by C. J. Tudor
“She definitely said it was in the garden.”
“Perhaps she misspoke.”
“It’s not just the bruises. I’m sure Ruby is getting thinner.”
“Children go through growth spurts.”
“I’m worried about her.”
“Jack, if there was a problem, surely the child’s school would have noticed? And if she’s being fostered, Social Services must be making checks.”
“I suppose so, but—”
“I know you have always taken a special interest in the welfare of young people in your parish, and that is admirable. But no parent is perfect, after all. Not even you, I’m sure. Has Flo never had an accident?”
Of course she had, but I still bristled.
“Judge not lest ye be judged,” Durkin said.
“Of course.”
Go to hell, I thought.
That afternoon I called Ruby’s school to make an appointment to talk to her teacher. But I couldn’t. Because Ruby had been taken out of school several weeks ago. Her aunts were now home-schooling her, the headmistress told me. Lena had never mentioned it. Ruby had never mentioned it. But then, it seemed to me that Ruby had grown quieter of late. No longer the chubby-cheeked, smiling child she’d been when she joined the church.
Alarm bells were now well and truly ringing. Still, I tried to make excuses. Maybe Lena and Demi were struggling. A child is demanding. I tried to take Lena to one side after a service.
“Is everything all right, with Ruby?”
She gave me a wide beam and said, “Of course, Reverend. You must come round for tea again.”
“That would be lovely,” I said, knowing neither of us meant it. And then, casually, I asked: “How are things at school?”
Her face clouded. “Reverend, I must confess, we have been neglectful. Ruby was being bullied at school and we didn’t know. Another child was hurting her, taking her lunch. We should have done something sooner, and we blame ourselves. But now we are schooling her at home, where we can look after her properly.”
She smiled at me again, so widely, so sincerely. And her story was also so plausible and yet, I knew, in my heart, that she was lying through her gleaming teeth.
I made an anonymous call to Social Services. I waited. Nothing happened. Ruby continued to turn up to church, looking thinner each week. I couldn’t talk to her because Lena or Demi was always there. I noted that Lena was wearing new clothes and Demi sported a new gold necklace around her scraggy neck.
I called Social Services again. Again, I waited. And then one day, during art class, while Lena was in the toilet, I took my chance and crouched down next to Ruby.
“Hey, sweetheart, how are you?”
She kept her eyes on her picture: a riot of glue and glitter. “Fine.”
“Is everything all right at home? Are you eating okay?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked up. Her dark eyes swam with fear, hopelessness, desperation.
“I’m a bad girl. The devil is in me. It must be purged.”
And then she burst into tears.
“Ruby—”
“What are you doing?”
I saw a swish of red fabric out of the corner of my eye. Lena had stormed across the room and swept me aside.
“What did you say? Why are you upsetting the child?”
“I’m worried about her, Lena.”
She had seized Ruby’s arm, hauling her up from her seat, and glared at me, eyes bright with hatred. “It’s you, isn’t it? Calling those people on us. Making trouble. You white bitch.”
I had stared at her, aghast.
“I am a good woman, trying to bring this child up the right way, and you stand there, spreading lies about us. I love this child. I do what is best for her, you hear.”
I tried to keep calm, aware now that everyone was staring at us. “I hear. But she doesn’t look well, Lena.”
“Is that what you think? That people like us can’t raise our children properly? Not like you perfect white people, hey?”
“No. That’s not it.”
“How dare you. You don’t take my Ruby, you understand. No one takes my Ruby.”
And she had stormed out, dragging Ruby with her.
I should have gone to the police then. I should have hammered down Social Services’ door to get them to listen. I should have gone after her. I should have done something. But I didn’t. I was scared. I was scared of the looks the other parents had given me. I was scared that, in some way, what she had said might be true. Was I judging Lena and Demi more harshly because of their skin color, even subconsciously? Was I making a terrible mistake?
I didn’t see Ruby at all the following week. I drove past the house and it looked shut up. Perhaps they had moved. I had lost her.
I came into church as usual the following Sunday. I liked to get there early to set up and to have some quiet contemplation time. In early February, the mornings were dark till around eight. I had unlocked the doors, stepped inside and, straightaway, I knew something was wrong.
The feel of the church. The smell. Metallic. A rich, sickly smell. I flicked on the lights and walked down the middle of the nave. I could see something lying on the steps beneath the altar. And I could hear something. A drip. Slow and steady. Drip, drip, drip.
Somehow, my legs carried me forward. I had to see. I had to know. Even though pretty much every fiber of my being was telling me I didn’t want to see, I didn’t want to know.
She lay, crumpled, beneath the altar. Naked, so thin that every rib protruded like a bicycle spoke, her limbs tiny, fragile matchsticks. She still clutched a worn toy bunny. Her eyes were wide open, and they stared at me accusingly. Her throat gaped in a vivid red mocking smile.
“Drip, drip, drip. You don’t take my Ruby.”
They arrested Lena and Demi at Toddington Services on the M1. They’d been pocketing the money they got for fostering Ruby. Buying themselves nice things and saving for a holiday. A getaway. She had been starved, beaten and then sacrificed. That was Lena’s excuse.
“The child was possessed,” she later told the police. “I had to exorcize the demons. Now her soul will go to heaven.”
To this day, I don’t know whether she truly believed it or whether it was simply the basis of an insanity plea. Either way, the papers had a field day. Because of Lena’s ramblings, the church came under focus. I was held up as being the vicar who somehow let all of this happen on her watch. The community blamed me; the press blamed me. Most of all, I blamed myself. The vicar with blood on her hands.
* * *
—
Mike stares at me sympathetically.
“But it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could to help that little girl.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“Sometimes, nothing is.” He looks down into his coffee. “I suppose Simon and Clara have told you how Tara died.”
“They told me it was an accident.”
He shakes his head. “An accident that wouldn’t have happened, if it wasn’t for me. I should have picked her up from school that day. But I was drunk. I couldn’t drive. I asked Emma to look after her as a favor. Tara shouldn’t have even been at their house.”
“But it could have happened on another day. You didn’t cause the accident. It just happened. Accepting there is no blame, no reason for a tragedy, is the hardest thing we can do. But we have to, or we never move on.”
“And have you done that, with Ruby?”
“Not yet.” I smile thinly. “Like I said, it’s the hardest thing we can do.”
“What if you can never accept it?”
“Life goes on. It’s our choice whether we go with it.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Mike—”
My phone buzzes on the table. I glance at the screen. A number I don’t recognize. I frown. Only a few people have my number, and they’re all saved in my contacts. I don’t get calls from strange numbers.
Mike nods at the phone. “Do you want to get that?”
My hand hovers. And then I snatch the phone up and press accept.
“Hello?”
Breathing on the other end of the line. I tense.
“Mum?”
“Flo? What’s going on. Whose phone is this?”
“Wrigley’s.”
I try not to bristle at hearing his name. But there’s his name. Again.
“Why are you calling from Wrigley’s phone?”
“Long story. Look, Mum, can you come back?”
“Why? What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine—well, I’ve hurt my leg a bit. But don’t worry. There’s something you need to see. In the chapel.”
Questions tumble on my tongue. How did she hurt her leg? Why is Wrigley there? What were they doing in the chapel so late at night? But I try to keep my tone calm and reasonable.
“I’m on my way.”
I put the phone into my pocket. Mike looks at me quizzically.
“Trouble?”
“My daughter. I need to get home.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“Thank you.”
I stand, and realize that my legs are shaking. I grip the edge of the table. Just for a moment, when that strange number came up, I had a terrible premonition that it might be him. That, somehow, he had found me. Just like he did before.
The man who murdered my husband.
My brother. Jacob.
He lays his head down on the straw. Stars glint through the mosaic of holes in the rusted iron roof. The barn is cold, dirty and smells of cow shit. He’s slept in worse places. And she is close; so close he can almost feel her.
It makes his predicament even more frustrating. His ankle throbs hotly. Sprained, not broken, he thinks. But still, a problem. His collar is dirty, and his suit torn. Another problem. And he has no money. She might be close, but she might as well be a million miles away. He feels the anger growing. He has come so far. Planned so well.
* * *
—
His train had arrived on time at St. Pancras. He had disembarked, into a throng of bustling bodies. He’d thought Nottingham was busy. Here, it was all he could do not to climb straight back on board and huddle in his seat.
Prison was full of people, but most hours were spent in your cell. Even in the mess hall and recreation area, the flow of bodies was ordered. Physical contact was limited. Indeed, accidental contact could result in a broken nose or worse.
The station was chaos. So many people rushing forward. Suitcases rumbling along the platform. Voices echoing off the high, arched roof. The squeal of train brakes, the robotic echo of the loudspeaker announcements.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to walk slowly and calmly through the crowd, toward the ticket barriers. Here, he was momentarily confused. The barriers had been open at Nottingham. What was he supposed to do?
“Do you need some help, sir?”
He jumped. A small, dark-haired woman in a station uniform stared at him.
“Err, yes, sorry. I don’t travel very often.”
“Ticket?” she asked kindly.
He fished out his ticket and handed it to her. She glanced at it and then opened the barrier. “There you go, Reverend.”
“Thank you. God bless.”
He joined the throng of people heading down the escalator. A sign told him to stand to the right. He obeyed the instructions. Obeying instructions was something he was good at.
The people at the ticket office were helpful. Of course. A uniform—any uniform—gained you respect. The dog collar carried authority. Was that why his sister liked it? Or was it the anonymity? You weren’t really a person in a dog collar. You were a priest.
He wondered idly if they had found the dead priest yet.
It was late afternoon by the time he boarded the train to Sussex. A much smaller train, half empty. He sat back, staring out of the window, as it rattled out of the tightly packed conurbations of London, through the sprawling suburbs and then out into the open countryside. He felt a stab, a strange yearning. It was so long since he had seen fields, livestock, clear skies.
An hour and a half later the train pulled into Beechgate station. Little more than a shed and a narrow platform with one solitary bench. He was the only one to disembark. Sheep grazed in the field next to the tracks. If the bustle of London had been disorienting, this much space, this much quiet, was overwhelming in its own way. He looked around, breathing in the air, staring up at the sky. So much sky.
A white wooden sign outside the station informed him that it was ten miles to Chapel Croft. There was no bus stop and he only had about fifty pence left in cash anyway. He straightened his collar and started to walk.
The road was narrow and twisty. There wasn’t a proper pavement, so he walked on the tarmac and hopped on to the verge whenever he heard a car approaching. Fortunately, this wasn’t very often. The road was virtually deserted.
An hour into his journey, the sky had started to darken. He didn’t have a watch—he had never felt a need for one in prison—but he had become good at guessing the time. He thought it was probably about eight o’clock. He picked up his speed a little. He didn’t want to be out on the road in the dark.
He was just rounding a particularly twisty bend when he heard the car approaching. Loud. Fast. Faster than the others. He turned and caught a flash of the large grille, heard the squeal of brakes as it cut the corner. He leaped back, but his ankle had twisted underneath him and he tumbled into the ditch. The four-by-four didn’t stop. He wasn’t even sure if the driver had seen him.
He lay there, in the muddy, stinking water of the ditch. His side hurt where he had landed. Worse, his ankle pulsated with hot white pain. He scrambled into a sitting position and managed to clamber from the ditch on to the verge. But when he tried to push himself to his feet, his ankle screamed, and he collapsed back on to his knees. He couldn’t walk. What to do? Through a gap in the hedge he could see a farmhouse in the distance. Closer, in the next field, a dilapidated barn. It would do.
He started to crawl toward it.
* * *
—
He closes his eyes now, wishing he had something to take the edge off the pain. Maybe his ankle is broken. He sits up and pulls up his trouser leg. It doesn’t look good. It’s more swollen than ever, the stretched skin a montage of black and purple and red. He groans and falls back on the straw.
* * *
—
He can’t walk far on his busted ankle. And no one is going to give him a lift looking like this, even with the dog collar. He needs to clean himself up. He needs painkillers. He turns and stares through the gaping hole in the barn wall. Across the field, lights glow warmly through the windows of the farmhouse.
You’re wearing a dog collar. Tell them you had an accident. They’ll let you in.
And then what? I’m not going to hurt anyone else.
But they’ll have painkillers. Alcohol. Maybe cash too.
No. They could also have children. They’re innocent. He can’t hurt innocent people.
No one is entirely innocent.
His ankle radiates pain. He tries to ignore it, but it’s no good. He sits up. He looks back at the farmhouse. Painkillers. Alcohol. Maybe he doesn’t have to hurt them. Not much. Just enough to restrain them. To take what he needs. How else is he going to reach her?
He forces himself to his feet.
I get down on my knees and point the flashlight down into the hole, which is about the circumference of a football. A vault, beneath the church. I can make out
the curve of arched walls. Slightly to my left, what look like stone steps. And coffins. Three of them. Stacked haphazardly in one corner. The wood looks like it has rotted and warped. The lid on one coffin has cracked and I can just make out a leering skull peering out from within.
“Can I have a look?” Mike asks.
He accompanied me out to the chapel, even though I told him it was fine, I didn’t need a chaperone. After tending to Flo’s leg—which is badly scraped but not broken, fortunately—I left Flo and Wrigley in the cottage, drinking milk and eating biscuits. I’m presuming they can’t do too much harm to themselves with a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.
Flo said she thought she saw someone going into the chapel, so she went to take a look around, tripped and put her foot through the crumbling paving slabs. Wrigley, who just happened to be passing (like pretty much everyone else in the village), heard her screams and came to her aid. The story has bigger holes than, well, the chapel floor, but the interrogation can wait, for now.
I hand Mike the flashlight. “Be my guest.”
He kneels down and peers into the hole. “Wow. Quite a discovery. How old do you think this is?”
I consider. “Rushton mentioned that the original church was destroyed by a fire. The chapel was built on its footprint. The entrance to the vault must have been paved over.”
Although, why seal off an old vault? If anything, a private vault would be a mark of prestige that the family of those buried there would want preserved.
Mike is still peering at the paving slabs. “I don’t know. This looks like it’s been done more recently. Look, this stone is much thinner, newer than the rest of the floor. And you can see the cement is fresher. This is a patch job.”
“I didn’t know you were an expert in flagstone flooring?”
“I am a man of many talents.”
“Modesty not being one of them.”
He grins. “Okay. I did a story about church restoration for the paper last year.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your days must simply fly.”
“Ouch.”