Authors: Stephen Irwin
The Anglican church squatted darkly on the street corner like some colossal, ancient hound: spiny and carved and solemn as dolman stones. Opposite was parked Nicholas’s Hyundai. The windows were fogged; Nicholas and Suzette had been arguing inside for nearly ten minutes.
‘How? Easy!’ said Nicholas. ‘We just tell him we want to see the records.’
‘Genius, he’s a
minister
!’ snapped Suzette. ‘He’s going to think we’re insane.’>
‘Reverend,’ corrected Nicholas.
‘He doesn’t believe what we believe.’
‘He will when he sees the pictures.’
‘Nicholas,’ she said, ‘he may never have met Mrs Quill. It’s only our say-so that she looks like this Bretherton woman, who, I must point out,
paid for his church
! For all we know she’s a fucking saint!’
Nicholas shrugged - so?
‘And while
I
know that I saw Tristram’s ghost when I was a kid,’ continued Suzette, ‘ten out of ten people would suggest that I had a crush on Tristram and so I made myself
imagine
that I saw his ghost out of wishful thinking.’
Nicholas snorted. ‘I see ghosts all the time. That’s not wishful thinking.’
Suzette watched him impatiently.
‘Your wife died, Nicholas. Think about it.’
He opened his mouth to retort, but her words had caught him.
My wife died.
People forgave a lot when they heard that. But they also expected a lot. They expected you to be a little irrational. A bit unhinged. And irrational, unhinged people didn’t make credible witnesses.
When Suzette saw that he was getting her point, she spoke quietly. ‘We have a string of coincidences that simply fall apart unless you believe in ghosts.’
He shifted. Across the street, the church was a silhouette, solid as rock. And inside were Quill’s Green Men, the strange, half-human faces with shadowed, carved eyes. It was her church.
‘She murders children,’ he whispered.
‘I think so, too.’
‘So that she can live longer. And - Christ knows why - to stop people going into those woods.’
Suzette licked her lips. ‘Yes. I believe that, too.’
‘So, why would she build a church?’
Suzette rolled her eyes. Their argument had come full circle - again.
‘I don’t know!’
‘And how else are we going to find out if we don’t ask the people
who run the church
?’
They looked at each other. This seemed no different from the spars they’d had as children: him railing, incensed at her dispassion; her countering every point with quiet logic. Rain tapped insistently on the bonnet of the car.
‘We’ll tell him we
love
Tallong and we’ve decided to make a . . . I don’t know, some sort of community historical newsletter,’ said Nicholas.
Suzette looked at her brother for a long moment.
‘This is a bad short skirt,’ she said finally.
He looked at her blankly. ‘I don’t—’
‘Some economists theorise that short skirts appear when general consumer confidence and excitement are high. So those positive economic periods are called “short skirts”. But when that confidence and excitement is unfounded: bad short skirt.’
‘Watch and learn,’ said Nicholas, alighting.
She reluctantly followed him to the rectory.
15
R
everend Pritam Anand sipped the last of his dissolved codeine tablets and winced at the taste.
Still
, he thought,
if it takes the edge off this headache, I wouldn’t care if it tasted a hundred times worse
. He’d woken that morning with his head throbbing and feeling as if his brain had been grabbed by invisible hands and wrung like a wet hand towel. Nothing had eased it all day, and he was looking forward to a quiet rest before resuming his chess game with John when he heard the knocking at the presbytery door.
Now, two guests were in the sitting room.
Pritam quietly shut the door at the far side of the room that led to the bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen.
‘I don’t want to wake the Right Reverend,’ he explained. ‘He’s an odd sleeper. He’ll rise about ten tonight till two or three in the morning.’
He returned to sit opposite Nicholas Close and his sister, Suzette Moynahan. The siblings each held a cup of steaming coffee.
The sitting room’s walls were lined with bookshelves. Its chairs were old but comfortable leather club seats. A chessboard was set mid-game on a small occasional table. A mantel clock tocked and a bar heater ticked pleasantly; warm bricks, dark timber. On one wall hung a Turner print and a framed map of the world; on another, a solitary crucifix; the opposite wall held two-dozen framed photographs of the church’s reverends, from the present Reverend Hird back to the nineteenth century and its first: de Witt.
Pritam noted that Nicholas was straining not to look at the last photograph. He liked Nicholas; he’d proved an interesting conversationalist when he’d invited him into the church after Gavin Boye’s funeral. But tonight he looked pale with dark shadows under his eyes. If he’d not met the man before, Pritam would have guessed he was a smack addict.
‘So. You two guys live here?’ asked Nicholas.
Pritam explained that Reverend Hird was the rector but was planning on retiring at the end of the year. His health had been poor, and when the synod had asked him for suggestions about what to do with an upstart reverend from Goa, the old man had a delightful solution: to make Pritam his successor.
‘Above all, I think he enjoys having someone around to argue with,’ said Pritam.
‘I know the feeling,’ said Nicholas, smiling pleasantly at Suzette. She narrowed her eyes.
‘Pritam, are the church’s records kept here?’ he continued. ‘Or at . . . I don’t know, Anglican HQ?’
‘Here.’ Pritam pointed at a closed door marked ‘Storeroom’. ‘Everything. Weekly tithes. Repair bills. Who married here. Baptisms. Funerals. Tax records. Copies are sent to “Anglican HQ”,’ he said dryly, ‘but we keep the originals here. There are . . . oh, perhaps nine or ten archive boxes in there. Why do you ask?’
‘Dating back?’
‘Dating all the way back.’
‘Can we see them?’
Pritam stretched his neck, but kept his eyes fixed on his guests. He hadn’t expected to open the door to such a strange line of questioning.
But then
, he thought,
it has been a strange couple of days
.
‘That depends,’ he replied. ‘Once again: why do you ask? And please bear in mind that I have a rotten headache and am really in no mood for this ill-advised masquerade about your making some community history newsletter.’
He saw Suzette level a cool look at her brother.
‘I’m sorry, Pritam. I don’t think we can tell you why we’re really here,’ said Nicholas.
Pritam felt the veins in his temples throb.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘You won’t believe us.’
‘Won’t believe him,’ clarified Suzette, pointing at Nicholas. ‘I thought it was a bad idea to trouble you with our . . . suppositions.’
Pritam regarded them both.
‘It is quite a dismal night out. And neither of you - forgive me for this assumption - look the sort to prefer the polite company of an Indian priest over a night on the couch in front of
Californication
. So this is somewhat important, yes?’
Nicholas met Pritam’s gaze and nodded.
Pritam inclined his head.
‘And does it have anything to do with Gavin Boye’s suicide?’
Nicholas and Suzette exchanged a glance. Nicholas nodded again. ‘And Eleanor Bretherton,’ he said.
Pritam let out a breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose. The codeine was beginning to work, but was a long way from making him feel sociable. He shifted in his chair, unable to get comfortable.
‘Did you know that I was offered a Rhodes scholarship?’ he asked. ‘So I’m not an idiot. Well, I went to seminary here instead of going to Oxford, so some would argue that does make me an idiot. Regardless, I cannot think of
any
connection between Gavin Boye and a long-dead patron of this church.’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Nicholas. ‘I don’t think you’re gonna fancy the one I’m about to tell you.’
Pritam smiled. ‘My father was fond of an old saying: when an elephant is in trouble, even a frog will kick him. You, my friend,’ he pointed at Nicholas, ‘look like you’re in ten different kinds of trouble. So may I suggest trying me.’
Nicholas looked at Suzette. Pritam saw her shake her head as a final discouragement. Nicholas ignored her.
‘Every twenty years or so,’ he began, ‘for the last hundred and twenty years at least, a local child - a child from around here in Tallong - has been murdered.’
Pritam nodded - go on.
‘The second-last murder was a childhood friend of ours, Tristram Boye,’ continued Nicholas. ‘Gavin Boye’s brother. He was killed in 1982. Tris was chased into the woods on Carmichael Road but found a few miles away with his . . .’ Nicholas licked his dry lips, ‘. . . with his throat cut. The last child murdered was the Thomas boy. He also had his throat slit.’
Pritam said nothing, but watched his guests. Suzette broke the silence.
‘We think the murders are connected,’ she said.
Pritam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Which ones?’
‘All of them,’ replied Nicholas.
Pritam stopped moving in his chair.
‘Connected? Over a hundred and twenty years?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘Or more,’ he said. ‘Maybe a hundred and fifty years.’
‘We should go,’ said Suzette.
Nicholas shook his head at his sister.
Pritam frowned. The news about the murders was new to him, an unpleasant surprise. Since he’d arrived in Tallong, he’d found it a pretty, hospitable, slightly dull suburb. But now a suggestion that the murders were not a string of chance happenings, but linked . . . Maybe a few days ago, he’d have laughed this off. But his aching skull and the dark mood he’d felt since his evening alone in the church had punched down his sense of humour.
‘Are you talking about . . . Are you suggesting ritual killings?’ he asked.
Nicholas watched him carefully.
‘Kind of,’ he replied.
Pritam nodded, and stared at the floor, deep in thought. The ticking of the mantel clock seemed suddenly loud. ‘I urge you to be very careful answering this next question,’ he said. ‘Are you also suggesting a connection between all these murders and this church?’
He realised he was gripping the arms of his chair tightly. He looked up at his guests; they’d both noticed the same thing.
‘No,’ said Nicholas slowly. ‘To her.’ He nodded at the leftmost photograph. It showed Reverend de Witt smiling beside dour Eleanor Bretherton as she laid the church’s foundation stone.
Pritam felt his headache returning like a flash tide and he closed his eyes at the pain.
‘Pritam?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing. ‘This is all a bit fantastical for me this evening. Perhaps . . .’ He indicated the door.
‘Jesus, hear us out,’ said Nicholas.
Pritam blanched at the blasphemy.
‘Let’s go,’ said Suzette firmly, taking her brother’s arm. ‘Maybe another time, Reverend.’
Nicholas shook her grip off.
‘Pritam, we know it’s all pretty airy-fairy, but if you just let us look through your records—’
Pritam found his voice rising, riding the unwelcome wave of the headache, and was powerless to stop it. ‘Nicholas, you are suggesting cult murders, you’re suggesting some cover-up. It is insulting to my congregation, it’s insulting to Reverend Hird, and it’s insulting to me.’
‘I don’t give a fart about him or your congregation,’ said Nicholas. He jabbed a finger at the photograph of Eleanor Bretherton. ‘It’s her!’
Suzette yanked Nicholas out of his chair and dragged him to the door.
‘We’re sorry,’ she said.
‘I’m not sorry,’ snapped Nicholas, eyes locked on Pritam. ‘Maybe there
is
some cover-up!’
Pritam saw the wildness in Nicholas’s eyes.
Maybe I was wrong
, he thought.
Maybe he is on drugs
.
Suzette threw open the door and dragged Nicholas out into the drizzle, hissing unheard words at her brother.
‘No, it’s a fucking
joke
,’ he snapped.
‘Good night,’ said Pritam, eyes hard.
‘Sorry,’ said Suzette, closing the door.
Nicholas seemed to think of something, and again slipped out of her grip and stuck his foot between the door and the jamb.
‘Please, Nicholas . . .’ began Pritam, walking wearily to the door.
‘One last question and I’ll go.’
Pritam hesitated a moment, then waved his hand - fine.
‘How long has Hird been in Tallong?’ asked Nicholas.
Pritam took a breath, shook his head. ‘Thirty years or more.’
Nicholas nodded, eyes bright; Pritam could again see the pleasant young man who had looked so terrified at the sight of the Green Man.
‘Then get Hird to look at the photograph of Mrs Bretherton. Ask him if he remembers a seamstress named Mrs Quill. Quill, like feather. Will you do that?’
Pritam watched Nicholas for a long moment. He was a nice guy, he was sure, but looked on the edge of some very dark cliff.
‘You should consider getting some grief counselling, Nicholas.’
For some reason, Nicholas let out a bark of a laugh and withdrew his foot.
Pritam shut the door with a loud, solid click. Outside, retreating footsteps and the surf-like hush of rain. Already, his headache seemed to be withdrawing.
He went to the nearest window and eased aside the heavy tapestry curtains. Across the rain-shiny street, brother and sister hurried to their car. He heard their doors close, then the car start and take off. Soon, the only noise was his breathing, the tocking of the clock, the soft clicking of the bar heater element.
Pritam took a deep breath and walked over to the photograph of the Right Reverend de Witt and Eleanor Bretherton laying the foundation stone. The photograph had disturbed him since he first laid eyes on it. He’d always assumed it was because the church, now so solid and real, was in the photograph merely a slab; looking at the old photograph was like seeing an autopsy picture of a close acquaintance lying naked and too exposed. But now, fixing on the severe gaze that Eleanor Bretherton sent back through the glass and a hundred and thirty years, Pritam realised he might have been wrong. The reason the photograph was disturbing was
her
.