small income from selling bunches of flowers to a nearby grocery store. We lived simply. We donated most of our money to the church. We didn’t want for much else.’ She looks down at her hands. ‘But soon after we were married, everything changed.’
She closes her eyes, drawing herself back. ‘I remember the first time he said anything. I was pruning roses in the back of the church and felt a shadow fall over me. I turned around, and Father Paul was standing, watching me, an odd smile on his lips.’ She sighs heavily, and I picture him, his silent presence forcing itself upon her, like it did that day with me. ‘He asked to see me in his office the next day, in my baptism robe. He said he had a very special role for me. Something about the way he said it made me feel uneasy, but when I told Mason, he was proud; said I should feel honoured that Father Paul had taken a special interest in me.’
I hold my breath, wanting and not wanting to hear why. Something about the way she says it fills me with dread; a sixth sense that nudges me, hinting at where this may be leading. I don’t know if I am strong enough to hear it.
‘What happened in his office, Mamma?’
‘I arrived the next afternoon, dressed in my robe, like he said. I had only been in his office a couple of times before. I remember it was very cool, and the smell of new leather and clean carpets was so strong it gave me a headache as soon as I entered. He was sitting at his desk, and when the door was shut behind me, he bid me to take a seat; not to be scared. Father Paul had a way of telling you something that made you feel both calm and terrified at once.’ Mamma’s voice has dropped so low I have to strain to hear it. My stomach spins.
‘He told me …’ Her words catch in her throat, as if each one is stuck in mud. ‘He told me that I had been brought to him, to the church, for a purpose.’ She wets her lips. ‘That my purity and commitment demonstrated the role I was destined for, and that the Lord had chosen me to be a vessel for the church’s mission.’ A vessel. The word hangs heavy in the air, cumbersome and odd. ‘He … he came around the desk.’ She hesitates, rubs the heels of her hands on her knees, and I know she’s reliving it entirely. ‘He pressed the palms of his hands into my shoulders – I can still remember the feel of them, pinching my neck, the smell of his aftershave, the sweet cloves on his breath – and he asked me if I knew what he meant.’ Mamma looks mortified, her gaze fixed on a floorboard in front of her. I could tell her to stop, tell her not to say any more, that I know what she’s trying to say. My mind skips forward, but I wrench it back. I need to let her carry on. I need to hear it from her.
‘He told me …’ She swallows. I hear the gulp of saliva, thick in her throat. ‘He told me that it was my duty to bring new life into the church.’ Each word seems as though it might make her physically sick. She shakes her head. ‘I still didn’t understand: Mason and I had been married barely a week, and we hadn’t … we hadn’t yet had … the relations of a man and wife.’
Despite the strangeness of this situation, a blush crawls over her cheeks, and I know my own are blushing too. She shields her face from me. How strange; how completely out of body, to be hearing this from her now, when even talk of kissing would have been prohibited between us before. I want to block my ears, to beg her to stop. It feels cruel to let her carry on. But she presses her hands to her cheeks, driven to let the full revulsion of the scene play out.
‘Father Paul’s hand dipped between my legs, and when I faced him, he had this look in his eyes, glazed and wide, and I knew. It was a look I’d seen on the pigs in the yard; in my daddy’s eyes after a day of drinking, when he’d come home hard and mean, and look at me oddly, before roaring for me to go to my room, where I’d lock the door and hide.’
‘Mamma, no,’ I say, desperate to offer her the sanctity to end this here. But something has been unleashed in her, and she can’t, or won’t, stop.
‘When it was over, I couldn’t help but cry.’ Her voice grows hoarse, and I see a tear trickle down her cheek, an echo of the memory. ‘Father Paul told me I should be overjoyed that I had been singled out for such a position, to bear the children of the Lord’s chosen representative on earth. But secretly I didn’t feel so certain. Surely, surely the thing we had done should be only between a husband and wife; wasn’t this a sin?’ Her hands wrap around her stomach, closing in on herself. ‘He bid me come to him, almost every day, to repeat what we had done. But then he went away, to oversee the building of a new church in Mexico. He was gone almost a year, and while he was away, I found myself expecting.’
I try to hear her words, but I am thrown into confusion. A child? For the first time, a glimmer of hope surfaces.
‘I didn’t know what I was supposed to do,’ she says. ‘Mason was my husband. I had to honour that bond. Wasn’t it the will of The Lilies “to grow our family like the flowers of the field”? And Father Paul had left no instruction as to what I was to do.
‘She was a lovely baby; everyone said so. I would have sworn that she was a gift from God.’ Somehow, despite the horror that has gone before, a small smile plays on her lips – sunshine peeking through clouds. But as quickly as it appears, it dissipates. ‘Except for Father Paul. When he finally returned from Mexico, he could barely even look at her. There was no way she could have been his, and he knew it. He declared an edict, forbidding husbands and wives to have relations, saying it was the will of the Lord for us to remain pure in deed, as well as word. Only that edict didn’t apply to his relationship with me. He began again, right where he left off. I tried, I prayed so hard that I could bear his child – in the hope that it would finally release me from my duties to him – and a little over two years later, I finally found I was expecting again.’
Now I feel as if I’m seeing double. The twists of the story seem to confuse rather than clarify. What happened to these phantom children – and is one of them me?
‘This pregnancy was different – I knew straight away, even from only having had the one. Something just felt off. I couldn’t explain it. And then one night, when I must have been about si
x months gone, I went to the bathroom in the middle of the night with terrible pains in my stomach, and when I looked down there was blood everywhere. And I knew. I knew.’ The pain in her voice is so raw I can feel it.
‘Oh, Mamma …’
‘I felt sure this was a sign from God, telling me what I was doing wasn’t right. Mason knew that the child was Father Paul’s, but he had been brought up in the church; he believed Father Paul had a direct relationship with the Lord, and whatever he decreed was received from Him. And besides, even if he didn’t agree with it, what could he do? Father Paul’s word was absolute. But, for the first time since I joined, I was beginning to lose faith.
‘It was nearly Easter, the church’s most important festival, because the Easter lily itself is a symbol of Christ’s resurrection. There was a ceremony held at midnight – the whole church was lit by candlelight, and the congregation processed through it, each with a lily in their hands, placing the flowers in the river and watching them float away, before wading into the water to be cleansed. I used to think it was beautiful,’ she snorts. ‘But that year, Mason and I fought. I had made up my mind: I wanted to leave, to get out of the church and start a new life, just the three of us. My body and my soul were broken, but I thought, perhaps, this was a chance to make everything right. I refused to go to the ceremony; told him to take the baby and go on his own.’ For a moment she is silent, lost in the memory of that night. When she speaks again, it’s as if her insides have been pulled out. Her voice is ragged, hollow. ‘I would give anything now, to be able to take that back.’
A bad, bad feeling worms its way inside me, and I steel myself against what is coming next. ‘Father Paul came to tell me himself,’ she says. ‘I was waiting up, but I must have fallen asleep on the couch: I woke up to the sound of him banging on the door. They’d been in a crash, coming back from the ceremony. The car hit directly into the driver’s side. They had been trying to overtake him, and smashed right into him on a blind corner. Mason had been killed. But she was alive.’