The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery) (18 page)

‘It’s naive, Julius. Do you think we’re really in God’s hands? And if so, why does He let such awful things happen to people?’

‘We’ve discussed this before.’

‘Yes, but I’ve never felt angry about it before.’

Julius took off his spectacles and laid them carefully on his desk. ‘What’s making you angry?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Everything. Innocent people being killed. Stupid superiors trying to send me away. Men pretending to be fathers —’

Julius saw her bite back her tears. He stood up. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’ He took her arm and led her out of the church, locking the door behind him. ‘Agnes,’ he said, as they walked down the drive, ‘don’t phone Christiane tonight. Not while you’re this angry.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because if you speak to her like this, you’ll be lucky if it’s just Yorkshire. They’ll be sending you off to some leftover missionary posting in Lesotho or somewhere instead.’

Agnes smiled at him. ‘At least it’ll be warm there.’

*

It was after eleven when Agnes let herself into her flat. Her answering machine flashed one message, but when she tried to hear it back there was just a click. She dialled 1471 and the electronic voice gave her a number. She stared at it for a while, wondering why it was familiar, then remembered. She opened her desk drawer, and got out Col’s bus ticket. On the back it said ‘Tom Bevan’ and a phone number — the same phone number that she’d just written down.

She glanced at it, picked up her phone to dial it, then stopped. She hung up the receiver again and, sitting at her desk, leaned her chin on her hands. Tom Bevan. If it was the same Tom Bevan from the Stepney estate … but why should he be phoning her, now? I could just call him, she thought, and ask him what the hell’s going on, and what does he have to do with Col, and Sam, and — and he’s got hold of my number, thought Agnes, suddenly chilled. Mike Reynolds and Tom Bevan and Bob Wheeler and Sam is right in the middle, caught up between them.

Agnes ran her hands through her hair. I’m a fool, she thought. I’ve sent Sam into some dubious network of men who’ve known each other since they were kids. Perhaps Ross is right, Agnes thought, Satan does walk the land, picking for himself the choicest flesh. And there’s Lily … She got up and poured herself a large whisky. Now hang on, she thought, let’s get a grip. Lily’s a sensible girl. She’d get out if anything dodgy was going on. And Sam. She looked at her glass, shot through with glancing amber light. Sam chose, she thought. I am not responsible for Sam. She looked down at the scrap of paper, the phone number, the name Tom Bevan. The room seemed cold. I am no more responsible for Sam than I am for Athena, she told herself, taking a large gulp of whisky. She went and sat on her bed.
Fiat
voluntas
tua
, she thought. Thy will be done. O Lord, our Father … Father, she thought. My father, Sam’s father, Becky’s father, she thought, remembering the silent hostility of Morris Stanton. And Emily Quislan, trying to do it on her own, and being punished in some awful way for not having a father for her child.

Agnes got up, suddenly angry, and paced her tiny flat. And what is God, then? she wondered. This benign omnipotent deity, who loves us unconditionally, like a father, we’re told. Like a father? What do I know of fatherhood, but neglect? And what does Sam know, but her stepfather’s abuse? And now Mike, her so-called father, following some power-crazed purpose of his own? And what did Becky know? Oh God, what did Becky know of fatherhood?

Agnes picked up her whisky glass and drained it. Our Father, Who art in Heaven … She went and poured another measure. Hallowed be Thy name … She sat on her bed and sipped at her glass. A flash of memory, a white dress embroidered with violets. A drizzly morning, more than thirty years ago. Looking out of the large drawing-room window of her parents’ country house in Provence, on to the drive. 

Seeing a strange car parked there, a sleek black Citroen DX with a chic woman poised in the passenger seat, a flash of red lipstick and patent leather handbag. Feeling a sudden, sickening dread, knowing that her mother, lying in her room, had turned to face the wall. Watching her father bring his bags down to the drive, load them, smiling, into the back of the car. And then her father looking up, seeing the child’s face at the window through the drizzle, the child seeing the moment of doubt pass across his face only to vanish at some coquetry from the unknown woman in the car. The child climbs down from the window, begins to run into the hallway, wrenching the huge front door open as the car starts up, runs down the front steps as the car pulls away, shouting ‘Papa, Papa!’ crunching on to the wet gravel, running after the car, shouting, screaming, crying, ‘Papa, Papa, don’t leave!’ all the way down the long, long drive, long after the car has vanished out of sight …

And eventually, soaked with tears and rain, stomping back up the drive towards the house, towards the mother who had retreated into illness because there was nowhere else to go. ‘Papa has gone,’ the child would say, ‘in a car with a woman. I tried to stop him, I tried, really I tried …’ Her mother looked up from her couch, and told her off sharply for being out in the rain in her best shoes, and then fell back on to her pillows, sighing.

Agnes drained her glass for the second time. Tears welled in her eyes, but she dashed them away. How dare they, she thought. The mother who didn’t give a damn, the father, receding in the rain-soaked car, the spinning black and silver wheels speeding away from the child running, crying down the drive … How dare they, thought Agnes, for the first time in her life. It was not Becky’s fault, and it isn’t Sam’s fault, and it wasn’t Emily Quislan’s fault — and for God’s sake it was not my fault.
It
was
not
my
fault
. How could one running, weeping child bring back that car? It was not my fault. Agnes stood up, burning with rage, and once the rage came there was no stopping it. Her child’s voice rang in her ears. ‘Papa, come back! Papa, don’t leave!’ and although she had grown up, that voice was still there, translated into yearning for a father that she’d never had. Our Father, she had prayed, for years and years. Please let me be good enough; please come back.

Agnes paced her room, white with fury. She wanted to phone Athena and tell her, do what the hell you like; she wanted to phone Ross Turner and say, who do you think you are, talking male and female roles, when the whole damn thing is based on a lie. God the Father, God the loving father, not the receding father, not the neglectful absent father. Agnes dashed more tears from her eyes. She had tried to forgive her father, now dead, her mother, still alive in her nursing home in Nice. But she had never forgiven herself. And now she was angry. Now it was time to say, it wasn’t my fault. It was never my fault. I don’t have to yearn for this absent male figure, I don’t have to — I don’t have to play the child to God the Father.

Agnes flopped on to her bed. She felt she was standing, dizzily, on the edge of a precipice. Still dressed, she lay down and pulled the covers around her. Her eyes were now dry, and she lay there, staring at the ceiling for a while, before rolling over and turning her face to the wall. 

Chapter Fifteen

Seven sixteen the clock said. Plenty of time to get up, go to Julius’s eight o’clock Mass and then on to the hostel. Agnes closed her eyes against the slanting early sunlight. She could hear birdsong, sporadic chirping in defiance of the traffic in the street. Her head ached. She opened her eyes again and looked around her room, her gaze coming to rest on the icon of St Francis which hung on the wall by her bed. Something had changed. Some part of her had gone, consumed in the burning whisky-fuelled anger of the night before. It was a puzzling sensation.

No, she thought, I will not go to Mass. She found clean underwear, pulled on her jeans, phoned the hostel to leave a message with the night shift that, no, she wouldn’t be coming in today. ‘Sorry if it messes up the rota,’ Agnes said, feeling not sorry at all. She grabbed a cotton sweater and went out, down the stairs, into the morning sunlight. She felt light, liberated; cauterised.

She went straight to her favourite shabby cafe on Borough High Street and ordered Full English Breakfast, and ate her way through bacon, eggs, tomatoes, beans, sausages and fried bread, her headache lifting with each mouthful. She sipped a mug of hot, stewed tea, feeling the day stretching ahead of her like a blank page. She'd been awake for nearly an hour and she hadn’t yet said a single prayer. She chewed on the novelty of this thought for a while.

It really was a most peculiar feeling. She paid and went out of the cafe, sauntering down the street in the August sunshine, looking at everything anew. Is this what it looks like, she thought, a world without God? Can that tree continue to exist without Him willing it to exist? That Fiat Tipo parked over there, is it still a Fiat Tipo without Him naming it such? These flats, this sunlight, that sky — can they still be brought into being without a Creator to create them?

She sat on a wall in the sunshine and deliberately summoned up the memory of her parents’ driveway, one drizzly morning more than thirty years ago. Once again she saw the car drawing sleekly away from her, only this time, in the London sunshine, thirty years later, she allowed it to go. She allowed her father to drive away; she allowed the wheels to scrunch on the wet gravel. In her mind the little girl stopped running, stopped crying and just stood still, a calm, upright figure in the misty rain. Now, across the road a very old, stooped woman emerged from the bookie’s and furtively crossed herself. Agnes sat down and watched her, and in her mind, the little girl on the driveway faded into the drizzle and then vanished altogether.

‘
Adieu
, Papa,’ she murmured. She stood up, feeling lighter than air, and went back to her flat to pick up her notebook and pens.

She arrived at the library as it opened, and after ten minutes with the phone directories had written down the addresses and phone numbers of all the catering companies listed for the Chingford area, and numerous Enfield sandwich bars just in case. By ten o’clock she was back home, sitting at her desk with a mug of coffee, looking at her list of caterers. She decided against Jenny’s Kitchen and WonderSnax, thinking that if Bob was anything like Mike this company would have an anonymous, off-the-shelf sort of name. She saw Blueline Catering Ltd., Chingford. She dialled and asked for Bob Wheeler.

‘Mr Wheeler’s not in yet,’ the young, female voice said. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘I’ll phone back later,’ Agnes said, wanting to punch the air in triumph. Right first time. This new, lighter-than-air self certainly knew a thing or two.

Then she dialled Athena. Again, the machine. ‘Listen,’ Agnes said, after the tone, ‘this sounds ridiculous, but if you want to, you know, change your mind about keeping the baby, don’t worry about me judging you, or God, or whoever, because I’ve been thinking about this God-the-Father business and —’

A sleepy voice came on the line and the machine cut out with a beep. ‘You’ve been what?’

‘I’ve been thinking about this patriarchal God and —’

‘A fine time to tell me. Hang on while I throw up.’ The phone was put down, and eventually Athena came back on the line, sounding surprisingly normal. ‘That’s better. We’ve got about ten minutes till the next one, if past mornings are anything to go by. Sorry I didn’t get back to you before.’

‘That’s OK. Sorry I didn’t phone before.’

‘That’s OK.’ 

‘Pregnancy sounds awful.’

‘Bloody nightmare, darling. I am at war with my body. My only ammunition is dry biscuits and camomile tea, and even that doesn’t work half the time.’

‘You — you didn’t go for your termination.’

‘No.’

‘Athena — if it’s on my account … what I mean is, I’ve been thinking about all this —’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘It’s all about my father, and I had this bizarre realisation last night …’

‘Had you been drinking?’

‘Yes. Don’t laugh, that’s really not the point. It’s all about Sam and Becky and fathers and me and — anyway, at two o’clock this morning I was going to phone you and say, do what the hell you like.’

‘Right.’ There was a silence, then Athena said, ‘And how do you know I’m not doing what I like?’

‘You mean you really are going to keep it?’

‘Frankly, I can’t think further than the loo at the moment, but all I know is, it felt right not to go. To the clinic, I mean. And Nic’s being really sweet, and — and I thought you’d be glad.’

‘I am glad,’ Agnes said, realising it was true. Sort of. They sat breathing for a moment, then Agnes said, ‘I’d suggest dinner but I guess you’re in no fit state.’

‘Darling, it’s so tedious. I don’t even want to drink, can you believe it? But I’d love to see you. Why don’t you come round here Sunday night. Nic can cook for you and I’ll nibble on toast and we’ll have a whale of a time. Eight-ish as usual?’ 

‘Athena, that’ll be lovely.’

Agnes sat by her phone, looking out of the window at picture-book white clouds scudding across a blue sky. Her head was spinning. She was tiring of this new Agnes. She missed her old certainties, she missed her usual constant dialogue with God that was now silent, cauterised by rage. She missed being able to share it with Julius, and her hand went to the phone, poised to pick it up and dial his number. And there was Athena trying to keep her baby, and although she felt glad, she wasn’t entirely sure she was right to feel glad. It was all very confusing. She picked up the receiver, and dialled the first two digits of Julius’s number. She hung up, and dialled Blueline again and got put through to Bob Wheeler.

‘Hello, Mr Wheeler? My name’s Sister Agnes, and I wondered whether you could help me. It’s rather a long story. You see, it’s about Mike Reynolds, and Sam — his, um, daughter.’ Agnes waited for a response.

‘Sam? Oh, right, yeah. Go on.’

‘I heard your name mentioned by Mike. You see, it’s all a bit complicated,’ she said, putting as much warmth as she could into her voice. ‘I’m a friend of hers, well not so much a friend, but I’m part of the team in the hostel where she stayed.’

‘Right. And where do I come in?’ His voice was rough but friendly, with the same Cockney edge as Mike’s, faded by time.

‘I wondered whether we could meet? I helped reintroduce Sam and Mike, and I’m still involved with their new life,’ Agnes went on, wondering how much to say. ‘And last time I was there, there was a lot of friction. The thing is,’ she said, feeling her way, ‘I’d really like to talk to someone who knows the background to it all. And your name came up. Although,’ she added hurriedly, ‘he doesn’t know I’m phoning you.’ She took a deep breath and waited.

The voice was still friendly. ‘Yes, right, well, any friend of Mike’s. I’d be happy to meet. Can you get over here?’

‘Sure,’ Agnes replied. ‘Later today?’

‘I’m free from three thirty,’ Bob said. ‘Any time round then, just call in.’

Agnes thanked him and rang off. It was lucky she still had the car, she thought. She was supposed to ring her community and check that it was still available to her. Stuff it, she thought. I need it. She got her sleeping bag down from her cupboard, wrinkling her nose at the wood-smoke smell. At least this new Agnes had the freedom to go and sleep at the Ark tonight. For a start, it was time to talk to Bill again.

*

Agnes walked up the hill toward the benders, aware of people, bustling movement, drumming, mobile phones. It all seemed very busy, and as she approached the camp she realised there wasn’t a single face she recognised. A young woman at the campfire looked up and smiled at her.

‘Hi,’ Agnes said, ‘is Rona around, or Jenn? Or Paz?’

‘Um, sure, somewhere. Up the trees, probably.’

‘Any news on the eviction?’

‘Next week. Definitely. They’ve said Friday.’

There was a jangle of abseil harness, and Rona swung down from a tree, followed by a young man Agnes hadn’t seen before. 

‘Hi, Agnes, how’re you?’

‘Fine. How’s it going?’

Rona grinned. ‘Great. We’ve got about thirty people ready to be up the trees now, and another few training. We’ve got people coming over from the Welsh Quarry protest over the weekend. And the locals are mobilised — it’s amazing how strongly they feel. It’s great.’

The girl by the fire handed Rona a mug of tea.

‘Sam wants to come back for the eviction,’ Agnes said.

‘Great. We need people who can climb. What about you?’

‘Me?’ Agnes hesitated. ‘Um, do you think I’ll be any use?’

‘Footsoldiers, man.’ Jeff appeared behind Rona, grinning. ‘Don’t let her say no, Rone.’

‘You heard him,’ Rona laughed.

‘I’ll bring Sam over anyway,’ Agnes said.

‘Sorted,’ Jeff said. ‘Any tea?’

Agnes noticed Jenn sitting by her bender, staring into space. She went over to her. Jenn looked up and smiled faintly. Agnes sat next to her. Jenn was staring across to the camp. After a while, she said, ‘Look at them all. It’s like they’ve forgotten.’

‘Becky, you mean?’

Jenn nodded. ‘And Col.’

‘Maybe it’s their way of dealing with it,’ Agnes said.

‘Rona’s going on about the local support, but she’s kiddin’ herself. Half the locals are staying away. Not ’cos they want the road, but ’cos they don’t want to come up here where Becks got killed. Like, they just won’t touch it. And I don’t blame them.’

Agnes looked at Jenn, at her clear young skin and spiky blonde hair, the frayed holes at the knees of her jeans. ‘Jenn — you were close to Becky, weren’t you?’

Jenn turned to Agnes. ‘What d’you think?’

Agnes took a deep breath. ‘You see, it seems to me,’ she said, ‘that it’s very likely that she’d made a lot of people angry.’

Jenn eyed her. ‘Who do you mean?’

‘Her church?’

‘Maybe.’ Jenn looked at the ground.

‘They aren’t very tolerant, are they?’

‘No.’

‘Jenn — isn’t it time to tell me what you know?’

Jenn’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Were you together?’ Agnes said.

Jenn nodded. ‘When she first arrived. But she couldn’t handle it.’ She began to pull at the frayed threads of her jeans. ‘It was just a few weeks. But they fuckin’ got to her, they did.’

‘Her church?’

‘Those God Squad bastards. Going on about her marrying someone. She said she couldn’t be with me.’

‘But she’d escaped from them.’

Jenn shook her head. ‘Putting space between herself and them didn’t mean she’d got away from them. They were in her fucking head, man.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

Jenn sighed. ‘Dunno.’

‘It might be relevant. If the church took her away from you —’

Jenn shook her head. ‘No. It wasn’t the church that took her away from me. Not in the end.’ Jenn looked tearfully at Agnes. ‘She had another lover.’

‘Who?’

‘She never told me who she was. But she was going off to the woods at night, secretly. She was lying to me. And she knew I still cared.’

‘Did — did Col know about this too?’

‘He used to hang around her, yeah.’ Jenn thought for a moment. ‘He used to go to the forest with her, yeah.’

‘And now they’re both dead.’

Jenn turned fierce eyes on Agnes. ‘Listen, this is ’cos I trust you, right? The reason I didn’t say anything before, was, like, how did I know you were OK? And I didn’t want those Press hacks down here doing a dyke murder story.’

Agnes picked a tiny spider from Jenn’s shoulder and watched it scuttle away across the mud. ‘Jenn — do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Becky?’

Jenn shook her head.

‘This other woman?’

‘I don’t know anything about her.’

‘Or anyone else? Her dad?’ Agnes heard herself ask.

‘Becky said he’d never kill her.’

‘You mean, you talked about it?’

‘He used to beat her. And her brother. But she said he didn’t scare her no more.’

Agnes swallowed. ‘Jenn — this is important. Why shouldn’t it be her father? He’s a fundamentalist Christian, his daughter’s gay, he’s angry about it, and threatened, and no amount of menace is bringing her back. He comes here to — to what? To threaten her until she returns? And she refuses. And he flips.’