by Lizzy Barber
I can see it unfolding before me: the sea of people dressed in white, the child, confused and helpless, and Mamma, utterly powerless against the force of them. Something is knotting in the base of my stomach – fear and unrest twisting with my body’s own sick and feeble state. Through clenched teeth, although some part of me already knows the answer, I ask, ‘What happened in the water?’
Mamma stares straight ahead, eyes glazed over, not seeing me, not seeing anything but the memories. Slowly, her arm reaches out in front of her, as if she is trying to grasp hold of something, but whether she’s trying to draw her thoughts forward or pull herself back to that moment, I can’t tell.
After a long silence, she speaks. ‘You have to understand, Anna. There were so many of them, and only one of me. I tried to go in with them.’ Tears are streaming freely now down her cheeks and pooling at the collar of her shirt. ‘If I had – I could have – I could have stopped it. But Father Paul shouted at me to stay away. He told me it was for her own good. He told me he would make her better. I had lived and breathed The Lilies for so long, I didn’t know what to believe any more. And so I watched them.’ Her voice cracks. ‘My baby. My darling girl. And them.
‘Someone had given him a Bible, and the two women were holding her again. She was crying and shivering in the cold water, crying for me, crying for Mason, desperately trying to get herself free. “You see?” Father Paul roared at me from the water, never letting his eyes leave her. “You see how dirt has taken root in her? A child of God would have nothing to fear, nothing to try and free herself from.” And then he began.
‘He addressed the people in the water. “You here before me, do you understand why you have joined me here tonight?”
‘Yes, they answered, in perfect unison – proud of what they were doing. Proud to be pinning down a little girl. They said, “We are gathered on this night to save one of our own: Anna Grace Montgomery, who we believe to be unclean. With your help, and with the help of the Lord in heaven, we will cast the dirt from her, and return her pure soul to God.”
‘Then he asked if they were willing to do what was right, to make this unclean soul pure. And they said again, like it was nothing, like it was any other ceremony, “Yes, Father Paul, we are.”
‘You have to understand’ – here she breaks away, not addressing me wholly, but for a second paying heed to a world outside her story – ‘the purification ritual was central to The Lilies. For them, there was nothing different about doing it then.’ She bows her head, and a tear skis down her jaw, falls from the point of her chin. ‘I dare say if I was in their position, I would have done the same.
‘Father Paul crossed himself, then dipped his hand into the water and drew his thumb down the centre of his forehead, anointing himself, and bid the others to do the same. I wanted so badly to believe this was right, that what he was doing was in the name of the Lord, but then one of the women wet Anna’s head and she shook violently, calling out for me in such a wretched way that it was like a knife to my heart, and I knew it could not be the Lord’s will. I sank to my knees on the bank. I was powerless. I can still feel the blades of grass beneath my fingers as I tore at them, steeling myself from wading in there and taking her away from all of it.
‘He began with prayers,’ she says, ‘familiar ones I’d heard many times before, that we used for the purification ritual, and then turned to the Gospel of Luke, to the story of Jesus driving out the Devil. And then, finally, he spoke to Anna directly: “I command you, unclean spirit, to depart from this holy soul, whom the Lord has made in His image. For this soul belongs to the kingdom of heaven, found within earth in The Lilies. As He has blessed this holy water surrounding us, it is this holy water that shall drive the dirt out. Congregation of The Lilies, what say you?” And then the congregation shouted, “Unclean!”
‘They held her by the arms and plunged her into the water: I can still see the false piety in their faces in the moonlight. She came up coughing and spluttering and crying. My baby, my darling little girl – she had no idea what they were doing to her.’ Mamma clamps a hand to her mouth, her body racked with unbroken sobs that make her rock back and forth on her chair. I feel helpless, trapped by the bed, the attic, the story; unable to offer her comfort, and not yet knowing if I should. I am staring down the barrel of a gun, and I can’t look away.
‘Father Paul shouted to the heavens again, splashing his hands against the water, saying, “I adjure you, unclean spirit, to leave this soul to the Lord. For The Lilies protect it and have made it pure.” And again the congregation cast her into the water, shouting that she was unclean, and that they were ridding her of the dirt that covered her. They held her down longer this time, and when she came up she vomited up liquid. I could feel her fear!’ Her voice breaks through the sobs, and she thumps a fist against her stomach and chest. ‘Here! And here! It was like I was being torn in two. And I begged Father Paul to stop. She is pure, she is clean, please, please, leave her be. I was starting to see him for what he was: a liar; a phony; not the Lord’s word at all, just a man who was hurting my child. But he was raging now; his voice was like thunder as he called out, again and again, and they plunged her under, again and again, and their voices got louder and faster and angrier.
‘And then something in them shifted. I didn’t notice at first. I was beating my fists on the ground, crying out for Father Paul to listen to me, but then I looked up and saw that the congregation had all gone quiet. And although I could barely bring myself to do it, I turned to look at Anna.’ As quickly as Mamma’s voice rose to a peak, it has dropped to barely more than a whisper. And I know, suddenly, what is coming next.
‘She was limp in their arms. It almost looked like she was sleeping, except there was something about the angle of her body, and the way she hung her head. I knew, instantly, that she wasn’t asleep. One of the women called for Father Paul, but I was already in the water, ripping my daughter from their arms and pulling her onto the bank.’ Mamma’s hands rise to her mouth, but they can barely staunch the deluge of pain that is flowing from her. ‘She looked so tiny there, lying on the grass, her robe tangled around her feet. Her hair, her soft baby hair I would stroke and brush and make neat, was plastered against her forehead, and her lips were already turning blue. I tried desperately to think what to do: pinching her nose and blowing onto those beautiful, baby lips; pressing her tiny chest with the palm of my hands, fearful I might break her ribs; slapping her face, wake up, wake up, wake up!’
Wetness on my cheeks. I am crying, too. The attic is drowning in Mamma’s story.
‘It was Father Paul who pulled me off her. I felt hands under my arms lift me off the ground and drag me away as I called out for her. I was kicking. The group closed in around her. Some of the women were crying. One of the ones who’d been holding her was saying she didn’t mean to do it, over and over. But none of them were me, or my pain.
‘When he finally let me loose, he had the strangest expression on his face: I can still see it now. There was no remorse, no fear. Instead, he looked calm. His blue eyes were clear and serene, and there was even a faint smile on his face. And I could see, now, that this was never about her. Father Paul wanted to punish me: for having a child with Mason; for failing to bear one that was his.
‘He took me by the shoulders, looked at me dead on, and said the Lord was angry with me, that He thought I would be a vessel, that through me He would spread the message of The Lilies. But he said my soul was twisted and rotten; that it killed the hope of that when it killed his child inside me. And now, the Lord saw fit to punish me further.
‘I screamed and beat my fist against his chest and told him that it was all his fault; that I would make him pay. I told him I would go to the police, to the national papers, to anyone who would hear me, and I would bring the church down around them, and him with it. But even as I was speaking, that smile bloomed on his face, like one of his wretched lilies, and he shook his head and laughed. He said, “That wouldn’t play very
well now, would it, Mary Elizabeth? Just think of the headline: ‘Crazed widow blames husband’s death on infant child and drowns her’.” I started to argue, but he gestured to the crowd of people standing downhill from us and said he had ten witnesses there who would say otherwise; he pointed at the church, and said he’d have at least fifty more should he need them. He kissed the tip of his thumb, reached out and marked a cross on my forehead. Blessing me. And burning me.
‘I was trapped. I saw no way to go, no way out. But then, like the heavens were opening to show me the light, I saw my opportunity. Father Paul stepped away from me, left me in a heap on the ground, and went to calm the congregation, worried they were hysterical, making so much noise someone would hear. And when his back was fully turned to me, without hesitating another second, I ran.’
She swallows, and I try to imagine what it must have been like: the overwhelming fear, the blinding panic, colliding in her head. But I think, too, of her – the original Anna. How could she leave her there like that, discarded like an old toy?
And if that Anna is really gone, what does that mean for me?
She must sense what I’m thinking, because she presses her palms to the sides of her face. When she looks at me, it’s as if her soul is drained. ‘It was the only way. She was gone from me, for ever. If I stayed, for her, I would only be killing us both. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think of her every day. I know I will have the Lord to answer to, in the end.
‘I don’t know what I expected to happen: for him to come after me, or send his minions to chase me down, but when I was almost out of sight and felt no one behind me, I turned around. There he was on the river bank, watching me. Smiling, but still. And when I turned to go he gave me a little wave, a nod of his head, and called to me. I’ve never forgotten what he said: “Run, Mary. Run away. But remember: no one ever leaves The Lilies. We’ll always be watching.”’
I feel it, suddenly: the barricade Mamma has created around us. Her cautious glances every time we leave the house. The drawn curtains. And those cards, the ones I found in her room: a constant reminder of Father Paul’s promise. How she has lived every moment lying in wait.
And I am also aware, breathing in the stagnant air under the attic’s roof, of just how small our world has become. Father Paul has delivered on his promise: he has watched, he is waiting. So what is Mamma’s plan for me?
‘I stumbled back to the apartment,’ Mamma carries on. ‘I don’t even know how I found my way. In a funny sense, it felt just like the night I had argued with Daddy; I packed things, a change of clothes, our wedding photograph. Forgetting myself, I went to reach for some of her things, and had to force myself to put them down. What do you pack, when you have nothing left that matters? We had some money saved up, in the safe in the bedroom – we’d been planning to make a big donation to the church, to help fund a nursery, in the hope our fortunes would grow.
‘I walked. Faltering, half-crazed steps. Got myself to the highway, and eventually, after half an hour of frantic waving, a truck driver stopped. From the look of me, he must have thought I was an abused wife, took pity on me. He asked where I was headed, as I pulled the door to. I could barely think. Where was he going, I asked. Florida, he said.
‘What did it matter now where I went, or what I did? I stared up at the rising sun in front of me and agreed. Yes. Florida.’
ROSIE
26
I stare into my sister’s eyes, trying to make sense of what it is I’m seeing. In the picture, she can’t be much older than when she was taken; the chubby toddler’s cheeks thinned a touch, the wisps of baby hair around her temples turning dark, but still unmistakably her.
She’s alive, I whisper, stroking her face. But if so, where? Why hasn’t she come back to us? Why is she smiling?
I can’t help the clench of anger that sears through me. All the pain, everything my family went through, and here she is, grinning at a camera. How could she have forgotten who she was, and what could this woman have said to her, to make her want to stay?
I tear myself away from her face, and then, with shaking hands, I realise there’s something on the back. I turn it over. Handwriting, meticulous and exact, but also childlike: rounded, carefully formed letters like a page torn out of a primary school workbook. A single line: She called me Mamma.
I clutch the photograph to my chest, tears streaming down my face. I’ve found her. I’ve found Emily.
And then I hear footsteps clipping down the corridor.
My body turns to ice as the room seems to grow cavernous around me, its neatness offering precisely nowhere to hide. Maybe they won’t come inside, I try to rationalise, even as I hear the footsteps coming closer.
My arms and legs jangle, coursing with adrenaline. They’re right outside the door – two of them; I hear their voices distinctly – and in a last bout of panic I throw back the chair and crawl under the desk, pulling my backpack in after me, grateful for the front panel that cocoons me inside. Quickly, I fold up the picture, stuffing it in my back pocket where I hope it’ll be safe.
‘So, we do this after every service?’ It’s a woman’s voice, young. ‘Even if he’s not here?’
I stuff my sleeve into my mouth, terrified my very breathing will betray me.
‘That’s right.’ It’s another woman. She sounds older, more authoritative. ‘Father Paul likes to visit all of his chapters throughout the year and expects each of his offices to be kept to the highest standard. I’ll show you the routine the first few times, and then you’ll be on your own.’
I shut my eyes and hug in my knees, as if making myself smaller will somehow make me less conspicuous.
‘So, we clean everything?’ the first woman sighs.
‘That’s right, top to bottom.’
‘But how will he know from one week to the next, if he’s not even here?’
‘Verity.’ The second woman sounds impatient, the softness of her voice faltering. ‘In joining us, you accepted Father Paul as the voice of the Lord on earth. If you are to do His will, you must accept his authority without question.’
There’s a pause, and I imagine Verity hanging her head. ‘Yes, Johanna. You’re right. Pure as The Lilies.’
‘Pure as The Lilies,’ Johanna repeats, and with a horror that drags through me I hear the door shut behind them.
The pad of their footsteps comes closer and I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to trace their movements through sound. They’re standing at the doorway, but I know that the moment they come near the desk I’ll be discovered. I hear a soft thud of something hitting the ground – a packing box, maybe? – followed by what I guess is the thump of books filling it, so I’m sure they’re at the bookcase. They work methodically, just an infrequent grunt or groan as they lift and place, and an occasional directive from Johanna. ‘We clear all the books, dust the shelves, then replace them. Then we tidy the filing cabinets, make sure all the papers are neat and in order. And then the desk. Don’t touch the photographs though.’
The tinny scrape of the cabinet drawers tells me which one is finished and how many are left. And then, finally, I hear them moving towards the desk.
My thoughts go into hyperdrive, trying to find an excuse for what I could possibly be doing here. My mind is as blank as the church walls. I hear the tap of metal next to my head, a key in the desk lock – they had it the whole time. And then the noise I have been waiting for since they walked in the door: a scream.
Footsteps. The chair scraped aside. Hands clutch at my wrists, and I’m hauled out from my hiding place. Two angry faces are waiting for me, and the younger of the two is gulping in air, on the verge of crying from the shock of discovering me.
‘What are you doing in here?’ The older one jabs at my shoulder with a thick index finger.
‘I …’ I look from one to the other. I expected them to be in robes, but instead they’re in ordinary clothes, albeit loose, shapeless things like the woman in Michael’s photograph. Only their hair is wet,
dripping beads of water down their cheeks and flecking their tops.
‘Did you get sent from the council?’ the younger one says. ‘Is that why you’re here? We’ve told you already: this is private property.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Verity, she’s not from the council, she’s a child.’ The older one moves closer, wagging a witchy finger at me. ‘Come on, then: where did you come from? Who put you up to this? A school prank? What do you want?’
‘I – I …’ I am reeling. A couple of days ago I didn’t even know who The Lilies were, and now there are two of them right in front of me. The photograph burns in my back pocket. If they find it, if they realise what I know, it’s over. ‘I …’ I tear my eyes away from her fingernail and look at her. She’s about my parents’ age, if not a few years older, lines playing at the sides of her mouth, the corners of her eyes. What can I say that will get me out of here, and make me safe? I think of The Lilies, of the sort of people they must be to join something like this: lonely, in search of something. And then it comes to me: ‘I was running away.’ I hang my head, making myself look smaller, pitiful.
Their faces soften. Verity lets out a sympathetic ‘Oh’.
‘I’m so sorry for trespassing,’ I gush. ‘I honestly wasn’t trying to do anything wrong. I was just looking for a place to sleep, and this looked like a church. I thought perhaps I could find somewhere warm. I wandered in here, but when I heard your voices, I panicked.’