In the afternoon I’m told to go to see the minister. Mrs Paterson says that as I have so many questions about religion and why God let Jonesy get murdered, perhaps I should go and talk to him. The minister, not God. I guess that Detective Walker must have told Mrs Paterson what I said about God. I wish he hadn’t.
I walk up to the church on the hill. The clouds are a muted grey and the drizzle lands lightly on me. Not enough for a full coat but enough that when I arrive there is a gentle covering on my cardigan.
I push the church door open. It’s heavy and it takes both hands and all my weight to push it open far enough for me to squeeze through.
Candles are lit at the front and as I walk up the aisle I see Mr Samson stacking Bibles. He must have heard the door but it isn’t until I am within a few yards of him that he turns round. He has a bald head like a chess pawn and a long black cloak. He greets me by taking my hands and clasping them in his, putting his forehead against them.
He gives me the creeps. He’s been to the cottage a couple of times to console me and I have tried to avoid him each time. I didn’t want to come, but Mrs Paterson insisted.
He invites me to sit with him in the front pew.
‘I gather you have some questions,’ he says, bending his head down as if to get a proper look at me.
‘Naw, no really,’ I say, hoping I can make this encounter as short as possible.
‘Now come on, Lesley, there’s no need to be shy. Mrs Paterson has told me about your questions, about God and so on. It’s good to ask questions.’
I don’t answer. I have become better lately at holding silences. I never used to be able to, but if Jonesy’s death has taught me anything it’s that I don’t have to talk to anyone. They can’t make me.
‘My child, do not be afraid to share your thoughts. It shows you have an inquisitive mind. God values that.’
‘Does he?’
‘Of course he does. He wants all his creatures to think about the wonder of the world.’
‘Does he want us to question whether he exists?’
‘He knows people will question their faith at times.’
‘He does? And what does he say to them when they do, because I’m thinking that he doesnae actually exist. For one, if he were to exist and control everythin’ then why let whit happened, happen to Jonesy?’
‘Our faith will be tested many times in our lives.’
‘So you’re saying God has decided to test my faith by killing my best friend? That’s no right, is it? I don’t think he’s sat about and said, “I know whose faith needs testing, Lesley Beaton’s. And the best way to test her faith is not by doing a miracle, or making a vision appear, but by having Morag Jones murdered.” That doesn’t seem like a test a normal person would set, and if it is a test God would set, then he’s clearly some sort of crazy.
‘By my reckoning there are two options: he does exist and he’s a brutal, unhinged murderer, or he doesnae exist, and all this is just made up like Father Christmas and there really is no one in charge, so we are all just fending for ourselves. But then if he doesnae exist why would everyone go to all the trouble of building big churches to worship someone imaginary? They can’t be lying to everyone, can they?’
The minister takes my hands in his again. I just want to scream, ‘LET GO OF ME!’
He speaks in a calm, low tone. ‘God has many paths for us all, and we do not know why he chooses each path, but we have faith that the path he has chosen is the right one. And though we may question his ways, or even his existence, we know that he loves every one of us.’
I pull my hands from his. ‘That doesnae answer my question; that also suggests he loves the person whit killed Jonesy, which goes back to my first point about him being crazy.’
‘You have been through a lot, and it is only natural for you to question, but know that God will be there for you when you need him.’
‘All right,’ I say, giving up. I think if I sat here for a week he still would not be able to give me a straight answer. I decide to be polite. ‘Thank you for your help.’ I get up and walk back down the aisle.
As the sound of my footsteps echoes round the church he calls out after me, ‘The Church is always here for you.’ I lift up my arm as if to say thank you, but as I walk out I think the truth is, there is nothing for me here and I have just learnt the biggest secret of my life, that grown-ups lie, a lot, and the Church is the biggest lie of all. Father Christmas multiplied by a hundred.
The thing I can’t figure out is, why would they do that? What’s in it for them?