‘You thought.’ Merrily sat in the circle of lamplight and tried to remember if Jane had ever mentioned the incident. But she hadn’t gone back to school until the January term; probably all blown over by then.
‘And that’s all I can tell you,’ Morrell said. ‘However, if you are planning to take this any further, I’d offer two suggestions – one, if you’re going to take on Layla Riddock, remember you’re taking on Allan Henry, too, and he’s a man with unlimited money and with friends in high places.’
‘Not as high as mine, I always like to think.’ Merrily was starting to feel light-headed. How peevishly simple this could all turn out to be: Shelbone terminates Layla’s power-trip; Layla puts the frighteners on Shelbone’s daughter.
Morrell said, ‘My other advice is, leave Shelbone alone.’
‘You think he might try to convert me to Christianity?’
‘If you want to know about David Shelbone, talk to our friend Charlie Howe. He’ll tell you what kind of fanatic you’re dealing with – and I don’t just mean religion, which would probably never seem like fanaticism to you. The other reason not to bother Shelbone is that I’m afraid the poor guy has personal problems at the moment. I… I had a call about it earlier this evening. His daughter attempted suicide this afternoon.’
Merrily froze, the cigarette at her lips.
‘Less uncommon, I’m afraid, than it used to be,’ Morrell said, ‘especially at this time of year – children thinking they’ve done badly in their GCSEs, therefore their lives must be over. Maybe nothing at all to do with us, so I’m not going to theorize at this stage. Summer can be a stressful time for some kids.’
‘What did she do to herself?’ Half an inch of ash fell to the desk.
‘Friend of… Jane’s – is she?’
‘What did she do?’
‘Overdose, I believe. Taken to the County Hospital. They got to her in time, I gather.’
Merrily closed her eyes. The penny started spinning.
‘Always sad,’ Morrell said. Just like Merrily, he must have been putting two and two together from the moment the name Shelbone left his lips.
But he did have to be at the airport by seven.
‘So… if that’s all, I’ll get off to bed,’ he said.
She called Dennis Beckett; he knew nothing about Amy and an overdose. He couldn’t seem to absorb the significance. ‘But I prayed with her,’ he said querulously. ‘We prayed together.’ And then he added vaguely, ‘Perhaps she should have seen a doctor.’
‘Her parents wouldn’t.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘when I left her, she was spiritually calm.’
And how could you possibly know that?
Merrily asked him if he’d be visiting the parents tomorrow. ‘You are still minding the parish, aren’t you?’
‘Why did this have to happen?’ Dennis said plaintively.
Meaning, why did it have to happen while Jeff Kimball was on holiday.
‘What is it you want me to try and find out?’ he asked her at last, with resignation. He clearly didn’t want to have anything more to do with this case.
‘Could you find out if they’ll talk to me?’ Merrily said. ‘Both of them?’
She switched off the anglepoise and sat in the dark, watching the red light on the answering machine, wondering how she would have handled this if she’d known from the beginning about Layla Riddock.
When she switched the light back on, nothing seemed any clearer and it was eleven-thirty. She called Huw Owen, who never seemed to sleep.
‘I tossed the coin,’ she told him eventually. ‘It came up tails. Twice tails: no spiritual interference, no unquiet spirit.’
‘And how did you feel, lass?’
‘Weird.’
‘Come on, talk grown-up, eh?’
‘Sorry. I felt separation. Transcendence. Little me, big God. Plus, I was in there all night, but it felt like… not so long.’
‘How long?’
‘Six hours felt like – I don’t know – less than two. And you don’t fall asleep on your knees, do you?’
‘Contraction of time, eh?’
‘And it was… profound, moving, exalting – all that stuff. But I’m trying not to get carried away, because somehow it didn’t tally with what happened afterwards, out here in the material world. It’s not been a great day for me, Huw.’
‘Bugger me.’ She heard him drawing in a thin breath, like the wind through a keyhole. ‘You’re still expecting God to make it easy?’
‘I should scourge myself, put Brillo pads in my underwear?’
‘What I’m thinking, Merrily,’ Huw said reasonably, ‘is if you were in the church all last night, you should be getting some sleep. Just a thought.’
‘I grabbed an hour or so earlier. Look, I’ve got a kid who tried to kill herself. What can I do?’
‘Nowt. Let this Dennis pick up the mucky end of the stick for a change. Hang back, see what transpires.’
‘What transpires? Hasn’t enough bloody transpired?’
‘The girl’ll be safe in hospital for the time being.’
‘And what about Layla Riddock?’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘there’s your problem, looks like. But we’re not the police. And even if we were, what’s she done wrong?’
‘Apart from terrifying old ladies and driving a little girl to the point of suicide as an act of pure vengeance?’
‘All right, it’s a tough one,’ he admitted. ‘Needs thought, prayer.’
‘Or the toss of a coin?’
‘Get off to bed, Merrily,’ Huw growled.
She lay in bed, with Ethel the cat in the cleft in the duvet between her knees. She slept eventually. She dreamed, over and over, that the phone was ringing. She dreamed of a withering foetus inside her and awoke, sweating, and then closed her eyes, visualizing a golden cross in blue air above her, and slept again and awoke – something coming back to her from the night in the church. And she thought, Justine?
Awakening, stickily, into blindingly mature sunlight and the echoey squeak-and-clang of the cast-iron knocker on the front door.
Panic. Jane would be late for—Stumbling halfway downstairs, dragging on her towelling robe before she realized there was no Jane to worry about. The knocking had long stopped; she didn’t know how long it had been going on, and now the phone was shrilling. She dragged open the front door, and found nobody there. She ran through to the scullery, saw she’d left the anglepoise lamp on all night, and grabbed the phone.
‘Oh. I was begining to think you’d left already.’
‘Sophie—? Oh God, what time is it?’
‘It’s just gone eight. Are you all right?’
‘Er – yeh. Sorry, I… Late night.’
‘You haven’t forgotten Mr Stock?’
‘Mr S—?’
‘The haunted hop-kiln,’ Sophie said. ‘You’re due there by nine, remember? I made an appointment for you?’
‘Oh shit…’
‘Merrily, I was ringing to warn you that we’ve had more calls from the press. The People asked if they could be there – exclusively – for the exorcism. We said on no account. We also declined to confirm that there was going to be an exorcism. Also, more alarming as far as the Bishop was concerned, the religious affairs correspondent of the Daily Telegraph—’