‘By carving Satanic graffiti?’
‘I’m sure I did worse as a teenager.’
‘Such as?’
I start the engine. ‘You really don’t want to know.’
It’s only about another fifteen minutes back to Chapel Croft. I stick some music on – The Killers.
‘So, how are you finding things here?’ Mike asks as Brandon laments that there is no motive for this crime and Jenny was a friend of his.
‘Well, it’s only been a couple of days so –’
‘Reserving judgement?’
‘I suppose.’
‘When do you officially start?’
‘A couple of weeks. The diocese usually gives you some time to settle in first, to get to know the parish.’
‘Well, if you want to get to know your parish, the Barley Mow is a good place to start. You’ll find most of them in there on a Sunday afternoon. They serve a passable roast and a very fine selection of wines and ales.’ He flashes me a quick glance. ‘Or so I’m told.’
‘Not a drinker?’
‘Not any more.
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘I’ve only lived in Chapel Croft for a couple of years. I used to live over in Burford. I moved here after my wife and I split up.’
‘Oh.’
‘No, it’s fine. It is for the best. And I still see a lot of my son. You have children?’
‘One daughter. Flo. She’s fifteen.’
‘Ah, the teenage years. How does she feel about your job?’
‘Like most teenagers, she thinks her mum is pathetic and embarrassing most of the time.’
He chuckles. ‘Yeah, Harry’s twelve, so he’s only just getting to that stage.’
‘Well, you’re probably lucky. From what I gather, boys are easier. They simply retreat into their rooms. Girls, they’ll push all the boundaries whenever they can.’
I smile, but he doesn’t return it. In fact, his face stiffens, something I can’t quite read in it. I’m not sure whether to speak again when a smart red-brick house draws into view.
‘Here we are,’ he says.
‘Okay.’
‘Oh, and …’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled card. ‘This is my number – if there’s anything you’d like to know about the village, then I can point you in the right direction.’
I look at the card. Michael Sudduth. Weldon Herald.
‘You’re a reporter.’
‘Well, if you can really call it that. Mostly cake bakes and jumble sales, but occasionally we get a bit of excitement, when someone steals a mower.’
I feel myself tense. A reporter.
‘Right. Well, thanks for the card.’
‘And thanks for helping with the tyre.’
He climbs out of the car, then turns back.
‘You know, if you fancy doing an interview, about coming here, a female take on being the new vicar, I’d love to do a –’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
I glare at him. ‘Is that why you came to the service yesterday? To sound me out?’
‘Actually, I come to the chapel every Sunday.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. For my daughter.’
‘I thought you had a son.’
‘I do. My daughter died. Two years ago. She’s buried in the graveyard at the chapel.’
My face flames. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize –’
He gives me a dark look. ‘Thanks for the lift. But maybe work on that whole “reserving judgement” thing.’
He slams the car door shut and walks up to the house without a backward glance.
Great. Well done on those people skills, Jack.
I sit in my car for a moment, wondering whether I should go after him and apologize. Then I decide it’s best to leave it for now. I’ll probably only make things worse.
I open the glovebox and chuck Mike’s card inside. As I do, a folded piece of paper falls out. I pick it up … and curse.
I’d forgotten this was in here. Or rather, I had tried really hard to forget this was in here.
As a priest, I talk a lot about honesty, but I’m a hypocrite. Honesty is an overrated virtue. The only real difference between a truth and a lie is how many times you repeat it.
I didn’t agree to this tenure just because of Durkin’s ultimatum. It wasn’t even Ruby or my own need to make amends. It was because of this.
Nottingham Prison Service. Notice of early release.
I shove the letter back in the glovebox and slam it shut.
He’s out.
And I can only pray that this is the last place he will look for me.
SEVENTEEN
‘This is how much I love you.’ That’s what Mum would whisper. ‘Even when you have been so wicked.’
And then she would lower him into the hole. No food. No water. Staring desperately up at the small circle of sky, birds circling overhead.
The cries of the crows take him back. A murder, he thinks. A murder of crows. He looks up at the old building. It was an asylum back in Victorian times. A grand and ornate structure on the outskirts of Nottingham, surrounded by rolling green lawns. Then, in the 1920s, it was converted into a hospital. But at some point the doors had closed for the final time, the big, arched windows were boarded up and the building and its grounds left to rot.
He knows this because it had been his home, for a while, after he ran away. He squatted with the other homeless. Druggies, alcoholics, people with mental health problems. Kind of ironic, really. He begged in the day, bringing in enough to buy a bit of food and water. The others were kind to him, for the most part, taking pity on a youngster.
Then another group moved in. Five young men and women with long hair and piercings. They wore baggy trousers and multicoloured tops and sat around at night smoking funny-smelling cigarettes and talking about ‘politics’ and the ‘fattest regime’.
Fascist regime, he had realized years later.
‘They’re not like us,’ one of the older drunks, Gaff, had told him.
‘How?’
‘Got homes. Folks. Just don’t want to live there.’
‘Why?’
‘Think they’re fucking rebels, don’t they?’ Gaff had said witheringly, honking a great glob of blood-speckled spit on to the ground.
He had been shocked. That someone would choose this life, living amongst rubble and bird droppings, with no heat or light, when, at any time, they could just go home. To parents who cared for them. And then he had felt angry. Like the newcomers were somehow mocking him.
One of the group – a skinny dreadlocked man called Ziggy – he particularly disliked. Ziggy came and tried to talk to him sometimes. Sat too close. Offered the funny cigarettes. Once or twice, he tried them. He didn’t really like how they made him feel. Kind of out of it and even hungrier. Later, he got over this. Being ‘out of it’ became a way of life.
‘Why are you talking to me?’ he had asked Ziggy.
‘I’m just being nice.’
‘What for?’
‘My parents are rich, y’know. They send money.’
‘So?’
‘You need money.’