Redemption Song

by Wilkinson, Laura

  ‘Do knock. I’m usually about and you could have another piece of cake for your trouble.’ Her mother was forever shoving food at people.

  He nodded, non-committal, and then he was gone.

  Rain leant against the closed door. ‘Well, he seems nice.’

  Saffron turned and ran up the stairs without a word.

  Chapter Three

  Back in the kitchen, Rain put a lid on the pan of stew and wiped the kitchen counter, though it was already spotless. There had been no need to stir the stew, it had been simmering away perfectly well by itself; she’d needed an activity. Unused to the company of young men, she’d been nervous. How ridiculous.

  Rain had rambled in JJ’s presence, especially when she’d talked about meeting people and suggested he come to a coffee morning. He must think her an absolute nut-job. How she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She glanced at the terracotta-tiled floor and decided it needed a good clean.

  After she’d filled a bucket with soapy water, she grabbed the mop, dunked it in the water, wrung out the excess and swept away at imaginary grot on the floor until her lower back ached. It had been good to have male company other than seventy-year-old parishioners who wanted to talk endlessly about the finer details of the Easter Fayre and whether or not the WI should be allowed to run the bring and buy sale on the same day as the men’s chess club.

  And what a male. Tall, well-built, handsome. With the most gorgeous eyes imaginable. One brown and one green. How unusual. Just thinking like this brought on a rush of guilt so great that Rain thought she might cry. Instead, she plunged the mop into the bucket and without squeezing out the excess slapped it back onto the tiles. Water slushed everywhere, splashing the legs of the table, the leather of her boots. She snatched a cloth from the sink and dabbed at the puddles. It was no good; the kitchen looked as if it’d been flooded; only newspaper would absorb it now. An evening edition of the county’s daily rag lay open on the table, a photograph of a middle-aged woman with hair like Saffron’s climbing out of a limo in the middle of the page.

  Rain wished Saffron wouldn’t dye her hair; her natural colour was beautiful, and just like her father’s. Stephen. The stabbing sensation across her skull began as she tried, and failed, to conjure the image of him as he was in her mind’s eye. But all she could see was the shell of a man with a passing resemblance to the love of her life laid out on the mortuary slab.

  When the doctor had first pulled back the sheet she’d blown out a puff of air, a breath she’d been holding on to for goodness knows how long, opened her eyes for a second, shook her head and said, ‘No, that’s not him. That’s not my Stephen.’ The other professional, the one standing next to her, had taken her hand and said, ‘Are you sure, Mrs de Lacy? I know it’s hard, but please do look.’ She opened her eyes and stared at the body; she didn’t take her eyes off it, even though she longed to, but she couldn’t look at the face. There was something familiar about it. She could see it in the reflection of the glass window in front of her. Something about the cut of the jaw, the unusual tip of the nose.

  She forced herself to focus on the body, not the reflection. Her eyes crawled along the exposed shoulder to the neck. There was a small scar, a white snail trail in the delicate groove behind the shoulder bone where it joined the neck. It held her attention. Stephen had spoken of a childhood accident. Playing Blind Man’s Buff he’d walked into a tree. A broken branch, with a jagged edge, had speared him. ‘There was so much blood,’ he’d laughed. Children didn’t play games like that any more, she’d thought. It was then she admitted the body before her was, after all, her husband. The doctor went to pull the sheet back over Stephen’s face, but Rain had stopped him. She leant over and ran her index finger over the scar, surprised to find the body still warm. Later, much later, Saffron had explained that it takes hours for a body to go cold.

  Mist descended and Rain gripped onto the kitchen table to prevent herself from falling. She closed her eyes and counted to twenty, aloud, just as the doctor had instructed her.

  Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress. Psalm 107:6

  Once she felt normal again, she took the newspaper and threw its pages across the floor, watching the water leech into the words and photographs, distorting them until they were no longer readable. Her mind flipped back to JJ and Saffron. Had she seen a smile flash between them as she’d turned to attend to the stew? Did Saff like this man? Like, like? Rain’s stomach clenched. It wasn’t possible. She crouched to the floor and scrunched a sopping sheet of newspaper in her hand and threw it into the bin behind her.

  Don’t be silly. He’s not Saff’s type.

  He seemed nice, but … But. There was something about him. She couldn’t pinpoint it.

  It’s too soon, even for Saff. But it would be nice for her to get out a bit … And if he came to church, or a coffee morning, Saff might come along too?

  Much as Saffron rejected any notion of faith, Rain couldn’t help but believe it could bring her daughter comfort, if only she would allow it.

  Satisfied she’d cleared the excess water, Rain stood and stared at the floor. With the heat from the cooker and the natural process of evaporation soon you’d never know that the floor had even been wet, let alone flooded. Everything repairs, she thought, aware of the now-steady thump of her own heart. We must see more of the handsome carpenter; I need to inject some youth into the congregation and Saffron needs to make friends nearer her own age.

  Rain decided she would make it her mission.

  What are you playing at? You idiot.

  Joe slammed the Land Rover door and revved the engine, skidding on black ice as he swung out onto the road, away from the chapel.

  A pretty face and you’re offering to help, getting involved. You should have dropped the girl outside and gone on your way. There’d have been a hundred and one other blokes, all led by their dicks, happy and willing to come to her rescue.

  He flew back home, as fast as he could without speeding. He turned into the beech flanked lane that led to the cottage. He thought about the vicar. Minister, he corrected himself; or do Baptists call them pastors? Whatever, Rain’s husband. What would he think, when he found out? Perhaps he wasn’t interested in earthly matters, focusing on the soul instead? Saffron hadn’t mentioned her father at all. Her pale, luminescent face appeared before him, the pupils of those blue, blue eyes dilating. He shifted in his seat.

  Joe didn’t notice the oncoming car until it was almost upon him, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts. Swerving, he slammed on the brakes and skidded onto the verge. The other vehicle didn’t even slow down, let alone stop to check he was OK. Bastard. Joe knew it was a bloke. An idiot in a fancy car. What was it? A BMW? Difficult to be sure in the dark. He took a deep breath, restarted the engine, and pulled off the grass.

  An oncoming car here was unusual, though; very unusual. It was a one-way dirt track and although there were three cottages in the terrace where he lived, the other two were uninhabited. Uninhabitable, the letting agent had said. Joe’s cottage had only just passed the environmental health inspector’s test, the young estate agent had told him, hence the cheap rent. Average rents in Wales sounded cheap to Joe, let alone the rent on this dump. Not that it was quite such a dump any more. In the months Joe had lived there, he’d transformed the dark, poky cottage into a home that suited his spartan needs, and when a fire roared in the hearth it was almost cosy.

  So what was the man in the expensive car doing down here? Perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn, got himself lost. But Joe felt uneasy. The entrance to the lane was well obscured, even in winter when most of the trees were bare. There was no signpost. No one would drive into the lane without knowing what they were looking for. Joe locked the Landy, resolving to speak with the agency the next day, to establish if the other cottages were about to be occupied.

  Inside, the air was as cold and damp as outside. Without removing his jacket, he lit a fire, wrapped a pota
to in tin foil and threw it into the smoking wood. He wasn’t hungry after the brick-sized slice of fruit cake at the vicarage, or whatever they called it, but he would be in a couple of hours. He considered venturing into the shed at the bottom of the garden, working on some ideas. After all, part of the plan was to experiment, to see if he could create beautiful things from wood, stone, flint; to see if it might be considered art. But there was no heating in the shed and the light was poor. He cracked open a tin of lager, switched on the Xbox, and lay on the floor ready to play.

  He’d explored Assassin’s Creed, Oblivion, and most of the Call of Duty type combat games, but Fable was still his favourite game. He liked that he could be whoever he wanted to be in the game: an old crone, a blind man, a dashing knight, a sexy, Boudicca-inspired woman. At first, he’d had a character enact all sorts of monstrous deeds but the game dictated that bad deeds were reflected in a character’s appearance, so his character grew horns, became hideously ugly, and Joe tired of acts of violence. The release they offered, the sense of wish-fulfilment and satisfaction, was all too brief, and utterly pointless. Currently, he was a rotund, kindly knight who went about helping beautiful damsels in distress.

  Joe drifted around the game looking for someone to save, but he couldn’t focus. Having formed a plan of sorts regarding the mysterious car driver, his mind whirled with the dilemma of the girl, Saffron, and her nice, if cloying, mother. Joe wondered if Saffron’s anger hid something. Something bigger than the teenage-like angst he’d mistaken it for initially. At twenty-four she was too old for that, regardless.

  The Standard would have to be towed back; he’d made a promise and he never broke promises. But once the car was back with its owner, job done. If he was unlucky enough to bump into either of them, he would be polite but brief. He’d go about his normal routine and hope not to see either mother or daughter again. How long had they been in the town? Did Rain say six months? He’d not seen them in all that time. What could change?

  Saffron ate more at supper than she had done in a single sitting since they’d moved to Coed Mawr. Her body craved sustenance; she longed to feel full, bursting, but that evening, even when she was so stuffed she feared she might vomit, the sense of longing didn’t retreat.

  In the study she tried to focus on her student copy of the British Medical Journal. She was interested in an article about ground-breaking new drugs to halt the progress of Alzheimer’s, but after reading and rereading the same paragraph without absorbing any of it, she threw it aside and admitted defeat. What did it matter? She might never set foot in a hospital again, at least not as a doctor. She turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into near darkness, and padded across the room to the window on the far side, opening it wide. Beyond the garden were fields, and more fields, as far as the eye could see in daylight. In the gloaming of a cloudy late-winter evening there was little to observe. It was black; blacker than Saffron thought possible. Light pollution was something she’d heard of, but not fully understood its effect, not until they were in Coed Mawr.

  On clear nights the sky was rammed with stars; more than Saffron had ever seen. How did they all fit in up there? And how close did they seem? Unbelievably so. The first time she had looked at the night sky here was in late September when she and Rain had lain on the scrubby grass after drinking too much of a congregation member’s home-made cider, given as a welcome gift. The blanket of stars overhead seemed so, so close she thought she might reach up and grab one, kiss it, and return it to the heavens. In their drunken state they had pretended to do precisely that. Perhaps they’d kissed Ben’s star, or Dad’s, Rain had said. Saffron had hoped she’d found her dad’s.

  A sharp breeze jolted her from her memories, sweeping over the exposed flesh of her neck and clavicle, and up towards her earlobes. A strand of hair brushed across her cheek, like a caress. Goosebumps prickled and despite the chill an urge to feel more gripped her acutely. She peeled off her thick black jumper and tore at the long-sleeved T-shirt underneath. Gasping with the shock of the cold, she pushed down her pelmet skirt and thick tights in one swift movement and stepped out of them, before unhooking her bra. Naked except for her cotton knickers, she stood at the window and, breathing deeply, allowed the air to assault her flesh and lungs. A thousand needle tips stabbed her. Her skin tightened so hard it hurt; arrows of pain skewered her ribs. She enjoyed the pain. She lifted her arms upwards and outwards until they were level with her shoulders, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She imagined herself crucified, lanced with wounds, blood running over the pure white landscape of her flesh. She saw her corpse being embalmed with fragrant oils, strong male hands sweeping up and over the waxy undulation of her body. Her gaze drifted up the embalmer’s arms to his chest, stubble-dusted chin, and eyes of hazel and green. She gasped. Joe. She opened her eyes.

  A sudden movement across the window startled her further. She gripped the ledge. What kind of bird would venture so close to the window? Only birds of prey, owls and the like, would be out at this time of night. She leaned forward and studied the sky. The creature fluttered past. A bat? It moved like a bat, not a gull or other sea bird. In winter? Aware of her vulnerable state she closed the window. What the hell had come over her? Standing, almost-naked, at the window. What if one of those creepy farmer types was out and about, leering, hiding behind some bush? What if Joe had seen her? This thought wasn’t as disagreeable as she felt it should be. Shivering, she dressed and left the study, abandoning her studies for yet another evening.

  Snow fell throughout the night and Joe rose to discover that the extraordinarily beautiful pattern of ice on the bedroom window became considerably less beautiful when he realised it was on the inside of the pane.

  He jogged downstairs to the kitchen and leant against the range while a pot of water boiled on the stove. He rubbed his bleary eyes, still not fully awake. It had been a strange night. If he dreamed at all, Joe’s dreams were claustrophobic and dark; he’d wake with a jolt – usually at three or three thirty – overwhelmed with a sense of walls closing in on him. He’d feel trapped. A dragging sensation in his gut hinted at a crumbling of self. Much of the time he didn’t know who he was any more. What he wanted. Closure? Escape? Revenge?

  But that night he’d dreamed of burnt orange skies, bodies slick with perspiration, and the scent of sugar cane in the air. Through all this exoticism wafted the tall, shadowy figure of a pale young woman with sad blue eyes and a crucifix at her throat. The dream had been so vivid that when he awoke – shortly after seven – for a while he couldn’t believe that it wasn’t high summer, that he wasn’t waking up in the Caribbean, the deep South, or a condo in Florida.

  After coffee and toast he ventured out into the snow. The drift was so high at the front door he’d been unable to open it; in the back garden the snow reached to his knees. The Land Rover was unrecognisable as a vehicle, instead resembling a small hillock. After digging a path with a shovel resting against the side wall, he swept away snow from the roof, bonnet, and windows. His arms were soaked. The snow was easy enough to clear; it was light, like icing sugar, but the air was bitter and Joe suspected there would be a freeze later. Ice on top of snow was bad news. If he was to rescue Rain’s Standard from Devil’s Rise he’d have to get a move on.

  He raced inside and changed his jumper, threw on a waterproof jacket, and grabbed a woollen beanie; his ears were freezing.

  The Land Rover started with ease and Joe was glad that he’d attached the snow chains the day before. Being prepared, being ready for the worst case scenario, was Joe’s forte. It had been a hard lesson.

  He took the lane carefully and was relieved to find that once he was in the relative shelter of the upper town the drifts weren’t quite so high. There was no one about; the place was deserted, and virgin snow lay on every path and road. All the shops were closed, shutters down, though by now it was almost nine. Steering right after the post office towards the track to Devil’s Rise, Joe wondered if this was a fool’s errand.


  At the top of the Rise, he turned off the engine and climbed out of the Landy. The snow came to his knees, seeped through the denim of his jeans. He peered down the slope. Though it was impossible to be sure, the snow looked thicker than ever further down the hill. He would have to take the long way round, then either drag the Standard up or tow her back along the main road. It would take hours and he’d been due at the school – he glanced at his watch – over half an hour ago. He pulled out his phone and went to call the site foreman. No signal.

  Great. Still, Joe reasoned, he wouldn’t be the only tradesman who’d find it difficult to get on site today, let alone on time. He turned around and chugged back to the upper town.

  At the crossroads he saw a man, maybe seventy years old, wading through the street, a large dog in his arms. The man looked exhausted, red-cheeked and sweating in spite of the sub-zero temperature. Joe stopped, yanked his hat further down over his face and wound down his window.

  ‘You all right?’

  The man turned. ‘Popped out for some milk, I did. The wife likes it on her cornflakes. Shop’s shut. Never been shut before. Thought I’d take the dog. Stupid idea. Poor beast is buried,’ he replied with a strong Welsh accent.

  The dog lifted sad brown eyes to Joe, as if to justify its indolence.

  ‘Hop in. I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘There’s lovely, boyo. Bless you.’

  Even in the cold air the dog’s aroma was pungent, filling the cabin instantly. Joe felt slightly nauseous, but it was a short journey, as the man had said, so he kept the windows closed.

  ‘Right here. Next to the chapel.’ He pointed to a terrace after the manse.

  After the man had clambered down Joe hefted the dog, a Labrador, into his arms.

  ‘Where you off to then?’ the man said.

  Head bent down low, Joe explained his mission.

  ‘You don’t want to be doing that, you don’t, long way round or short. It’s not called Devil’s Rise for nothing.’ He looked back at his house. ‘Ah, bless the little lady. She’s cleared my path, just like she said she would. She’s a good ’un, that one.’