‘Young guy – motorbike, moustache, hard-looking. That’s not much help. Craig’s never seen him before, he claims.’
‘You arrest him?’
‘No. He knew we’d no evidence and he wasn’t gonna confess.’
‘You made a deal.’
‘We don’t make deals, as you well know, Merrily. Just have a little think about why somebody would blow a hundred and fifty on setting up some grubby little sacrifice in a church nobody uses.’
‘And taking a considerable risk too,’ Merrily said. ‘Stretford itself might be a bit lonely, but the church is hardly lonely
‘That too.’
‘Have you asked Huw?’
‘Well, yeh, I did call Huw, to be honest, but he wasn’t there.’
‘He’s a busy man,’ Merrily said quietly.
Sophie had gestured to her something about popping out for a while. Merrily considered waiting for her to return, needing to find out how she’d learned about last night’s disaster, and why she’d been so quick to cover up in front of the Bishop.
But, by lunchtime, Sophie had not come back, so Merrily switched on the computer and typed out the letter.
It had already been composed in her head on the way here. It was formal and uncomplicated. That was always best; no need for details – not that she felt able to put that stuff on paper.
Dear Bishop,
After long consideration and a great deal of prayer and agonizing, I have decided to ask you to accept my resignation from the role of Diocesan Deliverance Consultant.
I do not doubt that this is – or will become – a valid job for a woman. However, events have proved to me that I am not yet sufficiently wise or experienced enough to take it on. Therefore I honestly think I should make a discreet exit before I become a liability to the Church.
I would like to thank you for your kindness and – albeit misplaced – confidence in me. I am sorry for wasting so much of your very valuable time.
Yours sincerely,
Merrily Watkins
It hung there on the screen and she sat in front of it, reading it over and over again until she saw it only as words with no coherent meaning.
She could print it out and post it, or send it through the internal mail. Either way, he would not see it before he and Val left for London. Or maybe e-mail it immediately to the Bishop’s Palace? That would be the quickest and the best, and leave no room for hesitation.
She read it through again; there was nothing more to say. She looked up the Palace’s e-mail address and prepared to send. It would be courteous, perhaps, to show it first to Sophie. Perhaps she’d wait until Sophie returned, perhaps she wouldn’t. What she would
As often, the only certainty was a cigarette. Her packet was empty, so she felt in her bag for another, and came up with a creamy-white envelope, the one pushed through the letterbox while she was shivering on the landing. She’d stuffed it into her bag, while arguing with Jane that she was perfectly fit to go to work – no, she did not have flu.
She opened the letter, postmarked Hereford and addressed to The Reverend Mrs Watkins. It came straight to the point.
Dear Reverend Watkins,
You should know that your Daughter has been seen brazenly endangering her Soul, and yours, by mixing with the Spiritually Unclean.
Ask her what she was doing last Saturday afternoon at the so-called PSYCHIC FAIR at Leominster. It is well known that such events attract members of Occult Groups in search of converts. Ask her how long she has been consorting with a Clairvoyant who uses the Devil’s Picturebook.
Many people have always been disgusted that your Daughter does not attend Church as the Daughter of a Minister of God ought to. Now we know why.
If it is true that you have been appointed Exorcist then perhaps you should start by cleansing the Filthy Soul of Your Own Daughter.
It was unsigned. Quite expensively done, judged by the standards set by these creeps. Usually the paper was cheap and crumpled, and whereas most of them were pushed into a letterbox, either here or at the church, this one had come by post.
Surprising how many anonymous letters you got. Or perhaps male ministers didn’t get so many – quite a few of these letters muttered that you should stop pretending to be a priest and go out and get yourself a husband like ordinary, decent women did. One or two of them also offered to give her what ordinary, decent women were getting, but she evidently wasn’t. She picked these ones up by one corner and washed her hands afterwards.
Some of them she felt she ought to file, or give to the police in case other women were receiving similar messages and the sender ever got nicked. Some she really didn’t want to take to the police, in case anyone at the station suspected there was no smoke without fire.
But most of them got burned in the grate or the nearest ashtray.
Merrily flicked the Zippo. It would be true, of course. Jane had laid it on the line that altogether fateful afternoon in the coffee lounge at the Green Dragon.
Psychic fairs were where people went in search of ‘Real Practical Spirituality’. Merrily didn’t doubt that what the letter said was essentially true. It would explain a lot of things, not least the allure of Rowenna.
She knew the Devil’s Picturebook was the tarot – a doorway.
No option now.
She sent the Bishop his e-mail, walked out of the office and down the stone stairs.
PART THREE
PROJECTION
30
Self-pity
SHE FELT COLD, and dangerously light inside, as though a dead weight had rolled away, but releasing nothing. She stepped through a tide of pensioners, a coach party heading towards the Cathedral. The sky was overcast. Nobody seemed to be smiling any more. One of the old men looked a bit like Dobbs.
She should tell Dobbs that it was OK now. That he could go ahead and recover. She’d do that, yes. She’d go to the hospital at visiting time and tell him.
Unless Huw was there, the bastard, with his holy water and his candles.
