‘Yes,’ I say carefully. ‘Even him.’
‘Is that why you visited him in jail. To forgive him?’
I hesitate. ‘You have to want forgiveness. You have to want to change. The man who killed your dad, he wasn’t able to do that.’
‘You said he was a drug addict.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, perhaps, once he kicked the drugs, he could have changed.’
‘Perhaps. Why are you asking about this now? What’s on your mind?’
‘Nothing really …’
‘You can talk to me, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Is this about Wrigley?’
The shutters go up. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘I just wondered –’
‘Here we go again. You don’t like him, do you?’
‘I haven’t made my mind up yet.’
‘Is it because of his dystonia?’
‘No.’
‘You think he’s not normal, not good enough.’
‘No. And don’t put words into my mouth.’
‘He rescued me last night.’
Because he was creeping around the chapel, up to no good, I want to say, but don’t. I think about the knife again.
‘Flo, I wasn’t sure whether to mention this, but last night, something went missing from my room.’
‘What?’
‘The knife from the exorcism kit. You and Wrigley were the only ones alone in the house.’
Her eyes widen. ‘And you think Wrigley took it?’
‘Well, I’m presuming you didn’t take it?’
‘No. But it’s not like he’s the only one who could have stolen it. You were out all night. I was stuck in the chapel. The cottage wasn’t locked. Anyone could have walked in.’
She has a point. ‘But why would someone break in and steal a knife?’
‘Why would Wrigley steal it?’
‘I don’t know.’
She stares at me. Her face is full of hurt and confusion and my heart aches. Oh, it’s all so hard when you’re fifteen. You want to believe the world is black and white. But, as an adult, you realize that most people exist in the grey area in between. All just stuck in the middle and bumbling through.
‘Flo –’
‘He didn’t take it, okay? He thinks carrying knives is stupid. Okay?’
No. Not okay. But I can’t prove it. Not right now.
‘Okay.’
She shoves her chair back from the table. ‘I’m going to my room.’
‘You haven’t finished.’
‘Not hungry.’
I watch helplessly as she stomps from the kitchen. The staircase creaks and I hear a door slam upstairs. Great. I run my hands through my hair. Flo and I don’t argue much, not usually. But since we came here, it feels like everything is fraying, my life unravelling around me. I pick up the bowls, scrape off the uneaten pasta into the bin and stick them in the sink.
I need a cigarette. I fetch my tin, roll one quickly at the kitchen table and open the back door. I step outside and then jerk back.
There’s something on the doorstep. Two more twig dolls. Bigger than the others and crafted into a sitting position, twig legs outstretched, arms entwined. Strands of blonde hair have been woven into the head of one doll; dark hair into the other. And they’re moving. Shifting slightly from side to side, as though restless.
What the hell?
Heart thudding, I bend down to pick them up. As I do, something fat and white wriggles out of one doll and plops to the floor.
‘Shit!’
I drop the dolls again with a shriek of disgust, wiping my hands on my jeans.
They’re full of maggots.
FORTY-TWO
The bedroom is hot and stuffy. I’m lying on top of the sheets, naked. Sweat trickles down my neck and between my breasts. I try to turn, to find a cooler patch to lie on. But I can’t. My wrists and ankles are bound to the bedposts. I’m captive. A prisoner.
And someone is coming.
I can hear their footsteps, climbing slowly up the stairs. Growing closer and closer. Panic grips me. I twist against the restraints, but it’s no good. I watch as the door handle turns. The door opens. A figure in dark clothes walks in, a flash of white at their neck and a glint of something sharp and silver in one hand. A knife.
I hear them whisper: ‘Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio.’
St Michael, protect us in battle.
I look up, pleading. Please, no. Please let me go. They bend over me. My eyes find their face in the darkness and horror engulfs me as I see that they have no face. Just a mass of squirming, wriggling maggots …
‘Aahhh!’
I wake with a start, brushing at my bedclothes, sweaty and disorientated. I roll over. The clock tells me it’s 5.33 a.m. I pull on my joggers and pad downstairs. Instead of getting out my rolling tin, I grab the heavy iron key, open the door and walk across the short path to the chapel. The sun is a faint silver disc in the hazy sky. The warm air nuzzles my bare arms. I can smell jasmine, the faint tang of compost, dry grass. It yanks me back to another morning, a long time ago. Standing at the side of a road, scared, alone, wondering where to go.
The police told me not to let anyone into the chapel, but they didn’t say whether that included me. I turn the key in the lock and shove the heavy door open. Inside, it’s gratifyingly cool. I walk down the nave and sit on a pew near the end. The entrance to the vault gapes darkly. Crime scene tape is still strung around the edge. I stare at it. The final resting place of Benjamin Grady. How did he end up here? And who knew?
Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.
I turn back towards the altar, bow my head and pray.
After a while, I feel calmer, restored. Faith is not an infinite resource. It can run dry. Even priests need to recharge it sometimes. Eventually, I stand, make the sign of the cross, and leave the chapel.
I know what I have to do.
The description ‘chocolate box’ could have been invented for the Rushtons’ cottage. Warm red brick glows in the mid-morning sun. The roof is neatly thatched. Small leaded windows sparkle with light, and climbers trail flowers over the walls. It nestles up to Warblers Green village church on one side and, on the other, a small stream gurgles past the local pub – the Black Duck.
I can see why Rushton loves this place. And why he might do anything to protect his comfortable life here.
When he opens the door, his normally jolly face is sombre, even his curls deflated. He doesn’t look surprised to see me.
‘Come through. Clara’s just gone out for a walk.’
He leads me into a large, sun-dappled kitchen at the back of the house. French doors open out on to a sprawling garden, blooming with bright flowers. A cool breeze wafts through. providing welcome relief from the heat of the day.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’
He sits down at the table opposite me and offers a rueful smile. ‘Before you ask, I’ve already spoken to the police … and I owe you an apology.’
‘You knew about the vault?’
‘Yes. But as I told the police, I had absolutely no idea about the body. That was’ – he shakes his head – ‘a terrible, terrible shock.’