Phil Rickman - The Cure of Souls

‘That’s more or less what Layla said.’

‘Except we’re not talking about Betty Shine here, we’re talking about a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, and a fairly archaic example of the species at that – impressionable, naive—’

‘Will she be charged with murder?’

‘I don’t see how they can avoid it.’

She was momentarily haunted again by thoughts she’d kept pushing away, about the similarities between this killing and Stock’s murder of his wife. In fact, when you examined them individually, the similarities were not so great, since the Romany element was peripheral to the Shelbone issue. To an outsider, the strongest link between the two cases would be herself: Deliverance – failed.

‘It’s tragic,’ Eirion said. ‘When you think about it, it’s tragic for everyone. Layla Riddock – she was about the same age as me, and she was…’ There were tears in his eyes. ‘She was obviously incredibly intelligent. And there she was, one minute coolly analysing the situation, the next coughing up all that blood, and then in the ambulance… What a terrible waste , Mrs Watkins. I’ve heard people say that so many times, but when you actually—’

‘Eirion,’ Merrily said, ‘you really are a nice guy. You risk alienating your family to pursue Jane’s whim, you—’

‘No, I’m not.’ He stared at her, blinking in agony. ‘I slept with your daughter!’

His features slumped into comical dejection, like a boxer puppy’s.

‘I see,’ Merrily said softly.

‘Last night – well, evening. It was the first time. It was why we were so late getting to the Shelbones. We fell asleep. You see, that’s another thing – retribution. If we hadn’t… been to bed, we’d have got there earlier – and Layla might still be alive. It’s retribution.’

‘I really don’t think so.’ Suddenly she wanted to laugh. She’d often thought about what she’d say in this situation, and now she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Except… ‘Well… thanks for telling me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Eirion said.

‘Well, you know, it’s not—’

‘I do love Jane, you see.’

‘Yeah. That’s, er, that’s the impression I already had.’

‘I mean, it wasn’t… casual sex. I’m a not a very casual sort of bloke.’

‘No?’

‘In fact this was the… you know, the first time.’

‘You said.’

‘No, I mean for me. For me, too.’

‘I see. Does Jane know that?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s probably not the impression I’ve given her, no.’

‘I won’t tell her, then.’

‘That’s very good of you.’

‘But just… just take good care of her. You know what I’m saying?’

‘I think so.’

‘I was only about three years older than you when I was pregnant, so I’ve tended not to come on heavy with Jane, so as to avoid any mention of pots, kettles and the colour black.’

He smiled tentatively. On the shelf beside the Aga, Merrily’s mobile began to bleep.

‘Excuse me a sec.’

Sophie sounded as if she had a cold.

This was the Sophie who never seemed to get colds, not even in winter.

‘I’m afraid the Bishop’s back,’ she said.

‘Good.’ Merrily lied, carrying the mobile to the window.

‘A short time ago, we took a call from the Church of England Press Office, which has learned of inquiries from West Mercia Police – and also, I understand, from the Crown Prosecution Service – about the Church’s guidelines on exorcism. Do you know anything about this, Merrily?’

‘Not a thing.’ Merrily stood looking out over the vicarage garden. This was only their second summer here; it seemed like half a lifetime.

‘The Press Office also understands there may be a statement from West Mercia very soon, expressing dismay at the way the Church of England reacted to the Stock case. The upshot is likely to be a call for the Church to be held more directly answerable for the effects of what’s been described as “irresponsible ministry”.’

‘But doesn’t this pre-empt the result of the inquest? Isn’t it usually the coroner who makes comments like that?’

‘I think it’s more of a reaction from the police to an impending onslaught by the media. It could be weeks or months before the inquest’s over. Anyway, the Diocese needs to prepare a counter statement, so an emergency meeting’s been called at the Bishop’s Palace for this morning. The Bishop needs to hear your explanations, in considerable detail, to decide if any of it’s—’

‘Rational enough to repeat. Hang on, you just said the Crown Prosecution Service. But Stock’s dead, so there’s no prosecution, only the inquest. Why should the CPS—? Oh.’

‘Quite,’ Sophie said.

‘Oh my God.’ Merrily went cold.

‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anyone’s contemplating prosecuting either the Church or… or…’

‘Or me.’

‘I’m very sorry to have to drop this on you, Merrily.’

‘Hardly your fault.’ How could it have come to this?

‘The meeting’s at eleven a.m.,’ Sophie said, ‘on the dot. If I were you, I’d—’

‘Sophie, perhaps… you could make my apologies.’

Pause. She counted six, seven, eight, nine little green cider apples on the lawn.

Sophie said, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I’ve got another appointment, that’s all.’

‘Merrily, let’s be perfectly clear about this: you do realize what your non-appearance would be taken to imply, don’t you?’

‘Things have happened. Don’t suppose the news has reached the Cathedral close yet.’

‘News?’

‘Allan Henry’s stepdaughter, Layla – you remember Layla? Black kimono, champagne glass? Layla was stabbed to death early this morning by Amy Shelbone. Who also injured Eirion.’

‘What?’ Sophie’s voice was faint and fractured, like the crinkling of tissue paper.

‘That’s actually not the reason I won’t be able to make it to the meeting,’ Merrily said. ‘But I thought you should know.’

Lol picked up his keys, locked the stables and drove the Astra up the lane. Despite the window being wound all the way down, the day was already too hot for him. Already, he felt oppressed.

On his way through Knight’s Frome, he spotted Simon St John standing on the humpback bridge. Simon started flagging him down.

‘I’m sorry, Lol.’ He was wearing a black shirt and a dog collar and very old jeans. He was sweating, and his hair looked like the leaves of a long-abandoned house plant. ‘Whatever I said to you the other night, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Whatever it was, it was probably offensive and I’m sorry.’ Simon squinted, the sun directly in his eyes, but he made no effort to avoid it. ‘Have you spoken to Mrs Watkins today?’

‘Not since first light.’

‘Lol, I need her.’

Lol stared at him, said nothing.

‘I’m in a lot of trouble.’ Simon’s eyes were glassy with sunlight and anxiety. ‘I phoned her and asked her to come over, but I’m not sure she’s going to.’

‘Tell me,’ Lol said. He didn’t have that much time but if this involved Merrily he wanted to know about it.

‘It’s a priest thing.’ Simon started to laugh. ‘Oh, fucking hell…’

‘Why do you swear so much, Simon?’

‘Denial. I’m a sick, polluted priest in denial. Pity me, Lol, we’re not exactly twin souls, you and I, but I guess we’ve been to some of the same places. In my case complicated from time to time, as you may have heard, by a certain sexual ambivalence – but, then, in the seventies and eighties an entirely heterosexual rock musician was considered a serious pervert.’

‘That’s not the pollution, though, is it?’ Lol said from his vantage point on the hill of no sleep. What was the point of all this confessional stuff? It was as though Simon was desperate to convey sincerity, openness.