“Thomas Earnchester, one of those Englishmen with too much money and a fascination with things that didn’t concern him. He died without heirs and left the estate to the Free Church. Everything’s been gradually sold off until only the house remains, and they let that out as a holiday rental.”
“There you go, Mrs Spence was right,” I say. “You’re very well informed.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been here the better part of twenty years. A body picks up bits and pieces of rumours and tales.”
“There’s a mummy,” I tell him, and he tilts his head, arctic gaze narrowing. “In a glass case.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” he says as if he should have.
I ask casually, “Have you visited there before?”
He shakes his head.
Good.
“It was up in the attic. I was exploring. That’s how I found it. Her. It. It’s not terribly big so I moved her to the sitting room.” I pull the knitted cap from my head and curls tumble out, catching the light from the candles; his eyes follow the fall. “A peat mummy, I think, judging by the tea colour of the skin, but I’m no expert.”
He nods. “The constitution of the bogs does that. Depending on the acid concentration in the water, it will either eat the bones away and leave the skin and hair, or strip away the flesh and skin and leave the bones. They tend towards the former here.”
“Will you come and look? Please? Mhairead said you’d been an archaeologist once, that you’d know best. Only I feel it should be better looked after, not just gathering dust like some old fake mermaid sewn together by carnival shysters. If it’s valuable, it should go to a museum, but I don’t want to trouble anyone unless…”
He smiles and I know what he’s thinking: Don’t want to trouble anyone but me. I smile back, thinking: What else are you doing with your time?
“Besides, I’d be happy for the company if only for a little while,” I say, fully aware of the power of a woman’s attention, even on a priest. Especially on a priest.
“Tomorrow afternoon, then,” he says, and I release a breath. “I’ve evening Mass and community visits to make tonight. I don’t imagine your girl’s in any great hurry.”
“Tomorrow afternoon will be perfect,” I say, though my pulse is loud in my temples. My girl’s waited a long time; what’s one more day? My heart aches at the delay. “I look forward to it.”
I hesitate a little longer, stare at the stained glass windows once more, at the beatific faces that might or might not be familiar. Feel the itch between my shoulder blades again. Feel a similar itch at the back of my memory where the forgotten things wait.
“Anything else I can do for you, Ms McEwan?” he asks and his voice is soft, so soft it might contain an invitation.
I give another smile, a brilliant thing. “Just admiring your angels, Father, they’re lovely.”
He looks at them as if for the first time. “They’re doing their duty. It makes them beautiful.”
I laugh. “Oh, Father, the fallen are lovely too, and don’t you forget it. Didn’t Lucifer keep his good looks? Otherwise how might he tempt righteous souls?”
I walk towards home faster than I left it. Almost there, I have to pause at the side of the road until the shaking rage passes. I don’t throw up, though I feel I might. I straighten, take in the height, the breadth, the many stones that went into the house’s make-up. I look up at the attic window and think I see a shape pressed against the glass, but I know nothing’s there, not really. Just a sliver, a memory, a shade. Not a whole thing, not yet.
* * *
The night drags on. When I finally sleep, I dream of wings and old things that were given up, sacrificed. I dream of the things I yearned for, the things I gained and then lost. I wake in the dark hours to the certainty that someone is in the room, but when I open my eyes no one is there. Tiptoeing to the window, I peer out through the sliver between the thick curtains.
Beyond the low stone wall, the fog roils, agitates, rebels, but does not enter the garden.
“Did you speak to him, love?” Mhairead Spence asked when I ran into her in the village store. I stocked up on coffee and biscuits, which is basically what I exist on, and she on items far more appropriate, like fresh fruit and vegetables, flour and tea.
“Thank you, Mrs Spence.”
She nodded, a housewifely gesture, pleased that matters had gone as she’d expected. “He’s a good man for all he’s a Catholic. I’ve always thought him a little haunted.”
“Ah, Mrs Spence, we drag our ghosts behind us whether we want to or not.”
“You’ve an old head on you.” She’s got no idea. “Have a lovely evening, Sarai.”
“And you, Mrs Spence,” I said and watched her bustle her groceries up to the counter.
Now I press my fingers against the pane, feel it cold despite the double-glazing. The fire in the hearth has gone out and the chill is palpable. Down below one of my ghosts waits, stoic, with the patience of a statue. Eventually, I go back to bed and find a dreamless slumber awaits.
* * *
“She’s a lovely thing,” Father Gunn McBride says, crouching in front of the case, two fingers resting against the glass as if to steady his balance. His eyes are avid, almost warm with interest.
The little tea-brown girl lies on a bed of dirt, her head and shoulders twisted one way, the rest of her body the other, as if she was shifted and warped in the earth’s damp embrace. The long plaits are bright ochre red; once they were golden, but the bog has changed them too. The acid of the water has eaten away most of her clothing, so it’s not likely he’ll recognise that as an anachronism. And there’s that strange sheen to the skin; that and the colour of her, the distortion of her features from the pressure of liquid and peat, make her unrecognisable except to one who loved her.
“Exquisite in death, isn’t she? I think you’ve got a prize here, Ms McEwan.”
“Sarai, please.”
“Then I’m Gunn,” he says and smiles. “Of course, she’ll need to be x-rayed, all the usual tests conducted to make sure she’s what she appears. I can put you in contact with some people at one of the universities on the mainland. I’m sure they’ll be keen to help. I imagine the letting agent will want to be notified, though.”
“I’ll tell her,” I say. “Can I interest you in a drink? Sherry?”
“What do you take me for? A reverend?” He laughs as he says it.
“Whiskey, then?”
“No alcohol for me, thank you.” Yet there’s longing in his eyes, a whisper of it in his tone. Gunn McBride used to love his booze just as he loved his beautiful women. Probably more, and that’s where he came apart.
“I wonder where she’s from?” His voice is quite soft, musing. He sounds oddly kind and tender, as if he feels some responsibility for her, which he should. “I wonder what happened to her? A sacrifice, do you think? I can’t see a garrotte around her neck, or any obvious stab wounds. Perhaps poison or a blow to the back of the head?”
I wonder that he can discuss the death of a girl so casually. I turn away so he can’t see my face. “I’ll make tea, then.”
When we’re settled in the sitting room, the fire crackling merrily, the glass case between us, I say, “May I ask a question, Father?”
“You just did,” he says and chuckles as if it’s terribly funny. I want to tell him it’s not, but I just smile. “Of course you may, Sarai. And it’s Gunn, don’t forget,” as if his name is an intimacy he can force upon me.
“What did you see? When I walked into the church yesterday?” I sip at my own beverage, a dash of whiskey to fortify it.
His gaze slides away, latches onto the flames in the hearth, is held there for a few beats too long, then he lamely produces, “A trick of the light was all,” and says no more.
We sit in silence for a while, drinking, looking anywhere but at each other, until he breaks at last. “And what about you, Sarai? What do you do? What brings you to us?”
“I travel
,” I answer, and smile. “I read, I research, sometimes I write. I witness and I watch, and if I can I set things to rights.”
“Independently wealthy and aimless, then?” He misunderstands, of course, though he can’t know it. “Nice thing to be.”
“It costs me sure enough, Gunn,” I use his name and see him blink. “And I only appear aimless to those who don’t pay enough attention.”
His gaze moves once again, to something behind me, or that he thinks is there. The stare traces an outline I can only imagine. “And you, Gunn, what made you change? From archaeologist to shepherd?”
It takes an effort for him to refocus, and his grin is uncomfortable.
“Mid-life crisis, shall we say? I found I had insufficient faith to support the life I was living. I needed something else, something that didn’t come at the bottom of a bottle or beneath a short skirt.” He shakes his head as if hit by the confessional urge. “Life was easy for me, Sarai. Things came easily to me: jobs, successes, women, and I let them go just as easily because I didn’t value them. I assumed that something new would replace whatever slid away. For a long time I was right; and then… then came a hole so deep I couldn’t fill it no matter what I poured down my throat or snorted up my nose or stuck my cock in.” His gaze flits to see if that shocks me. I wonder how often he’s given this speech, if it’s a standard he pulls out when trying to convince someone of his sincerity. I might have believed him, too, if not for that little glance. If I didn’t know what he’ll never actually confess.
“And you found what you needed in a black robe, performative cannibalism and the fairy story of a dead god come back to life?” I raise my cup as if in toast, see his flare of annoyance – not panic, too arrogant for that – to realise I’ve not fallen for his act.
“Will you look at the hour, Ms McEwan? Time for me to go.” He goes to put his cup on the coffee table and misses. The delicate vessel falls to the carpet, doesn’t smash, but the remnants of dark bitter liquid soak into the weave. He’s apologetic, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, how clumsy of me! I must have misjudged…”
“Nothing to apologise for, Father McBride. No harm done. Just leave it.” I crouch in front of him, right the cup and put it on the table, then take his hands and rise, pulling him with me. We stand so close I can feel his breath on my face. He stares at me. I let one hand drop, turn and lead him behind me. His feet seem to drag when we pass the stairs that go up, but I don’t pause. I guide him to the front door, open it and let his hand go. His fingers dance across my palm and he wavers on the stoop as if I might change my mind.
“For all you’ve found God, you don’t always want him around, do you?” I breathe into his face, all whiskey and sugar sweetness, and I can see it excites him. I think about the core of him, that he sometimes fights, but eventually gives in to. There’s too much of him that favours the darkness. And I want to put my hands around his thick throat and squeeze.
But I don’t.
I push him away, out into the night. He staggers a little down the steps, watches me close the door ever so slowly. I don’t know how long he’ll stay out there. But he’ll be back, I do know that much.
Once upon a time, Gunn McBride hid after he did what he did. He hid the result of his careless act and avoided the consequences. He hid from himself, from his conscience, pretended to find salvation in a new life. But it’s all a façade, all a dream, all make-believe. It’s just for show.
* * *
Two days and he doesn’t return.
Two days and I think I’ve lost him.
Two days and I fear he’s fled. I’ll have to trace him, track him, stalk him. Hunt him. As if I haven’t done that enough all these years.
Was I overconfident? Have I lost my chance? What if he sensed something? What if, when given the choice, he elected not to descend? Not to seal his own fate? What if he’s been genuine in his repentance? For long moments, I’m convinced I don’t have the energy to pursue him anymore. That it will be easier, simpler to just let him go. To forgive, if not to forget.
Then I remind myself what I would be giving up. What I already gave up, before. I remind myself that was enough, if not too much, that I will not surrender this. I will not abandon her. I will not fail her again.
And in that darkness sitting vigil over the glass coffin, in that deepest pit of anguish, when what passes for my soul kindles and reaches, when I recall the determination that’s kept me going, the doorbell rings.
There are shadows under his eyes. He’s forgone the cassock, is in his running gear, perspiration pouring off him despite the chill air. I wonder if he’s been drinking; I can smell the stale sweat with a hint of barley. Fallen off the wagon into the whiskey vat.
I’m pulling the door open as he’s pushing it, then he’s on me and soon in me, and I don’t care. This act is needed to show his fall is entire, that he’s not true to the life he claims. That he’s faithless.
And for me there’s relief in the physical contact, in the animal nature of the act, in knowing I’ve not lost. Who’d begrudge me that small comfort? I run my nails down his back, digging furrows that draw grunts from him but don’t slow him down. Then I’m on top of him and his eyes widen, go to a point behind my shoulders, and I hiss, “What do you see?”
This time he answers, gasping, “Wings. Wings!” and reaches up to touch them, to outline their feathery tips, but I know he won’t be able to make contact, that they’re not really there. Just ghostly things clinging to my back like cobwebs, impossible to shift, to leave behind. “How can you have these? Have I gone mad?”
“No more than the rest of us, Father.” I laugh, moving against him until he’s caught once again in what we’re doing and forgets to ask questions for a while.
When we’re done and lying on the hall rug, he runs his fingers across the skin of my back as if he might feel what he can no longer see, and asks, “What are you? One of them?”
“Once, or so I’ve been told. No longer.”
“Do you not know?”
“When we fall, we forget. Our wings are taken, sliced away with a great scythe, and our memories of our time aloft are removed, too.”
“Then how...”
“Writings.” I sigh. “And those who remain Above, who are not Fallen, they come to us. When we despair, they give us tasks, offer hope that perhaps we might one day find grace again if we are obedient.”
“But if you can’t remember then how do you know they’re not demons tempting you? That you’re not…?”
“Mad? I’ve asked myself that time and again, especially when the one who came to me first appeared. I can’t remember, but I feel these.” I point to the wings that are both there and not there. “They make us promises, that we can earn back what we lost. Most of us want our wings back, when we discover the things we fell for weren’t worth the sacrifice.”
“And you? What did you lose?” he asks tenderly, and I can almost believe he’s genuine. But I think of how casually he spoke of my girl’s death, thinking her an ancient sacrifice, how he never confessed to his deed, not even to another priest in the sanctity of confessional.
“Her. I’m told I chose to fall so I could have her. I’m told I questioned our nature, demanded to know why we did so little beyond fetching and carrying; why we created so little, why nothing we did was generative.” I shake my head. “Some days I wonder if I do remember: if there are cracks in the world, between what was and what is, if my memories are bleeding through.” I raise a hand as if I might catch at something, at a truth, then sigh again. “Yet, really, I remember nothing but her, and that’s because she came after I fell. I chose to be human so I could have her. All I ever wanted was a child; it must have been what I wanted because that desire was the only thing I could recall the day I awoke, wingless. I found a man who was kind. I conceived, nothing miraculous in that. I had her, my little one, my tiny joy. I had her for eight years.” I shrug as if it were all so simple, as if the time passed as easily as I’ve made the tal
e sound.
He says nothing, just watches my face. No sign from him that he recognises any of this story, no sign of compassion or even fleeting discomfort to hear of the death of a girl-child.
“Surely I knew from before that nothing lasts, that you mortals are so ephemeral − surely that piece of knowledge would have stuck − but I had her and thought she’d be there forever.” I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “It’s hard for angels to understand precisely how fragile life is. That humans are God’s goldfish, pretty, circling, soon to be dead and flushed.”
“What happened?” he asks, still stroking me. His touch raises goosebumps, or perhaps it’s just this part of the telling.
“A man killed her, a bright young man, an archaeologist on a dig. A drunk on an island not so terribly different to this one. He didn’t know me, didn’t know my child; it was purely coincidental. Hit her as she rode her bicycle home from school. Hit her and hurt her and instead of calling for help and taking the consequences, he feared for his reputation, his career.” He’s gone terribly still, his fingers frozen in the small of my back. “He was too drunk to slow down, too drunk to avoid hitting my Ariel, but sober enough to think to hide her body in the peat bog not far from the road. Sober enough to know she’d turn to a sack of leathery skin with her bones eaten away by the acid of the mire, that given enough time she’d look like an ancient mummy, a sacrifice from long ago.”
I sit up and lean against the wall, nesting amongst our discarded clothes. It’s cold here, but I don’t care: the chill reminds me I’m alive. That I feel. His face hangs as if all the muscles have been cut.
“How can you know?” he manages. “I told no one. Not ever.”
“You didn’t need to. You can’t hide from the angels. God perhaps − It’s very busy, gets distracted − but the angels… Well, their job is to watch, and they’re terribly good at that.” I lean forward, push a stray strand of hair out of his pale blue eyes. “His name is Ramiel, the one who came to me, and we were siblings, or so he says. He has dominion over those who rise from the dead. God lets us go if we ask, but It doesn’t like to, not really − doesn’t like losing souls any more than your Church does. So, when the chance comes to bring one back to the fold…”
Phantoms Page 2
