by Graham West
“But if we can’t find the body then I can’t get Jenny back.”
The old man could hear the desperation in my voice. “Have you spoken to the minister at St. Jude’s?”
“Would there be any point?”
“Well, they have wrongs to put right, don’t they? You could argue that the church owed that poor girl a decent burial.”
I suddenly felt like a foolish schoolboy standing in front of his headmaster. I’d never even thought of the church. But would they agree to become a part of all this? “I’ll call him today. It’s worth a try.”
“If you go, you must take the diaries and the letter from the governess. He’ll want proof.”
I replaced the phone and poured myself a coffee. I called the hospital first; Jenny’s condition hadn’t changed. Then I flicked through my phone, found the number, and called St. Jude’s.
Reverend Francis answered immediately. I introduced myself, but there was no need. He recognised my voice. He listened attentively to the whole story. The attic room, the letters, the diary. I was allowed to finish without interruption. Francis sounded like a man who had just been hit with a sledgehammer.
“You have this…diary?” he asked. “And the governess’s letter?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. “Can I see them?”
I showered and shaved and was behind the wheel of my car with thirty minutes. I drove most of the way with a cheap rat-pack CD drowning the noise of the road. Tabwell, with its leafy roads and quaint buildings, felt like a second home. I could almost smell the money mingling with the scent of the fresh country air. Its casual easy pace embraced me as the Church of St. Jude’s came into view.
Reverend Francis met me at the door of the church. He smiled, offering his hand. “Good to see you again, Robert,” he said. But his eyes no longer danced with evangelical zeal. He was troubled, and I sensed that he really didn’t want to hear what I had to say.
“I know this is a little sensitive…” I took my seat in the vestry that was still scattered with confetti from a recent wedding.
Francis shrugged. “We should all face the truth,” he said. “Without it, we are lost.”
I placed the large Manila envelope on the polished wooden surface of a table that was graced only with a single silver communion cup. Francis studied the envelope, pausing for a while before finally opening it. “Allington is an integral part of our history here,” he said solemnly. “He founded the local school and spent a great deal of time helping the poorest people in the community.” He opened the letter. “Now it seems that the man had a dark side.”
His eyes flashed across the pages as we sat in silence. He held the pages between finger and thumb, as if the paper were contaminated by its very content. Darkness lay between the lines. A woman was reaching out from her grave through the words of her only confidante, seeking justice.
It was at least five minutes—minutes that felt like hours—before Francis looked up, his eyes fixed on me. “I wish there was something in here, something that would compromise the credibility of the witness, but I can find nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Francis smiled. “You have nothing to be sorry for—unlike our friend, here.” He tapped the pages in front of him. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of ministerial concern. “I can deal with this two ways,” he said. “I can either leave this matter with God, who will judge this man according to his works, or take it upon myself and suggest that we have his remains removed from the church.”
I was shocked. “You would consider that?”
Francis nodded. “Yes, but it would be a matter for the Church itself, not me. Unfortunately, finance often dictates. The cost may well guide the powers-that-be to decide that it is God and God alone who is the judge, and that after all, these are just human remains…”
“But he lies like a saint,” I interrupted, “with an inscription!”
“Yes. That is a point I’m sure we—they—will consider—”
I didn’t allow Francis to finish. “We need closure on this—for Jenny’s sake. Amelia’s spirit will not rest until she finds justice.”
Francis looked troubled. “I understand, Mr. Adams. But, as a minister, I have to believe that Amelia has justice. Justice by the hand of God, not man.”
“She needs a proper burial. She is a child of God.”
“And you believe that her remains are in a lake somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“But how can I help?”
I had thought about this on the way over, so I told him about my conversation with the council.
Francis frowned. “They obviously won’t be using public money to go looking for a body.”
“Not without some hard evidence, no.”
Francis smiled. “Mr. Adams, if you’re going to ask the Church for financial support, I’m afraid you’ll be wasting your time. As you have said yourself, the word of a girl who claims to be in touch with a spirit would not carry any weight. Contact with spirits is generally frowned upon in ecclesiastical circles, as you probably know.”
I had reached yet another dead end. Francis laid his hands on the table…I sensed a sermon coming. “She has her justice, Mr. Adams.”
“But why is she…haunting my daughter?”
Francis shrugged. “I would love to have the answer.” He replaced the papers back in the manila envelope. “But in biblical times, we would be casting out demons.”
I remembered the stories well. My father had read from the Bible when I was a child; many of the passages would be considered inappropriate these days. Yet they always came back to me.
Francis returned my envelope and promised to get in touch. I drove home with a clock ticking in my head. How much time did we have?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sebastian accompanied me to the hospital the following evening, striding along the corridor in his black calf-length coat. I wanted him there; I wanted his fatherly presence and his sagacious wisdom. He stared at my daughter, compassion in his eyes.
“Where is she?” I asked.
Sebastian didn’t answer.
“Is she with Amelia?” I pressed further.
The old man shook his head slowly. A single tear trickled down his cheek. “It is something I cannot explain.”
“Explain? What?” “
Sebastian smiled, his eyes remaining fixed on my daughter. He reached out and touched Jenny’s forehead. “Don’t talk to her, Robert. Just watch and leave her be. She isn’t ready. Not yet.”
***
He calls my name—Jenny. His voice is frantic and I feel myself falling. He still calls me, but Jenny is not my name. My body aches. I find myself on a bed, staring at the sunlight streaming through a single window. I am pleased to see the light, having had my sleep disturbed by raised voices from below. I recognised the reverend’s voice but could not, despite my efforts, hear what he was saying. I rise and wash with cold water, dressing and saying my prayers, kneeling by the window. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face and imagine that it is the love of God.
For the first time that day, I smile. I feel strong but that feeling of inner strength alarms me. I am vulnerable and physically weak, there is no record of my existence, I know this—and yet there is a power in my hand, a determination in my heart. I stare at Sarah’s face. She is beautiful—I cannot bear to catch my own reflection. Yet it is no longer of any concern to me. I suddenly see what I have never seen before. I am privileged to have escaped this world.
***
Jenny’s eyes twitched. My heart leapt. It had to be good, didn’t it? The nurse smiled and nodded, and I prayed that Josie might be right and Jenny would come through this regardless of whether we found Amelia’s remains. But in my heart, I knew otherwise.
Jenny’s eyelids flickered again and, just for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest of smiles. It stopped me in my tracks. Maybe I had imagined the whole thing. Hope does that—playing tricks with your mind
and screwing up your head. I had to stay focused.
I dropped Sebastian off and stopped at McDonald’s. I sat in the corner with a coffee and a sin-burger, choosing the company of strangers rather than an empty house. I watched a young couple arguing in the corner while their kid played with a plastic toy, seemingly unaffected by his parents’ disagreement. He was too young to be out at this time—too young to be subjected to a late-night fight. This was the new breed of parent, self-obsessed and ignorant.
I ate and drank up, passing the kid on the way out. Instinctively, I reached out and patted the kid on the head as he bit into his burger. “You enjoying that, buddy?”
His mother looked up and smiled at me. She could have passed for a sixth-former. The kid’s father looked at his kid and then at me. “Mind your own fucking business, pal,” he said.
I looked at him and shook my head, walking towards the door. I knew he was following. By the time I reached the car, he was on my shoulder. “Who are you fucking shaking your head at, you prick?”
Normally, I would have told the bloke that I didn’t want a fight and tried to get into my car. I always considered flight to be better than fight. But I had been fighting for over a year now. I turned. His face was in mine, and there was the smell of stale ale and onions on his breath.
“You some kiddie fiddler or sommat—strokin’ my kid’s head?”
“I wasn’t.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a CCTV camera on the corner of the car park. I began to walk away.
“Oy, you twat, where’s you goin’?”
Away from the cameras, you idiot. Come on…follow me.
The white removal van provided perfect cover. He grabbed my shoulder just as we moved into its shadow. “Don’t you fucking walk away from me, you pervert!”
My heart was thumping and my blood felt like oil, boiling in my veins. This man was the type of bloke that spawned thugs like Taylor. He was scum, jail fodder, looking for a fight wherever he could find it. He had a kid—his kid, probably. I didn’t. Hanna had been snatched from me and Jenny…
“You runnin’ away, prick?” he said, his forehead touching mine and his saliva spraying my chin. I felt a rush of excitement, because this idiot thought I was easy prey. He knew I wasn’t touching up his kid. He just wanted to lay into someone. He was too stupid to even wonder why I had walked away from my own car.
“I’m not running away. I just didn’t want this meeting to be caught on camera.”
“Wha…?” He spun round to check out the CCTV. My fist connected with his cheek just as he turned back. It was only the second punch I’d landed in my entire life, but it carried all my frustration and bitterness and knocked him out cold.
I felt the bone of his jaw crack and splinter under my knuckles as the pain ran like an electric current from my hand through the length of my arm.
I walked back into McDonald’s and told them to call the police and an ambulance. There was an abusive drunk in the car park who had tried to attack me and I’d acted in self-defence.
I spoke to the kid’s mother and apologised. She started to cry, but I knew she wasn’t angry with me. “You should have killed the bastard!” she snapped. The girl was just some silly kid herself who hooked up with the bad boys only to discover that they didn’t make good partners.
The bloke’s name was Wayne. The ambulance took him in for an overnight check-up, and the police already had him on their records. They weren’t even interested in checking the CCTV, since they ended up dragging him in for public disorder offences several times a year. The young constable told me that it was highly unlikely there would be any case against me. Wayne would be discouraged from filing any charges.
I climbed behind the wheel of my car exhausted but exhilarated. Wayne was trouble and I had taken him out. My hand throbbed but the pain felt good, and after washing the contaminated blood from my knuckles and taking a couple of painkillers, I slept soundly, wakened only by the ringing of the bedside phone. It was Josie.
“Hey, Jo,” I said drowsily. “What time is it?”
“You’re still in bed?”
I glanced at my watch, blinking hard until its face came into focus. It was eleven.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, sure. I…”
“Look, just wondered if you wanted to call in for a spot of lunch. Or breakfast.”
I laughed. It was good to hear Jo’s voice. “Sure…fish, chips and mushy peas would be great!”
***
There was no change in Jenny’s condition. The nurse on the other end of the phone checked that she had my mobile number and I hoped they might be anticipating some good news, but as I drove over to The Keys, Wayne was still on my mind. The initial feeling of satisfaction at having landed a blow for the decent people of the country had subsided, leaving me feeling uncomfortable.
Had I really stepped over that scumbag’s body so casually? Had I considered for one moment that I might have killed him? Until then, I had only dreamed of landing such a punch, knowing that confronted by the target of my inner rage I would never have raised an arm. This was different. I had felt no concern for Wayne, his wife or his kid. It wasn’t that I hadn’t considered that he might be dead, but in that moment, I couldn’t have cared less.
I had no intention of mentioning the incident to Josie—or anyone else, for that matter. If the police were correct, it was behind me. If I was ever unfortunate enough to bump into another member of the underclass then I would walk away.
Josie hugged me as if I were a long lost brother walking back into her life after years away. I kissed her several times on the cheek before she finally released me. “You okay, sweetheart?”
I nodded.
“Look, Rob, I’m with you on this—even if I seem…”
I took hold of Jo’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay. Honestly.”
Josie cocked her head to one side. “Still love me, then?”
“Jo, I could never stop loving you, even if I wanted to.”
“Ditto,” Josie said, her eyes flooding quite suddenly. “Anyway,” she continued, pulling herself together. “Park your backside in the corner and I’ll get you a drink.”
I watched her walk away and wondered what would ever become of me if she never returned. I needed her friendship more than I needed her bed. Lou gave me a thumbs up and a smile from behind the bar, and I wondered how many men would have been happy to stand aside while his wife hooked up with a free-loading widower. Not many, I suspect.
Still, his smile seemed genuine enough to leave me feeling like a creep. Your average bloke would have been drowning his sorrows over a few pints with the lads and putting the world to rights, but if Lou was thinking along those lines, he certainly wasn’t letting it show. Maybe one day I’d be leaving The Keys only to feel someone tap my shoulder. I would turn to find myself on the end of Lou’s fist before waking in a pool of blood.
Josie returned, and an easy smile crossed her face. She placed a pint down on the table—ice cold and screaming to be downed with enthusiasm. “So, whatcha been up to, sweetheart?”
Well, I just knocked some lowlife’s lights out in a McDonald’s car park…
“Jenny’s eyes kind of…twitched,” I said cautiously. “But, you know how it is. They aren’t getting too excited just yet.”
“But that’s great, hun, isn’t it? I mean, the right direction and all that.”
“Yeah, I suppose. If we were in a TV soap, you’d know she was about to wake up. But this isn’t a drama, is it? It’s life. Real life.”
Josie smiled and nodded. “It’s still a good sign, though.”
I took a long draw on my ice-cold pint, the liquid almost burning my gullet. My god, if felt good.
“I went to see Reverend Francis at St. Jude’s,” I told her, replacing my half empty glass on the table. Josie raised her eyebrows. “Really? And what did you tell him?”
“Everything,” I replied. “I took the letters, too.”
/> “And?”
“He was genuinely shocked, but I’m not sure what he’s going to do. It’s up to the Church Council or whatever you call it.” I paused. “But if it was up to Francis, I think he’d have the remains exhumed and tossed in the nearest river.”
Josie grinned. “Well, at least he’s on your side,” she said, studying my gloomy expression. “What’s up, Rob?”
“I just feel like I’m hanging. You know, waiting.”
“Look, hun,” Josie shot back in her best schoolmistress tone. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s not your fault. You can’t shake your kid awake, and you can’t dredge that friggin’ lake, so waiting is the only option.”
I was unconvinced.
“What? You’re going to hire a diver and go looking?” Josie had that twinkle in her eye, and I started to laugh, but in my mind, I wondered if it might not be such a bad idea.
***
After three beers and two whiskeys, I left the car and took a taxi. There were no messages on the answer phone so I poured myself a rum, laced it with Coke from a half empty can, and threw in a handful of ice. The phone rang.
I reached over, pressing the receiver against my ear. I didn’t recognise the voice.
“Mr. Adams? I’m from the Tabwell Herald.”
The very name of the town felt ingrained within my spirit. “Yes?”
“Sorry, my name is Dennis Blakely. I’m a reporter, and I hear that you believe that there is a body in the Mosswood lake? Is that correct?”
“Who told you this?”
There was a pause. “I’m not at liberty to say, Mr. Adams. I just want to confirm the details.”
“How much do you know?”
A further pause. “Then I would assume there is some truth in the story?”
“I asked you how much you know?”
“Enough to make this well worth reporting, Mr. Adams. It’s a fascinating story. One that might put some pressure on…shall we say, the relevant authorities.”
“Meaning?”
