Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘That seems to be the way it goes,’ Merrily said. ‘Except on Ladies’ Evenings, of course.’

‘Never been to one. I’m going to sit there with a bunch of old biddies dripping jewellery, smiling fondly at my husband and listening to endless self-congratulatory speeches? All rise for the provincial grand almighty … whatever.’

‘Yes, that could be very trying.’

‘My first husband played golf. A golf bore. Golf Club social events. Merrily, is it something about me? Safe, practical, reliable … and, above all, blatantly incurious.’

Merrily said nothing. Beverley poured more wine. Merrily left hers alone, wondering how best to play this, remembering something.

‘These guests – the ones coming tomorrow.’

‘Germans. Have you ever met German Masons? Last year it was Americans. Sold to me as a hiking group, but they never seem to hike further than the church, with their video cameras and their calculators and their … set squares.’

‘Why was it changed from Saturday?’

‘I think they were afraid that, on the actual day, it might be too crowded with, you know, normal visitors. That ordinary people might actually want to go to the service. Whereas Friday, as a working day, they’ll be left to get on with it … especially at the time it’s being held.’

‘When?’

‘Straddling midnight. So that, come the dawn on Saturday …’

‘The time of the original raids in France in 1307.’

‘The church draped with Templar banners. They’re all rolled up in the tower. It’s going to be the highlight of his … his life, probably.’

‘Sad?’

‘No, it’s not sad. Quite frightening, actually. Do you want to sit down?’

‘Where is Teddy now?’

‘Hereford. Little Boys’ Club. Won’t be back much this side of midnight. Don’t you like this stuff? Shall I open a bottle of red or something?’

‘I’d rather you made it coffee,’ Merrily said.

Lol had never used this phone before, and the first time the call came in, he accidentally killed it. He was fiddling around for some way of recovering it, when the church-bell noise it made started up again.

‘Merrily?’

‘She’s not around at the moment,’ Lol said. ‘Can I take a—?’

‘Lol Robinson?’

Lol froze. For a second he thought it was Hayter’s man again.

‘Frannie Bliss, Laurence. Where is she?’

‘Talking to somebody. Not far away. There a problem?’

‘Yeh, there is. I expected to have heard from her by now. When last we spoke, she seemed … I don’t like it when she’s quiet.’

‘I’ll get her to call you.’

‘Why’s she quiet, Laurence?’

‘Maybe she likes to think things out.’ Lol looked down from the parking area across to the darkening hills of east Wales. No lights anywhere. ‘I thought it was a wrap from your point of view. All sorted.’

‘Somebody saying it isn’t?’

‘You know I don’t mix in those circles, Francis.’

‘Well it isn’t. You tell Merrily it isn’t. Tell her … You’re norra blabber, are you, Laurence?’

‘No.’

‘And still a vested interest in keeping her intact.’

‘More vested all the time,’ Lol said.

‘We’ve had PM results on Barlow and Fuchsia. I’m not going into details, but the extent of Barlow’s injuries, the level of force, the level of trauma, that doesn’t look like a woman. Not often a woman’s method, either.’

‘What … blunt instrument?’

‘A bluntie, you see, generally speaking, they don’t. Requires a level of controlled rage. And sustained rage. And where’s the motive here? Where, at the end of the day, is the damn motive?’

‘So why did she kill herself?’ Lol said.

‘Yeh, well, did she? See, another thing, the effects of a railway engine running over a head are highly effective at concealing whether there might have been an earlier injury rendering the victim incapable enough, or dead enough, to be taken there and laid on the line.’

‘Carried there?’

‘Already dead, most likely. There’s a lorra shite talked about the accuracy of time-of-death assessment, largely as a result of TV pathologists who say, “Oh, the victim passed away between ten fifteen and ten forty-five.” In real life, they can just about tell you what day it was.’

‘You’re saying there could still be somebody out there …?’

‘I’m planting the thought. You can add it to the list of reasons why she needs to call me. On the mobile, naturally.’

Lol sat there, looking out over unlit Wales, wondering how many other crucial calls Merrily might have missed.

‘When we first came here, I thought we might walk the hills together. Walk to the pub, gentle strolls home by moonlight. Maybe get a dog. He didn’t want a dog. He didn’t do that kind of walking. His kind of walking, you’re out at dawn, proper hiking boots, and you aren’t back till dark and the worse the weather is the better. Him and the landscape. Walking his way into it. Throwing himself into it. As if he didn’t have much time to learn all there was to learn.’

‘God’s own weekend retreat,’ Merrily said.

They were sitting at the window table in the former dairy. Beverley tossed back her head.

‘The vacant vicar. The silly vicar. More tea, vicar? He plays that role so well. God’s own weekend bloody retreat .’

‘Balm for the soul.’

‘All the clichés.’ Beverley breathed out slowly. ‘Jesus, Merrily, I haven’t really talked to anybody like this in years. It’s like a big stone being rolled off your chest. Does it bother you that I don’t believe in God?’

‘Evangelism’s never been my thing. People come to it in their own way. Or not.’

On impulse, Merrily had left off the dog collar this morning. Pectoral cross over a black sweater. Some people were put off. This one, definitely.

You often heard clergy wives talking like this, their scepticism deepened by living day-to-day with a so-called Man of God, all his doubts, all his weaknesses and failings.

‘Teddy know you don’t believe in God?’

‘We’ve never talked about it. He doesn’t care one way or the other. I was a good source of money when he needed some. Big house to sell. Silly me. When I think back, I thought I was playing him , like a fish on a hook.’ Beverley drank some coffee. ‘ He was playing me . I didn’t see it. He can be so charming. And needy, in this selfless, stoical, noble way. I bet you saw through it right away. I bet you’ve been mauled by the best.’

‘No,’ Merrily said. ‘Actually … no.’

‘He didn’t make a move on you?’

Merrily looked into Mrs Murray’s flushed face. Maybe this was paranoia, after all.

‘Silly of me. Of course, he wouldn’t with you. He wants you out of here, done and dusted, quick as possible. When you left the other morning, he laughed. Women in deliverance, he said, that was never going to work.’

‘He said that?’

‘I watch, you know. I’ve been watching for some time. Thinking why are we here on this bleak bloody hillside? Why do we stay here? We have no real friends, no roots. At least, I don’t.’

‘ He has?’

‘He’s found something. It’s like he owns the place, now. Comes in from his walk, it’s like he’s had sex. Actually …’ Short, bleak laugh ‘… I’m sure he has, sometimes.’

‘Beverley …?’

‘Sometimes we get lone women staying here. Of a certain age – divorced, bereaved – here to come to terms with something. And he’ll take them out for a walk. Talk to them in his vicarly fashion. Balm for the soul. They’ll go out for walks together. Balm for the soul, balm for the body. He ministers to them.’