The suit is a little large but not so much that anyone will question it. He smiles back.
‘God bless you, sir.’
THIRTY
‘You’re sure you don’t want to come tonight?’
Flo gives me a disparaging look. ‘Err, a pub quiz? No, thanks.’
‘You’ll be okay here on your own?’
‘Well, as long as you put me in my playpen.’
‘Funny.’
‘I’ll be fine. Okay?’
But she doesn’t look fine. Nose stuck back in a book, my daughter looks pale, preoccupied and unhappy.
I sit on the sofa next to her. ‘Look, I’ll try to find some money to get the camera fixed. Maybe I could apply for a credit card.’
‘I thought you said credit cards were the work of the devil?’
‘Well, many things are the work of the devil and I still do them.’
‘It’s fine, Mum. It’s not the camera.’
‘Then what’s bothering you?’
‘Nothing, okay?’ She uncurls from the sofa. ‘I’m going upstairs.’
‘What about dinner?’
‘I’ll make something later.’
‘Flo?’
‘Mum, just leave it, will you? I’m not one of your parishioners. If you want to know what’s wrong, just take a look around you.’
She stomps up the stairs and the bedroom door slams, rocking the whole cottage.
Okay. Well, perhaps I had that coming. I slump on to the sofa and rub my head. I can feel a headache coming on. The last thing I want is to go to a pub quiz. On the other hand, I could really do with a drink. I keep thinking about Reverend Bradley. Attacked. Dead.
Durkin told me the police are working on the theory that it was an intruder, perhaps one of the homeless men from the soup kitchen. Bradley’s wallet had been taken, and his clothes.
But I have a bad feeling. St Anne’s was my old church. Was he looking for me? Did Reverend Bradley get in his way?
No. I am putting two and two together and panicking myself. It was fourteen years ago. He wouldn’t have been given an early release unless he had shown remorse; proved he was a changed man. Why would he look for me now?
But I know the answer. I left him behind. And I never went back.
I stand. Enough. Perhaps the best thing to do is to give Flo some space, go out and take my mind off things for a few hours. I trudge upstairs, shower and get changed. I inspect myself in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. Jeans, black shirt, Docs. I start to pull my hair into a ponytail then change my mind and wedge it behind my ears. I grab my hoodie. It’s still muggy, but it might be cool walking back later.
I knock gently on Flo’s door. ‘Okay, I’m going.’
No reply. I sigh. ‘Love you.’
I wait and a muffled voice calls back:
‘Don’t get too drunk.’
I smile, feeling a little comforted. Just normal teenage stuff. It will pass. Maybe all of this will pass. On the other hand, a little insurance couldn’t hurt. I walk back into my room, open the wardrobe and take out the battered leather case. I undo it and lift out the bone-handled knife. I stare at the rusty stains. Then I carry it over to my bed and stick it under the mattress.
If he finds us, I’ll be ready.
The Barley Mow is brightly lit. I haven’t been to a pub in a long while. I don’t drink that often. The occasional red wine at home, but that’s about it. As a vicar, you can’t really be seen doing tequila shots at the bar. Plus, I don’t like feeling out of control. Losing myself, being unsure of what I might say.
I reach the door. Seven thirty-seven. I hesitate and touch my dog collar. A nervous tic. A gesture of comfort, reassurance. I can always choose not to wear it. There are occasions when I don’t. But the thing about a dog collar is that it also acts as a shield. People see the dog collar, but they don’t really see you.
I push the door open. Pub smells. Wheat, food, old furniture, stale sweat. The sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses. Someone in the back kitchen yelling something unintelligible. I walk in and quickly survey my surroundings. It’s a habit, like touching my dog collar. Assess the situation. Work out your opponents and friends. Look for exits.
The pub is cosy and low-beamed. To my left is the bar and a small area of seating. To my right, a large open fire, currently unlit, more tables and chairs and a couple of worn leather sofas. The walls are brick and adorned with a number of ‘humorous’ plaques.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy beer.
Alcohol may not solve your problems, but neither will water.
Dogs welcome, children tolerated.
There are copper pans and irons hung around the fire and stacks of logs. Most of the crowd are older; a few have dogs. It’s that sort of pub.
There’s one crowd of younger males to my left, congregating around the bar, talking to one of the staff serving, a stocky young man with two black eyes and a swollen nose. He glances up as I walk in and says something to one of the other lads. They laugh. I try to ignore it, but I feel my jaw clench.
‘Jack, over here!’
I turn at the sound of Rushton’s voice. He waves at me from a round table in the corner. Clara is sitting next to him, but no sign of Mike Sudduth yet. I squeeze my way over to them, stepping over a couple of dogs en route. There’s a pint of ale in front of Rushton and a red wine in front of Clara. As soon as I reach the table Rushton gets to his feet and envelops me in a warm hug.
‘So glad you made it. What can I get you?’
‘Erm.’ I think about asking for a Diet Coke and then I think, sod it. ‘Glass of red wine, please. A Malbec or a Cab Sav, if they have one.’
‘No problem.’
He trots off and I pull out one of the spare stools and sit down opposite Clara. This evening her hair is down; a shimmering snowy cloak draped over her shoulders. I think about the old pictures Joan showed me. Frumpy Clara. Handsome Grady.
Could she have lied for him?
‘So, how are you?’ she asks warmly.
‘Oh, fine.’
‘How did your wedding consultation go?’
‘Nothing a sex change or a false beard can’t sort out.’
She laughs. ‘They’ll come round. Some people are just a bit narrow-minded.’
‘I know. Not my first rodeo.’
‘Of course.’
Rushton returns, clutching a large glass of red, and with Mike Sudduth in tow.
‘Look who I bumped into at the bar!’
He beams and places my wine in front of me.
‘Cab Sav. And I understand you’ve met Mike, so no introduction is necessary.’
‘No.’ I smile politely. ‘How’s the car?’
‘Four-wheeled again. Thanks for your help.’
‘No problem. And about what I said –’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He sits down on the stool next to me and places a glass of orange juice on the table. ‘So, what’s your specialist subject?’
I stare at him blankly for a moment. ‘Oh, the quiz.’
‘Clara is our general knowledge expert,’ Rushton says. ‘I’m sport.’
‘What’s yours?’ I ask Mike.
‘TV and film.’