church. I can do that — design and so on. I’ve done it before.’
He tucked his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. ‘How can I help?’ he asked, the accent leafy-suburb London. ‘Ask anything — I won’t sleep, not now. Those poor men,’ he added, his eyes pressed quickly closed.
‘Aidan has some very serious burns; he’s still unconscious. I think there are concerns the shock may be too much — although he’s still young, and strong.’ Kennedy looked away, his voice catching. ‘Pete’s got minor burns, and the smoke’s really got his lungs, but he’ll be fine. He’s under sedation.’
‘Four beds, you said. Where are the other two men?’ asked Valentine, noticing a crucifix set above the door. The last time he’d been in a church had been for a funeral, and the memory, suppressed for so long, was making him anxious. He didn’t recall the service itself, or anything anyone had said about his wife, but he could catch the precise smell, a kind of polished dampness. It was there again now, like a spirit.
‘Well — Pete was only stopping a few nights — he’s one of our old boys.’ Kennedy laughed, but didn’t get any response. ‘He was here last year, in the summer, but he’s up on the coast now at St John’s, Hunstanton. And doing very well. He had to come back to Lynn — probate on a will, I think; I don’t know the details. So there are actually three places vacant — Aidan’s the only permanent resident at the moment. But we can’t push people who aren’t ready. The hostel is supposed to be a haven, you see, a safe place. So there’s a process: criteria,’ he added, proud of the word.
‘A process you’re in charge of?’ asked Shaw.
‘It’s my job,’ said Kennedy. ‘I’m the hostel warden,’ he said, puffing up. He stood up a bit straighter, too, knowing he’d just taken responsibility for something that
‘You’re very young for the job…’ said Shaw, smiling.
‘Father Martin trusts me. That helps a lot,’ said Kennedy.
‘So it was your decision to give one of these rooms to Aidan Holme — a serial offender with a record in peddling drugs?’
Kennedy nodded, as if considering an obtuse point in an academic debate. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Well — I recommended. Father Martin has the authority. But Aidan’s past was not a secret. He’s on a registered scheme for addicts. He takes medication to help him with that — and I collect prescriptions for all the men. He’s stuck to the course — which is not easy. Father Martin gets regular reports on his progress from his social worker and they have been excellent. I believe he’s clean. I have faith in him.’
Kennedy’s confidence was, Shaw guessed, as brittle as the trendy glasses on his face. He tried to remind himself that this was a young man, that life hadn’t yet taught him to see the people around him as a blend of good and evil, lies and truths.
‘But supplying? He’s been charged with supplying,’ said Shaw.
‘He denies it. I’ve asked him about it and he’s adamant that he is an innocent man. I’m sorry — that was my judgement.’
They heard a brief blare of a car alarm through the narrow graveyard window.
‘No. I think that’s what Bryan Judd probably told them. I’m not surprised they believed him. Is that why they attacked the hostel?’
Shaw wasn’t answering questions, he was asking them, and he thought Kennedy’s answer had been smoothly glib. ‘When you were with him in the street — earlier. What did Aidan mean when he said he was dying, and that he’d told you that would happen?’
‘Aidan’s not stupid, he’s highly intelligent. He felt — feels — he’s wasted his life. Here — in the church — we’ve talked about that many times. He said his greatest fear was that now — now he’d decided to sort his life out — God would take his life from him. I had to try and make him believe that wouldn’t happen. Father Martin too. We told him that there is always time to repent, and that, if he did, there was no reason why there couldn’t be rewards in this life, as well as the next.’
Shaw couldn’t fault the logic, even if it was based on what he saw as superstition. ‘Is it the first time there’s been trouble at the hostel?’ he asked, switching tack.
‘There have been incidents in the past — in the street, at the Crane. People want their church, you know, but they don’t seem to want what it stands for.’ He said it as if reading the words, and Shaw wondered if he was mimicking Father Martin. Perhaps the priest was a father figure in more than one sense of the word.
‘How?’ said Shaw, aware he’d been inveigled into the question.
‘I hear voices,’ said Kennedy, opening his eyes.
‘Anyone we know?’ asked Valentine.
Kennedy’s smile froze. ‘I’m sorry if you don’t believe. I hear voices all the time and they said there’d be a fire. I told Father Martin we should have hydrants fitted — and smoke alarms. I
‘So you keep reminding us,’ said Shaw.
Kennedy licked his lips and Shaw noticed, for the first time, a stud in his bottom lip in the shape of a cross. ‘Mary told me,’ he said, glancing over Shaw’s shoulder. They turned to see a painting, mass produced in a cheap frame, of Christ’s mother revealing the heart in her chest, rays emanating, a chain of thorns producing drops of blood.
‘Does anyone else hear the voices?’ asked Shaw, trying to keep the tone unchallenging. Something in Kennedy’s voice told him that for this man the voices were real enough.
‘There’s a network. We all hear — but not the same voices.’ He looked from Valentine to Shaw. ‘We’re not mad. The doctors encourage us to listen to the voices, not deny them.’
‘Doctors?’ asked Shaw. Kennedy’s face looked like it was about to crumple and Shaw instantly regretted the question. He held up a hand to stop the answer. ‘Sorry.’ He turned to go and noticed again the easel, and now, up
‘A study,’ said Kennedy, laughing again. ‘The work itself is in the church — would you like to see?’
Valentine ground his teeth. What he wanted was to go home, what he needed was a drink. He willed Shaw to say ‘No’.
‘Yes,’ said Shaw.
Kennedy took them back up into the vestry, then into the nave, to the end, by the closed main doors. To one side a temporary kitchen had been set up; a stainless-steel unit, gas stove, sink, counter, and a fridge-freezer. The smell of shepherd’s pie was stronger here, and stewed greens.
‘The council provides food — we’re trying to raise the funds for a proper kitchen. But the men appreciate it — a hot meal.’ Kennedy had lowered his voice in deference to the sleeping men, and lowered his head too, as though in prayer.
‘The men in the hostel at number 6,’ said Shaw. ‘I saw the kitchen — it didn’t look like they cooked their own meals. The cupboards were empty.’
‘No. They eat here. We are a community. God provides.’
Shaw recalled the empty silver takeaway curry trays; perhaps God didn’t provide enough.
Kennedy flicked a switch. A spotlight illuminated the high whitewashed wall above and around the neo-Gothic doors. Valentine took a pew, suddenly aware that he might be overwhelmed by sleep. He closed his eyes and
Shaw stood back. The whole surface had been prepared for a wall painting — but only one corner, at the bottom right, had progressed. It was in classical style, a velvet drape on the corner of a table, upon which were several objects: a skull and a bunch of grapes in a silver bowl. The grapes were ripe, beyond ripe, blushed with a thin layer of white mould. And some animal bones on a gold plate, picked clean of the flesh. To one side was a second bowl — just pencil lines, the subject of the study in Kennedy’s room.
‘You did this?’ asked Shaw. The work was amateurish but studied, like painting-by-numbers. It was a work of dedication, not inspiration.
The fingers of Kennedy’s right hand pulled at the left. He nodded, not taking his eyes off the images.
‘Memento mori,’ said Shaw. ‘Remembrances of death.’
Kennedy nodded. ‘Yes. Mortality.’
‘And the rest?’
‘
