Mike Shevdon - The Road to Bedlam

She heard the vegetable man loading the trays back into the van and talking to one of the cooks from the kitchen. Blackbird hunkered down in the seat. She didn't want to give herself away too early. She heard the back doors slam and goodbyes exchanged. The driver's door opened.

"'Ere! Who are you?"

"Hello," she said quietly.

"What'ya doing in there? Get out of it."

"I'm called Blackbird," she said, offering her hand. "And you are?"

He didn't take it. "Never mind that, Miss, you can't just climb in someone's van like that. Out ya get!"

Blackbird withdrew her hand and placed it back in her lap, looking forwards. "I need a lift," she said, "into the village."

"I'm not insured to carry passengers. What do you think I am, a taxi service?"

"I thought you might be kind enough to take me as far as the village. I can make my own way from there."

"I told you. No way."

She looked resolutely through the windscreen.

"Come on, out you get," he insisted.

"Are you going to manhandle a pregnant woman?"

"Manhandle you? I don't even know what the word means."

"I'm not moving."

"I told you, I'm not insured. It's against the rules, see?"

"I won't tell anyone."

"It's not down to me. If someone sees you in the van I could get in a lot of trouble."

"Not as much trouble as I'm in. I need your help. If I don't get out of here quickly I will be in great danger. My baby will be in danger." She rested her hand on the bump for emphasis.

"Are you mad?"

She turned her head and stared him down. "No, not mad. Scared. There are some people here who want to hurt me and my baby. If you won't take me I'm going to have to walk, maybe even try and run. Do you think running is going to be good for a pregnant woman? That's how scared I am."

He sighed and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. "Oh, Jesus."

She waited, staring through the windscreen, not meeting his gaze.

He sighed, heavily. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"It'll be our secret, I promise. If you take me as far as the village, I can hitch a ride to the motorway from there." She added a hesitant smile.

He climbed into the cab. "Put your seat belt on. You might have to fish around for it. I'll take you to the motorway junction. There'll be less people see us that way. I've got another delivery to make on the way. You all right with that?"

"Anywhere but here, as they say. What did you say your name was?"

"Tony. What's yours?"

"You can call me Blackbird. Everyone does."

The van started up in a grumble of diesel, then complained as the clutch wasn't depressed enough and the gears grated. Tony shook his head, but whether that was at the van or at Blackbird, she didn't know.

As they rumbled down the drive, Blackbird looked back at the house, wondering how long she had before they discovered she'd gone.

The echo of power still tingled in my hand as the vicar of St Andrew's opened the door into the church. With the narrow windows down each side it would have felt confining but for the huge leaded window catching the sea-light and fragmenting it into every corner. As I entered I felt as if I had walked in on something private but the church was empty.

"Catches you first time, doesn't it?"

"Hmm?"

"The window. Everyone stops there the first time they see it. The way it was meant to be seen, with the morning sun behind it. Local artist made it. Old one was dark-coloured glass – Victorian. Made the church feel like a mausoleum."

"You got rid of it?"

"Didn't need to. Germans did that for me, long before my time. Bomber got lost and thought we were Hull. The church was the only building in the town that got hit."

"Some might take that as a sign, no offence meant."

"None taken. I take it as a gift. No one was hurt and the bomb did no structural harm. There was temporary glass there for a long time. Then a sponsor approached me and asked if we would like a new window. Not often that churches are offered donations these days. Even so, we were sceptical. The sponsors own the big glass building opposite, a temple to Mammon."

"The call centre?"

"That's one of the things they do there. I was worried they would want their logo in the glass, or at least a plaque to commemorate the sponsorship. They were happy simply to donate. It was quite refreshing. They gave us a free hand with respect to the style, though of course they wanted to see the designs and were delighted when we commissioned a local artist. All done in the name of corporate responsibility and community relations."

"That's altruistic of them."

"Rare in these times, don't you think?"

"I expect you're right."

"You didn't say what you wanted."

"I was looking for details of the vigil."

He turned with his back to the window, outlining himself in light. "You said that was what you were looking for, but not what you wanted. In my job you get a feel for when people are being evasive."

I looked at him, haloed by the light, black against the fragmented flood. If he really had power then he would be able to tell whether I was lying, in the same way I could tell when anyone lied to me.

"I'm looking into the disappearance of the girls. I thought I might get a look at the families." I opened my wallet and handed him the NUJ card, letting him make the assumption that I was a journalist.

"Been done," he said. "All the details have been taken down, the background of the families combed for dirt. Offered to a national, but 'Young Women Leave Home' wasn't headline-grabbing enough."

"You're very cynical for a man of God."

"Realistic about human nature. Believe me, I get to see all sides of it."

"I didn't come to write a story about missing girls."

"Then why do you want to see the families?"

"If I can find the girls, find out what happened to them, why they left, where they went, there might be a story in it. Or there might not."

"You think the families haven't tried to find them?"

"I dare say my methods are different from theirs. Either way, it may be worth a try. What is there to lose?"

"Maybe more than you know."

He walked over to the far corner. A huge pinboard was mounted there, overlapping the window behind it. It was covered in photos, posters, letters of support, news clippings, anything that linked to the girls. Some of the girls featured more prominently than others. The two from the lamp posts were most evident.

"Campaign central. They come here on a Friday night to meet, talk, swap false hopes and share expectations. They asked me if they could use this corner and I agreed. I thought it might help. Not sure whether I did the right thing, now."

"You don't share their hopes?"

"Not that. Wonder whether it's doing them any good, to go over and over it each week. Loss is a terrible thing, but sometimes it's better to try and move on, learn to live with it."

"It's easier to live with it if you know what happened to them."

He looked up sharply, searching my face. Something in my voice had triggered his reaction. "Did you lose someone, Neal?"

I looked at the photographs. "My daughter."

"Missing?"

"There was an accident. She was stolen from me. Weweren't able to see the body. It made it unreal, as if she weren't lost at all."

"Ah. Sorry."

"I didn't come here looking for sympathy."

He stepped out into the middle of the church. "Do you believe in God, Neal?"

"I'm not sure I know what I believe in."

"I believe in Him. You may think that's obvious, given my profession, but you might be surprised at how many who follow this calling come to doubt the presence, if not the existence, of God."

"I didn't come looking for God, either."

"Don't have to. Rather the point, don't you think?"