by C. J. Tudor
Reverend Jack Brooks.
“So?” Flo brandishes a pair of scissors.
I take them and slit open the masking tape sealing the box. Inside, something is wrapped in tissue. A small card rests on top. I take it out.
But there is nothing covered up that will not be revealed, and hidden that will not be known. Accordingly, whatever you have said in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have whispered in the inner rooms will be proclaimed upon the housetops.
Luke 12:2–3
I glance at Flo and she raises her eyebrows. “Bit melodramatic.”
I put the piece of card down and peel away the tissue paper, revealing a battered, brown leather case.
I stare at it. Goosebumps skitter up my arms.
“So, are you going to open it?” Flo says.
Unfortunately, I can’t find a reasonable excuse not to. I lift the case out and lay it on the sofa. Something clunks around inside. I undo the clasps.
“But there is nothing covered up that will not be revealed.”
The interior is lined with red silk, the contents held in place by straps: a leather-bound Bible, a heavy cross featuring a prostrate Jesus, holy water, muslin cloths, a scalpel and a large serrated knife.
“What is it?” Flo asks.
I swallow, feeling a little sick. “An exorcism kit.”
“Whoah.” Then she frowns. “I didn’t know you used knives for an exorcism?”
“Usually, you don’t.”
I reach forward and take hold of the knife’s worn bone handle. It feels cool and smooth in my grip. I lift it out of the case. It’s heavy, the jagged edges sharp and covered in rusty brown stains.
Flo leans forward. “Mum, is that—”
“Yes.”
It’s turning into something of a theme today.
Blood.
Moonlight. You wouldn’t think it could be different, but it is.
He holds out his fingers, lets it play on his hands, trickle down to the grass. Grass. That’s new too. Inside, there was no grass. Nothing soft. Not even the stiff and scratchy bedding. The moonlight was always filtered through narrow windows, partially obscured by the buildings looming all around. And when it fell, it landed hard. On concrete and steel.
Here, the light sprawls out freely, uncontained. It bathes—yes, bathes—the park around him in silver. It nestles gently next to him on the grass. So what if the grass is sparse and patchy, littered with rubbish, cider bottles and cigarette butts? To him, it’s paradise. The garden of fucking Eden. His bed tonight is a bench and his luxury bedding cardboard and a sleeping bag he stole from a drunk. No honor among thieves or beggars. But to him it’s a four poster with silk sheets and duck-down pillows.
He is free. After fourteen years. And this time, he isn’t going back. He’s finally got himself clean, done their rehab program. Kicked the drugs, behaved like a good boy.
It’s not too late. That’s what the counselors told him. You can still build a life for yourself. You can put this behind you.
All lies, of course. You can never leave your past behind. Your past is a part of you. It trails at your heels like a faithful old dog, refusing to leave your side. And sometimes, it bites your arse.
He chuckles to himself. She would have liked that. She used to tell him he had a way with words. Maybe, but he also had a way with his fists and his boots. He couldn’t stop the anger. It clouded everything. Snatched away his words and replaced them with a thick blood-red haze that thrummed in his ears and filled his throat.
You have to control your anger, she told him. Or the bitch wins.
At night, in his cell, he would imagine her beside him, her hand stroking his hair, whispering, calming him. Helping him through the confinement and the withdrawal symptoms. He casts his eyes around in the darkness, searching for her. No. He is alone. But not for much longer.
He pulls the sleeping bag up to his chin, rests his head on the bench. It’s a mild night. He’s happy sleeping outside. He can stare at the moon and the stars and look forward to tomorrow.
What was that song, about tomorrow? Only a day away, or something.
They used to sing that sometimes.
I wish we were orphans, like Annie, she would say. Then we could get away from this place.
And she would snuggle up to him. All bony limbs and tangled hair that smelt like biscuits.
He smiles. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’m coming to find you.
Sunday-morning service is the headline performance of a vicar’s week. If you’re going to draw a crowd—and by a crowd, I mean double figures—then you’ll get them on a Sunday.
In my old church in Nottingham, which had a largely black congregation, Sundays meant full formalwear: hats, suits, little girls with tight curls and large bows. Like Ruby.
It made the day feel special. It made me feel special. Particularly as I knew, if you looked a little closer, those outfits were often a little threadbare or tight around the waist. My congregation came from the poorest areas in the city and yet they made the effort. It was a matter of pride to turn out properly dressed on a Sunday morning.
Even in some of my other churches, Sunday morning saw bums on pews, quite literally in some cases. Still, you take what you can get in this business.
Of course, it can be disheartening, but I always try to remind myself that if one person gets a little comfort from my words, that’s a win. The Church isn’t just for those who believe in God. It’s for those who don’t have anything to believe in. The lonely, lost and homeless. A place of refuge. That’s how I found it. When I had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn. Someone reached out to me. I never forgot that kindness. Now I try to pay it back.
I’m not sure what to expect from the congregation here. Small villages tend to be more traditional. The church plays a bigger role in the community. But the congregations also tend to be older. It’s funny how many people acquire faith with their first set of dentures.
Not that I’m actually taking the service today. I don’t officially start for another two weeks. This morning, the headliner is Reverend Rushton from Warblers Green. We’ve already exchanged a few emails. He seems kind, dedicated and overworked. Like most rural priests. He currently divides his time between three churches, so covering Chapel Croft is something of an ask, or as he put it:
“God may be omnipresent but I’ve yet to master being in four places at once.”
It explains some of the urgency of my appointment. But not all.
The strange parcel has left me feeling uneasy. I didn’t sleep last night. The silence kept jolting me awake. No comforting wail of distant sirens or drunks shouting outside the window. The events of the day kept resurfacing in my mind: Poppy, her face streaked with blood. The serrated knife. Ruby’s face. Merging into Poppy’s. Blood linking them all.
Why did I agree to come here? What do I hope to achieve?
I finally heave myself out of bed at just past seven. A cockerel is crowing noisily outside. Bloody marvelous. After making myself a coffee, I give in to temptation and dig out my rolling tin and tobacco from where I stuffed them, underneath a tea towel, in a kitchen drawer.
Flo keeps on at me to give up smoking. I keep on trying. But the flesh is weak. I roll the clandestine ciggie at the table, then chuck an old hoodie over my vest and joggers and smoke it outside the back door, trying to put my feelings of gloom to one side. It’s already warm, despite the cloudy skies. A fresh day. New challenges. One thing I always give thanks for. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Each day is a gift, so use it wisely.
Of course, like most vicars, I don’t always practice what I preach.
I finish my cigarette and head upstairs for a lukewarm bath. Then I dry my hair and try to make myself look presentable. My hair is still, mostly, dark. I don’t have too many wrinkles, but then, my face is cushioned from
carrying a few extra pounds. I look, I suppose, like any other harried mid-forties mum. Verdict—it will have to do.
I trudge back downstairs. Flo is up, surprisingly, curled on the sofa in the living room, with a cup of tea and a book. The latest Stephen King, from the looks of it.
“So, how do I look?”
She glances up. “Worn out.”
“Thanks. Aside from that?”
I’ve gone for jeans, black shirt and collar. Just to let people know who I am but also that I’m off duty.
“I’m not sure about the black.”
“I’m saving the neon and fishnets.”
“For when?”
“Christmas Eve?”
“Break them in gently.”
“That’s the plan.”
She smiles. “You look great, Mum.”
“Thanks.” I hesitate. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Could we not do this again, Mum? No, I don’t hate you. Yes, I’m pissed off about leaving Nottingham. But it’s only temporary, right? Like you say—it is what it is.”
“Sometimes, you’re too grown up for your own good.”
“One of us has to be.”
I want to go and wrap my arms around her and hug her tight. But she’s got her nose buried back in her book.
“Are you coming this morning?”
“Do I have to?”
“Up to you.”
“Actually, I thought I might go and have a look around the graveyard. Take some photos.”
“Okay. Have fun.”
I try to quell the small pang of disappointment. Of course she doesn’t want to come and listen to a dry, dusty service in a small, fusty chapel. She’s fifteen. And I don’t believe you should force your beliefs upon your children.
My mum tried. I remember being dragged along to services when I was small, fidgeting and itching in my best, often-washed dress. The pews were hard, the chapel cold and the priest in his black robes made me cry. Later, religion became one of Mum’s crutches, along with gin and the voices in her head. It had the opposite effect on me. I escaped as soon as I had the chance.
Belief should be a conscious choice, not something you’re brainwashed into when you’re too young to understand or question it. Faith isn’t something you pass down like an heirloom. It’s not tangible or absolute. Not even for a priest. It’s something you have to keep working at, like marriage or children.
You have wobbles. Naturally. Bad things happen. Things that make you question whether there is a God and, if there is, why he’s such a bastard. But the truth is, bad things do not happen because of God. He is not sitting in his heavenly control room, thinking of ways to “test” our faith, like some celestial Ed Harris in The Truman Show.
Bad things happen because life is a series of random, unpredictable events. We’ll make mistakes along the way. But God is forgiving. At least, I hope he is.
I grab my hoodie off the back of a kitchen chair and stick my head back into the living room. “Right. I’d better go.”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“What are you going to do about that case?”
I really don’t know. It’s shaken me more than I like to admit. Certainly, more than I can admit to Flo. Where has it come from? Who could have left it? And why?
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll have a word with Aaron about it.”
She pulls a face. “He gives me the creeps.”
I want to tell her not to be so harsh but, actually, he gives me the creeps too. I’m not quite sure why. You meet a fair few oddballs and loners in my line of work. But there’s something about Aaron. Something that invokes feelings I’d rather forget.
“Let’s talk about it later, okay?”
I shrug my arms into the hoodie.
“Okay—and Mum?”
“What?”
“You might want to wear a different hoodie. That one stinks of smoke.”
Aaron is standing at the back of the chapel talking to a plump, curly-haired vicar when I walk in. It’s half past nine and the first worshippers haven’t arrived yet.
For some reason, perhaps the way they both turn quickly, I immediately get the impression they are talking about me. Maybe paranoid. Maybe not. And why wouldn’t they be talking about me? I’m the newbie. But it makes me uncomfortable. I force a smile.
“Hello. Not interrupting, am I?”
The curly-haired vicar beams. “Reverend Brooks. I’m Reverend Rushton—Brian. We finally meet in person!”
He holds out a pudgy hand. He’s a short, stout man with mottled, corned-beef-colored skin that speaks of a fondness for the fun things in life. His eyes are bright and mobile, dancing with mischief. Were it not for the clerical collar, I’d have put him down as a pub landlord or perhaps Friar Tuck.
“We—and especially me—are so glad to have you here at last.”
I shake his hand. “Thanks.”
“So, how are you settling in? Or too soon to say?”
“Good, although it always takes a while to adjust. You know how it is.”
“Actually, no. I’ve been at Warblers Green since I was a curate. Almost thirty years now. Very lazy, I know. But I love this parish and, of course”—he leans in conspiratorially—“there’s a rather good pub next door.”
He chortles, his laugh low, dirty and contagious.
“Can’t fault you on that one.”
“It must be quite a change from Nottingham.”
“It’s certainly that.”
“Try and bear with us poor yokels. We’re not all bad once you get to know us. And we haven’t burned any newcomers in a wicker man recently. Well, not since Solstice.”
He chortles again, face turning even redder. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at his brow.
Aaron clears his throat. “The theme of today’s service is new friends and beginnings,” he says in a funereal drone that couldn’t sound less friendly. “Reverend Rushton thought it appropriate.”
“No pressure on you to do or say anything,” Rushton adds. “We’ll do all that officially later. But it’s good you’re here.” He winks. “News of your arrival has spread. Everyone is keen to see the new lady vicar.”
I tense. “Great.”
“Well, we’d better get ourselves ready then.” Rushton stuffs the handkerchief back in his pocket and claps his hands together. “Our audience will be arriving soon!”
Aaron moves toward the altar. I sit down on a pew near the front.
“Oh.” Rushton half turns in a way that’s a little too casual. “Aaron tells me that you met Simon Harper and his daughter yesterday.”
So that’s what they were talking about.
“Yes. It was quite an introduction.”
He pauses, choosing his next words carefully.
“The Harper family have lived in the area for generations. Their ancestry goes all the way back to the Sussex Martyrs…I don’t know whether you’ve heard of the martyrs?”
“The Protestants who were killed during the reign of Mary I.”
He beams. “Very good.”
“I looked it up online.”
“Ah, well, you’ll hear a lot about them in this area. Simon Harper’s ancestors were among the martyrs burned at the stake. There’s a monument to them in the graveyard.”
“We saw it. Someone had left Burning Girls all around it.”
His bushy eyebrows rise. “Burning Girls? You really have done your research. Some people find them a bit macabre, but we’re very proud of our burnt martyrs here in Sussex!” He chortles again. Then his face grows more serious. “Anyway, as I was saying, the Harpers are what you migh
t call ‘stalwarts of the community.’ Very well respected here. They’ve done a lot for the village and the church over the years.”
“In what way?”
“Donations, fundraising. Their business employs a lot of locals.”
Money, I think. What it always comes down to.
“I was thinking of calling around to see them,” I say. “Check Poppy is okay.”
“Well, it couldn’t hurt to acquaint yourself with the Harpers.” He eyes me shrewdly. “And anything else you want to ask me about, anything at all, I’d be happy to help.”
I think about the leather case sitting on the table in the kitchen. The strange card. Does Rushton know something? Perhaps. But I’m not sure now is the time to mention it.
“Thank you.” I smile. “If I think of anything, I’ll be sure to do that.”
* * *
—
The service passes quickly. The church is almost half full, which is probably just curiosity but still a sight I’m unused to. Even in my previous church, which was well attended by city standards, I was lucky to see a quarter of the pews filled. And not all of the congregation here are elderly. I spot a dark-haired man in his forties sitting alone at the end of a row and a few families, although not the Harpers, so obviously their support is limited to the financial kind.
Throughout the service I can feel eyes upon me. I tell myself it’s understandable. I’m new. I’m a woman. They’re seeing the dog collar, not me.
Rushton is a warm, ebullient speaker. Humorous in just the right places and not too heavy on biblical text. That may sound odd, but people don’t come to church to hear from the Bible. For a start, it was written thousands of years ago. It’s a little dry. The best vicars translate the Bible in a way that reflects the lives and concerns of their congregation. Rushton has it spot on. If I wasn’t so aware of being watched, I’d have taken notes.
Although I’ve been a practicing vicar for over fifteen years, I still feel like I’m learning. Perhaps, as a woman, I’m conscious of how much harder it is to be taken seriously. Or perhaps all adults feel like that at times. Like we’re just playing at being grown-up, but inside we’re still children, shuffling around in oversized clothes, wishing someone would tell us that monsters don’t exist.
