‘You killed one. Are you happy now?’
Silence. Enormous in the aftermath of the echoing shots and terrified bird cries. Flo stares across to the woods. Pretty earlier, sunlight dappling the forest floor with gold. Now, they seem thick with threat.
‘Wrigley,’ she starts to say. ‘I think –’
Another shot rings out. A roof tile jumps from the building and shatters at their feet. Wrigley stumbles backwards, clutching at his face. Flo can see blood running down his cheek.
‘Wrigley?’
He moves his hands away. There’s a nasty gash just above his eye. It looks shallow, but it’s hard to tell with all the blood.
‘We need to get out of here.’ She turns, and then stops.
Two figures have emerged from the woods. The tall blonde and the boy from this morning. Rosie and Tom. What are the fucking chances? An airgun swings from Tom’s hand. Even better.
Wrigley lets out a low breath. ‘Fuckers.’
‘You know them?’
‘Rosie Harper and her cousin, Tom. Total twats.’
‘I ran into them this morning.’
‘How did that go?’
‘Not well.’
‘Not surprised.’
Harper, she thinks. Why does that ring a bell? And then it clicks. The little girl and her dad. Could Rosie be her sister?
The duo draw closer. She can see now that Tom’s nose is swollen, bruises forming beneath his eyes. They jump over the broken-down wall.
Rosie smiles. ‘Well, look, it’s Vampirina and wriggly Wrigley.’
Wrigley stares at her darkly. ‘Look, it’s the morons who kill innocent animals for fun.’
‘Just shooting some vermin.’
Tom grins. ‘Nasty graze, Wrigley.’
‘How’s your nose?’ Flo says sweetly. ‘Painful?’
The grin fades. ‘You’re lucky you ran, you psycho bitch.’
Wrigley turns to her. ‘You did that?’
‘It was an accident.’
‘So, what are you two doing here?’ Rosie asks. ‘Fucking?’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Flo says, staring at her hard.
‘Well, seeing as my dad just bought this land, plenty. You’re trespassing.’
‘Fine. We were just leaving anyway.’ Flo grabs Wrigley’s arm. ‘C’mon.’
They start to move. Tom raises the airgun.
‘We didn’t say you could go yet.’
Flo stands still, heart thudding
Tom gestures at the camera. ‘Give me that piece of shit around your neck. Then you can go.’
Show no fear. Show no fear.
‘No.’
Wrigley steps forward. ‘Just leave her alone.’
‘Stay out of it, retard. Unfinished business.’ Tom aims the gun at Flo’s chest. ‘I said, give me your camera.’
Flo grasps the strap. Blood pulses in her throat.
Give him the camera. It’s not worth it. That’s what her mum would say.
But it is worth it. To her.
She lets her hands fall. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
He grins. ‘Bitch.’
And pulls the trigger.
TWENTY-TWO
We all have our hiding places. Not just physical ones. Places deep inside where we put away the things we don’t want others to see. The less palatable parts. Our St Peter’s box, I call it. The one we pray he won’t find when we’re trying to sneak in through the pearly gates.
I take my smoking tin and papers out of the hollowed-out Bible on the bookcase, roll a cigarette and stand outside the kitchen door, inhaling deeply, savouring the nicotine hit. We all have our vices too. Addictions, needs, desires. Again, some more palatable than others.
I think about the small black tape recorder.
Exorcism of Merry Joanne Lane.
The Church hardly has a glorious track record when it comes to the treatment of women. Exorcism is no exception. It’s no coincidence that the majority of exorcisms were carried out upon young women. Women who might have been depressed, suffering mental illness or simply displaying ‘wanton wilfulness’ by not doing what a husband or father instructed them.
All manner of ‘undesirable’ female behaviour could be ascribed to demonic possession and therefore ‘cured’ by abusive and violent exorcisms. All performed in the name of God.
The Church of England has, over the years, taken a more moderate approach. Pastoral care over violent expulsion of evil. Although it would probably surprise many people if they knew that, even now, in these days of scientific advancement, many dioceses have a Deliverance Ministry. Basically, a specialist team called in to deal with paranormal experiences. These might often be in conjunction with mental health advisors, but their presence is real and recognized. Even regular priests can occasionally be called to investigate incidents of demonic possession or haunting.
I remember a visit I made as a curate with my mentor, Reverend Blake – a heavy-set, balding man with a fierce gaze and a fiercer Mancunian accent. I was twenty-seven, three years into my training, and we had been called to see a young woman in the Meadows area of Nottingham.
I expected the usual. Drug abuse, alcoholism, perhaps domestic abuse. But that wasn’t it (although I suspected that drugs or alcohol might still be involved). The young woman we were visiting believed that her flat was possessed, haunted. She wanted us to perform an exorcism.
‘Do you believe in God?’ Blake had asked me.
We were sitting in his car, a beaten-up Honda Civic, grabbing a quick McDonald’s on our way to a grim tower block where the woman lived.
I stared at Blake over my quarter pounder, wondering if this was a trick question. Up until now, I had known all the right answers. Or rather, I had learned them. Night after night, studying while also working part time. I had passed everything so far with flying colours. Because I was good at exams, good at debating. Good at saying what people wanted to hear. I had learned fast and hard. But I couldn’t lie to or bluff Blake. He knew me too well. He should do. He had rescued me from the streets when I was sixteen.
‘I have faith,’ I said.
‘And nothing could shake your faith?’
The quarter pounder lodged uncomfortably in my throat. I reached for my Coke and took a swig. The straw gurgled in the plastic cup.
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘So, in a way, it doesn’t matter if God exists or not, as long as we have faith that he does?’
I frowned, unsure how to reply.
He smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’m not trying to engage you in some religious Schrödinger’s cat-type debate.’
‘Then why are we discussing this?’
‘Because I sense your scepticism about our visit today.’
He was right. As usual.
‘I just feel uncomfortable about it.’
He nodded, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin and chucking it into his empty container of fries.
‘Because?’
‘It sounds as if this woman needs the care of mental health professionals, counselling, maybe medication.’
‘And what if those haven’t helped?’
‘But exorcism? Really?’
‘You don’t believe in demonic possession?’
‘No.’