by Bowes, K T
Chapter 10
On Monday morning, the Reverend McLean resembled a box of extremely excited birds, flitting and fluttering with nervous anticipation. His new curate was due to arrive, as he repeatedly told anyone who would listen as he floated around near the front doors of the church. “He’s very experienced,” McLean announced to Sal on reception, as he made a foray into the counselling centre. “Apparently he’s well thought of up at the diocesan office. He’s not the one that I was meant to get, but this one is much better.”
Sal rolled her eyes at the monologue that spoke about a working man as though he was an exchanged toy. Reverend McLean shook hands unnecessarily with a congregation member who had been trying desperately to hide in the seating area. The poor man blanched at the cleric’s sudden interest in him. Cam was treating him for the origins of a deep-seated marijuana dependency and the middle aged man knew that if the vicar even got a hint of his particular trouble he would hound him out of the church.
Cam bouncing enthusiastically out of his office provided the release for his client from the grips of the vicar, who seriously looked as though he was going to ask why he was there. The man ran into the safety of Cam’s office as though the hounds of hell were after him, leaving the vicar thwarted in his quest for knowledge. The old man stood in the centre of reception for a moment, twisting his hands in annoyance before remembering his new curate. That caused his face to light up beatifically and put the spring back into his step as he went back to stand by the front doors.
“This is the Reverend Edward Smith,” McLean announced proudly an hour later, displaying his new curate with aplomb. Cam stepped forward to shake the new toy’s outstretched hand, but Jayden gaped somewhat like a trout. Raff’s brother raised an eyebrow and appealed with his eyes for her to just go along with the ruse.
“Hi,” she said lamely, thinking no it’s not - it’s Eduardo Abbadeli, but allowing him to take the fingers of her right hand in his strong ones anyway. Jayden detested weak handshakes, taught how to make her mark on the world by her father with a firm, masculine grip. Her hand in Ed’s resembled a lettuce that had been in the sun too long, the rest of her body consumed with surprise and dismay at an apparent deception.
Ed’s strong jaw was visible through the skin of his cheek as his teeth ground against each other. His manner was calm and assured, but the glances he darted towards his brother’s friend betrayed fear that she would out him. She didn’t. Jayden detached herself from the little charade, relieved that she was employed and salaried by the diocesan offices and in essence, had no need to become embroiled in the machinations of St Jude’s.
McLean was thrilled with the novelty of his new gadget and marched Ed off to meet Brian and explore his new surroundings. As he led him through the doors towards the main church, Cam laughed as the reverend’s voice echoed back to them, “Only I’m allowed up onto the balcony above the nave. It’s the rules.”
He sounded like a small child in primary school, forbidding anyone to touch his new bicycle and the naked obsequiousness in his speech was raw and jangling. With a smirk at Jayden, Cam retreated back into his office, leaving Sal and the counsellor gazing after the clerics. “Hot!” Sal commented with a lascivious smile. Jayden knitted her brow and declined to answer, going back into her room and closing the door.
Curiosity taunted her, pushing her to text Raff and tout for answers as to Ed’s odd behaviour, but she shoved the thoughts away. If he wanted to change his name, that was his business, just as it had been her choice to do the same. Raff had texted Jayden on Saturday afternoon, asking if she was all right after her sudden exit from the gym. She had reassured him that she was fine, but wondered if it was the truth.
Ed had asked her a poignant question at the cathedral when she had been showing him the imp. He had asked her what was different about the day on which the troublemaker’s location had become irrevocably clear. It had been just another buried thing in the armoury of Lily McGowan’s existence. It had been because of Rita.
“Forgiveness is part of healing,” the lecturer had been saying, grabbing the attention of the packed undergraduate class. Her orange hair had moved in an unseen breeze, but even the humour of that had failed to dull her words. They were words that Jayden had not wanted to hear, not right then. “It’s a documented fact that rape victims able to forgive their attackers put themselves voluntarily into a better place for recovery. Oh, it’s not an instant fix by any means. It doesn’t happen just by saying the words. But it is a process of the mind, an act of letting go which with it, brings considerable release.”
Many of the students had shifted uncomfortably in their rows. Rita also taught a Christian counselling paper as well as this psychology lecture and they waited for the bible bashing which was sure to come. It didn’t. She put up a PowerPoint slide depicting facts and figures and left it at that.
Jayden had the proverbial ‘aha’ moment, as though a nugget of rocket science had just dropped into her soul. Her next tutorial with Rita had brought the first, in a series of honest admissions from Jayden. “Forgiveness is a two-way street,” the girl had argued. “I won’t go to see him, to tell him that he’s forgiven so how will he ever know? And doesn’t he have to apologise also, for...” it was difficult to say the word out loud. She tended to think of it as the ‘attack’ rather than give the incident more power by using the actual term.
“Who are we talking about?” Rita had asked. Jayden had looked at her feeling instantly indignant that in all their sessions, the woman had failed to absorb what she had been told. Perhaps she wasn’t interested. Maybe she saw so many students in this degree that they all blended in together, their problems mingling and overlapping.
But Rita had continually emphasised the need for clear, concise notes, precisely so that such forgetfulness could not happen. Jayden knew that she wouldn’t have made that mistake. She sat looking blankly at her tutor. Rita sought to clarify things for her most promising student. “Are we talking about the man who raped you, Jayden? Or are we talking about the one who betrayed you?”
Jayden had gulped. While the thought of Wes thrusting around on top of her filled her with horror, disgust and revulsion, the image of Nick’s boyish, pleading face caused a knife-like pain just under her ribs. Whilst she had been prepared to try and forgive Wes one day, his abuse of her body being completely in keeping with his twisted character, she couldn’t even contemplate forgiving Nick. He was her older brother. She had looked up to and adored him; acne and attitude included. He had sold her to his dealer for a single hit.
The Victim Support counsellors had touched on the word ‘betrayal’ also, but Jayden had recoiled from naming the thing, afraid that if she did she would then have to deal with it. This particular day had seemed different in a nondescript way. Rita had asked her if she could forgive her brother and it was as if Jayden had known right then that she couldn’t, but that it had suddenly become a possibility somewhere in the future. One day she would most definitely have to, even just for her own sanity. It was as though her world opened up a little more, forcing a crack in her splendid isolation. She didn’t have to face it now, but it was there, hanging over her like a threat.
Jayden had made the steep climb up the hill from her lecture theatre near the Brayford Pool. Recognising her as a regular visitor and local, the door guard at the cathedral refused her money and waved her through the turnstile. Jayden had known that afternoon that the imp would be waiting for her, high up in the rafters. Sure enough, he was there, grimacing from his perch triumphantly. He embodied the wicked things in life and Jayden had raised one finger towards his cocky little face, warning him, “I know your game!” She was more than aware of the demons who flanked her daily. Knowing each of them by name, she recognised their trademarks and resisted them as best she could. Simply knowing their names and their torturous intent was never going to be enough though and Jayden had devoted the remaining seven years to trying to banish them from her thought processes and decision
making. Some days it was as though she had succeeded, but on the bad days they hung around the sides of her face like irritating sarcophagidae flesh eating flies, taunting her and buzzing noisily in her ears.
The honeymoon period between the Reverend McLean and Ed Smith lasted a day. To have credited the peace with a full twenty-four hours would be stretching the truth because they were arguing before the close of business on Ed’s first day. The vicar’s temper went from excitable to vicious within a matter of hours as the new curate made sensible suggestions about offerings, congregation members, finances and buildings, all with the very best of intentions. The staid vicar preferred to call it ‘interfering’ and got increasingly upset as the day wore on. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he bellowed finally, at the dark, handsome man in front of him.
Ed was punished with the most minor of roles when he arrived for work on his second day. There would definitely be no preaching for him! He was trusted only with the role of organising the little group of elderly women who voluntarily arranged the flowers to decorate the front of the church. At the start of each year, they sat down with the vicar and with much grumbling and gnashing of teeth on his part; they formulated their themes and worked out their roster. Ed infuriated McLean, taking the women into the church coffee shop and treating them to lattes out of his own pocket. He had them entranced within a very short period of time and the roster was worked out, typed up on his laptop there and then and printed off in the church office within a fifth of the time that it usually took. “Bye ladies,” Ed said, his deep blue eyes oozing sincerity as the octogenarians fawned over his proffered handshake. Ed was acquiring fans and it was a dangerous game around McLean.
McLean’s game was to have everyone like him. He had to be the most needed person in the building which is partly why he pontificated so ridiculously, drawing out the decision making in order to look important. He was famous for his ‘let me sleep on it’ line, which would never engender a result, not even if the man went into a helpful coma for the remainder of his career.
The handsome curate was garnering way too much kudos for the vicar’s liking, frowning deeply as he watched the women leaving. He couldn’t be completely sure, but it looked as though Mrs Tischel had been about to kiss the curate’s hand. John McLean was shocked. How dare Edward Smith come in and make friends so quickly! It had taken him years.
To the delight of the sycophantic Brian, Ed’s jobs became worse. He was given the delightful task of dragging last autumn’s leaves out of the lower guttering and the wide drain lines which ran around the side of the old building. The black cassock which McLean insisted on his curates wearing at all times was discarded for such jobs and replaced by a boiler suit which Ed must have found in the groundsman’s shed. Jayden felt unreservedly sorry for him.
When McLean rushed off for some ultra-important deacon’s meeting late on the Wednesday, Jayden took a cup of tea out to Ed, who was sluicing out the bins belonging to the coffee shop. “He can’t make you do things like this, surely,” she complained in hushed tones. “It’s not right. Brian’s asleep in the pews again and you’re out here, freezing your...”
“It’s fine,” Ed chided her gently, taking the steaming mug gratefully in hands that were almost blue. “Jesus preached servant-hood. Perhaps it’ll be good for me.”
“Well, if McLean tries to make you wash his feet, I’m calling the bishop myself!” Jayden exclaimed. Ed put his head back and laughed, a deep, jolly sound which resonated off the stone brickwork melodiously.
“There’s no need,” he said, burning his lips on the hot drink and jolting slightly. “It will all be ok.”
He looked so helpless, standing there in his blue boiler suit, his hands shaking from contact with the hose pipe’s freezing water. His lips had gone a dreadful shade of purple that showed just how arctic it was outside. Completely out of character and done more from a feminine nurturing instinct than anything else, Jayden reached up and laid her warm palm against Ed’s cold cheek. His skin felt rough and tight against the elements and Jayden pitied him. “This is wicked,” she said, injustice leaking from her voice. “I’m going to do something about it.”
Embarrassed at the physical contact, Jayden withdrew her hand quickly and turned on her heel. Ed called after her, surprising her greatly with his response, “Jayd, don’t. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t.”
His eyes implored her to stay out of his troubles. He didn’t look downtrodden or bullied. Nor did he look as though he would bow to pressure, in the same way as the weaker Brian had done, caving in upon his florid self horribly. If anything, Ed looked as though he had all the time in the world and if Jayden was not completely mistaken, was enjoying himself more than a little.
Confused, she returned to the building, cringing at the drop in temperature to below zero, which surely made hosing out dustbins the most miserable of tasks. Ed continued for the rest of that week and the start of the next, in buoyant good humour and resounding popularity despite the dreadfully menial tasks entrusted to him. He changed light bulbs, electrocuted himself mending a fuse on the mains box when McLean ‘accidentally’ flicked the ‘on’ switch while the wire was still in Ed’s hand and also increased his friendship base amongst the staff in the coffee shop and the enchanted congregation. It was as if the more McLean abused the man, the more he gave off an ethereal glow which only served to make him additionally attractive.
Jayden complained to Raff when he popped in one evening after work. “Leave it babe,” he insisted. “My big brother knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Jayden doubted that very much somehow and toyed with the idea of ringing the bishop herself. With the exit of Bishop Pargetter, there was some hope that the new one might not be part of the Old-Boys’-Network. But Sal had told her that he wasn’t in the post yet and it stood to reason that the acting post-holder would not be keen to open up this particular can of worms and then run off into the sunset. It sat badly with Jayden’s sense of injustice and she determined to intervene in the very near future.
Chapter 11
Jayden was usually strict about her timekeeping. It was part of showing herself respect by valuing her own time. Clients weren’t permitted to approach either her or Cam in their private time, encroaching on their lives and families like a hungry ocean eroding a victimised shoreline.
Once a client built up a relationship with someone who had the tools to improve how they felt about themselves, their marriage or their psyche, they would often adopt that person in a relationship founded on need. It was dangerous and something that Jayden and Cam were constantly aware of. An hour appointment meant an hour appointment, no more, no less, although Jayden was much better at self-imposed deadlines that the generous-hearted Cam.
Cam had been the subject of an unfortunate infatuation by a middle-aged spinster, who had shared her deepest darkest secrets with him a few years ago and had certain expectations in return. Her possession of him had been ghoulish and frightening as a woman crippled by loneliness had fantasised and dreamed of ownership of the handsome, capable man. It had been crippling for him and for his gentle wife, who had endured weeks of hostility every time she set foot through the doors of the church. The vicar had been incensed when Cam and his family found another church to patronise on a Sunday and he doggedly refused to understand the poor man’s dilemma. It was a common problem and while Cam had received the full support of his supervisor and Jayden, he had angered the pig-headed vicar for all the wrong reasons. For McLean, it was merely about bums on pews and coins in the cloth offering bags. “He’s disloyal!” the vicar had raged.
The foolish old cleric should have stepped in and had words with the client but was consumed by his own fear of confrontation and failed the counsellor due to his personal inadequacies. It had been a shocking episode, distressing in many ways, but the elderly bishop, angrily approached by Cam’s supervisor, huffed and puffed and achieved nothing but bluster. Perhaps he had fully intended to reprimand his ol
d friend as he called him up to his sumptuous residence near the cathedral. But after a shared whiskey and an expensive cigar, he couldn’t quite remember why the man had called. The reverend headed home, having gotten away with yet another failure in his duty but bizarrely held poor Campion responsible and hadn’t spoken directly to him since.
Jayden had finally begun getting somewhere with a teenage client who had taken forty minutes to open up to her. Throwing him out at dead on five o’clock seemed ludicrous and so she had broken her own rules and continued to the next available moment, guiltily aware that his long-suffering mother was waiting outside. One of the written rules of counselling in this environment involved issues surrounding deliberate personal harm. All clients signed a contract at the start of treatment, forcing them to understand that any threat of harm to themselves or others would immediately invalidate any confidentiality agreement. The sorry young man in front of Jayden admitted to cutting himself with a razor blade, regularly and in moments of extreme stress as a release. “I never mean to,” he mumbled. “It just seems to help.” With the blood-letting, often came a welcome relief from pressure and a regaining of control. But it was a decidedly slippery slope down which anyone could potentially lose their footing and fall, unexpectedly or otherwise.
The man-boy was sixteen years old. He was clad in a scruffy grey puffer jacket and a dirty black tee shirt, sporting the name of a famous rock band peeked out at the world. His jeans barely held themselves up around his backside and a pair of loud silky yellow boxer shorts yelled out at the back. His hair was lank and greasy and his face speckled with an unhealthy smattering of large, painful spots. He would be nice looking one day. But not today.
He had only come to counselling because his parents, having reached the end of their rope had threatened him with Social Services. Tough love. Shape up or ship out. Whilst other parents may posture and criticise the harassed adults, it was not Jayden’s place to judge them. Desperation spoke many languages. The boy was trying to shape up, but underneath the razor cuts and the attitude was a debilitating ball of pain, hovering just beneath the surface of the young heart. “I hate my dad,” he said, chewing unattractively on a hang nail.
