The Cure of Souls

28 A Religious Man

LOL FOLLOWED MERRILY out to the grey Saab, its engine running. She was wearing a short, orange- coloured skirt and a crumpled white jacket and carrying a canvas shoulder bag under an arm. The exorcist.

He thought: They’ll do it. They’ll sacrifice her.

At the car, as though she’d simultaneously reached the same conclusion, Merrily turned to him, tried for a smile but failed. She shrugged instead.

Her image misted. Behind her, in the meadow sloping down to the Frome, the hay had been cut and turned and lay heavy, like acres of gold leaf, a heat haze hanging over it.

From behind the wheel of the Saab, the stately Sophie raised a hand in formal greeting, like the Queen or somebody. She wore a dark blue business suit and no smile. She revved the Saab like a getaway driver. Sophie would do her best for Merrily. Probably even the Bishop would do what he could. But in the end they’d both have to walk away.

Lol watched the Saab turn, crunching baked red earth, vanishing around the curve of the track. A cold electricity was branching through him as he walked rapidly away, down the footpath, across the hay meadow, to the river that seeped below the brambles, under the hedge and the fat, purple-spotted banks of willowherb.

The River Frome, flowing invisibly. Like the truth.

Just when it seemed entirely unimportant, the substance of the final verse of his river song seeped unbidden into his head.

What you did, Lol realized, was join another river.

Walking through Knight’s Frome, he saw nobody: no police, no press. He crossed the bridge, to the small, sunken church. The churchyard was wilderness, so overgrown around the perimeter that you couldn’t tell where the countryside began, several gravestones even poking out of bushes.

Lol stood in the porch and listened: no voices, no clatter. He went in, letting the iron latch fall behind him.

Sometimes they still oppressed him, churches, with their rigidity and weight, the ungivingness of them, their atmospheres dense with the residue of humourless old hymns. This one was almost frugally plain, the air inside ochre with sunlight and dust. Lol went and sat in a back pew, over in a corner. He couldn’t quite see the altar; that was OK.

He sat for a while in silence. The prayer-book shelf was thick with dust; in it, someone had finger-drawn two sets of initials and a heart.

Lol took off his glasses, wondering how often Merrily did this, how many times a day – how long it took to break the ice. His feeling was that it could be like meditation, that you’d have to connect with your deepest inner self, the part that flowed into some collective unconscious, rippling under the light of whatever it was you called God.

Rivers again.

‘Listen,’ he whispered, when the level seemed beyond his reach. ‘I mean, we don’t really know each other – at least, I don’t know you. But we’ve got one mutual interest, and I hope you’re not going to let her down.’

His eyes had half closed and all he could see was a dark yellow haze, with blobs of white where the windows were.

‘Because she’s not going to help herself, you know that. She’ll just keep on telling the truth as she sees it, and that might be the wrong kind of truth for certain people. And I realize we only learn by suffering, by screwing up, and maybe she did screw up… but her heart was in it, and what else can you ask? And if she goes, she won’t come back, and I don’t think that’s going to help anybody. I mean, how do you want to play this? You want a church run by politicians or by people who actually give a shit?’

He glanced over his shoulder towards the vestry, which Merrily had entered as a woman and emerged from as a priest. He leaned back and thought for a few minutes.

‘So, like… don’t you think some things need to start coming out? I mean, don’t know how far this goes back, but I think it probably pre-dates Stewart Ash. I think something bad happened there, apart from Stewart’s murder. And I think that Stewart, as a lingering presence… was an irrelevance, and I think Stock knew that. So what did Stock really want? Why did he want an exorcism? Why did he approach Simon and then go after Merrily?’

Talking to himself, now. He’d tried to puzzle it out last night and early this morning as he’d mopped and scrubbed the kitchen. But puzzling had produced nothing. He just didn’t know enough.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This is bollocks, isn’t it?’

He stood up. Nothing resolved. No revelation. No inspirational feedback from his inner self.

When he put on his glasses, the white blobs hardened into pearly Gothic windows. He slid wearily out of the pew and across to the church door.

Daylight filled the crack around the door. When he put a hand up to the latch, he found it was already up. Which was odd, because he was sure he’d closed the door and heard the latch fall into place.

It was probably warped. He opened it and went out, and there she was in the porch, blocking his path with her wheelchair.

‘A religious man after all, then, is it, Lol?’

There were no unfamiliar cars in the palace yard; no one was waiting under the arch or at the top of the stairs.

Sophie unlocked the office door. ‘If he doesn’t show up now, I think I shall be very annoyed indeed.’

Inside, the phone was ringing. They heard the machine pick it up. ‘This is for Mrs Watkins. We’ve met before. Tania Beauman, formerly of the Livenight programme, now researching for the Witness series on Channel Four. I’d appreciate a call back. Thank you.’

Merrily drew a surprised breath. ‘She’s got a nerve after last winter’s fiasco.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sophie said. ‘I can handle this. I didn’t tell you, but we’ve had a similar approach from Panorama at the BBC. They’re all thinking ahead to the court case. They make a background programme in advance, to be screened immediately the case is over and the shackles are off. The spiel is that they’re going to make the programme anyway, and if you don’t agree to appear, your views may not be fully represented.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘I said we’d discuss it when you returned from your holiday, adding – God forgive me – that I was sure we could trust the British Broadcasting Corporation to produce a balanced and accurate account, with or without your help.’

There were two other messages on the machine, one from the Bishop, nervously demanding an update, the other from Fred Potter, of the Three Counties News Agency.

‘Look, nobody can print anything now, so I won’t be on your back for a good while. I just wanted to say thanks for your help, and if there’s anything I can do to help you at all… because, you know, I’ve heard one or two things which don’t sound that promising from your point of view… so, if you think there’s anything I can maybe tell you… you know where I am, OK. Thanks. I’ll give you the number again, just in case…’

‘Little shark.’ Sophie lifted a finger to delete the message.

‘No, I’m going to ring him.’

‘You’re not!’

‘What have I got to lose? Besides, he was—’

‘Everything,’ Sophie snapped. ‘For a start, you’re supposed to be on holiday.’

But Merrily was already tapping in the Worcester number. The young woman who answered said Fred was on the phone, asked who was speaking.

‘It’s Mrs… Sharkey, from Hereford. I’ll hold.’

When Fred Potter came on the line, Merrily said quickly, ‘Just don’t say my name aloud, or I’ll have to hang