The Fool

by Morgan Gallagher

  ‘And Jason objected?’

  ‘Not at first. At first a lot of the gang members came in and out of the youth group and the Church. But after a while, when there was nothing for them...’

  ‘Nothing for them to steal, or take, or to have for their own...?’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’ Wyn looked at her, surprised.

  ‘I’ve been around for a few years, Wyn. I’ve seen this situation once or twice. New priest, new activity, poor parish: everyone always checks it out to see what they can have. A few stay on, take what we offer and, in turn, start to give back: but not all.’

  ‘No, not all.’ In his voice was his youth and disappointment, a suggestion of bitterness. ‘Not all.’

  ‘Was Jason one of the ‘not all’?’

  ‘Yes. I’d thought... I’d thought we were getting somewhere and then... then it started to go wrong.’ Wyn had paled, his throat had caught, his fist had clenched.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Initially the youth club had a slow start. Months had gone by with only a couple of boy and girls, usually grandchildren of parishioners, attending. Over the months it had begun to build, then to flourish. The choir had blossomed, bringing in many who had no contact with any Church, any faith. Older boys such as Jason had started to come in. Wyn had thought it was a sign they were reaching into the community, that there was some hope of breaking the gang cycle.

  ‘But it wasn’t what was going on. I didn’t notice it at first, then it became obvious. They weren’t breaking away from the gangs, they were recruiting into them. Using the youth club, the choir to gain access to kids that were usually out of their reach. The kids whose parents took them into the school yard and then picked them back up from there. The kids whose parents knew where they were, twenty-four seven. Those kids were allowed into the Church activities anytime they wanted to attend.’

  ‘So the gangs came recruiting for them, here, in your groups, in the choir?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was as tired as Father Edwards had looked.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Discussed it with everyone, with the local community leaders, the police, with my Bishop, had a long think and prayed... and then closed out those we felt were only there to recruit.’

  The pain he was feeling was self-evident. The sense that he’d failed, that he’d somehow let down those who had come to him for help. A sharp life lesson had been dealt to Wyn Jones and he’d not enjoyed it. A bitter taste had been left, a defeat that had yet to be accepted and moved past.

  ‘Is that when the graffiti started?’

  ‘Yes. It all started then. I’d banned Jason and a few others, told them they were no longer welcome. I’d expected him to stop Brad from coming, but instead, Brad started to bring in more and more kids his own age or younger, ten year olds, eleven, twelve.’

  ‘Already gang members?’

  ‘Yes, some of the areas have their own self running mini gangs. The leaders are eleven, twelve, maybe thirteen at most. The gang itself can have seven year olds in it!’

  Maryam, who had seen machine guns in the hands of ten year olds, machine guns and machetes with scalp and hair still stuck to the blade, and the ten year olds who wielded them stood silent with dead eyes... listened. You could only bear witness to some pains. Nothing you could say, or do, could make it more bearable, make it better. Sometimes listening allowed it out. In her silence, he found his voice.

  ‘I’ve been in gangs, Miss Michael. I ran with one back in Cardiff. It used to be called Tiger Bay, where I grew up. It wasn’t the sweetest area. There were always kids running wild, even the ones with loving Mums like mine.’ His voice lost its cultured tones, his accent more pronounced as he continued. ‘Mam took me off the streets when she lost me, when I lost myself. She sent me up valley, to my aunts. Her aunts really, my great aunts, they put me back on the straight. They let me find myself again. I thought I understood. I thought I knew where these children were coming from, what their lives were...’ His voice trailed off in despair. The tears in his eyes were not pity or sadness: they were rage.

  ‘I HAD NO IDEA!’ His open palm slapped down hard on the table, the bruising on his knuckles was clear to see. He needed to move, jump, to dissipate the energy in him. He stood up and kicked the chair away from him.

  ‘How could I have been so STUPID? So naive? How could I have done this?’

  Maryam waited for him to recover, which he did, picking up the chair and setting it back to rights.

  ‘When I realised what they were doing, who they were targeting in the groups, I was so angry. I didn’t just ban them, I threw them out! When they argued back, I lost it. Like the money lenders in the Temple, I physically threw them over the threshold. I told Jason Briggs if he came near the Church again I’d make sure he couldn’t walk away. I’d break his legs.’

  His face was ashen, tears flowing out of his eyes, his voice knotted in self-loathing.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Shortly after I’d called in the local police to help me make sense of it all. I hadn’t understood... understood what they were doing. That it wasn’t the young boys they were after. That’s why they got away with it at first and got their claws into some of them. I was blind.’

  ‘What were they after?’

  ‘The girls. They were after the girls. Courting them, buying them gifts, making them feel special. Recruiting them.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The gangs. They seek out girls and get them to join. But the girls aren’t treated the same way as the boys. The girls are... owned.’

  ‘Owned? You mean they prostitute them?’

  ‘Not in that sense. They don’t sell them out. But they possess them, keep them, use them. When the kids in the group started to get into trouble at home, started to skip school, go wild... I hadn’t understood what was happening, what terrible things were being done to the girls. I hadn’t known.’

  ‘Known what, Father Jones?’

  ‘That the girls were a commodity, Miss Michael. That a girl joining gangs such as the RRs, becomes... a prize. They are raped by the leader of the gang or one of the lieutenants. When they’ve had their fill of them, they are passed on down through the ranks. Sometimes the entire gang will rape them. The girls are only allowed to stay in the gangs if they accept this, accept anything being done to them. And once a girl is truly owned by a gang...’ Wyn’s voice again broke in anger and self revulsion ‘They recruit other girls in. Before I’d realised it, half a dozen of the girls coming to my group, good Catholic girls with families that adored them, protected them... they started running wild. Ignoring their parents, skipping school, running in the streets at night. But they kept coming to the group, to the choir. Their parents would come to me, begging me to help with them. I counselled them, reassured them. ‘They are still coming to the House of the Lord,’ I said. ‘They are still singing in the choir. We will reach them.’ And all the time they were there....’

  ‘To recruit more girls?’

  ‘YES!’ Wyn’s fist drove down on the table once more. ‘I found out that girls from my group were prized by the Runners. The Runners actively sought them out...’

  ‘Because they were virgins?’

  Wyn looked shocked that Maryam had spoken such a thing, knew of such a thing. She placed her hand very gently on his fist, still held fast on the table.

  ‘The world has always had bad places and people in it, Father Jones. Nothing you could say would shock me or be new to me.’

  Wyn pulled his hand free, stood up and turned away, pacing the room before facing a wall. His shoulders were crumpled, his heart heavy. She was sure he was praying. His breathing came under control, his shoulders straightened. Pride returned to his body, replacing the shame and rage. He returned to the table, seated himself, and allowed her to continue.

  ‘And this is why you threw Jason Briggs out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s when the graffiti started, the desecrati
ons?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it was stamped out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why were you and Jason Briggs fighting on the steps of the Church just four nights ago?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  They were at the nub of it, the rub of it. The place she had not been able to approach until Rome had given her permission. The place, if her suspicions were correct, she could never progress from or break into.

  ‘If I called Bishop Atkins in, could he tell me?’

  ‘No...’ His head dropped down, tears flooding onto his chest. ‘He could not.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Because what had been happening between Jason Briggs and myself was happening under the Seal of the Confessional.’

  Wyn Jones had cried. He had sobbed until his broken heart had rid itself of much of the poison that had been poured into it in the previous months. Maryam had sat and born witness. When his eyes had run dry, he’d risen, thanked her for trying to save him, and left her. Atkins returned within seconds, Andy Scott by his side.

  Maryam didn’t hesitate in going straight to the point:

  ‘Why hasn’t he told the police?’

  Fred sat down and poured himself another port. ‘I advised him not to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because once he tells them that Jason Briggs has told him secrets in the confessional, nothing will stop them in their pursuit of what they were. I’m trying to buy him time.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘About six weeks ago, Jason Briggs suddenly appeared in the confessional box one day and announced to Father Jones that he was a Catholic, and that he wished to confess.’

  ‘The police said that he had no religion.’

  ‘I know. Wyn didn’t believe him and advised him to discuss things with another priest or to seek support from the Archdiocese.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jason turned up back in the confessional and showed Wyn a confirmation certificate.’

  ‘Oh, my. How could that be?’

  ‘Jason’s father is Nigerian. He came and went in Jason’s life, turning up every now and then, spending time with him. When Jason was seven years old, his father visited and took the boy away for the summer, home to meet his family. During that time he was seemingly both baptised and confirmed. When he returned, his mother had finally lost parental rights of three-year-old Brad, her drug use and prostitution had taken over her life. His father could have gained custody of Jason, but he would have had to stay and deal with Social Services. His father abandoned him. Jason was also taken into care, in a different home from Brad. Jason never left it. Brad was taken in by his mother’s sister two years ago. She’d been out of the country and returned to find that not only had her sister died of a drug overdose, but that she had two nephews. Jason was fifteen and completely feral. The police had stopped trying to force him back to the care home. He lived by, and for, the gang. His aunt never had anything to do with him. It was she that sent Brad to the Church youth group, unaware that Jason was actually Catholic. She just wanted Brad off the streets.’

  ‘And you are sure that he was Catholic?’

  ‘No, that’s why we’ve been stalling. The certificates Jason showed Wyn were the right place and the right time but in a different name. They were also very clean and well kept, which didn’t speak of a seven year old child saving them all those years. Jason stated it was his family name in Nigeria and that his father had him given a Nigerian identity. It was his father’s surname. He’d claimed he’d written to his father’s family and had the certificates sent to him’

  ‘A tad unlikely.’

  ‘Precisely. We are actively pursuing it. We have a full investigation within the church, trying to track down the Bishop who undertook the confirmation. The certificate is real, we are pretty sure it doesn’t relate in any way to Jason.’

  ‘But you aren’t certain?’

  ‘No. And, until we are...’

  ‘Wyn is trapped in the confessional with him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Goodness, what a mess.’ Maryam poured herself a large port and studied the colours in the depths of the wine.

  ‘How did he conduct himself in the confessional, Jason Briggs? Did he know what to do?’

  It was Andy who answered his surprise that Maryam asked the question evident.

  ‘He conducted himself impeccably. I spoke to Wyn about it at length. He knew what to do and say and couched everything he told Wyn under guise of confession, as an actual confession.’

  ‘Then he’d come back again and again and say he’d been weak and sinned once more? Asking for help and forgiveness?

  ‘Yes.’ Fred’s words were weighted down by the guilt he felt, by how they’d been unable to help the young priest.

  ‘When did you find out about all this?’

  ‘Just a few days ago; about ten days, I think.’ He looked to Father Scott, who nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘It took a while for it to filter over to us. His own bishop at Southwark was dealing with it, obviously.’

  ‘When was it brought to you?’

  ‘When permission was sought to enrol the services of a private detective to try and prove that Jason’s certificate of confirmation was a forgery.’

  ‘Was permission given?’

  ‘Yes, but the murder took place before we commissioned anyone.’

  ‘So you knew that Wyn was in the pressure cooker, that he was being targeted this way?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fred felt shameful. Maryam wasn’t sure what else they could have done, given how well Jason Briggs had danced upon the Church’s rules. It also explained why they’d been keeping her close to them. She’d misjudged him.

  ‘At no point could you persuade anyone that Jason’s confessions were not genuine? That he had no intention of changing his behaviour, that he was not a true penitent?’ Her voice betrayed that this was a forlorn hope... how to do you prove someone’s thoughts?

  ‘No. We tried. Wyn offered other priests for the confession. We changed the rota, we even moved Wyn out for a week, on respite. Briggs kept coming back, kept turning up in the confessional and kept requesting forgiveness. He would appear when the Church was locked.’

  ‘So that’s why the back door was changed, not the graffiti?’

  ‘Yes. Briggs was appearing in the Church when Wyn was doing work on his own, requesting confession.’

  ‘No doubt describing in graphic detail what his sins were and where they had taken place?’

  ‘Yes. He spared nothing.’

  ‘And not one of you can breathe a single word about it.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  It was Maryam’s turn to slap her hand down on the table hard enough to bruise.

  ‘Damnation!’

  She was glad she had stayed in Peckham and that she’d taken a taxi back. She got out of the taxi just after it crossed the river and walked the three miles to the Church. It was two a.m. and the world, even the South London world, was indoors and asleep. She needed the wind in her eyes and the cold touching her bones to drive away the depression that was threatening. Wyn was locked into a terrible battle, a struggle for his freedom and his innocence, and it very much looked as if he might lose it. They would lose both a promising new priest and a soul that lit the room up when he entered it.

  She decided to switch from the ‘why’ of this investigation and look to the ‘how’. There had to be some way to save this young man, to defeat the evil that was attacking him. Rather than going to bed when she got in, she switched on her laptop and began research into the gang culture in London.

  In the morning, with the parish house alive around her, she woke and attended to her Tarot. What she got in the three lays she did, one on the Church, one on Wyn, one on herself, was the same card; The High Priestess, card three. She had missed some evidence somewhere. Something was there to be seen, she’d just not found it. A knock on the door disturbed her and she pla
ced the wrapping cloth over the cards that were laid out on the desk. One of the new priests, Father Jacob, had a mug of coffee for her and the news that Detective Iqbal was downstairs in the parlour. She thanked him, drank the almost bearable coffee and dressed quickly. When she’d made herself a large bowl of actual coffee, she and Iqbal settled into the only space they could find some peace and quiet; Father Edward’s greenhouse. It contained no greenery, soil or plants. There was a huge ashtray and a bottle of brandy hidden under the single upturned clay pot, and a stack of old newspapers. It was raining again and the noise was both soothing and meant they could not be easily overheard. The opening of the Church had sparked more press interest, but the telephoto lenses could not, as of yet, look round corners.

  Iqbal had come to invite her to meet the local Imam later that afternoon. She was happy to do so, glad she would have the opportunity and he phoned through a time. She then kept his attention by inviting him to go through the physical evidence they had, something that he was more than happy to do. As a junior officer brought in for his background knowledge, he’d not been getting much of a shot at that. They spread out a layer of old papers on the bare potting boards and laid out their individual files, collating their knowledge as they went. There was little to add to what she’d already been furnished with. Vincent Doherty, the locksmith, was a childless widower. However, his manager ran the store and did all the fittings. He had three children. Like his boss, Mr Curtis was a Catholic and supporter of the Church. Both his younger children were altar boys and his daughter, Keely, had been a member of the Choir.