by C. J. Tudor
Finally, he rounds a long bend and he sees it. A white chapel in the distance. That has to be it. His excitement rises. So near. And then he spots the row of police cars parked outside; officers in uniform, a roadside cordon.
What’s going on? Why are they there? Has something happened to her?
He puts his head down and cycles on past. When he’s at a safe distance, he stops, climbs off the bike, props it on its kickstand and crouches beside it, pretending to fiddle with the chain while stealing sly glances at the chapel.
And then he sees her. For the first time in fourteen years, walking across to the cottage with an old woman, a tall man and a teenage girl. Her daughter. Emotions flood through him. Shock. The daughter looks so much like she did as a girl. Relief. She is here, and she’s okay. Confusion. What is all the police activity about?
It can’t be connected to what he did at the farmhouse. It’s too soon for them to have found the bodies. But he has a bad feeling. He messed up. He should have just stayed put in the barn. Out of people’s way. Then no one would have got hurt. The only thing he has in his favor right now is that no one knows who he is or what he looks like. But that won’t last. And he’s hardly inconspicuous with his torn and dirty clothing and red, angry ankle. He needs somewhere else to lie low. Get himself together. Work out a plan.
What for? If she loves you, how you look won’t matter. What are you scared of?
Nothing. He isn’t scared of anything. He just wants it to be right. It has to be right. Or…
…she might reject you again. Leave you again?
No. He did a bad thing. He made a mistake. But now she’s had time. To forgive him. Just like he has forgiven her.
He climbs back on the bike and cycles off again. This time, he doesn’t stop until he is on the other side of the village. The road is deserted. Just fields and cows either side. And, to his left, a gate. Rusted, padlocked. A rutted, overgrown track leads away from the road and disappears into more tangled bushes. Just visible over their straggly branches, the tip of a weathered roof in the distance.
He wheels the bike up to the gate. After a moment’s thought, he chucks it over. Then, he follows.
Every city, village and suburb has abandoned buildings. He learned that from his time on the streets. Places that, for some reason, no one has claimed or, perhaps more accurately, no one wants to claim.
Even in the richest neighborhoods there will be one dwelling that remains empty, never sold. Perhaps because of legalities or red tape, or perhaps because some buildings don’t want to be lived in. Their walls have absorbed too much pain and misery. They brim with it. It seeps out of every cracked brick and warped floorboard. Inhabitable, inhospitable. Do not enter. You’re not welcome. Stay away.
Like this place.
He stares up at the derelict house. The darkened windows glare back at him, the sagging roof like a glowering brow. The door gapes open in a silent scream.
He walks through the long grass toward it. He peers through the doorway and then steps inside. It’s gloomy in the cottage. Even though the sun is high, the light doesn’t stretch all the way into the rooms. The shadows are too deep. The darkness held too tightly within.
It doesn’t bother him. Nor does the smell, the crushed cans and cigarettes butts on the floor, or the strange graffiti on the walls upstairs.
He smiles.
He’s home.
“Hard to be a hundred percent positive, but it certainly looks like the same ring.”
The plainclothes detective, DI Derek, lays the photograph back down on the kitchen table and slips off his glasses. He’s a tall, kind-faced man in his late fifties. He looks like he should be tending vegetables rather than investigating murders.
“So, it’s him? Grady?” Joan peers at him over her coffee, her eyes bright.
I called her right after I called the police. She insisted on driving straight over. “This is the most excitement I’ve had since someone drove a horse and cart into my front room.”
Derek smiles at Joan. “Grady might have given the ring away, or had it stolen—”
She gives a derisive snort. I suppress a smile. Sometimes, I long to be old enough to be unapologetically rude.
He concedes, “It’s highly probable that the remains are those of Benjamin Grady. But, until the forensic team have had a chance to properly analyze the bones and clothing, we can’t say for sure.”
I glance out of the window. A uniformed police officer guards the entrance to the chapel, and another stands on the pavement, near the gate to the graveyard. A police cordon has been erected at the roadside. Earlier, I watched the forensic team march into the chapel, along with a photographer carrying portable lighting. I imagine them placing markers, snapping photos, gathering evidence. I doubt the chapel has seen this much activity since the days of the martyrs. Flo stands outside in the graveyard, watching everything that’s going on and taking surreptitious pictures on her phone.
“Grady disappeared thirty years ago,” Joan continues. “May 1990. Just after two local girls, Merry and Joy, also disappeared. Are you aware of that?”
“I know the case.”
“Are you looking for other remains in the chapel?”
“The other skeletons in the vault appear to be historical.”
“Will the case be reopened?” she presses.
“Unless we have new evidence—”
“You’ve got a dead priest in a church vault. How much more evidence do you need?”
This time, it’s my turn to snort: coffee, out of my nose.
Derek’s smile is more strained. “Right now, it’s unhelpful to speculate. However, we will need the names of everyone who has worked here or had access to the chapel over the last thirty years.”
“The church records are in a filing cabinet in the office,” I say. “But I’m not sure they go back that far.”
“Reverend Marsh was the vicar here from the eighties until five years ago,” Joan says. “He’s very ill with Huntington’s, but he may have kept some paperwork.”
“Aaron, his son, is the warden,” I add. “He could help.” I pause. “And Reverend Rushton has been a vicar at the neighboring church in Warblers Green for almost thirty years.”
Derek writes all of this down. “Thank you. We’ll speak to them both.” He closes his notebook and turns to me. “This must have been a shock.”
“You could say that.”
“Quite a first week for you!”
“It’s certainly been…eventful.”
“Well, anything else you think of, this is my card.”
He hands it to me, and I slip it in my pocket. “Thank you.”
I walk him out of the cottage and watch as he strides back over to the chapel. I glance around the graveyard. And then I curse. The officer at the roadside seems to have been waylaid by a couple of curious villagers. Meanwhile, a battered MG has pulled up behind the police cars and a familiar figure is standing on the pavement snapping photos on his phone.
I march down the path toward Mike Sudduth. He smiles and waves.
“What are you doing here?” I ask brusquely.
The smile fades. “Err, my job. A body hidden in a church vault? Big news for the local paper.”
“Who told you about the body?” I ask. “No, wait, let me guess—Kirsty?”
He has the good grace to look sheepish. “She may have mentioned it. Sorry—she didn’t realize it was a secret.”
“Right.”
He regards me curiously. “What’s wrong?”
“You mean—aside from all this?” I gesture toward the police cordon.
“Sorry. Stupid question.”
I sigh. I’m being unfair. He is just doing his job. But police, the press. It’s bringing back bad memories.
“Look—it’s just a bit much to take in at
the moment.”
“I imagine. Do they have any idea who the body is yet?”
“No.”
“So, it isn’t Benjamin Grady, the curate who disappeared thirty years ago?”
I stare at him. “No comment.”
“Was he murdered?”
“Is this an interview?”
“No. Well—”
I fold my arms. “I really don’t know anything. So perhaps you should just take your pictures and go. Okay?”
His face closes. “Okay.”
I turn and stomp back up the pathway and into the cottage. I handled that badly. I don’t care right now. Joan looks up as I enter the kitchen: “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine.” I manage a smile. “Would you like another coffee?”
She shakes her head. “No, I should be going. You’ve got enough to be dealing with here.”
“You don’t have to—”
“If I’ve learned one thing in eighty-five years, it’s not to outstay my welcome.”
She rises slowly, then glances out of the window.
“I was wrong about Grady,” she mutters.
“How?”
“All these years, I thought he had something do with the girls’ disappearance. But if he’s dead, then that rather rules him out, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
She turns, her face troubled. “But someone knew Grady was down there. Quite possibly someone within the church.” She rests one bony hand on mine. “Be careful, Jack.”
* * *
—
“What d’you think happened to him?”
Flo stares at me over her bowl of pasta. It’s just after 7 p.m. The police and forensic teams finished their work at the chapel over an hour ago. Crime scene tape is still strung across the door and I’ve been told to keep it locked.
I spear a piece of broccoli with my fork. “Who?”
A slow eye roll. “The body. In the vault. Grady?”
I take a moment to answer. “Well, I think that’s for the police to work out.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Of course.”
“Was he murdered?”
“Well, he didn’t climb in there by himself.”
“I mean, who murders a vicar —” She suddenly catches herself and looks at me with shocked eyes. “Sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean—”
I manage a faint smile. “It’s okay. And, in answer to your question, people kill for all kinds of reasons. Some we can comprehend. Some we can’t.”
A long pause. Flo pushes pasta around her bowl. “If someone does something bad, does it mean they’re always bad?”
“Well, that’s the whole point Jesus makes about forgiveness.”
“I’m not talking about Jesus or God. I’m asking what you think.”
I put my fork down. “I think that doing something bad is different from being bad. I think we all have the capability to do bad things, to do evil. It depends on the circumstances, how far we are pushed. But if you feel guilt, if you seek forgiveness and redemption, then that shows you’re not a bad person. We should all be given the opportunity to change. To make amends for our mistakes.”
“Even the man who killed Dad?”
We’ve only talked about what happened to Jonathon once before, when she was seven. A friend’s mother had recently died from cancer. Flo wanted to know if her dad had been ill and died too. Tempting as it had been to lie and say yes, I had answered her questions as best I could, and that seemed to be the end of it. Flo was so young when Jonathon died she doesn’t really remember him and I suppose that has distanced her from his death. But I admit, I sometimes wondered—and yes, dreaded—the day when she might start asking more questions.
“Yes,” I say carefully. “Even him.”
“Is that why you visited him in jail. To forgive him?”
I hesitate. “You have to want forgiveness. You have to want to change. The man who killed your dad, he wasn’t able to do that.”
“You said he was a drug addict.”
“Yes.”
“So, perhaps, once he kicked the drugs, he could have changed.”
“Perhaps. Why are you asking about this now? What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing really…”
“You can talk to me, you know.”
“I know.”
“Is this about Wrigley?”
The shutters go up. “Why would you say that?”
“I just wondered—”
“Here we go again. You don’t like him, do you?”
“I haven’t made my mind up yet.”
“Is it because of his dystonia?”
“No.”
“You think he’s not normal, not good enough.”
“No. And don’t put words into my mouth.”
“He rescued me last night.”
Because he was creeping around the chapel, up to no good, I want to say, but don’t. I think about the knife again.
“Flo, I wasn’t sure whether to mention this, but last night, something went missing from my room.”
“What?”
“The knife from the exorcism kit. You and Wrigley were the only ones alone in the house.”
Her eyes widen. “And you think Wrigley took it?”
“Well, I’m presuming you didn’t take it?”
“No. But it’s not like he’s the only one who could have stolen it. You were out all night. I was stuck in the chapel. The cottage wasn’t locked. Anyone could have walked in.”
She has a point. “But why would someone break in and steal a knife?”
“Why would Wrigley steal it?”
“I don’t know.”
She stares at me. Her face is full of hurt and confusion and my heart aches. Oh, it’s all so hard when you’re fifteen. You want to believe the world is black and white. But, as an adult, you realize that most people exist in the grey area in between. All just stuck in the middle and bumbling through.
“Flo—”
“He didn’t take it, okay? He thinks carrying knives is stupid. Okay?”
No. Not okay. But I can’t prove it. Not right now.
“Okay.”
She shoves her chair back from the table. “I’m going to my room.”
“You haven’t finished.”
“Not hungry.”
I watch helplessly as she stomps from the kitchen. The staircase creaks and I hear a door slam upstairs. Great. I run my hands through my hair. Flo and I don’t argue much, not usually. But since we came here, it feels like everything is fraying, my life unraveling around me. I pick up the bowls, scrape off the uneaten pasta into the bin and stick them in the sink.
I need a cigarette. I fetch my tin, roll one quickly at the kitchen table and open the back door. I step outside and then jerk back.
There’s something on the doorstep. Two more twig dolls. Bigger than the others and crafted into a sitting position, twig legs outstretched, arms entwined. Strands of blonde hair have been woven into the head of one doll; dark hair into the other. And they’re moving. Shifting slightly from side to side, as though restless.
What the hell?
Heart thudding, I bend down to pick them up. As I do, something fat and white wriggles out of one doll and plops to the floor.
“Shit!”
I drop the dolls again with a shriek of disgust, wiping my hands on my jeans.
They’re full of maggots.
The bedroom is hot and stuffy. I’m lying on top of the sheets, naked. Sweat still trickles down my neck and between my breasts. I try to turn, to find a cooler patch to lie on. But I can’t. My wrists and ankles are bound to the bedposts. I’m captive. A prisoner.
And someone is coming.
I can
hear their footsteps, climbing slowly up the stairs. Growing closer and closer. Panic grips me. I twist against the restraints, but it’s no good. I watch as the door handle turns. The door opens. A figure in dark clothes walks in, a flash of white at their neck and a glint of something sharp and silver in one hand. A knife.
I hear them whisper: “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio.”
St. Michael, protect us in battle.
I look up, pleading. Please, no. Please let me go. They bend over me. My eyes find their face in the darkness and horror engulfs me as I see that they have no face. Just a mass of squirming, wriggling maggots…
“Aahhh!”
I wake with a start, brushing at my bedclothes, sweaty and disoriented. I roll over. The clock tells me it’s 5:33 a.m. I pull on my joggers and pad downstairs. Instead of getting out my rolling tin, I grab the heavy iron key, open the door and walk across the short path to the chapel. The sun is a faint silver disc in the hazy sky. The warm air nuzzles my bare arms. I can smell jasmine, the faint tang of compost, dry grass. It yanks me back to another morning, a long time ago. Standing at the side of a road, scared, alone, wondering where to go.
The police told me not to let anyone into the chapel, but they didn’t say whether that included me. I turn the key in the lock and shove the heavy door open. Inside, it’s gratifyingly cool. I walk down the nave and sit on a pew near the end. The entrance to the vault gapes darkly. Crime scene tape is still strung around the edge. I stare at it. The final resting place of Benjamin Grady. How did he end up here? And who knew?
Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.
I turn back toward the altar, bow my head and pray.
After a while, I feel calmer, restored. Faith is not an infinite resource. It can run dry. Even priests need to recharge it sometimes. Eventually, I stand, make the sign of the cross, and leave the chapel.
I know what I have to do.
* * *