He raised his eyebrows.
‘I believe that evil exists,’ I said. ‘In the hearts of all men and women. Our dark side, if you will. External demons – no, I don’t believe in that.’
‘But this young woman does. She believes absolutely. She is desperate and she has turned to us for help. Should we turn her away?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Jack, our belief is not the point. She believes it, and the human mind is a powerful thing.’
‘Aren’t we just enabling her delusions?’
‘Do you pray for God’s help in times of trouble?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though you know he’s probably not going to drop everything just to deal with your problem?’
I made a noise of assent.
‘But it provides comfort?’
‘Yes.’
‘Our job is to perform the exorcism rites. Whether the demons are real or not, the exorcism will provide comfort. The young lady will believe that the demon is gone and that her flat is cleansed. God has triumphed. Faith, to an extent, is a placebo. If you believe it works, it works.’
‘I suppose,’ I said doubtfully.
He winked. ‘Good. Now, let’s go bust some ghosts.’
I feel a sadness settle over me. Blake died five years ago. Time. It’s scary when you think about it. I stub my cigarette out and walk back into the kitchen. The box from the cellar sits on the table. I take the tape recorder out and press play, without much hope. Predictably, nothing happens. I turn it over. The screws to the battery compartment are coated with rust. I try to eject the tape again, but to no avail. The mechanism is stuck, and the tape looks like it’s caught up inside.
Okay. I rifle through the drawers, looking for a screwdriver or a pen. I finally find what I’m looking for in a Tupperware box I seem to have labelled ‘Keys’. There are no keys in the box. Instead, there are paperclips, Blu-Tack, clothes pegs, an old pair of headphones and, buried underneath, a small silver screwdriver. I pluck the screwdriver out triumphantly and start trying to dislodge the tape. I manage to loosen it and then, suddenly, it pops out … and the tape snaps.
‘Damn!’
I’m still staring at the broken cassette, wondering if I can remember how to fix it – Scotch tape? – when the front door slams, hard enough to shake the cottage. I quickly drop the cassette and tape recorder back into the box, dump it on the floor and shove it under the table with my foot.
I turn. Flo stands in the doorway with her arm around a skinny teenage boy whose face is streaked with blood. Her hair is dishevelled and the Nikon around her neck is smashed.
She stares at me and utters the words guaranteed to strike dread into every parent’s heart:
‘Mum – don’t be mad.’
TWENTY-THREE
‘An airgun? Christ. I thought it was in Nottingham we had to worry about guns, not here.’
I dab at Wrigley’s head. Cleaning blood off someone for the second time in three days.
‘I know,’ Flo mutters.
‘Did you see who was shooting?’
‘No, too far away.’
I want to contradict her. I don’t know much about airguns, but I don’t think they have a particularly long range.
‘We need to report this to the police.’
‘It was just an accident.’
‘How do you know? You could have been killed. The pair of you.’
‘Owww,’ Wrigley moans.
I am dabbing a bit too hard at the wound, not that I’m blaming him for this or anything. Not totally.
‘Sorry.’
I chuck the bloody cloth at the sink. The wound is shallow, but head wounds bleed like bastards. I have retrieved the first-aid box from the bathroom upstairs. I dab on some Savlon and stick two large dressing plasters on his head. I tilt his chin up to regard my work. He’s actually a good-looking young man. I wonder what the story is with the odd jerking and twitching. Some kind of neurological condition?
‘There. That should do you, for now.’
‘Thanks, Reverend. I really appreciate it. My mum’s not as cool about this sort of stuff as you.’
I stare at him. ‘Cool? I’m not cool about it. I am very far from cool about it.’ I turn to Flo. ‘Some loon is wandering around the countryside firing off airguns. You could both have been killed. How many times do I have to say this?’
‘We’re fine,’ Flo says, impatiently.
‘That’s not the point.’
I pick up the Nikon from the table. The lens is completely shattered. The pellet has lodged in the back, where it bulges slightly against the metal.
‘Look at this. A few more millimetres and that could have pierced your heart.’
I felt sick even as I say it.
‘Mum, you’re being melodramatic.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘He wasn’t aiming for my heart. He was aiming for the camera.’
‘He? I thought you said you didn’t know the idiot who shot at you.’
‘We don’t. I just said “he” because, you know, turn of phrase.’
I stare at both of them helplessly. There is more going on here. But, with teens, you can’t drag it out of them. Sometimes, you have to play the long game. I could threaten. I could ground Flo. I could ban TV, the internet (if we had any). But if she doesn’t want to tell me, she won’t.
We all have our secrets. Teenagers more than most. I kept plenty from my own mother. And even with all the cruelties she inflicted, she never broke me.
‘Promise me one thing,’ I say. ‘You won’t go wandering around the woods again.’
They glance at each other. Flo looks back at the camera.
‘Now my camera’s ruined there’s not much point.’
‘We promise, Reverend Brooks,’ Wrigley says.
Flo sighs. ‘Promise.’
‘Okay. Right.’ I glance at the clock. Almost six o clock. The afternoon has evaporated.
‘Wrigley – do you want to stay for dinner?’
‘I should probably get back home.’
‘Do you want a lift?’
‘No, it’s okay. I can walk.’
‘You sure? Where do you live?’
‘Just over the other side of the village. It’s fine. But thank you.’
‘Okay.’
I walk him to the door.
‘Thanks again, Reverend,’ Wrigley says. ‘I just want you to know –’
I hold up a hand. ‘Actually, there’s something I want you to know.’ I pull the door half closed behind me. ‘I may have Reverend in front of my name, but don’t let the dog collar fool you. First and foremost, I am a mother. If any harm ever comes to my daughter because of you, I will make it my mission in life to screw yours up beyond belief. Do I make myself clear?’
Just for a moment, the manic twitching seems to pause. He looks at me with eyes that are a distinctive silvery green.
‘Crystal.’
And then his whole body convulses again. He turns and stutters down the pathway. I watch him go, feeling uneasy. Then I close the door and walk back inside.
Flo is slumped at the kitchen table, holding the broken Nikon in her hands. She glances up as I enter.