by C. J. Tudor
“I’m pretty sure I already know who it was. So, I’m just going to say a name and you can let me know if I’m right.” I smile. “Time to confess.”
“Jack, it is so good to see you. My goodness, what a time it has been for you.”
I allow Rushton to envelop me in a warm, slightly musty hug.
He steps back. “I have to say, I didn’t think you would be coming back, not after everything that’s happened.”
“No. Me neither. But there were just a few things I needed to get straight.”
We walk inside.
“Is Clara here?” I ask.
“No, she’s gone out.” He rolls his eyes. “Running, walking. No wonder she keeps so thin. Of course, I work hard to stay in my best shape too.” He chortles and pats his stomach.
I smile, feeling sad.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks now.
“I wondered if I could talk to you—about Benjamin Grady.”
He stares at me for a long time. And then he says:
“It’s a lovely day. Why don’t we go in the garden?”
* * *
—
We sit at a small wrought-iron table in the shade of a weeping willow.
All around us wildflowers bloom in a riot of color. Bees buzz lazily between them. Birds chirrup in the trees.
“It’s beautiful out here.”
“Yes, Clara and I have been very happy here. I always used to say that the only way I would leave this place would be in a coffin, or maybe not even then. I always quite fancied being buried under this tree.”
“Nice spot.”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Perhaps that’s my weakness. I love it here too much. My life, my wife, my work. My complacency has been my greatest sin.”
“The curse of being a priest—the need to confess our sins.”
“And we’re not even Catholic.”
A small smile.
“Why did you recommend me for the position here?” I ask.
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“When Fletcher resigned, you put my name forward to Bishop Gordon?”
“Clara asked me to. She’d read about you, in a newspaper. She said that as soon as she saw your picture she knew you were the one. Very insistent, she was.”
I feel something settle inside. A final missing piece slotting into place.
“Did you know that Clara and Benjamin Grady were friends, that they grew up together?”
“Yes. I did.” He regards me with a small, rueful smile. “And yes, before you ask, I have always known that Clara was in love with him.”
I stare at him in surprise. “She told you.”
“She didn’t have to. I could see it in her face whenever his name was mentioned—not that anyone mentioned him very much. She keeps a picture of him. Hidden in a book. I found it once, by accident. She doesn’t know.”
“You don’t mind?”
“First love is a powerful thing, especially when it never has a chance to grow old, to disappoint or become dull. I adore Clara. I know she doesn’t love me as much, but she loves me enough.”
“And you’re happy with that?”
“I’m content—and that is all most of us can hope for, don’t you think?”
Maybe, I think. But maybe some of us need something more.
“I need to speak to Clara,” I say. “You said she’d gone out?”
“Yes, although I’ve no idea where she goes when she takes off on one of her rambles.”
But I think I do.
She stands, just as she does in Flo’s picture. Still and silent, staring toward the house. Crime scene tape flutters around the well nearby.
“Clara!”
She turns. “Jack. What are you doing up here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“Oh, I’m just taking a walk.”
“You come up here a lot?”
She smiles at me, wrinkles crinkling around those enviable cheekbones. A woman who has become more beautiful in her later years. Nothing like the awkward schoolteacher who was never enough for a handsome young priest.
Sometimes our desires run to darker pleasures.
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, it took me a while to work it out. Why come up here to the house? I understand why you want to stay close to the chapel. Because that’s where his body is buried. But here—where he died?”
Her smile falters.
“Then I realized,” I continue. “It’s not the house you visit. It’s the well.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Jack. I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You knew about the body in the well. You’ve known for thirty years.”
“And how on earth would I know that Merry’s body was in the well?”
“Because it’s not Merry. It’s Joy. And you killed her.”
* * *
She was early.
They had agreed to meet at eight o’clock. It wasn’t quite ten to.
Joy waited by the broken-down stone wall at the edge of the garden, just out of sight of the house. She checked her watch, willing Merry to emerge from the back door.
Please hurry, she thought. Please. We can leave this place. Start a new life.
She touched her stomach.
And then she heard a sound behind her.
She turned. Her eyes widened.
“You? Why are you here?”
“It was an accident.”
“Really?”
“We argued. She tripped and fell.”
“What did you argue about?”
“What do you think?”
“Grady. You loved him. But he wasn’t interested in a plain, twenty-something teacher, was he? He preferred them younger. Pretty little things he could subjugate, dominate, hurt.”
“Joy seduced him.”
“She was fifteen.”
Her lip curls. “She knew what she was doing. I saw what they were doing when he was supposed to be teaching her the Bible.”
“You saw what he was doing to her.”
“I told Marsh. I thought that would put an end to it. But then, I spotted her that night, sneaking up here with a rucksack. I thought she was on her way to the chapel to meet him. I followed her.”
“She wasn’t meeting Grady. She was meeting Merry. They had planned to run away together.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Then why didn’t you go for help? You could have walked right up to the house, knocked on the door.”
“I was scared.”
“She was pregnant. Did you know that?”
She looks down. “No, I didn’t.”
“She was fifteen and pregnant and you left her in a hole to die.”
“It was an accident.”
“Really. Or did you think, with Joy out of the way, that Grady might finally notice you? But he didn’t, did he? He just moved on to another young victim.”
She sneers. “Merry was no victim. That girl was always trouble. Benjamin was just trying to save her. He was a man of God.”
“If you really believe that, why did you help Marsh to hide his body?”
She hesitates. “Marsh called me that night. Panicked. Desperate. He told me that Benjamin had been performing exorcisms without the Church’s permission. This one had got out of hand. Something terrible had happened—”
She looks down, voice catching. I’d feel sorry for her if I didn’t know that she had no pity for the girls Grady had been abusing.
“Benjamin was dead, and Merry had run away. Her mother had begged Marsh not to involve the police.”
“So, Marsh agreed and you just went along with it?”
Her eyes flash. “I’d have killed Merry Lane if I could. But Marsh told me that if anyone found out what had happened it would destroy the church. Benjamin would be vilified, disgraced. I couldn’t bear that. I wasn’t able to save his life, so I chose to save his name.”
“And cover up what he’d been doing.”
“He was doing God’s work.”
“You really believe that?”
I reach into my pocket and take out the tape recorder. The cassette is inside. I finally fixed it. In some ways I wish I hadn’t. The contents are hard to listen to.
Clara frowns. “What’s that?”
“The truth about your precious Grady. Everything that happened that night. Everything he did. All on here. I could take this to the police right now.”
Clara stares at it and then smiles coldly.
“You could…but we both know you won’t.”
“Really? And why’s that?”
“Because if the body in the well is Joy, then that must mean that Merry is still alive, out there, somewhere.” Her grey eyes fix on mine. “And I’ll tell them who you really are.”
* * *
She lay on the bed, spread-eagled, caked in her own filth. Her mum had caught her trying to run. Now, this was her punishment. Imprisoned. Alone in this room.
Apart from his visits.
She was possessed, her mother had told him. The devil was making her behave this way. She needed his help.
He stared down at her. Her hands and ankles were secured. She was naked, ribs sharp ripples beneath her skin. The bruises from their last encounter lay stark against the white of her flesh. Fingerprints traced in purple and black. Angry red welts from where he had heated his silver signet ring over a flame and pressed it into the tender spots of her body.
Grady smiled. “Tonight, Merry, we must work harder to expel your demons.”
He turned and opened his case. It was lined with red silk. Sturdy straps held the contents in place: a heavy crucifix, holy water, a Bible, muslin cloths. His tools. His playthings. On the other side of the case: a scalpel, a sharp serrated knife and one more item, a small black box.
He removed this first, checked the contents and pressed a button along the side. He laid the tape recorder on the bedside table beside her.
He liked to relive their encounters.
“Please,” she begged. “Please don’t hurt me again.”
“Oh, I will only do what is necessary.”
He took a rag, walked over and, seizing her by the roots of her greasy hair, stuffed it deep into her mouth. She choked, bucking and fighting against the restraints. He laid his hands on her. It seemed to go on forever. She twisted and spat. The gag flew from her mouth and thick spittle hit his cheeks.
Grady wiped at his face. “I can feel the devil inside you. He must be purged.”
He turned to his case, reaching for the serrated knife.
The knife wasn’t there.
Her brother stood in front of him, the heavy blade clasped in his hands.
“Son —”
Jacob plunged the knife into the curate’s chest. Grady staggered, twisting back toward the bed.
Merry sat up. Her bindings hung loose. Her brother had untied them earlier. She watched as the curate’s eyes registered the deception, then his legs gave way and he crumpled to his knees.
She climbed out of the bed and padded across the floorboards. Grady clutched at the handle of the knife, wheezing hotly. She took the scalpel from the case and crouched down beside him.
“Please,” he whispered. “I am a man of God.”
Merry smiled and pressed the sharp tip into the soft flesh beneath his left eye.
“You’re a sick bastard.”
She drove the blade into his eyeball. Grady screamed.
And then she raised the scalpel again…
“You’re wrong.”
“No.” Clara shakes her head. “You’ve changed. A lot. But I spent a lifetime wondering what happened to Merry Lane. And suddenly, there you were. Your picture in the newspaper: ‘Vicar with Blood on Her Hands.’ Appropriate, don’t you think?”
I don’t bite. “You persuaded Brian to ask Bishop Gordon to offer me the job here.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d do it. I was surprised when you accepted. And then I got angry. That you could just waltz back here, guilt free.”
“You left the exorcism kit, the Bible, the Burning Girls. You sent those letters—”
She nods. “The case and Bible were among Fletcher’s things. He must have found them in the vault, where Marsh hid them with Benjamin’s body.”
“Why, Clara? After all this time?”
“I could ask you the same thing. Why come back?”
I hesitate, and then I say: “Because of Joy. I thought I might finally have a chance to find out what happened to her.”
“And I thought I’d finally have a chance to make you pay for what you did to Benjamin.”
“Benjamin Grady was a pedophile and an abuser. He deserved to die. Joy didn’t.”
Clara smiles another of her chill smiles. “We can both find ways to justify our actions. But ultimately, we’re both killers.”
It occurs to me that I could grab her. Pull her off balance. It wouldn’t take much to yank her down into the darkness. To leave her to die there. Like Joy.
Then our eyes meet. And I know she’s thinking the same thing.
“How do you live with yourself?”
“The same way you do, I imagine.”
We stare at each other. I take a step forward…and drop the tape down the well.
“Merry’s dead. And you can go to hell, Clara.”
And then I turn and walk away.
For the last time.
“I’ll be sad to see you go.”
I smile at Joan across the kitchen table. “I’ll miss you too.”
“We haven’t had this much excitement here for years.”
“I imagine the police investigation will continue for a while. There’s still a lot to work out.”
Not least, who killed Grady.
“I doubt they’ll ever get to the truth of it.”
“I’m sorry—I know you were hoping for answers.”
She reaches for her sherry. “Don’t be. When you get to my age, you understand there are more unanswered questions in life than not. The best you can hope for is a resolution you can live with. And at least I know the truth about Matthew.”
“How are the Harpers coping?”
“Emma has moved back to her mother’s with Poppy for a while. Simon is still finding it hard to believe Rosie’s guilt. All of this, it’s broken him.”
I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“We all try to do our best for our family,” I say.
“And do you think this move will be best for you and Flo?”
“I hope so.”
“Do you think you’ll come back?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, don’t leave it so long next time.”
I stare at her. She smiles and pats my hand. “I don’t need all the answers.”
What kind of woman am I?
I would like to answer that at heart I am a good woman, a woman who has tried to make the best of her life, to help others, to spread kindness.
But I am also a woman who has lied, stolen and killed.
We all have the capability to do evil. And most of us could find a reason to justify it. I don’t believe that people are simply born “bad.” Nurture trumps nature. However, I do believe that some of us are born with a greater potential to do wrong. Perhaps something genetic, when combined with environment, produces monsters. Like Grady. Like Wrigley.
Like me?
Do I feel guilt for the lives I have taken, the lies I have
told? Does it keep me awake at night? Sometimes. But not often. Does that make me a psychopath? Or a survivor?
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Jack stares back. It’s not that difficult to get a new identity. An old name from a gravestone. Begging and stealing until I could afford to pay for some good forged documents. Escaping a place is not enough. You need to escape yourself. You need to leave everything behind, including those you love. Like my brother.
I never intended to go into the church. But some of what I told Mike is true. I did meet a priest. Blake. A good man. He helped me understand that I could make a difference. Make amends. He also made me realize that the best place to hide is in plain sight. People don’t look past a clerical collar. And if they do, they are still blinded by their presumptions.
I unclip the collar now and slip it into my pocket. Then I reach into my shirt and lift out the cheap silver chain that I always wear. For over thirty years. Dangling from it, a slightly tarnished letter J.
Because best friends swap things: mix tapes, clothes, jewelry.
I hold on to the necklace for just a moment, then I grasp it between my fingers and yank it off. I drop it down the sink and run the tap until it’s washed away.
The toilet flushes from the cubicle behind me. I tuck my hair behind my ears, shorter now, the roots touched up. I step back and smile. Then I push open the door and step back into the throng of the airport.
Mike and Flo are sitting at a table in a busy café. Mike insisted upon driving us here. He’s been around quite a bit since that night at the chapel. I’ll miss him. But I’ll also be glad to say goodbye. Sometimes, when he looks at me, I feel he’s almost on the verge of saying something. Something that wouldn’t be good. For me. Or him.
“Hey,” Mike says as I approach. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Good.”
“I’m just going to get another coffee,” Flo says. “Want one?”
“Yes, thanks.”
She walks off to join the queue at the counter.
“So,” Mike says. “Feeling nervous about Australia?”