Phil Rickman - The Cure of Souls

‘Do you know the headmaster?’

‘Bernie, Jane goes there.’

He coughed. ‘Yes. What’s his name?’

‘Robert Morrell.’

‘I don’t think I’ve met him yet.’

‘You probably won’t.’ Merrily lit a cigarette. ‘He’s an atheist.’

‘Aren’t they all? But, sure, go and see him, by all means. Go and see him in your capacity as a concerned parent – if he isn’t already in the Algarve or somewhere.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll call him for you,’ Sophie said.

‘In a moment, Sophie. Merrily, there’s something else we need to look at, on the other side of the county, as it happens. Sophie, could you get that e-mail? You’ll be glad to know, Merrily, that you’re not the only minister in this diocese facing, ah, flak.’

‘I know.’ Merrily took one more puff on the cigarette and then stubbed it out in the empty powder compact she used as a portable ashtray. ‘That was all I needed, thanks. This would be the vicar of Knight’s Frome?’

‘You’ve read the Sunday paper, then.’

‘I was quoted in it, Bernie.’

‘Yes. Of course you were.’ He wiped a hand across his forehead. ‘I think I need a holiday.’

‘And Sunday wouldn’t be Sunday, at Ledwardine Vicarage, without the People and the News of the World . Anyway, I thought I ought to ring him. He certainly didn’t seem over-worried, and he didn’t ask for any help. I’ve also spoken to the guy who – well, let’s just say a journalist. The inference is that the story was engineered by Mr Stock, for reasons of his own. So my feeling is that Simon St John probably knew exactly what he was doing when he said no.’

Bernie Dunmore’s dog collar disappeared under his chins. ‘Just as you did when you said no to Mrs Shelbone on that first occasion?’

Merrily was silent.

When the Bishop had gone, she stood up to let Sophie repossess her desk.

‘He obviously just wants to keep me well away from Dilwyn.’

‘Oh, more than that, I think.’ Sophie scoured her blotter for traces of ash. ‘If it was anyone other than the Reverend St John, he might have let it go. But I don’t think any of us are entirely sure about Mr St John.’

‘Tell me.’ Merrily sat in the chair vacated by the Bishop.

‘And it’s not simply that he used to be in some sort of rock-and-roll group in the eighties, if that’s what you were thinking.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that. Would it be a band I’ve heard of?’

‘You probably would, but I don’t even recall the name. Nor is it the fact that St John isn’t known for his diplomacy… or the delicacy of his language.’ Sophie’s eyes narrowed under her compact coiffure. ‘Even more profane than you, Merrily, by all accounts.’

‘A Quentin Tarantino priest?’

‘Certainly a troubled priest. Or was. I believe he’s come very close to leaving the Church more than once. He seems to have what you might call an attitude problem. Came to us from Gwent, newly married. His wife’s quite seriously disabled. The vicarage at Knight’s Frome had to be considerably modified before they could move in.’

‘How does that affect his ministry?’

‘Not at all – except by eliciting sympathy from the parishioners. Not that Mrs St John appears to welcome sympathy. I think, in the end, it probably does mainly come back to that question of diplomacy. He tends to be volatile and arbitrary. For instance – and this is the instance the Bishop’s no doubt recalling – he once refused to marry a member of a very well-established local farming family, someone with family graves in the churchyard going back at least two centuries, because he said it was a marriage of convenience and the couple clearly didn’t love one another. He told them to… “Eff off to a registry office”.’

Merrily rolled her eyes. ‘The times I’ve wanted to say that .’

‘But you didn’t, did you?’

‘Only because a , I didn’t have the bottle and b , Uncle Ted the churchwarden would’ve had me on toast. Come to think of it, that comes down to bottle, too, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s simply a matter of tempering one’s responses,’ Sophie said. ‘The Reverend St John tends to form personal opinions about people and act on them. Which is why the Bishop feels it might be advisable in this instance to have a second opinion. There’s also this message – probably the first serious response to your Deliverance website.’

Sophie laid in front of her an e-mail printout.

Rev. Watkins ,

I am grateful that you were less quick to dismiss my appeal for spiritual assistance than was my local minister. I am assuming you were not misquoted in saying that if you were aware of someone in genuine need of spiritual support, you would wish to see they received whatever help you were able to give them. May I therefore appeal to you as a Christian to at least investigate the situation here before my wife and I are driven to the edge of sanity. May I stress that this is not a ‘wind-up ’.

Yours very sincerely ,

Gerard Stock .

‘Note where it indicates copies,’ Sophie said.

Merrily read:

Copies: Bishop of Hereford, C of E Press Office, The People, BBC Midlands Today, BBC Radio Hereford and Worcester .

‘That explains everything. So, it’s on TV tonight, is it?’

‘They haven’t approached us yet, but I suppose they will. What do you want me to say?’

‘Better say we’ll be talking to Mr Stock. What choice have we got?’

‘You want me to reply to him, too?’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘I don’t envy you any of this.’ Sophie began to put the cups and saucers back on a tray. ‘Your biggest problem’s always going to be sorting out what’s genuine from what’s—’

‘Complete bollocks,’ Merrily said, unsmiling.

‘One can only hope you don’t get on too well with the Reverend St John.’ Sophie started to carry the tray to the sink in the corner opposite the door and then she put the tray down again. ‘If you don’t mind me saying… you seem different.’

‘I do?’

‘This is none of my business, but has something happened in your personal life?’

‘I don’t have much of a personal life, Sophie.’ Merrily looked out of the window, over Broad Street. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still mainly overcast, layer upon layer of cloud, fading to amber rather than blue. ‘Actually, something odd did happen, but you wouldn’t thank me for pouring it out right now.’

Sophie nodded and picked up the tray. ‘Whenever you want to talk, I’m here.’

‘Thanks. Really.’

She picked up the e-mail, went into the Deliverance office and switched on the computer to reply to Mr Stock, whose copies list alone revealed his media know-how. Was it still conceivable this man could have a genuine psychic problem?

She wondered if Simon St John had tossed a coin.

THE HEADMASTER SAID it had to be considered heartening to hear of any fourteen-year-old girl who was communicating at all with a parent. Even if the parent was dead.

‘Well, there we are.’ Merrily smiled warmly. ‘Everyone was saying what a complete unbeliever and a rationalist you were. But I had faith – I just knew you’d take it seriously.’

The staffroom had been updated to resemble a kind of scaled-down airport lounge with fitted recliner seats around the walls. There were two computers, a TV set and a video – maybe the teachers played stress-management tapes in their lunch hour. Robert Morrell looked health-club fit in his polo shirt and sweatpants. He’d reacted to hair loss by shaving what was left to within a millimetre of his skull.