Stephen Irwin - The Darkening

Jesus , thought Nicholas. That must be Mrs Boye.

From where he sat, he could just see the corner of her face. Her eyes were fixed on the figure of Christ crucified. Nicholas followed her gaze. The image was carved wood, a century or more old. The raw chisel marks made his limbs seem more wounded, his suffering more pronounced. Something beyond the raw agony of the figure disturbed Nicholas. The setting carved behind him was not Golgotha, but an incongruous forest of Arcadian trees and lush vines. Old Mrs Boye’s expression vacillated between a frown of confusion and a bluff of undisguised boredom; her head bobbed to its own unheard tune, and from time to time she’d look to her daughter-in-law to ask a question that Nicholas could guess: Where are we? Senile dementia. Her mildly confused eyes kept returning to the dying son of God.

Reverend Hird limped to the pulpit. He may have looked frail, but his voice was as strong as a Welsh tenor’s. ‘Please rise for hymn seventy-nine: “Saviour Again to Thy Dear Name We Raise”.’

The congregation rumbled as it stood. And so the funeral commenced.

Speakers rose, praised Gavin, lamented the loss to his wife and his mother, opened spectacles, read poems, folded papers, dabbed tears, returned to their seats. The air was warm and still, the voices monotonous. Nicholas fought to stay awake. He did calf raises. Cleaned his nails. Took deep breaths. His eyelids sank, heavy as stones. He sat back in the hard pew and let his gaze trace up the stained-glass windows, across the curved timbers, to linger on the carved timber ceiling boss some ten metres overhead.

Suddenly, his weariness vanished like gunpowder in a flash pan. His heartbeat broke into a brisk trot and the hairs on his arms and neck rose into goose bumps.

The ceiling boss was carved as a face. A face with oak leaves sprouting from its sides and mouth. A face that was chillingly familiar. Nicholas dragged his eyes away, but they kept returning to the inhuman visage: a mouth drawn wide and thick, with vital leaves springing from its corners like fleshy tusks. It was a face he’d seen before, though he couldn’t place where. It scared him.

‘And now,’ Reverend Hird rumbled, ‘I’d like to call on Gavin’s wife, Mrs Laine Boye.’

Nicholas dragged his startled eyes down from the ceiling.

Laine Boye held herself straight and took neat steps. Her black suit and skirt were well-fitted and expensive. She reached the pulpit, glanced at the casket, and then looked over the small congregation.

‘Thank you for coming today.’ Her voice was high-pitched but clear, a neutral accent that spoke of private schooling and careful grooming. ‘Gavin left no children,’ she continued. ‘And he left too soon.’

Her gaze sought and found Nicholas, and rested on him. There was no puzzlement there any more; she’d figured out who he was. He was close enough to see that her eyes, like the dark day outside, were grey and unyielding as stone.

Laine Boye was on her way back to her seat when a scream broke the silence.

Mrs Boye was on her feet; she ripped off her hat and hurled it at the carving of Christ. Her white hair flung out like lightning. She screamed again, a furious shriek, and the congregation was jolted into whispering motion.

‘Blood is the only sacrifice that pleases the Lord!’ she cried. Her voice echoed loudly in the transepts and hung unpleasantly on the air.

Laine hurried to Mrs Boye’s side. The man beside the struggling old woman took firm hold of her arm. Hushed-voiced, they tried to comfort her, Laine’s fluttering hands grabbing for hers. But Mrs Boye shook them off, her hair wild. ‘Blood alone pleases the Lord !’ She spat the last word like a curse.

Reverend Hird shot a nod to his young understudy, who hurried down to Mrs Boye. Fast as a snake, the old woman slapped the young reverend hard on the face.

‘Fisher of men!’ she cried. ‘What do fishermen do with fish? Haul them from their water, drown them in air, and then gut them! Eat them! Or toss them back dead and empty! Fisher of men!’ This time she did spit, a huge mouthful of foamy saliva that arced through the air to land on Christ’s shin.

Nicholas stared, stunned. The old woman had said and done just what he’d wanted to at Cate’s funeral.

Firm hands took hold of Mrs Boye. She fought for a while, then settled in a grump. Hird nodded to the organist, who started a lively rendition of ‘To Jesus’ Heart All Burning’.

And so the funeral finished early.

Nicholas huddled under his umbrella as the pallbearers loaded the casket into the hearse. Suzette and Katharine came to stand beside him. The rain fell steadily and cold.

‘Nice service, I thought,’ said Nicholas. ‘Colourful.’ His head throbbed. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate.

‘You might have called,’ said Katharine. ‘Your sister and I were worried sick.’

Suzette simply punched him hard on the arm. ‘Fuckwit.’ She leaned close and whispered harshly, ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Okay. What, now?’

Suzette smiled primly. ‘No.’ Of course not; not with their mother right there.

‘Later, then?’ Nicholas suggested helpfully.

The church sat on a corner block, and graceful movement there caught his eye. Laine and the man that Nicholas now guessed was Gavin’s cousin were shepherding Mrs Boye into a dark sedan. The old woman was hunched and docile, as if the outburst in the church had never happened. Before following her mother-in-law into the car, Laine hesitated, straightened and looked around. Her eyes lit on Nicholas. She said something to the driver, then strode over to stand squarely in front of Nicholas. They watched each other a moment. Then, deliberate as a chess tutor, she turned to Katharine and extended her gloved hand.

‘Laine Boye, thank you for coming.’

Katharine took it. ‘Katharine Close. I’m so sorry for your loss. This is my daughter, Suzette, and my son, Nicholas.’

Laine returned her steady, grey gaze to Nicholas. ‘Would you be so kind as to excuse us, please, Mrs Close? Suzette?’

Nicholas smiled pleasantly at Suzette. ‘Chat soon?’

‘We’ll see you at home this afternoon .’ Suzette took Katharine by the arm and they walked away.

With them gone, the air between Nicholas and Laine seemed to chill. Nicholas found himself looking again into her cool grey eyes. Dark shadows at their corners betrayed the stress she’d been suffering since Gavin’s death. But her face was without expression as she stared hard at Nicholas. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

‘What happened?’

Something lurked beneath her fine features. Not fury. Not disgust. What? Nicholas watched her.

This is why you came , he told himself . To find out what happened.

‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ he said.

Laine’s face was inscrutable, her features motionless as a portrait’s, something from another time.

‘What did you do to him?’ she asked. This time, there was accusation in her tone, and Nicholas felt a burr of anger.

‘I know the modern woman lives a full and vigorous life, but did you pick up any little hints that Gavin wasn’t perfectly happy? The crazy stare? Lack of sleep? Love of firearms?’

She watched him, testing his eyes. After a long moment, she nodded curtly and turned away.

‘I thought he was going to kill me!’ said Nicholas, loudly. She kept walking. ‘Mrs Boye!’

She stopped. Droplets of rain collected like glass beads on her shoulders. She turned. Her mouth was held tight. She lifted her chin and met Nicholas’s gaze.

‘How did he know I was back?’ he asked.

He could see now what the emotion was, brewing behind her eyes. The knowledge surprised him. She was embarrassed.