Ripped (88 page)

'I
hope
you
don't
understand
what
you're
trying
to
do,'
Father Hurtle
said.
'Surely
if
I
explain
it
to
you,
you
will
give
up
this
thing.
Let
her
children
alone.
What
would
you
tell
them?
It's
my
prayer
they
have
no
idea
now
who
their
mother
was.'

'Have
you
any
right
to
decide
for
them?'
Murray
asked
quietly.
'Don't
tell
me
you've
never
heard
of
adopted
children
wanting
to
find
that
out.'

'I
can
tell
you
about
their
mother,'
the
priest
said.
'Oh,
I
haven't forgotten.
She
was
born
in
Belgium,
and
during
the
war
–
she
must
have
been
very
young
–
sixteen
perhaps
– a
German
soldier
fell
in
love
with
her
and
somehow
got
her
to
his
parents
in
Bavaria.
He
was
sent
to
the
Eastern
Front
for
his
pains
and
died
somewhere
in
that
confusion
.
Working
all
the
daylight
hours,
she
was
trapped
on
a
farm
with
his
parents
who
hated
her.
I
was
her
priest,
you
see,
and
she
told
me
these
things.'
Closing
his
eyes,
he
rubbed
his
forehead
as
if
he
was
suddenly
tired.
The
fingers
were
long
and
thin;
like
the
man
himself,
to
Murray
they
seemed
fragile,
as
if
they
might
be
too
easily
broken.
'A
British
soldier
rescued
her
from
that
–
and
married
her.
The
marriage
lasted
on
and
off
for
years
and
it's
possible
he
was
the
father
of
the
older
girl.
When
I
wrote
to
him
,
afterwards,
after
her
death,
he
sent
me
a
letter
saying
he
knew
nothing
about
the
kind
of
life
she
had
been
living.
He
was
remarried
and
had
begun
a
second
family.
He
wanted
to
have
nothing
to
do
with
the
children.
You
couldn't
blame
him
.
'

'Everybody
deserves
to
be
remembered,'
Murray
said.
'Why
shouldn't
her
children
learn
about
Annette
Verhaeren?'

'Do
you
know
where
they
found
her
body?'
Father
Hurtle
asked.
'Have
you
ever
lived
in
a
tenement
in
a
place
like
Moirhill?'

Murray
nodded
.

'Do
you
remember
the
open
stone
sheds
in
the
common
yard
at
the
back
of
those
tenements,
the
ones
they
use
for
storing
bins
of
rubbish?
The
body
was
clothed,
but
the
buttons
were
crammed
into
the
wrong
holes
-
the
garments
were
put
on
clumsily.
The
police
said
she
had
been
beaten
when
she
was
naked
.
They
could
tell
it
had
been
done
with
a
bar
of
metal
–
wood
would
have
splintered
in
her
flesh,
you
see.
If
it
had
been
started
methodically,
it
had
ended
in
a
kind
of
frenzy.
Her
body
was
a
bag
of broken
bones.
It
was
summer
and
the
refuse
men
were
on
strike.
She
was
found
among
the
stinking
rubbish
that
had
spilled
over
from
the
open
bins
.
'

After
a
moment's
silence,
Murray
sipped
at
his
tea,
but
it
had
gone
cold.

'You
know
I
can
find
them
without
your
help,'
he
said.
'Coming
to
you
is
just
one
way
of
doing
it.'

Father
Hurtle
got
to
his
feet
slowly,
as
if
his
body
were
a
burden.
'I'm
going
for
a
walk
along
the
beach.'

'Would
you
mind
if
I
kept
you
company?'

'No.'
Unexpectedly,
he
smiled
.
'But
I
won't
change
my
mind.'
They
picked
their
way
down
the
slope
to
the
shore.
The
mist
now
was
hiding
most
of
the
sea.
Their
feet
sank
into
the
white
sand
where
the
wind
had
gathered
it
at
the
beginning
of
the beach
.

'I
am
sorry
you
have
made
your
journey
for
nothing,'
the
priest
said.

By
common
consent,
they
started
across
the
sand
to
the
water's
edge.
A
glance
at
the
priest
labouring
by
his
side
forced
on
Murray
the
unwanted
resemblance
to
Billy
Shanks:
not
just
that
they
were
both
above
average
height,
both
too
thin,
but
something
in
them
flayed
and
vulnerable;
and
it
was
this
quality
in
Father
Hurtle
which
made
Murray
recognise
it
as
being
in
Billy
too,
for
it
was
more
evident
in
the
priest,
as
if
he
had
gone
further
along
a
road
the
two
men
were
to
share.
When
he
stopped
by
the
water,
Father
Hurtle
drifted
two
or
three
paces
apart.
The
little
waves
shushing
into
the
sand
at
their
feet
made
an
enclosing
and
private
sound.