Authors: M.R. Hall
The Redeemed (4 page)
Such irrational thoughts were nothing new. They had dogged
Jenny throughout her short career as a coroner, taunting her with the notion
that she was doomed to consort with the dead, denying her the chance to live
unselfconsciously among the living. She had tried to pull free, to confine her
imagination within normal limits, but then Alec McAvoy had arrived and flung
the door to the abyss wide open.
My Dark
Rosaleen,
he had called her. He had seemed to know her secrets without
her saying a word and he had left without saying how. But left her to what?
Listless, and for the first time in weeks fighting the desire
to drive into town to buy a bottle of wine, Jenny retreated to her little study
at the front of the cottage and tried to lose herself in the most urgent files
she had brought home. Top of the pile was Eva Donaldson's. There'd been an
email late in the afternoon from Eva's next of kin, her father, asking when her
body might be released for burial and her death formally registered. It was
Jenny's custom not to allow homicide victims to be released until the conclusion
of a trial; there was now no good reason not to hand her remains back to her
family, especially as Craven's claim to innocence, such as it was, was based
purely on the soundness of his confession.
She reached out for a Form
21,
Coroner's Order
for Burial
, and began to complete it, but as she did so she heard the
steady voice of Father Starr: 'Believe me when I say I can divine whether he's
lying about such a profound matter as whether he committed murder.' It was
illogical, precisely the sort of superstition she had strained so hard in
recent months to avoid, yet completing the form suddenly felt like a betrayal.
What was it McAvoy had said that morning in the car when he'd been scratchy and
hung-over? 'Try going to confession once a fortnight and spilling your sins out
to a celibate priest. There's something to put you in your place.' She
remembered the smell of his cigarette smoke, the odour of cramped courtrooms,
dirty cells and seedy nightclubs that clung to his damp woollen coat, a world
she came to understand he was both called to and despised.
She flipped open the lid of her laptop and ran a search on
Father Lucas Starr. He was listed as Roman Catholic chaplain of Telhurst
Prison. A short biography recorded that he was thirty-nine years old, the son
of American and Mexican missionaries, and had spent his early life in Bolivia
and New Mexico. While still a teenager, he had entered the Seminary of the
Immaculate Conception in Huntington, New York, and was now in the sixteenth
year of his formation as a Jesuit. He had spent time with missions in Nigeria,
Angola, the Philippines, Bangladesh and Colombia, where he served in the
chaplaincy of La Modelo prison, Bogota. She began a fresh enquiry with 'La
Modelo' and learned that it was considered the toughest, filthiest, most
violent and dangerous jail in South America.
What would McAvoy have said? His answer sounded clearly: give
the man a chance; you don't devote body and soul to God for twenty years
without becoming wiser than most. They'll scare the hell out of you, these
Catholic priests, with their iron wills and cold certainty of what's to come,
but they'll go to places you wouldn't dare and draw on strength you'll never
possess.
Jenny typed 'Eva Donaldson' and was met with a barrage of the
sacred and profane, a galaxy of hardcore pornographic websites vying with
reports on the Decency campaign. She clicked 'images' and wished she hadn't. A
single dignified portrait of Eva's post-accident face sat amongst a carousel of
lurid shots of her in every form of sexual congress. In one scene she was a
delicate virgin, in others a whore, an unwilling victim, a cheating wife. Of
all the roles it was innocence she performed best. She was such a successful
commodity, Jenny realized, because despite the squalor of her poses she
retained an aspect of purity. She encouraged in her voyeurs the fantasy that
through knowing her they would somehow lift themselves out of their own
wretchedness.
Jenny quickly navigated away and scrubbed her images from the
machine's memory. Be rational, she told herself, get a grip, behave like Her
Majesty's Coroner and follow the protocol, but she knew the battle was already
lost. Attempting to reason away her emotional decision, she tried to convince
herself that it was merely a question of showing respect for Father Starr.
Surely it would be a proper and humane gesture to visit Craven in prison before
letting Eva's body be returned to the earth. Her thoughts were interrupted by
the creak of the front gate and the sound of a man's footsteps on the flagstone
path. She craned forward to see Steve approaching. He was carrying flowers.
She brought the lupins out to the garden table in a tall
clear vase that had belonged to her mother and saw him crouching at the edge
of the stream. He pressed his fingers to his lips as she went over to join him.
She knelt beside him and followed his gaze to what she called the swimming
pool, a hollow in the stream bed deep enough to wallow in. A flash of silver
broke the surface and leaped among the lazily circling flies. He turned to her
and smiled, a day's growth on his hollow cheeks. His face was tired, but his
eyes were bright as he shielded them from the sloping sunlight with a cupped
hand.
'There's scores of them. Must be the pure water,' he said.
'I suppose I should feel blessed.'
'Too right.' He held her gaze with a playful, questioning
look. 'May I?'
He leaned forward and kissed her mouth without waiting for an
answer, his skin rough against her cheeks as he stroked her hair.
'You don't mind?'
'Why would I?'
He drew back, letting his hand drop to her shoulder then
slide down her back to her waist. 'I don't know.' He shrugged. 'It's been a
while.'
Jenny stared down into the stream, watching the school of
fish dart through a shaft of milky light. 'I'm sorry. I've been useless.'
'I was worried about you.'
'I'm OK,' she lied.
'Ross decided to stay with his dad?'
'Yes ...
it makes more
sense for him to be in town.'
'And you've been hiding away here getting lonely.'
'I've had a lot of work.'
He gave her a look which said she could do better.
'I know I've not been much of a girlfriend.'
Steve grinned. '
Girlfriend
? I've never
heard you call yourself that before. Wow.'
She contrived to look hurt, but a laugh forced itself out.
One of relief, of having a distraction from herself. And he looked handsome
tonight, somehow more confident in his new life as a nearly-qualified
architect. He still remained partly the romantic backwoodsman who had brought
the countryside alive for her, telling her the names of every plant and tree,
showing her where the deer stood at night and where the fox slunk through the
hedges, but he seemed to inspire more trust now that his world had expanded
beyond the boundaries of his out-of-the-way farm.
'I know it threw you when I said those things . . .' He
sounded almost apologetic, referring to when he had told her he was in love
with her, but too embarrassed to repeat it. 'It must be tough coming out of a
marriage, all the baggage ...'
She nodded, no more ready to have this discussion now than
she had been three months ago.
He paused, trying to fathom her expression. 'That day you
went to see you father - what happened?'
'Nothing.'
He gave her the searching look, the one more intimate than
the sex that had first disarmed her. 'The shutters came down that day, Jenny, I
felt it. Was it just because of what I said? I was only being honest.'
'Partly ... I don't know.'
'I didn't want to spoil it between us.'
'I know what you wanted.'
'If you don't want things complicated, why don't you just say
so? Put me out of my agony.'
He touched her lightly on the shoulder, longing for an answer
she couldn't give. As he lifted his hand she caught it and brought it to her
lips. 'Can we talk about this afterwards?'
They didn't make it to the bedroom or even indoors. They made
love on the grass as urgently as they had the first time last summer. She was
young again, feeling his every touch, his every minute caress with an electric
thrill, until at last they both exploded in the scattering colours of grass and
sky and spiralled slowly back to earth, a pair of gently fading butterflies.
She brought tea outside to the table as the sun dipped
beneath the crest of the hill. They sat side by side, she leaning into him as
he told her about his plans for when he was qualified. The firm he was attached
to had lost out on a lot of business recently: clients' budgets weren't stretching
to the extra cost of the ecological buildings in which they specialized. The
chances of a full-time position were slim and he'd no choice but to start
looking elsewhere. So far the only interest had been from a British firm in
Provence. The money was appealing, but it would mean taking beautiful old
farmhouses and turning them into vulgar, air- conditioned villas for ex-pat
retirees. He hadn't spent seven years of study only to ditch his principles at
the first sight of a cheque.
'At least you'd see the sun,' Jenny said.
'You sound as if you're trying to sell it to me.'
'There are worse places to be than the south of France.'
He looked a little hurt. 'Would you visit?'
'If you'd forgive me for using the plane.'
'We might even see each other more often.'
'Ouch.'
'I'm serious, Jenny. I'm going to get an answer out of you
one way or the other.' Despite the light-hearted tone she could tell he meant
it. After her months of evasion he was pressing her for commitment.
'By when?'
'I qualify in six weeks.'
'Then what? You'll give up on me?'
'No.' He hesitated. 'But after that I'll leave it up to you
to make the moves.'
It occurred to her to tell him the truth then, to confess
that it had taken all her strength to try to cope with her demented father
accusing her of being a child killer. It would be a relief to share it with
him, to have someone to reason it through with. But what if he recoiled and
turned his back on her in horror or disgust? She couldn't face his rejection,
not now, not on top of everything else.
Jenny felt tears in her eyes. She hurriedly moved to wipe
them away.
'What's the matter?'
'Nothing. It's
just. . .
There are some
things I need to get straightened out. It's healthy. You're giving me a spur.'
'Anything you can share with me?'
'No.'
'I'd better head back.' He got up from the table.
Jenny reached out and touched his fingers. 'I'm glad you're
being honest, really. And I'm trying to be. Just give me a little more time.'
He smiled again, decent enough to give her the benefit of the
doubt. Better than she deserved. He stooped down to kiss her goodbye. As he
walked away towards the old cart track that led around the side of the house,
he stopped suddenly. 'Oh, by the way - there was a man with a little girl who
seemed to be waiting for you around the front last night.'
'A man?'
'Yes. I drove past at about six. They were still there when I
came back up around seven.'
'What did they look like?'
'He was in his thirties, the girl can't have been more than
five or six.'
Jenny shrugged. It didn't sound like anyone she knew.
Steve said, 'Maybe they'd got the wrong place. You'll call?'
'I promise.'
Jenny spent what was left of the evening working, the only
light in the house coming from her ancient desk lamp. It was nearly midnight
and her eyes were smarting from staring at the computer screen when the return
email from Father Starr arrived. He had arranged for her to visit Craven the
following afternoon and Craven's solicitors were forwarding their files to her
office. Her diary was already full, but Starr's tone brooked no argument. She
dithered, then replied that she would meet him at the reception desk.
Frustrated with herself for being such a pushover, she slammed her laptop
closed and switched off the lamp. Feeling her way into the tar-black hall, she
fumbled for the light switch. The single bulb stuttered into life like a
guttering candle. Starting up the foot-worn treads of the narrow staircase, she
heard the sound of gentle rapping at the front door: the cautious knock of a
small hand. She turned, startled, telling herself it was only the wind. It came
again: four patient, evenly spaced taps.
She told herself it was nothing, a plant knocking against the
porch, a restless bird nesting in the eaves. She listened to the reassuring
silence for a long moment and resumed her climb. As she reached the landing,
feet shuffled on the path outside the front door accompanied by whispered
voices: a child's whimper, a man, patient and reassuring. Jenny stood frozen,
her heart pounding in her ears, waiting for the next
tap, willing it to be real people
outside, but
they faded away.
She waited for the squeak
of the gate,
for the turn of an
engine, but nothing
came.
She tiptoed
softly across
the creaking boards and fetched her
sleeping pills from
the bathroom cabinet. She shook
one
out, then made
it three.