The Invisible Ones

by Stef Penney

  When I pick it up, there seems to be some dirt swirling at the bottom of the can, clouding the holy water. I rip the embarrassing label off, shame and anger rising up in me like a tide, like a volcano. Then I unscrew the cap and upend it, emptying the water over the seats and cushions, over the carpet, and then back over the seat cushions, so that they are good and wet. After a few days they’ll start to stink and go moldy. When all the water has gone and I don’t feel any better, I just lift the can and hurl it to the floor as hard as I can. It bounces. I feel like a child. An idiot. A four-year-old idiot child. Ivo made a fool of me. He made fools of all of us. We don’t even know what he did—lies and secrets, certainly, and now, it seems, worse—hurting Mr. Lovell, carrying on in secret like that, killing Rose, even . . . maybe. And we all were nice to him and pitied him and jumped about like puppets for him and went to Lourdes and pretended to believe.

  I feel like ripping this place apart with my hands. I kick the drawers, which don’t even dent—I just hurt my foot. I grind my teeth with rage, but that isn’t going to help. I tipped holy water over everything! I have baptized this place rather than vandalized it. I am worse than useless.

  I go back outside, slamming the door. I don’t care who hears me now. Another little piece of glass falls out of the broken window. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck fuck fuck.

  I rub my face with the back of my hand. Like the carpet, and the upholstery, it’s wet.

  47.

  Ray

  The Unitarian chapel of the Welsh seaside town we come to is a plain brick box. It stands at the end of a street of identical Monopoly houses. The only concession to its purpose is a narrow cruciform stained-glass window in acid turquoise and orange, which, from the outside, suggests a gun slit more than a source of divine inspiration.

  I look at Hen doubtfully.

  I can see he’s thinking the same thing. The man refused to give us a telephone number. The only thing we know about him is the name he gave us—Peter. The Rock.

  As it’s a Wednesday afternoon, it’s quiet. But the door to the church is open, so we walk through a vestibule into a large, cold room where a few rows of padded chairs face a blond wood lectern, and a green nylon carpet crackles with static. The windows—apart from the stained-glass cross—are steel-meshed, for some reason. But there is someone waiting for us. He’s standing at the front, by the lectern, hands clasped in front of his genitals, and he’s wearing a clerical dog collar.

  “Peter?”

  The man smiles. He’s young: no more than thirty, with fair hair and a square jaw, very clean-shaven and ruddy, but with such an air of calm and authority that I don’t doubt he is the pastor of this church, and that the ladies of the congregation find him both an inspiration and a comfort.

  “Thank you for coming all this way. We appreciate it.”

  He inclines his head in a slight bow. I look around for the someone else he refers to, but we are alone. Perhaps he is referring to God.

  “I apologize for not being more forthcoming on the phone. Why don’t you sit down.”

  He speaks fast—his voice is brisk and very Welsh. He gestures to the rows of seats. I don’t want to sit down with him standing there, as if I am one of his flock, his sheep, but he picks up a chair and turns it to face the front row, and sits down with us.

  “You wouldn’t think it was August, would you? We don’t put the heating on during the week—saves money.”

  He smiles again, ruefully.

  “Er, before we start, could I please see your identification?”

  We hand over our licenses. He studies them carefully before handing them back.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry if all this seems unnecessarily . . . cagey, but, well, I expect you want to know what I have to tell you. As you know, I saw your advertisement in the newspaper, asking for information about Rose Wood—Rose Janko, as she was once. Before I tell you, can you tell me who wants to find out, and why?”

  “As I said on the phone, I’m afraid we can’t breach client confidentiality.” Peter the pastor frowns slightly.

  “Not even their name? You’re asking for a breach of . . . our confidentiality. It could be a matter of personal safety.”

  “We can assure you that your name needn’t come into it. We’ll treat any information as strictly confidential; our client just wants to know if . . . Rose is all right. You needn’t be brought into it at all.”

  He looks puzzled.

  “It’s not myself I’m thinking about.”

  If not himself, then . . . who?

  “Look, I can assure you”—I’m thinking of Georgia Millington now—“no one will be forced to do anything they don’t want to do. If it’s a question of contacting the parties concerned, that will be entirely up to you.”

  Admittedly, at the back of my mind I’m thinking: How much discretion does a skeleton need?

  Peter leans back in his chair. He looks as though nothing could ruffle him, although there is, perhaps, a touch more blood in the rosy cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, if you don’t tell me who’s looking for Rose Wood, then I won’t be able to help you.”

  I look at Hen. He gives a slight shrug.

  “I was approached by Leon Wood.”

  He nods, as if it was what he expected.

  “When?”

  “Several weeks ago.”

  “Why now?”

  “I understand that Mrs. Wood recently passed away, quite unexpectedly. I think Mr. Wood is aware that he is not going to live forever.”

  Peter looks concerned.

  “Is he ill?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Reverend. Reverend Hart. And is it only her father who wants to find her?”

  “Mr. Wood is our only client.”

  He nods, clasping his hands together and leaning his elbows on his knees. His hands, with their broad, pale nails, are extremely clean and pink, as though he has just spent five minutes scrubbing them.

  “I ask because, as I am sure you know, Rose made an unfortunate early marriage, although it was a marriage only in the eyes of the Gypsy community, not in the eyes of the Church.”

  For the first time, I feel a sense of urgency awaken inside me. He seems to know a surprising amount about her . . . Surprising, that is, unless . . .

  “It was an episode in her life that she wished to put behind her forever. Some things are so painful that no one should be forced to relive them.”

  “All I have to do,” I say, a sense of light-headedness coming over me, as though I am at one remove from all this, “is pass the details of Mr. Wood on to . . . whoever. No one has to see anyone, or even talk to anyone, unless that is what they want.”

  I can’t bring myself to say “her” or “she.” Because how can it be?

  “You sound as though you knew Rose rather well,” says Hen.

  Peter smiles.

  “Oh, yes.”

  A trace of impatience creeps into Hen’s voice, though it’s apparent only to me, because I know him. “So do you know where Rose is now?”

  “Excuse me a moment.”

  Instead of answering, he stands up and walks to a door at the side of the church, opens it, and disappears.

  I meet Hen’s eyes.

  “What is he playing at?”

  He shrugs—give it a chance.

  A minute passes. Then another. We sit in silence, with just an occasional car passing to break the monotony. It really is remarkably cold in here—it reminds me of sporadic trips to church when I was a child. Church was always cold then, too. Dimly lit, cold, with murderously uncomfortable seats. No wonder numbers have dwindled.

  Fully five minutes pass, by my watch. Then the door reopens and Peter comes back in. With him is a woman. He leads her by the elbow, unsmiling and solicitous, as though she is a delicate creature with porcelain bones. She has her eyes cast down. Yeah, all right, I think, so she does look a bit like Rose, I’ll give him that.

  “Please, gentlemen, this i
s my wife—Rena Hart, but in a former life, she was Rose Wood.”

  The woman stands in front of us in silence, looking into space. In silence, Hen and I stare at her. She has ash-blond highlighted hair sprayed back into flicks that form a halo around her face, pale blue eyeshadow, matching pink fingernails and lipstick. She wears a loose, long skirt suit with a high-necked blouse that ties at the throat in a bow, Princess Diana–style. The suit seems too big for her; it comes nearly to her ankles. But despite the demurely high neck, I can see one thing quite clearly: a port-wine birthmark that spreads up her neck toward her chin, looking for all the world like a dark hand reaching around her throat.

  “Rena Hart?” I say at last, unable to think of anything else.

  She looks at her husband, as if he has all the answers. The pastor holds her hand in both of his.

  “When we married, Rena decided she wanted a complete break with the past, so she chose the name Rena—it means reborn, and also, in Hebrew, joy. In our church we are baptized and, in a very real sense, are reborn in the light of the Lord, so it seemed most appropriate.”

  He smiles at her and pats her captive hand. I clear my throat and attempt a smile. Awkwardly, I put out my limp hand—awkwardly, that is, until Peter Hart releases her hand again, and she shakes mine briefly, avoiding eye contact.

  “I’m very happy to meet you, Mrs. Hart. My name is Ray Lovell, and this is my partner, Henry Price.”

  We are all standing up now. There is a pause. No one seems much inclined to sit down again.

  “I must say, I wouldn’t have recognized you . . . Do you mind? . . . I brought these.”

  I fish out the photographs of Rose at age sixteen and eighteen. The second, in particular, is poignant; the girl in the wedding dress appears to stare beseechingly out of the picture, asking to be rescued. But comparing the pictures and the woman in front of us, it is hard not to conclude that this is, no matter how changed, the girl who was once Rose Wood and, briefly, Rose Janko.

  “This is a bit of a giveaway, though, isn’t it?” She fingers the dark skin on her neck. “I used to cover it up completely . . . until Peter persuaded me not to.”

  She blushes slightly and looks at him; the sight of his face seems to reassure her. She has developed the trace of a Welsh accent, and a slightly clipped delivery, like the Reverend Hart.

  “This is . . . amazing. Your father was . . . well, he was afraid that you were dead.”

  She lifts her chin, a stubborn movement, emphasized by the heavy jaw.

  “Ha. Well, I’m not. Not that anyone made an effort to find me all these years. Where was he when I needed help?”

  “Did you ask him for help?”

  She doesn’t answer this.

  “I would like very much to tell him that you are—evidently—very well.” She looks at her husband again and nods slightly.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Would you mind if he contacted you?”

  She looks up at her husband, checking.

  “I’d like to think about that.”

  “Yes, of course. I can leave his details with you. And your sister, Kizzy, she seemed very sad to have lost touch with you. Margaret, too.”

  Rose—Rena, I suppose I have to say now—shrugs, with a twist of the mouth.

  “And, of course, there’s your son . . . although I know it’s been a long time . . . He’s six years old now.”

  The temperature inside the church suddenly changes. From cold to icy. Both the pastor and Rose stare at me, eyes wide and hard. They both speak at once:

  “I think you’ve made a mistake . . .”

  “My what?”

  “Your son; your and Ivo’s son—Christo.”

  Rose and her husband exchange glances. His—doubtful? She shakes her head, a scornful smile on her face.

  “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to. I don’t have a son. I don’t have kids. I can’t.”

  I think back to Ivo, his claim that she was depressed, delusional, in denial. Maybe he was right. But she doesn’t seem delusional. Just very, very angry.

  Peter Hart holds her hand again and takes a step closer to her.

  “My wife is sadly . . . unable to have children.”

  “Who told you about this boy?” Rose is demanding. “Not Dad? . . . Not Ivo, surely?”

  “Why not Ivo?”

  She lets out a sharp exhalation. Shakes her head again and again, a hard, bright light in her eyes.

  “Christ!” bursts from her at last.

  Her husband looks shocked; his mouth thins.

  “Sorry . . . but I’ve never heard such rubbish! If Ivo has a kid, it certainly wasn’t with me . . . That was never going to happen.”

  She gives a short, mirthless laugh. Peter looks at her pleadingly; clearly, he thinks this is going too far.

  “Perhaps we could leave it at that, gentlemen. You have found out what you wanted to know . . . It’s . . . You appreciate that these are distressing memories . . .”

  But Rose looks at him, no longer his porcelain damsel, now iron-tipped. “I don’t want these gentlemen believing someone’s lies about me.” She turns toward us, away from him.

  “Perhaps we should go somewhere and talk. Somewhere . . . else.”

  We arrange to go to a coffee shop on the high street. While Rose goes off to get her coat, Peter gives us a slightly strangled, disapproving smile.

  “Please, I would ask you not to push her too hard. I hope you appreciate that my wife is a . . . rather fragile person.”

  His tone remains standoffish, as though he is delivering a sermon, but his eyes plead. Perhaps he can’t help sounding like that.

  “She has been through a great deal, and—” He breaks off as Rose comes back, now wearing a pea-green jacket with padded shoulders and carrying a handbag. “Fragile” is not the first word that comes to mind.

  “Well . . . I’ll leave you to it. See you later, darling.”

  He gives her a peck on the cheek, and she smiles at him. He still looks miserable.

  “How long have you known your husband, Mrs. Hart?”

  We are sitting in back of the local bakery, its slightly unsettling atmosphere courtesy of fluorescent strip lighting and an insect zapper that buzzes every few seconds as it claims another victim.

  Rose—I still can’t think of her as anything else—stirs a cup of tea. She has ordered a plate of little iced cakes, which sit, glowing like radioactive waste, in the middle of the table.

  Instead of answering the question, she sips her tea and looks around with a smile.

  “It’s nice here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Very nice.”

  Hen nods in agreement.

  “Peter. I met him when I was trying to run away from my first marriage. Getting married to Ivo Janko was all a horrible, awful mistake. You’re Romany, aren’t you, Mr. Lovell?”

  “Half. My father was; my mother was gorjio.”

  “Maybe you have some idea what it’s like. It was difficult for me . . . You know, from a family like mine . . . They wouldn’t have wanted me back after I got married. The disgrace, you know? Peter helped me. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

  “Did you know Ivo well before you married?”

  “No. Barely at all. I think we’d met twice, and never alone, you know? Just sort of, see if we could stand the sight of each other.”

  “So it was arranged by your families?”

  She nods.

  “Dad was keen—’cause they’re a real Romany family. Mum wasn’t so sure, but he always got his way.”

  She swallows, staring at her plate. I suppose her husband has just told her about her mother’s death. She’s doing remarkably well, considering.

  “It was all arranged by Dad and Mr. Janko. I wasn’t much of a catch . . . what with this.” Her hand gestures toward her neck, a bitter smile. “People saw it as bad luck.”

  “Ah,” I murmur.

  “And him . . . he was good-looking enough, certainly�
��but there were these rumors. They tried to keep it quiet, but there was some family disease—I don’t know what. They weren’t popular. I think they thought neither of us would find anyone better.”

  She picks up her teacup and sips, gathering herself again. Then she tosses back her hair—which barely moves—picks up a lurid pink cube, and smiles at me. The sudden change in her expression is disconcerting. She pushes the plate toward me.

  “Aren’t you going to have one? They’re lovely. Homemade.”

  This seems unlikely, but, obedient, I pick up the nearest one—a yolk-yellow blob that reminds me of a giant pustule—and put it on my plate.

  “And the wedding took place in . . . October of ’78?”

  She nods.

  “So how long did you live together?”

  “Oh . . . A few months? Not much more than that . . . We got married in October; then I went on the road with him and his father—went to Lincolnshire and the Fens, I think, somewhere like that.”

  She trails off.

  “And what happened?”

  She sighs. Her head is bent over, eyes glued to the flowered tablecloth.

  “I know it must be difficult to talk about, Mrs. Hart. Take your time.”

  There is a longish silence.

  “He didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “You mean Ivo . . . ?”

  “It was like, the day after the wedding, as soon as we were alone, he couldn’t stand the sight of me. He wouldn’t barely say anything. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.”

  Her voice is so low we both have to lean forward to catch it.

  “We had one trailer, and Mr. Janko had another, but he spent most of the time in his dad’s trailer. When I did see him, he was really cold.”

  “Cold in what way?”

  “Cold! You know. Unfriendly. In a bad mood the whole time. I’d just be sitting there, wondering what on earth I’d done.”

  “Was he . . . violent toward you?”

  “I heard him shouting at his dad sometimes.”

  “Did he shout at you, too?”

  Rose looks down at the crumbs of pink sugar on her plate and presses her fingertip to one. Lifts her skinny shoulders in a way that reminds me she is only twenty-five, a young woman, despite the middle-aged clothes and hairdo.