by Keith Nixon
Coming here was a mistake.
He felt a spot of rain and groaned at the sight of a black cloud spreading across the sky, hanging overhead like a shroud. It seemed to have materialised from nowhere. Another spot of cold water hit his face, followed a second later by a deluge of big, fat drops. If he didn’t move fast, he’d be soaked. His car was close, but the church was closer.
He made a dash for the church, arm over his head in a vain attempt to keep his hair dry. Soon he was in cover under the arched porch. The rain lashed down now, and it felt like some unseen hand was once more directing Gray’s actions.
He grabbed the heavy iron handle set into the studded wooden door and twisted. With some effort, he hefted the ancient latch. The door, designed in architectural sympathy with the porch, swung back on massive, well-oiled hinges. He stepped inside and pushed it closed again. The fall of the bar echoed around the cool, dim space.
Gray negotiated a couple of sandstone steps, each worn into a smile by many feet over many years, sinners and penitents alike. Few of either visited these days, however. The interior was of the standard layout. Nave, chancel, altar, and parallel rows of pews, each of them sporting half-finished seasonal wreaths. The periphery, though, was beyond the standard. A magnificent vault and impressive stained glass windows behind the pulpit separated St Peter’s Church from the mundane rest.
Blessed are the poor.
It was ironic. If the priesthood had built simple structures and distributed the excess donations between its parishioners, then perhaps today there would be a more even spread of wealth and happiness in current society. The religious order had fallen foul of one of its own sins.
It was an unpopular view Gray had ceased to voice long before terminating his attendance at Sunday services. Here was another rift between husband and wife following Tom’s disappearance – as Gray drifted away from religion, so Kate became more committed to the Lord’s word.
He wandered the perimeter, glancing at metal and stone plaques affixed to the wall, praising the virtuous and pious. It didn’t take long; this was a diminutive church in a pocket-sized village. Once it was different. Saint Augustine had landed just up the coast at Minster a millennium ago, returning Christianity to Britain. The first cathedral founded in nearby Canterbury. Senior religious figures regularly made the trip to the continent and vice versa. That was a glory long, long past.
The leaded windows were set too high in the wall for Gray to see much, just a patch of ponderous sky and streams of water cascading down the glass. The rain tap danced on the roof.
He took a pew. The varnished wood was uncomfortable, and it wasn’t long before he felt a chill through the seat of his trousers. He leaned forward slightly for comfort, arms on his thighs, then sat back again when he realised he was in a prayer position.
Many significant events in his life had happened right here. A marriage, a baptism, a funeral, every one of them attended by Jeff Carslake, even though in the end it had felt as if Carslake was fulfilling an obligation.
The rattle of the latch pierced his thoughts. Someone was backing in, shaking out an umbrella into the porch so the water wouldn’t dot the brown tiles underfoot.
The person turned around, unsurprised to find someone else here. Their eyes met. Gray took in the middle-aged man: soft face, round glasses, thinning hair. Dressed entirely in black, except for the dog collar about his neck, so white it should be in a washing powder advert.
“David. Just my luck,” Gray murmured.
Reverend David Hill propped his damp umbrella against the wall. “It’s my church. You should have known I would likely be here.”
“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind,” said Gray. He wasn’t telling the entire truth. “And isn’t it God’s house?”
The vicar smiled and pointed at the pew Gray was occupying. “May I?”
“It’s your church. You can sit where you like.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“That’s what you lot do though, isn’t it? Meddle whether people want it or not?”
“Perhaps sometimes people, as you put it, don’t know they’re in need of an intervention until it happens.”
“I didn’t come looking for you or a saviour, David. I was just getting out of the rain.”
“Bit out of your way though, isn’t it?”
Gray ignored the question. A silence fell, punctuated by the staccato patter of the downpour. He kept his gaze forward, studying the detail in the stained-glass windows. Christ being crucified right in the centre.
“How are you keeping?” asked David.
“So that took, what?” Gray made a show of checking his watch. “Thirty seconds? You’d make a dreadful criminal. Children can stay quiet for longer than that.”
“I was just being polite.”
“Right.” Another pause. “You’re going to keep asking me, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Gray noted the self-assurance in the other man’s voice. He held his temper. For Kate. Because her belief had strengthened, even as Gray’s resolve had collapsed to dust. Because despite it all, Gray still loved her. Always would.
David was talking again. “We’d welcome you back with open arms. Come and join us again. Please, Sol.”
“You make it sound like a cult.”
“For some, maybe it is, although one of love and support. And you haven’t answered my question. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I told you.”
“To get out of the rain,” David repeated. “Except I don’t believe that.”
“Did God whisper otherwise into your ear?” scoffed Gray.
“I saw you from the vicarage window. You were in the graveyard.”
Gray flinched, like a secret had been physically yanked out of him. He clamped his jaw tight, not trusting his mouth right now.
“Did you go and see her?” David didn’t say Kate’s name and Gray was oddly grateful for it.
Gray nodded. “I don’t know why, before you ask.”
“The why doesn’t matter, Sol. It’s important that you did.”
Gray could feel the anger boiling up in him. The vicar’s words now sounded more sanctimonious than sympathetic.
“Five years since she died. That’s long enough, isn’t it?”
“You mean killed herself, Reverend. A sinful act.”
David stared down at his feet, uncomfortable with Gray’s statement.
Tough. It was the truth and the truth always had to be revealed, whatever the implications.
“Do you know what I witnessed today?” asked Gray, twisting the knife. “Another wasted life. Another idiot who thought the best option was to check out. He was a teenager. Seventeen, eighteen at the most. Threw himself off Arlington House.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Sol.”
“Why? Why does the All-Powerful who resides in the Heavens allow this to happen? And don’t say it’s a test.”
“How old would Tom be now?”
“Don’t talk in the past tense about him. He’s still alive, I know it.” His voice was low and full of conviction.
“Sorry. It wasn’t intentional. But it’s been ten years, Sol. Maybe it’s time to move on?”
“Like Kate did, you mean?”
The vicar shook his head. “I didn’t come here for an argument. In fact, I wanted your help with something.”
“Not matters of the church, I hope?”
“Just the opposite. The work of the devil, actually.”
“What?”
“It’s a fight with evil. One you’re uniquely qualified to aid me with.”
Gray was about to respond when the scrape of wood on stone signified the church door was opening once more. A woman this time. She wore a coat and one of those clear, plastic hoods to keep the rain off. Through it, Gray could see white hair.
Alice Newbold, a parishioner, the most dedicated of them all and Kate’
s best friend at the end. It was Alice and Margaret Fowler - Mike Fowler’s wife - who kept the church running. They were firm advocates of David Hill. Alice had been coming to the church forever, more so once her husband, a veteran of the Second World War and subsequent pillar of the community, had passed on, leaving little else of substance in her life.
Alice stopped in her tracks, taking in Gray’s presence with the vicar, clearly unsure how to deal with this unexpected vision. Eventually she broke the silence. “I’m only here to finish off the decorations.”
Gray stood. “I’ll take that as a sign from above.” He decided to take the long way out, along the nave, rather than cramming past David. He paused at the reverend’s shoulder, bent over and spoke into his ear: “He’s sixteen and he’s out there somewhere, I just haven’t found him yet. And I won’t stop until I do.”
Gray gave Alice a nod as he passed. He liked her, although she had a tendency to interfere in the name of the righteous and he wasn’t in the mood for it just now.
“You’re welcome here any time, Solomon,” said Alice.
“Who says I want to be?”
“Kate does.”
Gray stepped out into the torrent before he said something he’d regret.
Six
As Gray walked the final few yards to his car, the deluge eased to a fine drizzle. Margaret Fowler passed him on the way – him leaving, her arriving. She was a slight woman: short, thin, and bird-like with a carefully made-up face. She was so different from her husband. He exchanged the briefest of greetings with her.
The temperature had plummeted with the sinking sun, the angry red orb partially hidden by oppressive clouds. Gray slid inside his car, cringing at the touch of damp clothes against his skin. He started the engine, turned the heaters on full.
During the short drive, Gray reflected on his discussion with Hill, wondering what he meant about the devil’s work, dismissing it as another lure, and a stupid one at that. If he wasn’t careful, Hill and Alice would be sucking him back in again. Gray would ask Carslake to shoot him first.
He found a spot on a street not far from home, locked up and hustled himself into a walk. Christmas trees shimmered in every window he passed. Most houses sported lights hanging from the roof. His didn’t. Gray was the Grinch of his neighbourhood.
This had once been the Gray family home. Now it was simply a place to exist, a terraced house keeping the weather off a handful of immaterial objects. It had the original wooden windows where everyone else’s were plastic, a slate roof with a few slipped tiles and a narrow, bare front garden. Gray didn’t possess green fingers.
The majority of the neighbours were families or had been once; it was that sort of area. Good schools nearby, the houses a decent enough size to make the two-point-four children feel like not such a constriction of adult life. God knows, you gave up enough to become a parent.
Gray caught himself. There I go again. Calling on the bloody Almighty.
Why? It wasn’t like Gray believed in a higher being any more. How could he? Each to their own, though where was the evidence? God had forsaken the Grays. He’d worked hard to repay the favour and would go on doing so until all was square.
When they’d first acquired the house their expenses stretched to bursting point, especially once Kate, a copper herself, gave up work to focus on the pregnancy. He’d told her it was too big a financial burden. She’d held firm. She wanted somewhere they could call their own, and what husband could truly disagree with his wife in that respect? And ultimately it was for their unborn child, a girl, Hope. And a few years later one became two, a boy, Thomas.
Gray worked extra hours to earn more money, decorated the house in whatever little spare time he had, did everything to make it right. And it worked. For a while they’d been blissfully happy, a promotion to sergeant alleviating the financial anxiety.
With Tom’s disappearance, the life they’d built came crashing down. Kate blamed Gray. He moved out and rented a flat, which only darkened the house’s innards further when Kate died. This was a residence of grim memory, of what might have been, but never would be.
Gray slid the key into the lock and twisted. It was the same set he’d always owned. When the house became his again, Kate’s stuff ended up in the loft or dumped in the charity shop. He flicked on the hallway light. The furnishings were as bland as Carslake’s office. These days, belongings weren’t replaced until broken or worn out beyond repair. That was the one decent lesson his father had taught him.
Gray scooped the post from the floor. A mix of bills, junk mail, and season’s greetings. All three would end up in the bin. He tramped along the hallway, past the ornate banister, down a couple of steps into the narrow kitchen which overlooked a hideously tangled garden, all leggy grass, mighty stinging nettles and tortuous brambles.
Gray part-filled the kettle and set it on the stove. He got the coffee out of the fridge and scooped grounds into a French press. It didn’t matter whether he drank caffeine late at night or not. How much sleep he didn’t enjoy was determined by his subconscious mind alone.
While the kettle juddered, he thought back to an article he’d read a few days ago that claimed people who believed in higher beings tended to live longer than those who did not. Gray didn’t have a problem with the statistic in particular, beyond the fact he’d no desire to spend any longer on earth than was absolutely necessary.
No, it was the basis for the conclusion, that religious types bore less of a burden, believing the Almighty would take care of everything. Despite so much evidence to the contrary.
Gray knew they were fools. In the absence of an all-powerful existence in the heavens it was left to people like him, the police, to protect others. Although when it had come to his own family, he’d utterly failed.
He trotted up the three sets of stairs to the loft room where he slept and searched his many files until he found what he wanted. Stories neatly snipped from newspapers, held together by a paper clip.
By the time Gray got back to the kitchen, steam was billowing from the kettle’s spout. He flicked off the gas, sloshed hot water onto the grounds. From a bottom drawer he retrieved a scotch bottle, blend not malt, and poured a slug into a mug.
While he waited for the coffee to brew, he flicked through the handful of articles. All were written by the leech, Scully, charting Gray’s disasters. Tom, Kate, the assault and subsequent suspension from the force. Not his reappointment, of course. Scandal sells, good news doesn’t.
The earliest article featured a photo of Gray, an expression that portrayed his loss and desolation. Then a second, more studied, image of the stuff he’d won at the fair for Tom. A teddy bear and a goldfish, discarded and trampled into the muddy ground. The former grubby, the latter dead.
Gray stared at the picture of his younger self, on the cusp of seeing the world as a far darker place than even he had realised.
Seven
Ten Years Ago
He loved tucking Tom up in bed so he was warm and comfortable. That’s what fathers were for. A broad smile split Tom’s face, happy they were together. Gray grinned back, a contented man. He ruffled Tom’s short, dark hair. He had his mother’s looks: big blue eyes and high cheekbones. Short for his age. He also had Kate’s temperament, rarely speaking but certain of his views when he did.
The lamp beside Tom’s bed spilled out a pocket-sized pool of light against the darkness of night. The animals on Tom’s wallpaper were dim shades of themselves, a mobile hung above his bed. His choice, Gray’s hard work to put up. He hadn’t minded at all.
“What story do you want?” asked Gray, already knowing the answer. He held the book clasped between his knees. Tom was sure to have seen it.
“Gingerbread man!” he shouted. Voice full of glee. Innocent. For now. Until tomorrow.
“What, again?”
“Yes, please. Again!”
“Don’t you want something else? You’ve got so many books.”
Tom owned a shelf unit fu
ll. Fables and fiction, tall tales and short stories. Gray pointed, went to pull one down, kept the other behind his back.
“Gingerbread man,” said Tom firmly, shaking his head.
“All right then,” said Gray. He sat back down on the bed. Tired springs creaked.
Gray lifted the book. Tilted it toward the light, so Tom could stare at the familiar pictures. They knew all the words, although Tom could only read very slowly.
“Once upon a time,” started Gray, “there was a little old man and a little old woman…”
Tom’s eyes were as wide as an owl’s.
“… the little gingerbread man ran away as fast as his little legs would carry him…”
“Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man,” they both rhymed.
Gray laughed when the gingerbread man escaped the old couple and the cow. Tom pulled the covers up to his nose when the gingerbread man met the fox, buried his head completely once the fox threw the gingerbread man up in the air and snap! Gray always slapped the book shut at this point. Sharp teeth on soft flesh. The fox made Tom quail. Gray told him he was safe.
“Get some sleep now, son,” said Gray, bending down and kissing his forehead. “Tomorrow’s your big day.”
“I promise I won’t be able to sleep, Daddy.”
“Then you’ll miss your birthday and not go to the fun fair. Do you want that?”
Tom shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.”
Gray flicked off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Tom uttered a little whimper.
“Can you leave the door open, Daddy?” asked Tom. Gray did so, a strip of light from the bulb on the landing falling across Tom’s bed.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“Night, son.”
Gray withdrew from the room, watched through the crack as Tom snuggled down beneath the pile of blankets that pressed around him like a comforting arm. Gray caught another smile when Tom’s feet touched the hot water bottle he’d snuck in while his son was brushing his teeth.