Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

She blinked back at me. Then stared across the rows of plain wooden benches to a small door set into the far wall. The one Saint Damon’s registered first-aider had taken Steven Kirk through. ‘I don’t understand...’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘Steven?’ A frown. ‘Months and months. He helps clean the church.’

Couldn’t help glancing around at that: the mildewed Bibles; the cobwebbed carvings; the paintings of religious icons thick with dust; the fourteen Stations of the Cross, so filthy you could barely make out the suffering in them. Oh yeah, Steven Kirk was doing a great job.

‘Was that before or after Andrew went missing?’

More blinking. Probably trying to process the implications of that.

‘ Steven? But... he’s... his mother’s dying.’

The angry voices echoed away into silence, then the noise of marching feet — getting louder. One set of clacking heels, one set of squeaky damp rubber soles.

Sounded like it was time for my shouting at.

Across the apse, that small door opened and out came the large woman in a pastel-purple cardigan who’d taken Kirk away to fix him up. Her flushed-pink scalp clearly visible through the thinning, lank, grey hair. Kirk scuffed along beside her, holding a wodge of blue paper towels over his nose and mouth. Looking everywhere but at me.

The marching came to a halt and when I turned, there they were: Alice — who also wasn’t looking at me — and an old bloke dressed all in black, except for the flash of white at his throat. Jowls hanging over the lip of his dog collar. A fringe of grey stubble above his pendulous ears. Wire-framed glasses and narrowed baggy eyes. ‘What on God’s earth were you thinking?’ Not a local lad. That flat, back-of-the-throat accent definitely marked him out as Dundonian, no matter how hard he was trying to sound posh. ‘How dare you come into the house of the Lord and assault one of my parishioners!’

Never punched a priest before, but there was a first time for everything.

When I got to my feet, I had nearly a foot on him. Looking down on that grey-fringed bald pate. ‘One: it didn’t happen in the church. And two: I’m not the one putting the people coming to this church at risk.’ I poked a finger into his chest. ‘That’s you.’

Spluttering. Jowls wobbling. ‘I’m calling the police.’

I grabbed a handful of his cassock and spun him around till he was facing Steven Kirk.

‘Unhand me!’

Alice glowered at me. ‘Ash!’

Tough.

‘What’s the matter, didn’t you run a background check on the man you’ve got cleaning this tip?’

It was Kirk’s turn to glower — over the top of his blue paper towels as they slowly turned a dark shade of purple. Voice all muffled and squishy. ‘Yooo brurk mai teefff!’

The priest wriggled free. ‘How dare you behave this way in a—’

‘But then your team has a habit of covering up for paedophiles, doesn’t it? Move them on to a different parish, quash the rumours, silence the victims.’

Those baggy eyes widened as he stared at me, then turned to Kirk. ‘He’s... What’s he talking about, Steven?’

‘It’dss nuuunt mai fowwwt!’

‘Steven Kirk, former physical therapist, convicted in 1998 of making and distributing indecent images of children, abusing eleven minors at Blackwall Hospital, and the abduction and rape of a seven-year-old boy. On the Sex Offenders’ Register for life, aren’t you, Steven?’

And now, everyone was staring at him and his wodge of bloody tissues. Not looking quite so sympathetic any more.

The first-aider stepped away from Kirk, wiping her fingers down the front of her cardigan, as if trying to remove the taint of actually touching him.

‘Hhh azzolded mei! Thigggh isssnuunt mai fowwwt!’

‘I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND!’ Mary Brennan snatched up one of those manky Bibles and hurled it at him. Face contorted and flushed, spittle flying from her curled lips. ‘YOU DIRTY BASTARD!’

He turned and the book bounced off his shoulder, leaves flapping as it fell, like a dying bird.

‘I’M GLAD HE BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!’ She sent another one winging Kirk’s way — it battered off the top of his bowed head — then another. ‘I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!’

He’d have a lot of company.

‘Well, that was... unedifying.’ Huntly settled himself down on the bench next to me. Dipped into his inside pocket and came out with a silver hip flask. Unscrewed the top and took a swig. Wiped the neck and proffered it to me. ‘You really are somewhat... volatile today, aren’t you? I mean, even more so than usual.’

High up above, the thick lid of grey had lifted, revealing a cold blue sky with wisps of white, travelling fast. No more rain. The sun was even shining, though none of it made its way down here. A graveyard permanently shrouded in gloom.

Knew how it felt...

Huntly waggled the hip flask.

‘Can’t.’ I pushed it away. ‘Pills.’

‘Ah yes, the dreaded medication.’ He knocked back another swig, then put the flask away again. ‘Alice is talking to your friend, Mr Kirk, but it seems he’s determined to press charges.’

Course he was.

‘Apparently you’ve knocked out three of his teeth, broken his nose, and cost him his volunteer position at the church.’ A frown. ‘Difficult to tell which one hurt him the most, to be honest. Seems Father Lucas isn’t so keen on a convicted sex offender hanging around with the choirboys and youth groups.’

At least that was something.

‘Will you permit me to proffer a tiny morsel of advice, Ash?’ Huntly’s hand settled onto my shoulder. ‘Make yourself scarce. Soon as Bear finds out you’ve battered the living bejesus out of a suspect — no matter how well deserved that battering was — he’s going to be less than amused.’

I leaned forward, put my arms on my knees and groaned. ‘He was here, Bernard. He knew Andrew’s mother.’

‘And now we can’t drag him in and grill him about it, without his lawyer bringing up the aforementioned battering. Which rather undermines our ability to prove he did anything.’

‘Yeah.’ Head down, hands covering my face. Squeezing.

Stupid Ash Henderson.

‘And, as if by magic, here comes a chopper to chop off your head...’ The bench shifted as he got to his feet. ‘Dr McDonald, don’t be too hard on Mr Henderson, he’s—’

‘A BLOODY IDIOT!’

I stayed where I was, face still covered. ‘He was about to punch you in the mouth. Remember that?’

‘YOU COULD’VE KILLED HIM!’ Gravel crunched as she marched away, then back again. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Why does everything have to be—’

‘No!’ I dropped my hands. Stood. ‘You always do this. Every time there’s some poor bastard whose child’s been killed, you point at me.’ Jabbing a thumb at my own chest. ‘Enough!’

Alice set her jaw. ‘You can’t attack every—’

‘Rebecca’s death isn’t some lever you can pull, like it’s a bloody one-armed bandit, to make victims pay out in fucking sympathy tokens! HER DEATH MATTERS!’ Deep breath. I uncurled my fists. The ground beneath my feet a trembling sea of filthy gravel. ‘It matters to me .’

‘Wow...’ Huntly backed off, both hands up. ‘Maybe I should give you two a moment.’

Alice closed her mouth. Bit her bottom lip. Looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

Yeah, well, sometimes ‘sorry’ didn’t cut it.

‘Come on, Ash, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m really, really sorry...’ Shuffling along beside me as I limped down Denholm Road. ‘Ash, please talk to me.’

No.