Unseen Things Above (28 page)

Bob nods. There is a silence. Outside a different robin sings the same sad sweet song. ‘Thank you for explaining.' More silence. ‘Can I just go back a bit? You say you don't want to be in any heaven that has God in it?'

Neil's throat tightens. ‘Nope.'

‘Because I'm not sure God feels the same,' says Bob. ‘I'm not sure he'd think heaven is quite complete without his Neil.'

And Neil, big jessie that he is, bursts into tears.

Freddie May fights back tears as he heads to Lindchester. Oh God, gonna have to get a grip before evensong. Guy hates me. Literally? Oh God, what had Neil told him? Had he actually confessed, or had Ed just worked out they'd got it on that time?
Kinda
got it on. Oh shit, what if Ed hadn't actually known anything, and Freddie accidentally confirmed his suspicions back there, by acting guilty? Gah, I am so dumb! No, don't start crying, you'll trash your voice. Ah nuts, what am I gonna do?

Yes, there have been a lot of tears in the Diocese of Lindchester recently, I'm afraid. My readers may be wondering about Jane. I have not forgotten her. She has been exercising considerable restraint in these first weeks of term. She has done her best to keep out of Veronica's way. But Veronica has done her best to cross Jane's path. She appeared on the back row of one of Jane's lectures, and Jane very publicly ejected her. Veronica very publicly confronted Jane about this in the bistro later, and Jane very publicly ignored her, despite Veronica pursuing her through the crowded atrium to the lifts, still loudly haranguing her for her unprofessional and non-collegial attitude. Ignoring the bejesus out of someone is very much part of Jane's skill set; but Jane has a range of other transferable skills from rugby days she was just longing to deploy. Yes, she has exercised considerable restraint.

And now this is taking its toll. Unlike Matt, she is ill suited to playing the long game. It's Friday afternoon. The evil timetabling genius of her nemesis Dr Elspeth Quilter has foisted a 4 p.m. lecture slot on her. Jane didn't complain about this; she would not dream of giving the Quisling that satisfaction. And it has to be said that the current warfare with La-La Loony makes the decade-long spat with Elspeth seem like a squabble over who gets to draw the hopscotch grid on the playground.

Jane opens her window on Floor 6 of the Fergus Abernathy building. It doesn't open far. Traffic noise rises like fumes. Student voices. A train coming in to Lindford station. It's stopped raining now. Matt is sending off his respondent's reply today. Jane has cast her eye over it. The tone is pared down, non-defensive and factual. Nonetheless, it sticks in the craw that Verruca will be copied in, and will shortly be able to read all about Jane and Matt's relationship.

Her office faces south. Oh, for the wings of a dove. South, that's the direction she'd be heading in. To the other side of the globe! Where summer is approaching, not winter. The bishop will read Matt's reply, and decide what action to take. Probably no action, Matt thinks. And then, just for the sheer hell of it, Verruca will appeal against the bishop's decision. Yeah, and once again flap her big gob to Roderick Fallon, no doubt. Fallon! Pah, Jane remembers him from Oxford days, though Fallon would not remember anyone as insignificant as a big lumpen comprehensive school Christian Union girl from the illiterate wastes of The North. And to think, she could have clubbed him over the head with an oar and dumped him in the Isis in 1982 and spared the world all his toxic waste.

And baby's coming home in just over a month. The whole of Lindford swims. Stop it, not now, you silly mare. Jane sniffs back the tears. She's been kidding herself she'd got used to the idea of not having Danny around. But oh. Later. We'll wallow later.

But this woe is just the antechamber to more woes! Slam the door, we have a lecture to deliver. Matt, what am I going to do about you? How can I go on expecting you to damage your reputation, violate your conscience, bollocks your career prospects? He hasn't said it, but Jane fears he will resign from his post rather than end their relationship. Because they clearly can't carry on with this rubbish compromise that has set tongues wagging.

Face it, you grumpy old tart, your view of marriage is outmoded.

She swats Dominic's voice away. Mentally hangs up on him again, like she literally did when he told her that last week. How she misses those old-fashioned receivers you could crash down into the cradle to make your point!

If marriage is inherently unequal and repressive, why the hell do you suppose we are campaigning so hard to be allowed to get married?

Shut up, shut up. She leans her forehead against the glass. Is it time to rethink, though? Is there any room for manoeuvre here?

Somewhere in the mayhem down below, in some tree she can't even see, a robin starts to sing.

Ed gets back to the empty vicarage. He checks his emails to see if Fr Malcolm has got back to him. He finds this message waiting in his inbox:

Dear Ed,

Really sorry, but autofill has sent this to me. I'm afraid I didn't spot it in time, and read on. I will now delete your email and will treat it as forgotten. But if there's anything I can do to support you, do get in touch.

Blessings,

Matt

No! No! This is a paper cut to the heart. But before he can even begin to process his anguish and rage, Ed hears the Porsche arrive. And now they must have one more horrible confrontation. The last one. For surely this has to be the last betrayal he can stand? Even Neil must see that. He goes to the door to meet him.

In far-off London town, Roderick Fallon belatedly acts on a tip-off. He gets on Twitter and searches once again for @choirslut90. Nada.

But wait a moment! @FreddieMayTenor. O-ho. Cleaned our act up, have we, Mr Lay Clerk at Lindchester Cathedral? Fallon enlarges the photo. Yep, it's him all right. Nice try, choirslut. I think another trip to choral evensong is in order. Thank you, Neil Ferguson!

Chapter 25

O
nce, when he was six years old, Ed visited a farm with his parents, and was charged by a billy goat. It butted him smack in the chest and knocked him flat. He remembered this when he opened the vicarage door and Neil hurled himself into his arms with a howl.

Oh, great. Once again Ed's pain was eclipsed. Like an actor about to open his lips to deliver a soliloquy, when a blood-stained tenor in full aria bursts on stage from the wings.

‘Eds! Eds!'

‘Just stop it!' Ed tried to peel himself away. ‘You went to see him, didn't you?'

Neil nodded against Ed's chest. ‘I
had
to, Eds.'

‘Had to!' Ed wrenched free. ‘After everything you said! OK. That's it. I can't take any more, Neil!'

‘I'm sorry! It was unfinished business. Eds, please!'

‘No. Get off me!'

‘Listen, he's a sweet guy—'

‘
Shut up!
How's that supposed to make me feel? Why do you have to torture me like this? What do you want? You want to force me to say I hate you? Is that it? Shall I say it? Shall I? Then you can tell me you knew all along! You're mad, Neil! I won't do this any more!'

‘No, no, you can't be like this!' He got hold of Ed's shirt front with both hands. ‘He's invited us for a meal!'

‘A meal?! Fuck off!'

‘Yes! A meal. With Janet.'

A gap, like sudden deafness, like the roaring seabed. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘Janet! His wife. They've invited us for a meal. Eds, c'mon.' He gave him a shake. ‘Please?'

Ed could see the words. Each one. They hung like beads in the air. But strung together they made no kind of sense. ‘Janet.'

‘Yes,
Janet
!' Neil shook him again. ‘I'm telling you. The Hootys. They've asked us to dinner. Hello?'

‘Oh, my God.' Ed's hands flew to his head, as if to check everything was still intact. ‘You . . . went to see the bishop?'

‘That's what I've been trying to get through to you!'

Ed sat down on the hall chair and put his head between his knees. ‘Oh, my God.' He began trembling. He felt Neil rubbing his back.

‘What's wrong? No! You thought I'd gone sneaking back to blondie from the choir? You didn't! Och, Eds!'

‘No, I'm sorry, but he was there. Today. At the church. Gayden Parva church. He turned up.'

‘And you thought—? C'mon! Are you daft? Shagging in the kirk? With Mr Jesus watching?'

Ed laughs. Then weeps. ‘He said he's lay clerk of Gayden Parva and he just wanted to see the church.'

‘Eds, you weren't mean to him, were you? Och, Eds!'

‘I just asked him to leave,' protested Ed. ‘I don't think that's unreasonable, given the history. Mean! And, frankly, I didn't believe him. It sounded so dumb.'

‘Aye, well, he's a few sandwiches short. That's the wacky baccy for you.' Neil tutted like a maiden aunt who'd warned you not to run with scissors. ‘Screws adolescent brain development, they say.'

Ed straightened up. ‘You're unbelievable. Can you actually
hear
yourself, Neil?'

‘Oh, what?' Neil knelt in front of him. Raised both hands, showed the empty palms. ‘Didn't I promise? No meds, no boys, no nothing. Just you, big man. Swear to God.'

Ed stared into the maniacal blue depths. ‘OK. I believe you. Sorry.' He closed his eyes and waited. Neil would rap on his forehead, knock the fact of his innocence in like a nail. Cheating? Me? As if!

‘Och, well,' Neil muttered. ‘Given my track record, I'd suspect me.'

Ed opened his eyes. Neil was scowling at his fingernails. The admission was a frail thing. A breath would blow it away.

‘God, I need a manicure.'

‘So how was Bob?' Shrug. ‘What did you talk about?'

‘Nothing. Never you mind.' The scowl deepened. ‘My feckin' hands look old! I've got crone hands. Do they look like crone hands to you? And another thing: I do not
torture
you.'

‘Yes, you do, Neil.'

‘Huh. Yes, well. Maybe it's because I can't torture God. Did you ever think of that? Because the bastard doesn't exist! Anyway, they've invited us— You big jessie, Ferguson.' He wiped his eyes. ‘So. Are we saying yes to dinner, or what? And it's not like I
enjoy
it, Eds! I hate myself, I don't
want
to hurt you, but I just can't stop doing it. That's why I went to see Bob, OK? When we're married, maybe I'll feel safe and, I don't know, maybe I can stop treating you like shit? Och, never mind. So, I'll email him and suggest some dates, shall I?'

‘If that's what you'd like.'

‘I would.' He hesitated, then gathered up both Ed's hands. ‘Listen. Are we OK?'

Ed sobbed. One sob, like a stray hiccup. Were they? He felt like a man who'd steeled himself for execution, and then the firing squad had produced bananas and shouted ‘Bang!' instead.

Neil squeezed Ed's hands. ‘Listen. I'm sorry for running my big gob. I get that it makes things hard for you. I mean the whole Roddy and Veronica thing. So I'll tell him to get back in his basket, we'll not be doing the interview. OK?'

‘I'm sorry – what interview?' Silence. ‘You promised him we'd do an interview?'

Ed watched the lie forming. Like a big blatant bubble, right in teacher's face, while denying he had any gum. I'm sick of being the grown-up in this relationship, he thought.

‘Course not! It's just . . . He
may
have that impression, is all. Oh, fine then, fine. I'll
un
-tell him. I'll cancel. That's what I'm saying.'

‘Please do that, Neil.' The grip tightened. ‘Oh, God. Now what?'

‘Um. Listen, you know I told you I saw Roddy in London – no? Oh. Well, anyway, I did and we got to talking over drinks? Well, he was ranting about the scoop that got away – you know what he's like – the last bishop, the one there was all the talk about? Well. Thing is, I might've given him a wee tip-off there. About who might know. And now I'm thinking we should maybe warn . . . him?'

‘Who? Oh, God. Not Freddie May?'

‘Aye.' Neil winced. ‘And I was
thinking
, maybe it would be better coming from you . . . ?'

‘No. No! I hate him. You can't ask me to do this, Neil.'

‘But I promised you I'd never contact him again! Please? I feel really bad, big man. Roddy'll eat him and spit out the feathers, poor wee daftie.'

‘No. I'm not doing it.'

It's Monday morning. The pest control man flies his Harris hawk round Lindchester Cathedral Close, to keep the pigeon population down. Round the spire, off, off forth, over rooftop and chimney pot, striding high there, out across battlement and wooded slope, then back to the falconer's call, jesses trailing (oh, my chevalier!). But there is no gold-vermillion moment for the pest control Harris hawk. It is never allowed to make the kill. The public doesn't like to see that. So the falconer feeds it a defrosted turkey poult, and puts it back in its cage. He is still loading the cage into the back of his van when the first pigeon sidles to the edge of the roof, cocks his head and peers down with a bonkers eye.
It's all right boys, he's going.

It was the dean who went to find Miss Blatherwick first thing this morning, and told her that the court appearance later in the week – for which she had been preparing her soul for so many months – would be cancelled. The accused died in his sleep last night. Peacefully in his sleep.

Miss Blatherwick sits now in the choir vestry, in the armpitty smell of ancient cassock. There's the familiar choral detritus of scores, folders, half-eaten packets of Polos, and wind-up racing nuns. Well, there will surely now be an enquiry into how the cathedral and diocese handled the business all those years ago. Aged bishops and deans (as well as aged matrons!) will still have to endure seeing the behaviour of the 1970s scrutinized through twenty-first century lenses. None shall escape; except the former chaplain who slipped away last night. Or will he? Was that departure
actually
peaceful?