by C. J. Tudor
“We’re fine,” Flo says, impatiently.
“That’s not the point.”
I pick up the Nikon from the table. The lens is completely shattered. The pellet has lodged in the back, where it bulges slightly against the metal.
“Look at this. A few more millimeters and that could have pierced your heart.”
I feel sick even as I say it.
“Mum, you’re being melodramatic.”
“No, I’m not.”
“He wasn’t aiming for my heart. He was aiming for the camera.”
“He? I thought you said you didn’t know the idiot who shot at you.”
“We don’t. I just said ‘he’ because, you know, turn of phrase.”
I stare at both of them helplessly. There is more going on here. But, with teens, you can’t drag it out of them. Sometimes, you have to play the long game. I could threaten. I could ground Flo. I could ban TV, the internet (if we had any). But if she doesn’t want to tell me, she won’t.
We all have our secrets. Teenagers more than most. I kept plenty from my own mother. And even with all the cruelties she inflicted, she never broke me.
“Promise me one thing,” I say. “You won’t go wandering around the woods again.”
They glance at each other. Flo looks back at the camera.
“Now my camera’s ruined there’s not much point.”
“We promise, Reverend Brooks,” Wrigley says.
Flo sighs. “Promise.”
“Okay. Right.” I glance at the clock. Almost six o’clock. The afternoon has evaporated.
“Wrigley—do you want to stay for dinner?”
“I should probably get back home.”
“Do you want a lift?”
“No, it’s okay. I can walk.”
“You sure? Where do you live?”
“Just over the other side of the village. It’s fine. But thank you.”
“Okay.”
I walk him to the door.
“Thanks again, Reverend,” Wrigley says. “I just want you to know—”
I hold up a hand. “Actually, there’s something I want you to know.” I pull the door half closed behind me. “I may have Reverend in front of my name, but don’t let the dog collar fool you. First and foremost, I am a mother. If any harm ever comes to my daughter because of you, I will make it my mission in life to screw yours up beyond belief. Do I make myself clear?”
Just for a moment, the manic twitching seems to pause. He looks at me with eyes that are a distinctive silvery green.
“Crystal.”
And then his whole body convulses again. He turns and stutters down the pathway. I watch him go, feeling uneasy. Then I close the door and walk back inside.
Flo is slumped at the kitchen table, holding the broken Nikon in her hands. She glances up as I enter.
“So, I suppose now Wrigley’s gone you’re really going to lay into me.”
I sit down beside her and shake my head. “No.”
I hold out my arms, like I used to when she was a child having a tantrum. Comfort always dispels rage more quickly than shouting does. She sinks into my body and I hold her. After a while she raises her head. “I’m sorry, Mum.”
“I know.” I smooth her hair. “It’s not your fault.”
She looks at the camera. “I can’t believe my camera is ruined.”
“It’s fixable. Unlike you.”
“It will cost a fortune.”
“We’ll sort it, somehow.”
We sit for a while and then I hear Flo’s stomach rumble. “Hungry?”
“Yeah. A bit.” Another low grumble. “A lot.”
“How about I make us a stir fry and we stick a DVD on?”
“Okay.”
“What d’you fancy?”
“Something trashy and retro.”
“Breakfast Club. Pretty in Pink?”
She rolls her eyes. “Purleese. The cool girl chooses the idiot jock over the kind, lovely best friend?”
“Okay. You choose.”
“Heathers?”
The beautiful girl falls in love with a psychopathic maniac.
“Okay.”
She pads upstairs to get changed. I open the fridge and take out a selection of vegetables. Peppers, mushrooms, onions. I dump them on to a chopping board and grab a large knife.
I’ve just started chopping when Flo reemerges in a baggy pair of shorts and a black vest. She looks thin and tired and achingly beautiful. I want to wrap her up in my arms and never let her out of the house again.
She walks over to the fridge and takes out a Diet Coke. “Mum, what do you think of Wrigley?”
I try to keep my voice light. “Well, we didn’t exactly meet in the best circumstances.”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“Okay. Well, he seems nice enough. What’s with the twitching?”
“Dystonia. It’s like something is wired wrong in his brain.”
“Right.” I select a large red pepper. “Question is—what do you think of him?”
A shrug. “He’s okay. Y’know.”
I do. I grip the knife tighter, trying to tell myself that he’s just a boy. Probably harmless. Not all young men are predatory.
She wanders back and pulls out a chair.
“What’s this?” she asks, looking down.
Crap. The box is still on the floor under the table.
“Oh, just some stuff that belonged to Reverend Fletcher. He was researching the history of the village. Pretty boring.”
And yet she still reaches inside and lifts out a folder.
“Who are Merry and Joy?”
“Oh, just—owww! Bugger!”
She spins around. “Mum, you’ve cut yourself.”
I’ve sliced my finger open with the sharp knife. Blood drips from the cut.
“Here.” She grabs the plasters from the first-aid box and brings one over.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
I run my finger under the tap, dry it then wrap the plaster tightly around it.
“You should be more careful, Mum.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pot. Kettle?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Why don’t you go and find that DVD?”
“Okay.”
She wanders out of the kitchen. I can hear her rummaging through the DVDs in the living room. I pick up the folder from the table, drop it back in the box and shove the box in the cupboard under the sink. Out of sight.
I hold up my finger. It hurts like hell. I cut it deeper than I meant to, but at least it provided a distraction. By the time Flo has found the DVD, I’m chucking vegetables into the wok and all talk of Merry and Joy has been forgotten.
He continues his pilgrimage. From the old asylum down into the city. He slept rough here for a while, under the arches by the canal and in the underpass near the old shopping center.
Both are still popular spots. Early evening, and he can see sleeping bags piling up, cardboard boxes at the ready. Some bad stuff happened here too. An old drunk tried to steal from him, and he had to defend his things. He remembers how the drunk’s body floated in the canal before the weeds and the weight of the rubble in his pockets dragged him down into the filthy water.
He walks on toward the Market Square. It’s crammed with people. In the summer months, the square is turned into “The Beach.” A grubby area of sand and a large paddling pool in the center of the city for families to pretend they are at the seaside. There is a bar, fairground rides and stalls selling food and drinks. Tepid lager in plastic cups. Greasy burgers and fried onions squeezed into anemic baps.
He stands near the edge of the crowds, not getting too close. So much noise, so many people, lights. He inhales the smells of popcorn, doughnuts and hotd
ogs, his rumbling stomach reminding him he hasn’t eaten since the day before. Children scream and laugh on the rides.
He feels an old yearning in his heart. As a child, he never went to a fair, never experienced the dizzying spin of the waltzers or tasted the sweet, sugary rush of candyfloss. Mum regarded such pleasures as sinful. Even before he ended up on the streets, food was often basic or out of date, a “treat” getting through the day without incurring a beating.
Only when he escaped did he understand that his life was not like other children’s. He would watch them sometimes as they skipped past, smiling, hand in hand with parents who kissed and cuddled them, smoothed their hair. All the while he huddled in cardboard, careful to keep away from prying eyes in case anyone questioned why a young boy was sleeping rough.
He starts, suddenly noticing that one of the mums is watching him suspiciously, phone in her hand. He realizes how he must look. A stooped figure in secondhand clothes, clean but not exactly well kept, staring at children. He flushes. He is not a good man, but he is definitely not that type of man. More to the point, he can’t have her calling the police. He can’t go back to prison. He has things he needs to do.
He hurries away, driving himself onward even though the day is starting to weigh down on him. He’s hungry and thirsty, but he only has loose change in his pocket. Fortunately, where he is heading next should solve that problem.
The sounds of the fair fade away behind him. His feet take him from the city center, through darker, narrow terraced streets. Bins overflow, dogs bark, heavy bass throbs. The smell of cannabis and the threat of violence hang heavy in the air. Some things never change. Eventually, he reaches his destination. He looks up.
A large building, brick blackened by the city grime, stained-glass windows shielded with heavy iron grates, the spire reaching up against the grey evening sky.
St. Anne’s Church.
The doors are open, light spilling out on to the pathway. A few homeless mill outside, smoking. A handwritten sign propped on the gate reads:
“Monday Night Soup Kitchen. Eat, drink, stay/pray a while.”
He smiles, walks up the path and through the open doors.
The church is warm, brightly lit and smells of rich, hearty cooking. His stomach grumbles again. Food will be good, but that’s not the only reason he’s here. His eyes scan the church hungrily. Four volunteers in aprons stand behind a long trestle table, dishing out stew and curry from large metal pans. Where is she? And then he sees a figure step out from the back of the church, dressed in a dark suit and a white clerical collar.
The figure walks toward him and smiles, revealing dazzling white teeth.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
He stares at the burly black vicar.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Reverend Bradley.” The priest holds out a hand. “And I’m happy to welcome you to our church.”
“No.” He shakes his head. This isn’t right. This is not how he imagined it. How he planned it. “Where’s the other vicar?”
“I’m afraid she left.”
“Where did she go?” He can’t control the desperation in his voice.
The vicar frowns. “I don’t know.”
He’s lying, he thinks. The fat black vicar is lying. He knows where she is. He just doesn’t want to tell him.
The priest is still holding out a hand. “Are you all right?”
He fights down the anger, and then shakes the liar’s hand. It’s large and surprisingly soft. “Yes. Just tired and hungry.”
“Why don’t you go and help yourself to some food? I can especially recommend the chicken curry.”
He forces a smile and nods subserviently. “Thank you.”
He joins the queue and accepts some of the food. Then he takes his plate and sits on the edge of a bench, forking it into his mouth. It smells good, but he barely tastes it. He’ll have to come back here later, he thinks, when the liar is alone. Then he’ll make him tell him what he needs to know. The priest might be large, but he’s out of condition. It shouldn’t take long.
He catches himself, shakes his head. No. He mustn’t hurt the priest. He’s changed. He is not that man. Controlling anger is not weakness. It’s strength.
But he needs to find her.
Then only hurt him just enough.
Just enough. He considers. Controlling anger is not weakness. Perhaps he could do that. He smiles. All right.
And try not to enjoy it.
* * *
She huddled in the cellar, in the darkness.
Above her, she could hear Mum moving around, Songs of Praise playing loudly. This was her punishment for blaspheming on a Sunday. Or so Mum said. In truth, it was just another one of her mind games. Favoring one child, punishing the other. At least, now they were older (and bigger), they were spared the worst punishment. The well. Lowered down. Left for hours.
The cellar wasn’t so bad. Apart from the dark. And the rats.
She thought about the plan. To escape. Since they had first discussed it, she had seen less of Joy. Her mum was trying to keep them apart. And now, two evenings a week, Joy was taking extra Bible lessons with the new priest.
Joy had hurried past her the other day, barely saying hello. There was something different about her. A flush to her cheeks. A secrecy in her smile. Merry was worried. What was going on? Was it the priest?
Lots of the girls had a crush on him. But Merry didn’t like him. Whenever he read stuff from the Bible, especially all the sin and damnation stuff, his eyes got kind of glassy and his face got red. She swore once she had seen a hard-on in his pants.
Upstairs, she heard her mum turn the television up.
From the corner, there was a rustling. Her eyes strained in the darkness. She hated the dark. Hated how vulnerable it made her feel. She tried to summon up comforting words from an old childhood book. Reciting them to herself.
“Darkness is fun, darkness is kind. Darkness—”
Her mother’s voice rose: “Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee. How great Thou art, how great Thou art.”
The rustling drew closer.
“Shit!”
I open my eyes. My vest is stuck to me, clammy with sweat, my bedclothes kicked off on to the floor. The bedroom takes form around me. My bedroom in the cottage. Another nightmare.
I sit up and reach for the water on my bedside table. I swig it down. I can see silvery daylight edging around the curtains. The cottage is silent and stuffy. I glance at the clock: 6:13 a.m. I’m not going to get any more sleep, so I might as well get up. I have my wedding consult this morning so an early start can’t hurt.
I sling on my joggers and creep down the creaky stairs. The cottage smells of the veggie stir fry I made for dinner. Afterward, Flo and I curled up on the sofa with a large packet of M&Ms and watched Heathers until I realized that she had drifted off to sleep on my shoulder. I left her like that for a while, relishing the closeness. When she was little, she would curl up on my lap while we watched films together. Just the two of us. Like it’s always been.
Flo’s dad died when she was just eighteen months old. She doesn’t really remember him. He was attacked by an intruder at his church. During a struggle he fell and hit his head. I told Flo as soon as she was old enough to understand. I also told her what a good dad he was and how much he loved her. Which is true. Mostly. But like many things, it’s a version of the truth. A story told so many times I almost believe it myself.
Eventually, at just past midnight, I nudged Flo awake and we both trudged wearily up to bed. Our dirty plates are still sitting in the sink. Flo’s broken camera lies on the kitchen table. I wander over and pick it up. I have no idea how much it will cost to fix, but I’m pretty sure it will be more than the £6:50 I have in savings.
Looking at it again, my stomach tightens. The young think
they’re invincible but, as you grow older, especially as you become a parent, you see danger everywhere. Flo knows who shot the airgun. I’m sure of it. Wrigley too. But for some reason they don’t want to tell me. And what about Wrigley? I can’t decide. Am I wary of him because I would be wary of any boy Flo brought home, or is there something else?
I sigh and stare out of the kitchen window at the chapel. I feel the strongest urge to pray. Obviously, as a vicar, that’s not unusual. I pray every night and, sometimes, randomly during the day. These aren’t “on my knees, hands clasped” kind of prayers. More like short conversations. Stuff I need to get off my chest.
God’s a good listener. He never judges, never interrupts, never jumps in with a better story. And, even if I’m talking to myself most of the time, getting the thoughts out there is good therapy.
Some days, a little like the urge to smoke, prayer is more of a compulsion than on others. Like this morning. The tendrils of the dream are still clinging to me. Things I’d rather not remember. Bad memories are like splinters. Sometimes painful, but you learn to live with them. The problem is, they always work their way up to the surface eventually.
The key to the chapel is lying on the kitchen worktop. I pick it up and let myself out of the cottage. The clouds part and the sun gleams in the sky. I stare out over the graveyard and my eyes alight on the monument. I walk over to it.
There are more twig dolls arranged around the bottom today. When we arrived, there were half a dozen. Now, there look to be around ten or twelve. Some are dressed in scraps of clothing. It makes them look even more creepy. The stuff of children’s nightmares. I can imagine them coming to life at night, shuffling themselves up on their stick legs, marching toward the cottage, slipping in through cracks in the open windows…
Stop it, Jack. You’re not a child anymore. I fight down a shudder and turn my attention to the monument. There is an inscription near the top:
In memory of the undernamed Protestant Martyrs, who, for their faithful testimony to God’s truth, were, during the reign of Queen Mary, burned to death in front of this chapel on 17 September 1556. This Obelisk, provided by Public Donations, was erected AD 1901.