… qualified to make, experienced enough to handle.
Sian left this unsaid. Merrily sat in the candlelight, images of the past couple of years encircling her like pale smoke — fears, anxieties, faltering hopes, tentative joys. And also the most bewildering and stimulating years of her life.
There was a stillness in the air. Was this it? Intimations of the end, on a cool April night?
Sian Callaghan-Clarke clasped her long hands and leaned over them across the table.
‘Tonight we’ve tried to go over what we understand by the term “Deliverance”, and the multiplicity of conditions we’re expected to examine — from perceived ghosts and poltergeists, to perceived curses, possession and so-called psychic attack. We’ve considered the cases Merrily has to deal with, day to day: the deluded, the disturbed, the fantastical, the pathological liars—’
‘Not forgetting those in need of prayer and non-judgemental understanding. And the ones afflicted by what seemed to be genuine… intrusion,’ Merrily said.
‘Seemed to be.’ Nigel Saltash smiled.
‘Seemed to me to be. A conclusion not lightly reached.’
‘The point is,’ Sian said, ‘that deciding who is deluded and who — however remote that possibility might be — is, ahm, genuinely afflicted… has been Merrily’s sole responsibility. An impossible situation for just one person, who also has a parish to run.’
‘I’ve not been without back-up. Huw Owen’s always on the end of a phone.’
Merrily felt the outline of the unopened packet of Silk Cut in a pocket of her denim skirt. The other back- up.
‘Ah yes,’ Sian said, looking over her half-glasses. ‘Huw Owen.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Saltash said. ‘Who is Huw Owen?’
‘Nigel, I’m not sure you’ll want to know.’
Sian’s eyes were still and neutral. Merrily was furious but bit down on it. She really, really needed a cigarette. They were all looking at her.
‘Huw was my primary tutor. Me and a bunch of others. He runs training courses for the Deliverance Ministry in a former Nonconformist chapel in a remote part of the Brecon Beacons.’
‘Where nobody can hear you scream,’ Sian said. ‘My understanding is that Huw Owen, while living the life of a fourth-century hermit, has himself been in such a precarious psychiatric state for so long that—’
Merrily felt herself arch like a cat. ‘That’s ridic—’
‘—that not only can he no longer be relied upon to remain au fait with current thinking—’
‘And fucking defamatory!’ Merrily said.
In the silence, the phone rang in the scullery, which she used as her office.
Sian looked up, said mildly. ‘You want to get that?’
‘I’ll… let the machine take it.’ Merrily glanced at the scullery door, which was ajar. ‘If it’s not urgent…’
They all sat there uncomfortably as the machine in the office played Merrily’s outgoing message through the open door, Nigel Saltash giving her a look that was professionally wry and sympathetic.
It was Saltash who’d introduced Sian, who’d worked with him when she was standing in as a hospital chaplain. She said she’d been wary of Deliverance work up to now, but if Nigel was going to be involved…
Sian, in turn, had brought in Martin Longbeach, once her curate, who was clearly a placid and malleable guy. And, no doubt, guaranteed not to fancy Merrily.
This was a nightmare.
There was a bleep from the answering machine and a cough.
‘Mrs Watkins. Mumford. Andy Mumford. I’ll… call you later, if that’s all right with you.’
The line went dead, the machine rewound, Merrily nodded.
‘I can call him back.’
‘Would that have been Sergeant Mumford?’ Sian asked. ‘From Hereford CID?’
‘I think he’s about to retire, actually. May already have…’
‘You’ve had some interesting dealings with the police, haven’t you? I was talking the other day to Sergeant Mumford’s superior — DCI Howe?’
‘Oh? Yeah, our paths have… crossed.’
‘So she tells me. I get on very well with her.’
Figured. If glacial Annie had opted for the Church rather than a fast-track police career, Canon Callaghan- Clarke would have been her ideal spiritual director.
‘I’ll make some more tea,’ Merrily said. Nobody had referred again to Huw Owen. Nobody had reacted to her outburst.
‘No, I think we should say goodnight at this point.’ Sian folded her document case, took off her glasses. ‘Given ourselves quite a lot to consider.’
‘Yes.’
‘I think we’ve all accepted that, having inherited a basically medieval structure, our task is to turn it into something practical, efficient and geared to the demands of the twenty-first century. To formulate a set of parameters, so that changes in, say, personnel will not damage the efficacy of the essential Deliverance module.’
Merrily gripped the cigarette packet on her thigh. Deliverance module?
Sian stood up.
‘I think the main decision we’ve made is that, to ease the very obvious pressure on Merrily, all of us should immediately be brought into the loop — the Deliverance e-mail loop, that is. And that each and every new case should be submitted for observations before any action is taken. Correct?’
‘It makes sense,’ Martin Longbeach said. ‘We might not always be able to make a contribution, but it’s a question of sharing.’
‘I’ll… tell Sophie at the Bishop’s office,’ Merrily said.
‘And in my case,’ Nigel Saltash said, ‘in these formative days, I do think it might be rather a good idea for me to tag along and observe some of the people you’re dealing with, Merrily. I mean, purely from an educational point of view?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I want to learn. See how you operate. Had more time on my hands since we sold half the land. Always thought I could settle down, in retirement, as a farmer, but I’m afraid that once a shrink… Would that be in order? I want to understand how you see Deliverance.’
Merrily took a big breath. ‘Nigel, how I see Deliverance… I’m supposed to be a priest, right? I have to operate on the basis of there being a spiritual element — that we’ve got used to calling God — in everything. So I actually believe that things can happen on more than one level.’
‘Indeed,’ Martin Longbeach said. ‘The holistic approach is essential. All aspects of life are interconnected.’
‘And the fact that there are certain things that I’m never going to be able to explain scientifically or psychologically… that doesn’t bother me one way or the other. And I think we should be there to say to the people affected: no, you’re not necessarily going mad—’
‘But if you are’ — Nigel Saltash smiled hugely — ‘we can also help you with that.’
Merrily sighed. ‘As I tried to say, when I was having problems the Church looked at me sideways and raised its eyebrows pityingly. I don’t want anybody out there to feel I’m writing them off as disturbed or deluded.’
‘And I’d absolutely hate to cramp your style, Merrily,’ Saltash said.
Merrily stood up. Her legs felt weak.
‘We’ll see what we can work out.’
‘Of course we will,’ Saltash said.
2
Vice-rage
