I wanted some time for myself anyway, to do what Jed in that first parish called a ‘wide-mesh trawl’. The more I thought about whoever it was, possibly still right here, hiding in plain sight, noticing who was acting normal and who was troubled, the more I wanted to do exactly what I would be doing if we hadn’t gone to Widdershins on Monday night. Or hadn’t gone back, anyway. It would keep me safe. And it was a cover story too. My cloak of innocence for after tonight, when the bodies were found and the questions started.
Jed was the kind of minister who downloaded sermons off the internet, changed enough words so he wouldn’t get sued and never thought twice about it. Sunday was his day off. The other six days, he was out on the streets of his beat – lifts and walkways mostly – offering an ear, a shoulder, a fag, a bit of cash or a quiet pint to anyone who looked like they needed it and didn’t tell him to eff off when they saw the collar. He picked up good stuff at charity shops and kept it all in his car with the back seat flat, in case someone he dropped in on said the kids were missing school because of shoes or trousers. He trained me and I was a good disciple, a true convert to his methods, including the wide-mesh trawl. I’d spent four years sitting at bus stops, going into spit-and-sawdust beer shops at opening time, dropping in at corner shops for a chat. It wouldn’t work in Simmerton, though. There were no spit-and-sawdust pubs in this kind of town. They all had blackboards outside with the daily menu specials. And the bus stops were empty.
Still, starting at Dudgeon, Dudgeon and Lamb, I worked my way up one side of the high street and down the other. I introduced myself to the girls on the till at the independent grocer and deli. Students, I reckoned, with long blonde ponytails and coloured braces. The folk in the post office, a pair of Adam and Sonsie lookalikes. The family butcher, three red-faced brothers in blue hats. A cobbler, for the love of God! An actual living, breathing shoe-mender, standing there in his brown apron, busy extending the lives of hand-stitched Simmerton brogues by another five years. They were polite and uninterested. Soul-crushing, really. What was I doing there?
It was the atheist candle-maker who broke me. I knew as soon as the shop door dinged and she raised her head. The wide-eyed look couldn’t hide the burst of panic, then the disdain settling in at its back.
‘Hiya,’ I said, weaving between the stands of hand-made greetings cards and little books of proverbs to where she stood behind the counter, her handiwork ranged behind her. ‘I’m Finnie Lamb. I’m new down at Simmerton Kirk. I’m a deacon. I’m just saying hello to everyone.’
‘Oh, well, I’m not one of your flock,’ the woman said.
‘Right. Well, like I said, I’m just saying hello. I’m not taking a register or anything. Are you the Mo? Of Mo’s Handmade Candles?’
‘Yes, but I’m not interested.’
‘In candles?’ I said. ‘That must make life a bit of a drag.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘In organised religion.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well – again – I was just saying hello but I’ll let you get on with making these beautiful candles and I’ll get on with helping people who haven’t paid their lecky and might actually need one when their power’s cut off.’
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
‘No offence,’ I said. ‘And I hope there’s none taken.’
‘What did you say your name was?’ she said. She was struggling with a feather-topped pen, trying to click out the nib so she could make a note of what had just pissed her off so mightily.
‘Finnie Lamb,’ I said. ‘Tell me, though, before I leave you to it, would you be willing to donate any of your merchandise to St Angela’s? For our next silent auction maybe?’
‘What’s St Angela’s?’ she said. ‘Why should I support a wealthy girls’ school shored up by Vatican gold?’
‘Vatican gold?’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it if I was you. Say what you like about the papes, they do buy a lot of candles. I’ll keep you in mind, eh?’
‘No point,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of St Angela’s and I’m not going to shovel my hard-earned money into some shady religious operation sending Bibles to perfectly happy little Paraguayan children, ruining indigenous culture.’
‘I think you might have turned over two pages at once there. Who mentioned Paraguay?’
‘I saw a poster outside the church.’
‘And,’ I added, ‘hard-earned?’ I gave a final look around her shelves and left.
There was a little snicket beside Mo’s Candles, leading to the back lanes. It was narrow and dark and, after less than a week in Simmerton, I had turned into the kind of creature that thought darkness pressing in all around offered comfort. I went a few feet up it and leaned against the cold bricks of the wall, cursing myself.
I dug my phone out of my bag and hit speed dial two.
‘Doyle’s House of Damnation and Delight,’ said my dad’s voice. ‘Whassup, chicken?’
‘Hiya,’ I said, feeling better already. ‘I’ve just done something really stupid. I got in a fight with Richard Dawkins’s evil twin.’
‘Ah, sod him.’
‘Her.’
‘Sod her. Dozy bitch. Forget her. Go and look her up on her cloud in a hundred years and blow her a raspberry.’
I laughed. ‘How’s Mam?’
‘Ah, she’s grand. She’ll be fine for Saturday.’
We both left a moment of silence, knowing what he meant and knowing it didn’t need to be said. My mum was trying to drop her sedation and raise her anti-anxiety meds, hoping to hit the sweet spot on Saturday morning where she’d be able to enjoy the day without being overwhelmed or getting manic.
‘Give her a hug from me,’ I said. ‘Unless I can have a quick word.’
‘Best not.’ Then he got the chuckle back in his voice. ‘Tell us more about this atheist.’
‘She’s got a candle shop.’ His snort gave me a lift. ‘And she won’t donate money to any good cause that might have a Bible knocking around it.’
‘Typical!’
‘I was a real cow to her, though. I used St Angela’s – the adoption folk, you know? – to score a cheap point. Poor wee mites. It’s closing down.’
‘Ah, well, now,’ my dad said. ‘If you were still the daughter I raised you could go and confess your sins. But as things stand ‒’
‘Sod off ‒’
‘‒ way to talk to your father. How’s Paddy?’
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘Bit more in at the deep end than he expected. But, as I say, St Angie’s closing will probably lighten his load. Unless we can fundraise like crazy, which we can’t if I keep alienating donors.’
‘Maybe it’s a good thing,’ my dad said. ‘Don’t quote me to the Pope if he texts you, but if there’s not enough specialneeds kiddies needing a home to keep a charity open, that’s an improvement.’
‘So you’ve heard of it anyway,’ I said. It was bothering me that Waxy Mo, who worked up the street from Simmerton Kirk, didn’t have clue about its main charity effort. No wonder it was folding.
‘I’ve heard of it because you told me about it. Dozy mare.’
‘I love you,’ I said.
‘Well, there’s a coincidence,’ he said. ‘I love you too. Now, go and bug someone else. It’s paying your rent and keeping you out the bookie’s.’
‘See you Saturday,’ I said. ‘Is Elayne giving you gyp?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Hug Mam.’
‘Hug Paddy.’
I clicked the phone off and put it away. And I left the utter blackness of the little close for the regular dimness of the high street, thinking – stupidly – it was the candle-maker, or Paddy’s mum and her shenanigans, or maybe even my own mum that was bothering me.
For the rest of the trip round the burghers of Simmerton, as I waited for five o’clock to come round, I kept my head down. Or, at least, my lip buttoned. And when good works didn’t shift the guilty feeling from the pit of my belly, I tried phoning Elayne.
I was in a wee tearoom down at the bottom of the street, where the buildings were beginning to peter out and the trees starting to close in. The woman behind the counter had called me ‘Sister’ and given me a free scone with my Earl Grey. I was among friends. Slightly confused friends, but friends. No one was at any of the other tables, so late in the day in the pits of winter. The owner was through the back loading a dishwasher.
‘Hello?’ Elayne’s voice was worried from the off, suspecting a cold-caller.
‘It’s Finnie,’ I said, thinking if she’d put her specs on she’d know that from the ID.
‘Is something wrong?’
I let the sigh out silently, with my mouth wide. ‘No, I’m just phoning to say how much we’re looking forward to seeing you on Saturday. Just checking it’s all okay.’
‘It would be much easier if Paddy would come and get me instead of bothering Eric,’ Elayne said. She meant it too. It would strike her as much easier for Paddy to drive two hours instead of my dad going three minutes out of his way.
‘Eric’s all set,’ I said. ‘Looking forward to seeing you too. Listen, Elayne, can you do me a favour?’ Oh, I was an expert.
‘Of course, dear,’ she said. I could hear her voice changing as the idea that I needed something only she could provide began to sink in.
‘Will you be anywhere near a Marks & Sparks before Saturday?’ It was fifty-five per cent likely to work. Elayne was a true believer in Marks & Spencer. But she knew I wasn’t. It would delight her if a week in the sticks had converted me. So long as she didn’t see through the ruse and so long as she didn’t remember that my dad would be driving past a huge edge-of-town on his way.
‘I could get the bus down tonight,’ she said. ‘Late-night opening. I’ll have a coffee. What are you after?’
‘A tub of those Rocky Road bites?’ I said. ‘And one of the caramel wafer bites if it’s not too much to carry.’
‘You don’t need to go buying cakes,’ Elayne said. ‘I can bake and bring a tin down with me.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That would be even better. If you’ve got time.’
‘I’ll make a coffee and walnut cake.’
‘You’re too good to me,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell my mum you’ve got it in the car. She’ll be in the tin before you’re over the bypass.’
Elayne chuckled. I could hear the happiness. Now she’d definitely come and she’d take the lift too, although she’d nag Paddy to take her back at night. I’d need to make sure he was over the limit at dinner. She’d never want a lift from me.
Then I ruined it.
‘And how’s Paddy?’ she asked.
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘He’s off on a jaunt today. Up in Stirling.’
The line went dead, as if we’d been cut off. I knew we hadn’t. I knew she was thinking that driving from Simmerton to Stirling would have taken Paddy within two miles of the turn-off to Stenhouse where she lived. Yet he hadn’t told her, he hadn’t stopped in on the way there and he hadn’t warned her he might be stopping in on the way back.
‘Oh, damn it!’ I said. ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you. He was going to surprise you. But I’ve ruined that anyway, haven’t I? Asking you to bob down to Marks for me. You might have missed him.’
Now I’d have to text Paddy and tell him he had to go to his mum’s on the way home.
‘You’re surely not jealous, are you?’ Elayne was saying, sounding happy again. She had, as quick as that, decided I’d tried to stop Paddy seeing her by cooking up a story about wanting Rocky Roads. I couldn’t imagine living inside Elayne’s head and was glad I didn’t have to. ‘I’d better run,’ she added. She’d be making dinner for him now, hoping to send him back to me too full to tackle whatever slop I would put in front of him.
I wish I could say it didn’t give me a little flip when I saw, minutes later, out on the street, that Paddy was back in Simmerton already. He was flying along, his jacket flapping and his tie over his shoulder. He had two briefcases in his hands, neither of them his, both of them bulging, and he was running like a bank robber, like a convict on a prison break. Running for his life, as if all the hounds of Hell were after him.