Alex Gray - The Riverman

It was a relief to close his eyes when the service began. Others around him stood to sing a hymn that was unfamiliar to him but Malcolm sat on, feigning prayer. Then the reverberations from the organ faded into trembling ripples and he heard feet shuffle beside him.

‘Let us pray,’ the man at the front began, his voice echoing around the walls of the huge church. For a moment Malcolm opened his eyes to glance at the minister. His eyebrows rose a little as he took in the plain grey suit and dark tie. Not a minister, then? Or did they simply not bother wearing their robes for a mid-week service? Malcolm didn’t know. He’d never been a Sunday school kid and hadn’t bothered with any kind of organized religion. Keeping the image of the man’s silver hair bowed in prayer, Malcolm closed his own eyes again and listened to the words.

He joined in at last, mumbling the Lord’s Prayer under his breath, then sat back and listened as the man began his homily.

‘Today I am going to talk to you about love and judgement. God’s love and God’s judgement,’ the man said, firmly stressing the words. ‘What does John tell us in chapter three verses 17 to 21? “For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through Him.” And listen to what else he tells us: “He who believes in Him is not condemned; but he who does not believe already stands condemned. And this is the reason of this condemnation — the light came into the world and men loved the darkness rather than the light, for their deeds were evil.”’

Malcolm suppressed a whimper. It was only because he’d loved Lesley and the girls. That was all. Where was the sin in that? But a dark shadow was falling over his mind as the preacher continued.

‘We’ve all sinned in some way in our lives, but it will never be too late for repentance. Remember the thief on the cross beside Jesus? He left it almost too late, but the Saviour promised that he would be with him in paradise. So you see, friends, that God’s love is great enough for any sinner. And John goes on to make this clear. “Every one whose deeds are depraved hates the light, and does not come to the light, but his deeds stand convicted. But — ” and this is what I want you to take away from here today “- he who puts the truth into action comes to the light, that his deeds may be made plain for all to see, because they are done in God.”’

There was a pause. Malcolm stared at the silver head of the man, seeing its shape change into a shadow, a trick caused by the light suspended above. He could still see its image when he closed his eyes for the final prayer. He felt emptied, somehow, as if these words had cleaned away all his anguish. Had the repentant thief felt like this? He was under a death sentence too, after all. Malcolm clasped his hands together tightly as the prayer began.

‘Father, forgive us for all our sins. You know how often we let you down, both by the things we do and by the things we leave undone.’

Malcolm listened as the voice continued, a gentle yet commanding tone that was some sort of conduit to an unseen God. He was letting the listening congregation know what was right and what was wrong as well as speaking to the Almighty on their behalf. Was that what prayer was? Apologizing for things done and things left undone? Things left undone, things left undone … The words drummed into Malcolm’s brain as if a record was stuck and he couldn’t nudge it forwards. The words of the prayer continued but he couldn’t hear them. All he could hear was a booming in his ears — things undone — over and over again. It was true, he told himself. That’s what his sin was. He’d left things undone. He’d taken the coward’s way out, thinking that it wasn’t so bad. But it had made just as much difference in the end, hadn’t it?

Malcolm was only aware that the service had come to a close when the person to his left said ‘Excuse me,’ in a polite voice and he stumbled in his haste to leave the pew.

Once out in the street, the brightness of the sky tore at his eyeballs and he stood looking upwards at the white clouds and the rays of sun streaming behind them. Dashing the back of his hand against his eyes, he felt the wetness of tears. How long had he had been weeping? He looked up at the dazzling midday sky, totally unaware of the strange looks in his direction from passers-by. All he could feel was a sense of peace emanating from somewhere inside him and the knowledge that forgiveness was not too late. That, and the sudden joyous realization that there was a cessation of pain inside his poor body, gave Malcolm Adams hope and a sudden courage.

Now he knew exactly what he had to do.

The blue lights of the police car were flashing a warning to any vehicles that might come suddenly around the corner of the road. Two officers stood beside the battered white car, one looking along the road for signs of an ambulance. The guy was still alive, he’d felt the pulse beating strongly enough, but the injury to his head looked pretty nasty.

‘What d’you reckon? Will you tell the boss what really happened?’ the other officer stood up from where he had been crouching down at the open door of the damaged car.

‘Got to. Can’t see why not, anyway. Fellow tries to do a runner when we ask about his out-of-date tax disc. What were we suppose to do? Let him go?’ The older of the two men gave a shrug. ‘He’ll be okay. I’ve seen worse. Anyway, let’s have a dekko before anyone else turns up.’

The cop standing against the car’s rear door looked doubtful but did nothing to prevent his neighbour walking round to the passenger door. It gave a metallic screech as he wrenched it open. The entire side of the vehicle had crashed against the cliff wall before coming to rest in the middle of the road.

He stretched out his hand and opened the glove compartment. Maybe there’d be some documents to show just who the driver was. But when he pressed the button to let down the lid, he stepped back in amazement as the plastic bags tumbled onto the floor.

‘Here! No wonder he tried to scarper! See this lot?’

‘When are they coming in?’ Solly asked.

‘West was meant to be in at three o’clock so that gives us a bit of time. Adams and the woman were scheduled for after four but I had Barr down for one o’clock. Originally,’ Lorimer said with a bitter twist to his mouth.

‘Originally?’

‘He’s called off till later this evening. His London boss has arrived on the scene, apparently. No point in giving him more grief than he needs.’ Lorimer shrugged.

‘How did he sound?’

Lorimer paused. His conversation with the managing partner of Forbes Macgregor had been short. He had begun to insist on the three partners appearing at the pre-arranged times but Barr had been equally insistent. He had a quality of authority that Lorimer admired. They were both doing a job to the best of their ability; they both had staff to consider. In the end he had acquiesced to Barr’s request. He had enough on his plate as it was. He’d already resigned himself to being here for the rest of the day and well into the night. Maggie would understand.

‘I said,’ Solly repeated slowly, ‘how did Mr Barr sound when you spoke to him?’

Lorimer shrugged. ‘Okay. Not harassed or upset, if that’s what you mean. He was trying to organize things at his end. Sounded as if he runs a pretty tight ship, that man,’ Lorimer commented, looking at Solly. ‘Why d’you ask?’

Solly spread his hands and grinned disarmingly. ‘Just wondered. He didn’t strike me as the panicking type either.’

Lorimer was on the point of asking Solly more when the telephone rang.

The psychologist watched as the creases between Lorimer’s eyes grew deeper. Then the policeman’s face cleared and he slapped his open hand against the pile of papers on his desk.