Turtle Island (26 page)

Leroy remained silent this time, knowing an interruption would
probably stop Georgina in her tracks. He waited.

Georgina rubbed her face wearily. Her index finger ran along
the length of her nose before massaging her temple. She had the
impression of the world closing in around her and found the
constraint claustrophobic. At times she would have to stop whatever
she was doing and just breathe. Breathe deeply, as though she had
run out of air while diving under the sea. This was one of those
times. She breathed deeply.

The church appeared, small, almost inconspicuous. The drizzle
continued its spray of fine mist. Leroy parked the car in the
spacious car park. Georgina stepped from the car into the wet
day.

Rows of untended gravestones sat patiently waiting for loved
ones to refresh their plots with flowers, never knowing if they
would return at all. Grey slabs slowly turning green and sinking
into the ground, as though clawed under by the occupants. The
weather eating into the stonework, erasing the names that once
resplendently heralded their existence on earth. Slowly their names
and faces would disappear from the community they once lived in
followed by the passing of time as their names became eroded by the
wind, sun and rain, to be forgotten forever.

Georgina passed the sleeping incumbents, her footsteps barely
an audible echo for those below. Leroy followed, camera bag slung
casually over his shoulder. The weathered oak door was unlocked.
Georgina entered the nineteenth century Catholic Church. The air
inside the church smelled of death; the deads tangible gift to the
living world, a smell of must and decay. A glow from the altar drew
her eyes to the eight candles burning as a prayer to the parishes
needy. Georgina walked up to the shrine and lifted a candle from a
pack lying on a shelf above the two rows of burning hope. She
lowered it against the flame of one of the stronger burning candles
and lit a candle for Korjca Piekarska. Georgina knelt and said a
silent prayer. Not so much because she believed in God anymore but
more for Korjca’s peace. She stared at the candle for a moment,
watching the flame flicker as a breeze from the side played a song
for it to dance to. She looked up to find Father Reagan standing by
a closing door. Leroy leaned over her shoulder.

‘I'm going to have a word with the priest, see if there's
anywhere I can discreetly observe the funeral.’ Leroy rested his
hand on her collarbone, his fingers relaxed and warm. Georgina
nodded acknowledgement. The priest was not how she had imagined him
in her mind. He was young. Early to mid thirties she guessed. His
hair had been stylishly cut and tended to with an amount of care
that she immediately envied. Father Reagan was, on first glance of
either Irish or European stock. Dark hair and pale skin. His
vocation, no doubt the pride of his mother and a waste to the
female race. He stood talking with Leroy. The priest's voice soft
and reverential, its tone bouncing off the dark crevices around the
church. Georgina heard her name mentioned by Leroy and saw him turn
and point to her. The priest smiled, and gave a slight
wave.

He has a nice smile she thought to herself. She stood and
walked over to where the two men were standing.

Father Reagan held out a welcoming hand to
Georgina.

‘Hello.’

‘Father.’

The priest smiled. A smile as welcoming as his warm and hearty
handshake.

‘Is it possible to see Korjca?’

‘Certainly. You do understand that from the nature of her
injuries we are not having an open casket before the
service.’

Georgina nodded.

‘But we do have a room where you may view in private. If you
would care to follow me.’ The priest held out his arm and guided
Georgina toward an annex room to the left of the altar. Leroy
ambled to the end of the church and out of a door, which led to
some steps. He walked up the stone steps to the balcony, where he
set up his camera. He checked the light, made sure the film was set
to the right speed and became familiar and comfortable with the
surroundings.

The priest opened the door to the small anteroom. The casket
was set up on two trestles; dark mauve velvet material tried its
best to hide the rough wooden legs of the supports. Georgina
followed the priest; two steps behind, slightly hesitant. She
didn't want to be there, she had no desire to see another dead
body.

Father Reagan stood over the coffin and pulled the lid open
gently, respectfully.

Georgina steeled herself, briefly closing her eyes and taking
a deep breath before stepping forward. She opened her eyes.
Korjca's pale skin still had its porcelain perfection, though the
shape of her face seemed to have changed subtly. Georgina had seen
this many times with corpses. Relaxed facial muscles have a
tendency to pull back slightly; gravity taking its effect after
rigor mortis passes. Her eyes were closed, her lips painted with a
subdued pale red lipstick. A silk chiffon scarf had been tied
around her throat covering the deep incision, which finally claimed
her life.

Georgina's hand hovered in front of Korjca’s face. She wanted
to touch her and feel the warmth of life searing through her body,
shake her awake. She lowered her hand and stroked Korjca's marble
cold skin. The touch severed passion. The reality of death
transferred through Korjca's skin to Georgina's fingers and much
deeper within.

‘Had you known Korjca long? I only ask because I know she had
no family here and the few times she came to church she always
seemed to be alone.’ Father Reagan's voice came from behind
Georgina, tearing her from her thoughts.

‘No, not long, barely a day.’ Georgina continued looking at
Korjca's expressionless face.

‘Do you wish me to leave you alone for a minute?’ The priest
didn't wait for an answer. He backed out of the room pulling the
door gently closed.

Georgina waited for a few moments until she was certain she
would not be disturbed then wiped her own lipstick away with her
thumb leaving her lips bare. She then carefully wiped Korjca’s
mouth clean. Korjca's face cold and taut. A small amount of
foundation transferred on to Georgina's wet thumb. She lowered her
head, so that she could feel her own breath returning from Korjca’s
face, gently her lips brushed against Korjca’s. She tenderly pulled
the edge of Korjca's scarf back, revealing a row of bootlace
stitching. No attempt had been made to cosmetically disguise her
cause of death other than a small amount of foundation, which had
been applied to the edge of the cut. A token effort to blunt the
brutality of the attack.

Georgina wiped her eyes. She leaned forward, close to Korjca's
face. Her nose brushed against Korjca's, while her hand caressed
her forehead and hair. She felt her fingers entwine around a small
lock of Korjca's hair. Georgina whispered Forgive me, and pulled
four tiny hairs from Korjca's scalp. She never looked at the hairs
but placed them inside an evidence bag and secured the bag deep in
her jacket pocket. Georgina wiped her eyes and left the
room.

The priest was sitting on one of the church pews close to the
door she had just exited.

‘Would you care for a drink or a coffee?’

Georgina looked drained once more. ‘That would be
nice.’

Father Reagan stood. ‘Follow me.’

He opened a door, which led outside the church. A tiny path
made of stone circled the church and ran to a small lodge fifty
metres from the main church building. The drizzle had not stopped,
there was a muted grey blanket covering the sky.

As they walked the priest spoke. ‘I am not in the habit of
bringing attractive young women home, much to my father’s
disappointment.’

Georgina’s sense of humour betrayed her feelings of grief and
she allowed a smile to spread from the corners of her mouth. ‘Are
you hitting on me, Father?’

‘You should use that smile a lot, it is very
attractive.’

Georgina could suddenly feel herself blush a
little.

‘You know, losing a friend or a loved one can be a time when
suddenly you realise how vulnerable you are as a human being. You
ask yourself lots of searching questions. Sometimes-painful
questions. You wonder if there was anything you could have done to
prevent a death or whether you had done enough for that person when
they were alive. You ask if there is a god, and if there is, what
sort of god could allow something like this happen. The one thing I
get from nearly every person who mourns is a sense of guilt. It
takes its form in many guises but I can see it. It lies in the
eyes. A black spot, a deadness. It’s not attractive and it would be
such a shame to see it in your eyes.’

They reached the front door to the lodge. The priest put his
hand to the door and it opened. ‘I always leave it unlocked even
during the night, much to my housekeeper’s alarm.’

‘And your insurers?’ Georgina said as she entered.

The priest looked heaven bound. ‘My only insurer is God.
Anyway, anything I have here on earth is but a temporary possession
and could probably be put to better use by those more needy…except
my computer and my CD player, oh and my DVD.’

Georgina smiled again, the priest was a man of contradiction;
she liked him.

Father Reagan guided Georgina through to the kitchen. The room
was in need of some decoration but only to bring it into the
current decade. Other than that it was clean and meticulously tidy.
There were shelves with recipe books, most of which seemed to be in
pristine condition, a microwave, a cooker, fridge, freezer, all the
usual utensils.

‘
Don’t ask me to use anything but the kettle, that’s Mrs
Kingsley’s domain. My housekeeper. She’s the obsessive tidier. The
one sin that I specialise in is sloth.’ Father Reagan filled the
kettle from the tap. ‘Coffee?’

Georgina pulled out a chair from a large oak table and sat.
‘One sugar, white.’

The gas lit under the kettle and began to send heat through
the thin metal surface to the water inside, sending small bubbles
of water to the cooler surface.

‘Hope you have no objections to instant?’ Reagan unscrewed a
large jar of instant coffee.

She shook her head. ‘Nope, I’m a home girl; fairly down to
earth I like to think. No pretensions.’

‘You should try confession, I only asked if you wanted
instant.’ He stirred milk into the brown powder and added the
sugar, the same amount to each cup.

‘I have this habit.’ The Priest began. ‘And before you say it,
I know it’s the monks who wear habits.’

He waited to see a smile, a little lightening up on Georgina’s
features. She obliged.

Reagan continued. ‘As I was saying I have this habit. I always
take the same amount of sugar as my guest. If they have one, I take
one, two, two and so on. Once I had an old Irish builder sitting in
the seat you’re sat at. His wife had just died and he was feeling
pretty cut up. He took five sugars in his coffee.’ Father Reagan
raised his hand and emphasised with his outstretched fingers.
‘Five! He wanted to know how he was going to survive without her.
They had been married for fifty three years.’

‘What did you tell him?’

The kettle began to protest as the hot water expanded in its
metal prison.

‘I told him to wake up tomorrow and the next day and the next
and that the pain of her death would never go away but he would
grow to love her and her memory more and more.’

‘Did that help?’

The priest reddened slightly. ‘I was young and inexperienced
then. He told me that I had no concept of grief. He was right. I
used a stock answer not one that came truly from the heart. How do
you tell an eighty five year old man living on his own in a foreign
country when all that he loved had died, that tomorrow will be
better than today. Deep down I knew it wouldn’t. No matter how much
he believed in God, tomorrow and all the following days would get
tougher until his last breath. I know that sounds bleak but I’m a
realist. The one area where I could practically help was with this
man’s life after his wife and that’s what we did. If he were forty
or fifty years younger my help would have been different.’ The
kettle began to boil over spitting hot jets of water onto the work
surface.

‘Like the amount of sugar you have in your coffee, different
amounts for different people.’

The priest nodded ‘Something like that.’ and poured the
steaming liquid on to the browned milk.

‘So, do you believe in God?’ Father Reagan asked.

‘I see too much tragedy, too much suffering of the innocent.
It kinda makes you cynical, but I respect those that
do?’

‘Father, mother?’

‘Mother’s dead. She died when I was fifteen. She had faith. My
father is too much of a pragmatist to believe in anything that
isn’t tangible.’

The priest nodded, handing Georgina a mug of hot
coffee.

‘My step mom is three years younger than me.’ Georgina
continued. ‘She still believes in God, but then again…she still
believes in Santa.’

‘Don’t get on well?’

‘Okay, I guess. I’m happy for dad. I know he wasn’t trying to
replace Mom and if I’m honest she’s good for him. As long as she
doesn’t kill him in the sack.’ Georgina sipped.