‘I am told by the lawyers employed by my diocese that I should not talk of these things.’ Dryden’s eye caught a shadow moving by the altar.
The priest stood and left by a side door on the far side of the church from the presbytery. Outside there was a memorial garden, some battered roses frozen against their sticks. Beyond the Black Fen stretched, scorched by the overnight frost. Where the ice was gone the grass on the peat was a deep green, like seaweed.
Father Martin buttoned up a heavy coat and raised a finger to point north. ‘The Catholic Orphanage of St Vincent de Barfleur,’ he said. A mile distant, on a slight rise, stood the ruins of a house. The building’s shadow in the low winter light was as substantial as the house itself.
Dryden nodded. ‘But you’re not saying anything on the record at this time. That’s the case?’
Father Martin nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Those are my instructions.’
Dryden flipped open the mobile and rang Charlie. The call was answered, but for a few seconds Dryden could hear only the sound of festivities in the Fenman; Garry’s voice, excited by alcohol, shouted for a drink.
‘It’s me,’ said Dryden. ‘It’s no comment. That’s official.’ He cut Charlie dead before he repeated an invitation to join them at the bar.
Father Martin extracted a silver cigarette case from his overcoat and offered one. Dryden sensed a moment of communion and took it, and a light from the priest’s hand, noting the acrid scent of menthol.
‘I walk at this time…’ said Father Martin, about to excuse himself.
‘Why St Vincent de Barfleur?’ said Dryden, trying to keep his witness talking.
‘He is one of the most admirable of the martyrs.’ Father Martin smiled. ‘Would you like to know how he died?’
Dryden nodded, avoiding the priest’s eyes.
‘He was crucified upside-down. A lingering death, but he never cried out to denounce his faith.’
Dryden felt the old antagonisms rise. ‘Which is admirable, is it?’
Martin nodded, not hearing. ‘Do you want to know why they crucified him?’
‘I suspect you are about to tell me, Father.’
‘They crucified him because he refused to let them twist his words. They were actually anxious to avoid the spectacle of a crucifixion, so they offered him a way out – a form of words. He wouldn’t take it, he said the words of Christ were sacred.’
Dryden swallowed hard. ‘I’m doing my job.’
Father Martin shrugged, happy to have hit his mark. Dryden drew heavily on the cigarette and let it drop to the grass, where the sizzle was audible. ‘I could walk with you,’ he said.
Father Martin smiled. ‘As you are so interested, Mr Dryden, perhaps we should visit the ruins of St Vincent’s?’ Dryden returned the smile but felt manipulated, beaten, and in a curious way, as he followed Father Martin across the Fen, a victim too.
7
Out on the peat the soil was silent, the usual trickling of water petrified by the permafrost. Dryden’s battered brown leather shoes were still dry when they got to the ruins, a lonely landmark it took them ten minutes to reach. A single snow flurry came and went, leaving the peat peppered with unmelted flakes of ice.
The orphanage had stood on a low island of clay in the Black Fen reached by a one-track drove which ran beside a deep drain. The building itself had been surrounded by a wall topped by iron spikes, now punctuated by falls of rubble. The entrance gates had long gone but over them a wrought-iron frieze held the name still.
The Catholic Orphanage of St Vincent de Barfleur.
Dryden nodded, unnerved by Father Martin’s brief excursion into Catholic history, and wondered out loud why it had been closed down.
‘Orphanages were out of fashion, and the Church’s reputation was hardly pristine. Numbers fell, too far in the end. The diocese tried to sell the building, it’s still trying to sell the building, but it’s been closed for a decade, more.’
Dryden looked at the priest’s profile, the jutting Gaelic brow in contrast to the weak nose. He’d guessed he was close to retirement age – perhaps sixty or more. The black cassock beneath the heavy overcoat made him look more substantial than he was.
They skirted an outer fence of wooden stakes and barbed wire which had been thrown up to provide some security. One of the fenceposts had taken root, a tree now the height of two men.
‘Good God,’ said Dryden, stopping and running a finger along the sapling’s bark, regardless of the blasphemy.
‘Yes,’ said Martin, the face brightening for the first time, the birthmark less visible now the priest’s skin had reddened with the cold. ‘A poplar. The posts must have been very green; it’s taken root. A little miracle…’
Dryden returned the gaze and the smile vanished.
They were in the shadow of the building now and, out of the blinding low-slung rays of the sun, Dryden could see it clearly for the first time. The floorplan was a letter H, and only the forward two wings were, in fact, in ruin. The rest of the house had been secured with corrugated iron over the downstairs windows and doors. It looked like a workhouse: functional architecture with the single flourish of the grand doorway over which stood a marble canopy on two pillars, one of which was bending outwards alarmingly. Ivy, now white with ice, had colonized the façade.
‘I didn’t realize it was so big,’ said Dryden. ‘How many boys?’
Martin crunched out a cigarette on the flagstoned courtyard. ‘Twisted words, Mr Dryden – our lawyers were quite specific. I should say nothing.’
Dryden held up his hands. ‘No notebook. I’m just trying to understand.’
Martin nodded. ‘I’ve read your stories, Mr Dryden. I detect a marked sympathy with the alleged victims.’
‘A Catholic education, I’m afraid. It leaves scars,’ said Dryden, struggling to keep the conversation uncharged.
The priest nodded, classing himself effortlessly as a victim too. He retrieved another cigarette and Dryden recalled the priests of his childhood and the acrid stench of nicotine; the jaundiced fingers.
‘Just over two hundred in 1970,’ said Martin. ‘That was the centenary. It had been there, or thereabouts, for years. There was a great need, you see – especially amongst the urban poor. Our boys came from many places, sent by their churches.’
‘And the priests?’
‘Numbers? It varied. When I was principal we never managed more than a dozen. Class sizes were on the large side – but then the education was on the poor side.’
They laughed, and the space echoed like an empty room.
‘I will deny this conversation, Mr Dryden – if anything ever appears.’
Dryden nodded. ‘It won’t.’
Martin stiffened, a palm at the base of his spine. ‘There was never any sexual abuse – you do know that? The allegations all refer to what – these days – can only be described as inappropriate attempts at imposing discipline.’
‘That’s a plus point, is it? A badge of honour? It’s certainly a novel brand image. St Vincent’s – we beat them but we never fuck them.’
Dryden was pleased he’d said it. Martin coloured, the birthmark almost disappearing, the hand holding the cigarette vibrating slightly. Dryden felt he’d reclaimed a little bit of his own childhood, if nobody else’s.
The priest produced a set of keys and wrestled briefly with a large padlock on the corrugated-iron sheet covering the front door. He swung it back, almost violently, as if airing the place, and then unlocked the door behind, which was studded with nails in mock medieval grandeur. Then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows, without looking back.
By the time Dryden had edged over the threshold the priest had thrown open a shutter, the light revealing in the gloom of the entrance hall an ugly ironwork candelabra suffocated in cobwebs.
‘I was thirty-one when I arrived here as principal in 1970,’ said Martin, shivering despite himself. ‘I think the diocese knew something was wrong and I was supposed to put things straight. The outsider. And that’s how they treated me.’