‘Vampires, I can deal with. One thing I do have is crosses.’
‘And a mysterious box.’
The box. I’d been so furious at Durkin for not telling me about the circumstances of Reverend Fletcher’s death that I’d almost forgotten what kicked it all off in the first place. I look around.
‘I’m not sure where I left it.’
‘In the kitchen.’
Flo hops up and returns with the box, which she plonks down next to me. I eye it dubiously.
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.
FIVE
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 honour amongst 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 programme. Kicked the drugs, behaved like a good boy.
It’s not too late. That’s what the counsellors 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.
SIX
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.