‘So, I suppose now Wrigley’s gone you’re really going to lay into me.’
I sit down beside her and shake my head. ‘No.’
I hold out my arms, like I used to when she was a child having a tantrum. Comfort always dispels rage more quickly than shouting does. She sinks into my body and I hold her. After a while she raises her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘I know.’ I smooth her hair. ‘It’s not your fault.’
She looks at the camera. ‘I can’t believe my camera is ruined.’
‘It’s fixable. Unlike you.’
‘It will cost a fortune.’
‘We’ll sort it, somehow.’
We sit for a while and then I hear Flo’s stomach rumble. ‘Hungry?’
‘Yeah. A bit.’ Another low grumble. ‘A lot.’
‘How about I make us a stir fry and we stick a DVD on?’
‘Okay.’
‘What d’you fancy?’
‘Something trashy and retro.’
‘Breakfast Club. Pretty in Pink?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Purleese. The cool girl chooses the idiot jock over the kind, lovely best friend?’
‘Okay. You choose.’
‘Heathers?’
The beautiful girl falls in love with a psychopathic maniac.
‘Okay.’
She pads upstairs to get changed. I open the fridge and take out a selection of vegetables. Peppers, mushrooms, onions. I dump them on to a chopping board and grab a large knife.
I’ve just started chopping when Flo re-emerges in a baggy pair of shorts and a black vest. She looks thin and tired and achingly beautiful. I want to wrap her up in my arms and never let her out of the house again.
She walks over to the fridge and takes out a Diet Coke. ‘Mum, what do you think of Wrigley?’
I try to keep my voice light. ‘Well, we didn’t exactly meet in the best circumstances.’
‘It wasn’t his fault.’
‘Okay. Well, he seems nice enough. What’s with the twitching?’
‘Dystonia. It’s like something is wired wrong in his brain.’
‘Right.’ I select a large red pepper. ‘Question is – what do you think of him?’
A shrug. ‘He’s okay. Y’know.’
I do. I grip the knife tighter, trying to tell myself that he’s just a boy. Probably harmless. Not all young men are predatory.
She wanders back and pulls out a chair.
‘What’s this?’ she asks, looking down.
Crap. The box is still on the floor under the table.
‘Oh, just some stuff that belonged to Reverend Fletcher. He was researching the history of the village. Pretty boring.’
And yet she still reaches inside and lifts out a folder.
‘Who are Merry and Joy?’
‘Oh, just – owww! Bugger!’
She spins around. ‘Mum, you’ve cut yourself.’
I’ve sliced my finger open with the sharp knife. Blood drips from the cut.
‘Here.’ She grabs the plasters from the first-aid box and brings one over.
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’
I run my finger under the tap, dry it then wrap the plaster tightly around it.
‘You should be more careful, Mum.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Pot. Kettle?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Why don’t you go and find that DVD?’
‘Okay.’
She wanders out of the kitchen. I can hear her rummaging through the DVDs in the living room. I pick up the folder from the table, drop it back in the box and shove the box in the cupboard under the sink. Out of sight.
I hold up my finger. It hurts like hell. I cut it deeper than I meant to, but at least it provided a distraction. By the time Flo has found the DVD, I’m chucking vegetables into the wok and all talk of Merry and Joy has been forgotten.
TWENTY-FOUR
He continues his pilgrimage. From the old asylum down into the city. He slept rough here for a while, under the arches by the canal and in the underpass near the old shopping centre.
Both are still popular spots. Early evening, and he can see sleeping bags piling up, cardboard boxes at the ready. Some bad stuff happened here too. An old drunk tried to steal from him, and he had to defend his things. He remembers how the drunk’s body floated in the canal before the weeds and the weight of the rubble in his pockets dragged him down into the filthy water.
He walks on towards the Market Square. It’s crammed with people. In the summer months, the square is turned into ‘The Beach’. A grubby area of sand and a large paddling pool in the centre of the city for families to pretend they are at the seaside. There is a bar, fairground rides and stalls selling food and drinks. Tepid lager in plastic cups. Greasy burgers and fried onions squeezed into anaemic baps.
He stands near the edge of the crowds, not getting too close. So much noise, so many people, lights. He inhales the smells of popcorn, doughnuts and hotdogs, his rumbling stomach reminding him he hasn’t eaten since the day before. Children scream and laugh on the rides.
He feels an old yearning in his heart. As a child, he never went to a fair, never experienced the dizzying spin of the waltzers or tasted the sweet, sugary rush of candyfloss. Mum regarded such pleasures as sinful. Even before he ended up on the streets, food was often basic or out of date, a ‘treat’ getting through the day without incurring a beating.
Only when he escaped did he understand that his life was not like other children’s. He would watch them sometimes as they skipped past, smiling, hand in hand with parents who kissed and cuddled them, smoothed their hair. All the while he huddled in cardboard, careful to keep away from prying eyes in case anyone questioned why a young boy was sleeping rough.
He starts, suddenly noticing that one of the mums is watching him suspiciously, phone in her hand. He realizes how he must look. A stooped figure in second-hand clothes, clean but not exactly well kept, staring at children. He flushes. He is not a good man, but he is definitely not that type of man. More to the point, he can’t have her calling the police. He can’t go back to prison. He has things he needs to do.
He hurries away, driving himself onwards even though the day is starting to weigh down on him. He’s hungry and thirsty, but he only has loose change in his pocket. Fortunately, where he is heading next should solve that problem.
The sounds of the fair fade away behind him. His feet take him from the city centre, through darker, narrow terraced streets. Bins overflow, dogs bark, heavy bass throbs. The smell of cannabis and the threat of violence hang heavy in the air. Some things never change. Eventually, he reaches his destination. He looks up.
A large building, brick blackened by the city grime, stained-glass windows shielded with heavy iron grates, the spire reaching up against the grey evening sky.
St Anne’s Church.
The doors are open, light spilling out on to the pathway. A few homeless mill outside, smoking. A handwritten sign propped on the gate reads:
‘Monday Night Soup Kitchen. Eat, drink, stay/pray a while.’
He smiles, walks up the path and through the open doors.
The church is warm, brightly lit and smells of rich, hearty cooking. His stomach grumbles again. Food will be good, but that’s not the only reason he’s here. His eyes scan the church hungrily. Four volunteers in aprons stand behind a long trestle table, dishing out stew and curry from large metal pans. Where is she? And then he sees a figure step out from the back of the church, dressed in a dark suit and a white clerical collar.