The loneliness of the house is seeping into me and I wish Cyrus would come home, even though he’ll want to know what I’ve been thinking behind my mask or want to squeeze my skull and shake things out.
Having searched the turret room, I go to the small dirty window and peer out at the near-empty street and at the houses opposite and the parked cars and the rooftops beyond. A woman pushes a pram along the pavement. A cyclist sweeps past her.
From somewhere behind me, I hear Terry’s warning.
‘You must never tell anyone who you are.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
33
As I near the Sheehan house, a neighbour appears at his front gate sitting astride a mobility scooter. Rolls of fat cascade over his belt, making it hard to see where his legs begin.
‘Are you with the police?’ he asks aggressively.
‘No.’
I don’t stop. He follows, accelerating to my pace. I recognise him from his photograph: Kevin Stokes – the former swim instructor who served eight years for sexually abusing two boys at a local swimming centre.
‘Yes, you are. I saw you the other night. When are they gonna clean this up?’ He nods towards his house where the words ‘pedo’ and ‘pervert’ have been daubed in red paint across his front fence.
I don’t stop.
‘What about my rights?’ he yells.
‘What about the boys you abused?’ I mutter under my breath.
A police officer answers the door at the Sheehan house. Female. Uniformed.
‘Is anyone home?’ I ask.
‘Mrs Sheehan has gone to church.’
‘And Mr Sheehan?’
‘He left early this morning.’
The constable jots down the address of a nearby church and draws me a map on a scrap of paper. I follow her directions until I see the steeple from two streets away. The main doors are locked so I try a side entrance and enter a nave with a vaulted ceiling criss-crossed by white beams that join together and plunge down pink-tinted walls. Seats are arranged on three sides around an altar.
Maggie Sheehan is cutting flowers and arranging them into tall vases. She has a warm, open face with a high forehead and pale blue eyes. She’s an introvert. I recognised that when I first saw her deferring to Dougal, letting him speak first, almost seeking permission with her eyes before she voiced an opinion. It was as though she had grown accustomed to being in the background and I could imagine how easily she could disappear, fading into the wallpaper, or evaporating without leaving so much as a spot.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Sheehan,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Dr Haven.’
‘Cyrus.’
She goes back to trimming the flowers. ‘We’ve been sent so many I thought I should bring some to the church,’ she explains. ‘People are very kind. I do the flowers every week . . . and clean the presbytery for Father Patrick.’
‘I called on Felicity earlier,’ I say. ‘It must be a comfort having her living so close.’
‘She’s like a sister to me. People used to think Bryan and I were twins, but he’s two years younger. I remember when he first brought Felicity home to meet our parents. He whispered to me, “I’m going to marry this one.” And he did.’
She snips another stem.
‘I was engaged to Dougal by then. We talked about a joint wedding, but I fell pregnant and we had to rush up the altar. Does that shock you?’
‘No.’
‘I guess it doesn’t matter so much any more. Sex before marriage. A pregnant bride. Felicity was my birth partner because Dougal didn’t want to see the “nuts and bolts”. That’s what he called it. I promised that I’d do the same for Flip but she took ages to fall pregnant.’
‘Flip?’
‘That’s my pet name for her. It almost drove her mad – the IVF and the heartbreak. Then a miracle – Aiden came along. Did you meet him? Isn’t he gorgeous? So kind and gentle. He’s going to Cambridge next year.’
‘Felicity told me.’
She smiles. I smile. Our voices echo in the emptiness of the church. She picks up a carnation and uses secateurs to trim it to the desired length.
‘I used to think having children was our way of cheating death,’ she says reflectively. ‘We wedge our foot in a closing door, you know, giving ourselves a glimmer of hope that we’ll leave something behind – some part of us will endure.’
‘But surely you believe in Heaven.’
‘I do. Yes. Even more so now. A part of me can’t wait to get there – to see my Jodie.’ Maggie raises her eyes to the ceiling, as though she suspects that Jodie may be listening to us. ‘Father Patrick says I’m allowed to be angry with God. He says anger is a natural human response to situations that are out of our control or beyond our ability to understand. But I still think it’s wrong. Jodie deserved more. I deserved more. Father Patrick says that if ever I come to place where I can’t run, I should walk. And if I can’t walk, I should crawl. And if I can’t crawl, I should turn on my back, look up to Heaven and ask Christ for help.’
Maggie snips another stem and arranges it in a vase.
‘The police found six thousand pounds in Jodie’s school locker.’
I leave the statement hanging. Maggie blinks at me, as though not comprehending.
I try again. ‘Have you any idea where she’d get money like that?’
‘No. I mean, we don’t have that sort of cash. We live month to month.’
‘Could she have been holding the money for someone else?’
‘Who?’
‘Felix?’
Maggie makes a pfffffmmmph sound, as though I’m talking rubbish.
‘Could she have been involved in something dangerous?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know – that’s why I’m asking.’
‘Is everything all right, Maggie?’ asks a voice that echoes from all around me. A priest appears from a vestry. In his early forties with a shock of dark hair that is swept back in a wave, he’s dressed in black trousers and a white open-necked shirt with small gold crucifixes pinned to each collar.
‘You must be Father Patrick,’ I say, introducing myself. He has a warm firm handshake and an uncertain frown.
‘Have we met before?’
‘No. I was talking to Tasmin Whitaker. She remembered you were at the fireworks. You did Jodie a service by retrieving her tote bag.’
Maggie looks confused.
‘Jodie had a problem with some boys,’ I explain. ‘Father Patrick saw them off.’
The sudden revelation appears to embarrass him.
‘How long have you been at the parish?’ I ask.
‘Eight years.’
‘You must have known Jodie quite well.’
‘I try to know all of my parishioners.’
It’s a nothing answer.
‘They found money in Jodie’s locker,’ says Maggie. ‘Six thousand pounds.’
‘Where did it come from?’ asks the priest.
She shakes her head.
‘I have to ask you about something else the police found in Jodie’s locker. Perhaps we should talk alone – outside.’