Layla looked up at the Black Virgin. ‘I lied about this lady. She’s my protection – nothing to do with Amy. I always felt this affinity with Sara. The patron saint of gypsies. But more than that, like I said: as long as she’s up there, watching over me, I feel protected – against whatever Justine turns out to be.’
‘More than I do,’ Jane confessed. Not that it was hard confessing anything to Layla Riddock any more. It was as if, in these past few minutes, she’d shed some age, was far closer in years to Jane. ‘Look, I’m sorry, you know? I got this badly wrong.’
Layla patted Jane’s arm. ‘We’ve all got this wrong at some stage.’
Eirion watched them from a few yards away. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is something I find moving. I’ll go out to the car and ring the police. Where…?’
‘Follow the aisle and you’ll find a wooden door at the end. It’s barred on this side. Hang on, take a candle with you.’
Layla walked back to the flickering altar, where the grotesque but evidently benevolent Black Virgin hung above it in her white robe.
As she reached the altar, the Black Virgin fell, with a slithering sound, down from the screen, in front of the candles. ‘Oh God.’ Jane rushed back down the aisle. ‘She’ll catch light.’
The Black Virgin rose up to meet her, its white arms flapping, which was kind of spooky, but Jane laughed and brushed the cotton robe aside, and then Layla fell into her arms.
‘Oh Jesus!’ Eirion cried out.
Layla was coughing. Jane was aware of movement to her left, but she was too intent on staying upright because Layla was pretty heavy, a big girl. Jane staggered back into the aisle under her weight, her arms wrapped around Layla, who just kept coughing. Jane’s chin and neck were hot and wet now with what Layla was coughing up – vomit or bile. Oh, gross.
It was when she became aware of the salty, coppery tang that Jane’s arms sprang apart in true horror.
One of the candles did set light to the robe of Sara, the patron saint of the Romanies. Jane saw the flames suddenly leap. And then, in their light, she saw the girl with straight, blonde hair in a white dress – it looked like a confirmation dress – standing on the altar with the carving knife held high and dripping.
Then Amy Shelbone leaped down from the altar and ran jerkily up the aisle and, as Jane stood there, with Layla’s lifeblood on her throat and chest, Amy also stabbed Eirion.
Part Four
The healer’s role will lie not only in rescuing a lost soul but also in experiencing that soul’s misery and pain, thereby ‘capturing’ the curse or spell responsible for keeping the dead person out of the grave.
The spirit of the deceased person is addressed in terms of love and consolation in which the eternal forgiveness of God is emphasized.
Church of England
Diocese of Hereford
Ministry of Deliverance
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If you are in trouble, any Christian priest will be very willing to help you.
However, in all denominations, attitudes towards the treatment of spirtual problems will always differ and, as with any other form of healing service on offer, you should never be afraid to ask for a second opinion.
43
Retribution
WHEN THEY FINALLY made it home, the dawn was bleeding freely over Ledwardine. Less than half an hour after going to her own bed, Jane appeared in Merrily’s bedroom doorway.
It was 6.08 a.m. The sun was well up now. It was already, somehow, humid and airless.
‘Cold,’ Jane said and slipped into bed beside Merrily.
Eventually, Merrily slept for almost an hour, though it felt like four minutes. All the time, the phone was ringing downstairs. Or so it seemed.
At just after seven a.m., she rose quietly. Jane was still sleeping.
Merrily prayed, in a desultory way, had a quick, lukewarm shower. All the stored hot water had fallen on Jane not so very long ago. Jane hadn’t wanted to come out of the shower. Ever.
In towelling robe and slippers, Merrily went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The phone was ringing again. She didn’t react to it.
She put out both wet and dry food for Ethel the cat. She made herself some tea. Outside, it was as sunny as it had been yesterday morning and the morning before. This would be the last day of the mini-heatwave, someone had said. More little yellow-green apples had fallen to the ochre lawn.
Merrily felt like the world was in colour and she was in black and white and grey.
She felt like a ghost.
In the scullery/office, she sat down in the usual sunbeam with her tea. The phone was still ringing. There were twenty-five messages on the answering machine, which meant that the tape was full.
Merrily unplugged the phone and forced herself to play every one.
There were calls from papers and radio stations she’d never even heard of.
There was a call from a woman, who even gave her name. Mrs Fry said Merrily was a smug, ambitious little bitch who deserved everything she had coming to her. Merrily didn’t recognize the voice.
There was a call from someone, a man, who just sniggered and hung up. It was a vaguely familiar snigger, quite possibly a church organist who had once exposed himself to her over a tombstone. Stock’s death had been announced too late for most of the papers; the sniggerer, like Mrs Fry, whoever she was, had probably been inspired by something on the radio or breakfast TV. What did it matter now?
A call from Dafydd Sion Lewis, in Pembrokeshire, began without preamble. ‘Mrs Watkins, I consider myself a liberal parent and what my son does in his own time is, for the most part, his own business. However—’
Merrily had already spoken to Dafydd Sion Lewis, awakening him at three-thirty a.m., because she didn’t want the police to call him first.
The only useful message was from DS Andy Mumford at Hereford. ‘Mrs Watkins, thought you’d want to know we found Amy Shelbone wandering near Clehonger, couple of miles from the Barnchurch estate. We’ll be talking to her properly today. And if we could see Jane again, that would be useful. Oh… we still haven’t found the knife, but we’re searching.’
There were several calls she had to make. She plugged in the phone and picked it up.
A man’s voice said, ‘Hello…’
Damn. How could that happen?
‘Is that Merrily Watkins?’
Yes, she said. The word didn’t come out. ‘Yes.’
She decided, at that moment, that whichever paper this was she would answer whatever questions were put to her and she would tell the entire truth. This would save a lot of time and in no way alter the final verdict.
‘This is Simon St John at Knight’s Frome.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, I’m very sorry to bother you so early. I was going to leave a message on your machine, actually. I understand from Lol that you’ve had a stressful night, so you may not want to be involved in this. It’s just that I’ve been talking to the Boswells.’