even to a non-believer. Amid the red brick of the surrounding tall terraces the grey-white stone made the Chapel an invader, a missionary among heathens. The sign said it was built in 1691: before Scotland lost its independence.
I pushed open the door and walked into a warmly lit hall with a great wooden-arched ceiling. Above the entrance floated an organ gallery with tall pipes glittering under the hall lights. Stretching away from me were the pews leading to the altar and pulpit.
It seemed empty but expectant. Candles had been lit and subdued electric lights illumined the stained glass panels on all sides and behind the altar. It was prettier by far than the dour Presbyterian Kirk of St Mungo’s in Kilpatrick, but then so was a Nissen hut. This Chapel felt snug and safe, and I took a seat in the back row under the organ. I laid my head down on my arms and rested on the wooden shelf jutting from the pew in front. I must have nodded off; I jerked awake to the sound of music playing above me. My neck felt broken.
There seemed to be no one else in the church except me and the unseen organist, so I settled back down. The eyes of saints and Mary Magdalene and a tortured Jesus inspected me. I wondered what sort of man they saw. I couldn’t tell them.
The last time I was in church was for my dad’s funeral. I’d vowed never to go in one again.
I’d forgotten the power of the sanctified space and its battalions of ghost congregations. I could hear old hymns rising and falling, lauding their god with martial words. Slow marching down the aisle in my Boy’s Brigade uniform, the tall flag held at an angle and straining at my arm. The minister’s cadences echoing through shards of sunlight on a summer day. Only the hard pew keeping me awake through the droning and the exhortations to be good, to be better, to lead us from temptation and to forgive our trespasses. Sitting rigid between my parents as the velvet collection bag clunked round and our envelopes went in.
It was so soothing – the warmth and the music – that I stretched out on the pew.
My head felt thick and hot, and black dreams began to crowd in on me, to drag me to my confessional.
I am in her bedroom. Standing over her. She is lying on her bed naked from the waist down. Her thighs are parted and blooded. Between them lies the hilt of a bayonet.
I lean over and take hold of the slippery grip. I clasp it firmly and tug. It gives, and jolts her limbs. It releases a fresh gout of blood. There is a foul smell. I pull out the long blade. I push Lili’s thighs together and flip the corner of the bedspread over her. I walk over to the sink and drop the bayonet in it, and begin running cold water. My bloodied hands are sticky and I have to scrub at them to get them clean.
That’s how they find me. The cries in German echo through the house and their boots rush through the hall and on to the stairs. I turn and wait for them.
I woke sobbing in the darkened church. The organist had long gone and moonlight spilled through the stained glass panels. Mary Magdalene looked down on me, her face blank and pitiless. Jesus strained at his nails and called for release.
None came. None ever comes. I let the tears flow down my face until I could weep no more. Lili… the girl had a name. The girl whose body I assaulted was called Lili. I got up and stumbled down the centre aisle and up on to the dais where the altar stood.
There was a big bible resting open on the lectern. It was too dark to make out all the words. But I didn’t need much light. It was the Beatitudes, Matthew Chapter 5. I had to learn the whole text by heart to earn my badge for bible studies. The familiar litany sprung up: Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Thanks, Lord. I’ll take comfort from that next time Wilson beats me up.
Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you and persecute you and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely…
And there standing in that holy place, facing the congregation of St Mungo’s Kirk, with my father and mother in the front row proud to burst, I laughed out loud. I laughed until it choked me and sent me back down on my knees in the moonlight. A good joke, God. Now you can stop. Now you can fuck off and wreck someone else’s life. I get the message. You’re the boss. I’m sorry about playing three-card brag in the Kirk at the school assembly; I’m sorry about kissing that Catholic lassie… Well, you know what I have to be sorry about, Lord. Just let’s call it quits now, OK?
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Killing myself would be exactly what Caldwell wanted. “A kindness,” he’d said. “Put you out of this pain. Like a mad dog.” I let his words roll through me, eating me. I punched the tiles till my fist hurt.
But then I held my breath. He said he saw me coming out of Lili’s home. That he confronted me back at my safe house. His SOE report talked about me being shopped by the Maquis after they found out about the killing. That wasn’t my dream. The Germans found me. Did it matter? It was only variations in horror.
Either way, I murdered her. Yet the last dogged, pig-headed bit of me demanded the final truth. Like arguing over whether the Titanic hit an iceberg or a rock.
Yet I clung to this discrepancy like a Sanskrit scholar gnawing away at an eroded inscription. Either I was mad or he was lying. Where there was ambiguity, there was work for an obsessive private eye. Marlowe never gave up. I crawled to my feet.
There was a big clock above the altar. It was just after three. Behind the altar was a door which led to some back rooms. I found a toilet and a kitchen, and made myself some tea. In another room was a couch and chairs. I bedded down on the couch but lay sleepless – I thought – till the dawn, pushing the memories around, trying to lift the haze that surrounded the time before the killing.
Trying to see if there was a reason for what I’d done.
I must have slept, for I woke stiff and full of dread, but not immediately knowing why. Then it flooded back to me. But was it a dream or a memory? It was back to the big question: what was truth and what was false?
I gazed at my reflection in the mirror in the toilet and wished I could find a razor. A three-day stubble on a red head looks plain dirty. I found a small knife for peeling potatoes in one drawer and tested it on my skin. It might as well have been a spoon. I pocketed it anyway. At least I could wash my face and comb my hair. I rinsed my mouth as best I could.
With my hat pulled down and my coat collar up I was Cagney on the run. I lit my first cigarette of the day, coughed like a TB victim, and left the church by a side door. It was drizzling again. The easy thing would be to aim for the tube station and vanish into the city. So I took the next turning and headed towards Willow Road. It was time to confront Liza Caldwell.
NINETEEN
Willow Road was empty of police, grey Rileys and passers-by. It was now or never. A down-at-heel character like me couldn’t hang around for very long before someone started phoning the police. I had no idea if she was home. All I could do was try a frontal assault.
I walked determinedly from my cover among the trees, along the street and straight up her front path. I stood on her top step, knocked and waited. A voice called out from within.
“Who is it?”
“Police, madam. Just a quick word, if you please.” I tried to hide my Scots accent; it came out more Welsh than English, but it seemed to work. I listened to her heels on the tiled floor and turned my back on her just as the door opened.
“Yes, officer?”
I turned swiftly and before she could call out I pushed past her, slammed the door and slapped my hand over her mouth.
“Promise me you won’t scream and I won’t hurt you. Nod if you agree.” I felt her head tilt twice. I let her mouth go, but my grip slipped to her throat.
“Now, Liza. We’re going into the kitchen and we’re going to chat about you and Tony Caldwell. OK?” She nodded again. I pushed her through in front of me. I made her sit in a chair and dragged a stool over beside her. Fear had paralysed her; she gripped the arms of the chair as if she’d fall off. Her legs were twisted round each other. Her eyes said I was about to stab her to death. Which I guess was exactly what she thought if she believed Caldwell.
