Past Praying For (40 page)

‘
Nothing, Sir,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, not a thing. Not a print of any kind.’

Vezey
swore, thumping his fist down on the countertop. ‘The bastard’s washed them, that’s what he’s done. He’s scrubbed every inch of them.’

With
Robert’s round face and spectacles it was hard for him to look shark-like, but when he smiled Vezey found himself, bizarrely, thinking of spreading scarlet billows.

‘
Inside as well?’ he said.

***

And after it was all over, there was the candle-lit service in St Mary’s. It seemed hardly credible that only one short week had intervened since the last one.

Margaret
Moon found it almost unbearably poignant, and her damaged throat ached still more with the tears she must not shed. The church was fuller than last week, but her thoughts were not with the ninety-and-nine within the fold.

There
was still the familiar smell of dampness from the stone, and the jam-jar candles flickered and danced, casting wavering shadowy grotesques on the walls as the congregation rose in their pews for the hymn which Penny Jackson was cajolling from the organ, wheezier than ever tonight.

O God our help in ages past,

our hope for years to come…

But
what hope was that? So many futures blighted. Two hours ago, armed with a warrant, the forensic team had discovered – ‘just for starters’ they said – a pair of blood-spattered shoes ineptly concealed behind a wardrobe, and Patrick Bolton had been arrested.

His
killing had been for love, of a sort; a love which was illicit, illusory, and whose object had vanished like the mermaid dissipated into sea foam. There was nothing for him now but the legacy of his evil: ruin and despair.

And
an hour ago, Margaret had looked into hell itself, as bundling a devastated woman into an escape car, she saw the blood-lust of the jackal press, the men and women whose eyes showed that they had lost their souls by selling human agony for pieces of silver.

With
a sense of outrage, she recognized some of them now, mingling discreetly with the worshippers at the back of the church. It was her impulse to drive them out, to pronounce anathema, but she must not. She must, after all, believe them to be more gravely in need of grace than any. The blood on Patrick Bolton’s hands was clean by comparison.

But
the McEvoy children were in care tonight through his agency, being given ‘counselling’ which was what in the modern world was offered to those who grieved instead of love. The Ferrars were missing too, but she could see Andy, Martha and Mike Cutler in a group of youngsters. Martha’s face in the candle-light was wet with tears, and she was not alone in that. Anthea and Richard Jones were there, his face shadowed and her head buried in his shoulder.

How
wrong she had been about them all, and how she had failed her flock! She had stood here last week projecting on to them her own smug prejudices, when a more skilful shepherd might have gone out and brought back the one who was lost.
Mea
culpa
,
mea
maxima
culpa
!

Before the hills in order stood
...

Yet
perhaps she wasn’t as important as that. It had all happened long, long ago, with another disaster, when a child lost her mother and a father was too selfishly engrossed in his pain to comfort her. But then, what had happened to him, to make him as he was? There was no clear beginning, and tragically no foreseeable end.

A thousand ages in Thy sight

are like an evening gone...

The
singing was noticeably faltering. Isaac Watts’ great vision of eternity was all too apposite, and Margaret was glad of the excuse of her sore throat. She could not have sung those words without tears, nor those of the next verse.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away;

They fly forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day.

A
dream – and that, however they might all feel at the moment, was true. Tomorrow for most of them life would return to normal, and the memory and the horror would fade.

But
for the others... ‘Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death,’ poor, poor Elizabeth McEvoy had written in her despair.

Was
it sin, where there was no moral judgement? And could there be forgiveness, where there could be no remorse?

She
was too tired, and it was too difficult. In her hoarse, painful voice, she joined in singing the last verse of the hymn.

If you enjoyed
Past Praying For
you might be interested in
Night and Silence
by Aline Templeton, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
Night and Silence
by Aline Templeton

Session One: Thursday 23 July

`
When
I
was
a
child
they
used
to
put
me
in
a
cage
if
I
did
something
wrong
.
Is
that
what
you
want
me
to
talk
about
?
That
sort
of
thing
?
'

`Talk about anything you want to talk about.'

`
Oh
,
there's
nothing
I
want
to
talk
about
.
There
isn't
any
point
,
is
there
?
It's
not
going
to
make
any
difference
.
'

`What had you done the first time they did it?'

`
I
hit
my
stepmother
.
I
can
still
see
the
mark
I
made
.
Two
nice
,
neat
half
-
moons
—
dark
blue
and
angry
red
,
they
were
,
with
blood
all
swelling
up
where
I'd
broken
the
skin
.
It
tasted
disgusting
,
her
skin
;
sweet
and
faintly
sticky
.

`
She
had
smooth
,
soft
pudgy
hands
.
When
She
fondled
me
or
my
brother
—
only
if
my
father
was
watching
,
of
course
—
they
stank
,
stank
of
insincerity
and
cheap
hand
cream
.
Rose
perfume
.
To
this
day
the
smell
of
rose
perfume
turns
my
stomach
.
'

`Why did you bite her?'

`
She
had
leaned
across
the
Sunday
lunch
table
to
chuck
my
chin
,
laughing
after
one
of
her
silly
remarks
. "
Come
on
,"
She
said
, "
smile
,
just
for
once
."
I
hated
her
;
She
was
always
my
enemy
,
and
quick
as
a
thought
I
slashed
at
her
with
my
teeth
.
Like
an
animal
.

`
Only
animals
raised
by
my
father
didn't
bite
.
He
trained
all
his
gun
dogs
by
love
and
patience
,
and
they
had
mouths
like
velvet
.
Even
the
ferrets
with
their
steel
trap
jaws
never
closed
them
on
his
hands
.
He
gentled
them
into
tameness
,
and
he
was
proud
of
that
.
He
wasn't
soft
,
though
—
don't
get
me
wrong
.
His
gentleness
was
as
powerful
as
some
men's
cruelty
.

`
So
he
was
mortified
as
well
as
angry
.
As
She
screamed
he
jumped
up
.
His
face
was
crimson
,
but
my
brother's
had
gone
white
,
his
eyes
and
mouth
three
round
'O's
of
shock
.

`
She
started
sobbing
,
of
course
,
always
the
drama
queen
.
Her
tears
made
streaky
white
runnels
in
her
make
-
up
,
and
the
mascara
that
always
clogged
her
eyelashes
began
dissolving
into
sooty
panda
patches
round
her
eyes
.
I
wanted
to
laugh
.