“We are here today to commemorate the life of Lara Ramsey, beloved daughter of Patricia and Edward. She has been taken from them in such tragic circumstances that it makes God’s plan for us, His children, seem mysterious, even bewildering. But we must trust in Him, have faith in Him, give ourselves up to His will.”
Even from my position at the back of the church I could hear the smothered groan that came from Edward Ramsey. Father Thomas’s words gave me no comfort either.
“Lara was a beautiful girl.” There were murmurs of assent from the congregation. “She and I didn’t always agree on matters of doctrine.” He paused, holding us all in the palm of his hand. Some people call it charisma, others say it’s just a matter of timing. Personally, this kind of audience manipulation gave me the creeps. Though I’d been keen on theatre when I was young, disillusion had set in and I began to mistrust the phoniness of it. This was the same kind of trickery.
He had milked the pause and now began again. “But we agreed to disagree. One day, I was certain, she would return to the fold. And on that day she would have been greeted with joy, the prodigal daughter home at last. Instead, God has taken her unto Himself, returned her to the beginning, to the light, to the source of all being. And we must accept it.” He raised his arms. “Let us pray.”
Heads bowed as one. Even I let my chin sink on to my chest and closed my eyes. After each prayer I found myself chanting “Amen” along with the rest. It was out of respect for Lara, I told myself. I too needed to commemorate her life, even if I didn’t believe her soul lived on in death.
At last the service was over and the congregation, led by Father Thomas, processed down the central aisle, a unified image of misery and grief. If they believed Lara had gone to a better world, why was everyone so bloody miserable? It was a conundrum I’d never been able to work out.
There weren’t many hiding places. I made do with turning my collar up and examining the rack of religious literature behind the font. Eventually the noise of passing feet subsided. The door closed silently. Someone had switched the main lights off as they passed, so that the church was illuminated only by the tall candles on the altar and by several trays of small flickering ones, most of them no doubt offered up for Lara.
I walked slowly up the aisle, my footsteps sounding hollow on the polished wooden floor. The smell of incense reminded me of joss sticks. When I reached the altar I turned right and made my way down one side of the church and up the other, stopping to look at the Stations of the Cross. They were bright and elemental like Mexican art. They showed Christ’s passion and death, or to be frank, his torture, mutilation and execution. While graphic, they lacked the horror of the real thing. These pictures were sanitised, even beautiful. I’d seen a mutilated body and there was no beauty there. I sighed. It seemed everything came back to Lara.
I was examining the last icon, showing a contorted body nailed to a tree, when I heard a soft click and a door opened somewhere nearby. Father Thomas, in a plain black cassock now, crossed in front of the altar, genuflected, then opened the little gate that led up to the sanctuary itself. One by one he doused the tall candles, casting the church into deep shadow, then, crossing himself, he removed a chalice from the domed receptacle in the centre of the altar.
He came down the steps, still unaware of my presence. He looked tired, spent, as if the performance he’d given during the service had taken it out of him.
“Father Thomas?”
He raised his eyes to me, without fear or surprise. No doubt he was used to being called on at all times of day and night. But there was something in his expression — a deep loneliness, shocking in someone even younger than me. I surmised that his life was a contradictory mixture of isolation and a complete lack of privacy. And here I was, yet another supplicant, about to invade his time and space.
“Can I help you?”
I noticed something else. Close-up, he was damned good-looking. He wasn’t that tall, but he was compact and graceful. Did he work out, I wondered? I mentally slapped my wrist. I’d just made passionate love to another younger man. Enough, already.
“Yes, I hope so,” I said hesitantly.
He nodded, and waved a weary hand to the front pew. We sat down side by side.
“Is there something worrying you?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I was reluctant to give my name in case the Ramseys had talked to the priest about me. I was pretty sure he would close ranks and I'd learn nothing.
I found myself saying, “I’m interested in becoming a Catholic.”
“I see. What brought you to the Church?”
For a moment I was confused by the question. “I… came by car.”
“No.” He smiled wanly. “I meant… why Catholicism?”
“Right. How stupid of me.” I paused, suggesting deep thought, in fact wondering how on earth I’d got myself into this, and how I was going to wriggle out.
“This murder… it’s made me realise… there has to be more to life than just the few years we spend on earth…” I dried up, not daring to look at him.
“God is wonderful, isn’t He?”
“Is he? I mean, yes, of course. Or to put it another way, she is pretty damn amazing.”
“Whether God is male or female, or both, is unimportant. God has brought you here through Lara’s death. It goes to prove the old saying, doesn’t it? Every cloud has a silver lining. You’re the only silver lining I’ve come across in the last few days and I bless you for it.”
“Thanks.” I let a decent interval pass. “I came in at the end of the service just now. Did you know Lara Ramsey well?”
“I’d say so, yes. When I first came to St Bridget’s she was about fourteen. She sang in the choir, attended the youth club and we got on fine. Things got more difficult when she got older. To be honest, she turned her back on the Church.” He gazed at the huge crown of thorns hanging over the altar. “But you… you’re reaching out towards it. It’s as if God has taken one away and given another one back.”
I tried to smile but it froze on my lips. “How do you remember her?”
“How? You mean, my abiding image of her?”
“If you like.”
He placed both hands reverently on the top of the chalice as he thought about it. “I remember her hair. That cloud of gold, like a halo. She looked like a madonna.” He pointed to a statue of Our Lady, a saccharine, blue-clad plaster saint who looked nothing like Lara.
“Why was she so against the Church?”
“I really shouldn’t be talking like this.” He gave a huge sigh as if the weight of all the world’s sorrow was on his shoulders. “I’m tired out, that’s the truth of it. It’s been a traumatic few days. Sorry. Let’s talk about you. I hold catechism classes at six-thirty every Wednesday evening. If you’ll just give me your name and a contact number.” He reached into his cassock pocket.
I told him without thinking. “My name’s Jude Baxendale, and my mobile number is…”
He stared at me, open-mouthed with horror. “Baxendale? Don’t you work for the press — a photographer? The Ramseys told me what you did.”
“Shit.” I dragged my fingers through my hair. “Look, I’ve apologised for that. The fact is, I don’t work for the paper any more. I resigned. I’m not here to spy, report, take photos or any other media stuff.”
“Then why are you here?”
Like a penitent at confession I told him everything, as honestly as I could.
“I didn’t mean to deceive you, but I’m downright tired of coming up against a brick wall. I’m just trying to understand this awful crime. The trouble is, the more I find out about Lara, the less I understand. Before she died I simply thought of her as a quiet sweet-natured girl, but now… I thought you might give me a different perspective.”
“You’re a photographer, Jude.”
“So?”
“Perhaps you tend to go by appearances.”
“I suppose I do.” Hadn’t the psychic detective told
me the same thing?
“Sometimes appearances are deceptive and we have to dig deeper.”
“You can talk. The thing you remember about Lara isn’t her personality or her beliefs, but her hair.”
He looked embarrassed, then angry. I could see his patience was wearing thin. Even men of God were human after all. But I persisted.
“OK, I accept we have to go beyond appearances. So what did lie behind Lara’s sweet exterior? I think there was something really troubled about her. Her promiscuity was extreme, and that’s not normal. Either she was desperately looking for something, or she was trying to forget. My son hadn’t known her long enough, so he can’t help.”
He didn’t answer for a while, as if struggling with some inner dilemma. Eventually he sighed and said, “She had an abortion.”
“What?”
“She got pregnant when she was fifteen, and terminated the pregnancy, against her parents’ advice, my counsel, and the teachings of the Church. Not such a sweet girl, was she?”
“It could happen to anyone,’ I said faintly, remembering my own experience of conception when I was eighteen, the result of a hopeless passion and too much alcohol.
“Abortion is wrong. Lara broke the commandments laid down by God.”
“She makes one small mistake and she’s damned?”
“It doesn’t matter how small the transgression is, it is offensive to God. He is merciful, but rules are rules. He does not condone sin.”
“Then God — he or she — is an idiot. Why invent sex then tell us humans we mustn’t do it?”
“Sex is all very well in the context of marriage —”
“So why invent desire? Why give us that phenomenally powerful feeling, then say back off, no touching? What kind of cruel trick is that?” I was fired up now. And I thought of something else. “Who was the father of Lara’s baby?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Do you have any idea?”
He gave me a withering look. “You know what she was like. I’d say she probably didn’t know herself.”
I felt a sudden surge of closeness to the dead girl. Both she and I had given up on the pointless posturing of religion. Like me, she’d been a troubled teenager, like me, she’d got pregnant. The only difference was that I’d had Daniel, and she’d got rid of her baby. I didn’t blame her. I might have done the same but I left it too late. Now I was glad I hadn’t had an abortion. I couldn’t imagine life without my son. He was the best thing in it. How had Lara felt about the baby she could never hold? It must have been a sorrow that rocked her world for years. And then she met Daniel, who was sweet and unworldly and loved her for herself, not just for sex. Her life began to steady, come together.
Then some maniac killed her.
Father Thomas stood up. “I think you should go now.”
“Just one other thing. Did Lara ever dabble in Satanism or black magic?”
“Not that I know of. Though it wouldn’t surprise me.” His voice had hardened. I wondered why I’d thought him good-looking, charismatic. He was just an ordinary guy, weighed down with overwork, and getting crow’s feet round his eyes. I reckoned he would hate that. The toned muscles of his compact body suggested a vain man.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed your rest.”
He snorted. “I don’t get much of that.” He looked at me with a haggard expression. “I’ll pray for you, Jude.”
“Thanks,” I said drily.
I hurried out of the church, away from the cloying smells of incense and polish and candle wax, and into the sharp fresh slap of an arctic wind. If God was to be found anywhere it was here, in the open air, in the beauty of creation. I had found no sign of her in St Bridget’s.
Fifteen
There was a screen around Daniel’s bed.
My heart raced as I came into the room. I could hear voices coming from behind the curtain. I tugged at it, trying to find the way in. When I succeeded I saw that Daniel had aged by about sixty years and lost all his hair.
An elderly stranger was lying on top of the blankets, white surgical stockings covering his thin bony legs. Two young nurses were giving him some kind of personal attention I didn’t even want to think about.
“Sorry. I’m looking for Daniel Baxendale.”
“We moved him into the ward,” said one of them.
“More company for him,” the other one giggled.
“How is he?”
“He’s fine.”
“We’ll be sorry to see him go,” said the giggly one.
“I can take him home?” My heart reversed and raced backwards.
“You’ll have to speak to the ward sister about it.”
“I will.”
I raced out of the room and into the ward. The six beds were occupied by old men in various states of decrepitude, apart from the bed in the corner by the window, on which a tall, thin, gangling figure lay sprawled.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting,” grunted Harrison. “Dan’s gone for a piss, if you’re wondering.”
“I was, yes.” I put my bag on the chair. “How come you know Daniel?”
“Lara.”
“Course.” Had Harrison been one of Lara’s old boyfriends? Knowing her reputation before she met Daniel, it seemed possible, even likely. How much did Daniel really know about Lara’s sex life before they started going out? Was I the one who was going to have to tell him?
When Daniel returned I hugged him tightly.
“Hi, Mum,” he muttered, trying to extricate himself from my encircling arms. He tugged his dressing gown shut over his pyjamas. “Have a seat.”
“Just for a minute. Then I want to see the ward sister about you coming home.”
“They’re letting me out?”
“Looks like it.”
He punched the air.
Harrison reluctantly moved his booted feet to the floor so that Daniel could sit on the bed too. I took the chair. As Harrison shifted his position his pendant swung out. A metal star on a leather thong. I peered closer.
“Nice necklace. Isn’t that what they call a pentagram?”
Harrison looked at me through sleepy hooded eyes. “Dunno.”
Sweat broke out on my palms. I wiped them on my jeans.
Gary, the male nurse, walked briskly into the ward. “Hey, Daniel. How are things?”
“I’m feeling good. Is it true I’m going home?” His face was more alive than I’d seen it for days.
“Tomorrow, maybe, depending on your breathing test.”
“It was fine earlier,” said Daniel.
“Can’t you let him out tonight?” I pleaded. “He’s miles better, and I’m sure you need the bed.”
Gary glanced at his watch. “It’s a bit late, we don’t usually…” He looked at Daniel’s chart thoughtfully. “We have got some urgent cases coming in, though. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, I’d really appreciate that.”
He hurried away and I slumped back in the chair. Churches, hospitals — they were both places I longed to get out of.
“Mum, are you all right?”
“Fine,” I said quickly, before Harrison could butt in with the news that I no longer had a job. No doubt everyone at the Ravenbridge Evening Post knew by now. “I’m just shattered. It’s been an eventful day.”
I sat very still, listening to Daniel talk idly about football while Harrison grunted his replies. They sounded like old friends. I half-closed my eyes, pretending to be drifting off, but my mind was racing as fast as my heartbeat. Harrison looked like the sort of scary youth that old ladies would shy away from in the street, clutching their handbags. But I’d always assumed he was harmless, just lazy and sullen, and so vacant he was probably on something most of the time. Had he gone too far over the New Year party season and killed Lara in a drug-fuelled frenzy? I gave myself a mental slap for thinking in journalese. All the same, if it was true, then I was sitting a metre away from a murderer.
&
nbsp; Harrison must have felt the heat of my attention. He turned to me, blinking behind his asymmetrical curtain of hair. “Bad luck, you getting sacked.”
Daniel looked bewildered. “Sacked? What d’you mean?” He turned to me. “Mum?”
“It’s not true. I wasn’t fired.”
Daniel looked mightily relieved. At that moment Gary, bless him, came hurrying towards us, carrying a cardboard flagon for urinating into. “Ward sister says Daniel can go home tonight. She’s doing the discharge forms right now.” He waved the peeing pot. “Sorry, got to go. Good luck, Daniel.”
“Cheers, mate.”
I stood up. “OK, Daniel. You get changed and I’ll get the rest of your stuff together.” I glared at Harrison, and eventually he retreated beyond the bed so that I could swish the curtain shut around it.
Daniel stripped off down to his underpants. He looked painfully thin. I wanted to hug him again but I was afraid his ribs might break. Looking in the narrow cabinet beside the bed, I found his T-shirt and handed it to him. Someone had hung his jeans neatly on a trouser hanger, almost certainly not Daniel. One of the young nurses perhaps. I pulled them off and hung them over my arm. As I did so something fell out of the pocket. I caught it neatly.
“Oh. Here’s that…” I stopped myself. The bracelet felt cool and heavy in my hands. In the gloom of the cabinet I could just see the colours — grey and soft green and mauve.
“Gimme my jeans, will you?”
“Sure. No problem.” I slipped the bracelet into my pocket and handed Daniel his trousers.
Then it came again, that sense of slippage, my feet no longer firmly planted on the earth because it was trying to throw me off and hurtle onwards through space without me.
If It Bleeds Page 13