There was a long silence. The water bowl made her think of a font, of last rites, a baptism of the dying. Then he squinted at her across the corpse. He blinked once – which seemed, curiously, to release tension, and he grunted.
‘J.W. Weal, my name.’
She nodded. It had obviously been a mistake to introduce herself just as Merrily, like some saleswoman cold-calling.
‘How long had you been married, Mr Weal?’
Again, he didn’t reply at once, as though he was carefully turning over her question to see if a subtext dropped out.
‘Nine years, near enough.’ Yerrs, he said. His voice was higher than you’d expect, given the size of him, and brushed soft.
Merrily said, ‘We... never know what’s going to come, do we?’
She looked down at Mrs Weal, whose face was somehow unrelaxed. Or maybe Merrily was transferring her own agitation to the dead woman. Who was perhaps her own age, mid to late thirties? Maybe a little older.
‘She’s... very pretty, Mr Weal.’
‘Why wouldn’t she be?’
Dull light had awoken in his eyes, like hot ashes raked over. People probably had been talking – J.W. Weal getting himself an attractive young wife like that. Merrily wondered if there were grown-up children from some first Mrs Weal, a certain sourness in the hills.
She swallowed. ‘Do you, er... belong to a particular church?’ Cullen was right; he looked like the kind of man who would do, if only out of tradition and a sense of rural protocol.
Mr Weal straightened up. She reckoned he must be close to six and a half feet tall, and built like a great stone barn. His eyebrows met, forming a stone-grey lintel.
‘That, I think, is my personal business, thank you.’
‘Right. Well...’ She cleared her throat. ‘Would you mind if I prayed for her? Perhaps we could—’
Pray together, she was about to say. But Mr Weal stopped her without raising his voice which, despite its pitch, had the even texture of authority.
‘I shall pray for her.’
Merrily nodded, feeling limp. This was useless. There was no more she could say, nothing she could do here that Eileen Cullen couldn’t do better.
‘Well, I’m very sorry for the intrusion.’
He didn’t react – just looked at his wife. For him, there was already nobody else in the room. Merrily nodded and bit her lip, and walked quietly out, badly needing a cigarette.
‘No?’ Eileen Cullen levered herself from the wall.
‘Hopeless.’
Cullen led her up the corridor, well away from the door. ‘I’d hoped to have him away before Menna’s sister got here. I’m not in the best mood tonight for mopping up after tears and recriminations.’
‘Sorry... whose sister?’
‘Menna’s – Mrs Weal’s. The sister’s Mrs Buckingham and she’s from down south and a retired teacher, and there’s no arguing with her. And no love lost between her and that man in there.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t ask. I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’
‘What was Menna like?’
‘I don’t know. Except for what I hear. She wasn’t doing much chatting when they brought her in. But even if she’d been capable of speech, I doubt you’d have got much out of her. Lived in the sticks the whole of her life, looking after the ole father like a dutiful child’s supposed to when her older and wiser sister’s fled the coop. Father dies, she marries an obvious father figure. Sad story but not so unusual in a rural area.’
‘Where’s this exactly?’
‘I forget. The Welsh side of Kington. Sheep-shagging country.’
‘Charming.’
‘They have their own ways and they keep closed up.’
The amiable, voluble Gomer Parry, of course, was originally from the Radnor Valley. But this was no time to debate the pitfalls of ethnic stereotyping.
‘How did she come to have a stroke? Do you know?’
‘You’re not on the Pill yourself, Merrily?’
‘Er... no.’
‘That would be my first thought with Menna. Still on the Pill at thirty-nine. It does happen. Her doctor should’ve warned her.’
‘Wouldn’t Mr Weal have known the dangers?’
‘He look like he would?’ Cullen handed Merrily her bag. ‘Thanks for trying – you did your best. Don’t go having nightmares. He’s just a poor feller loved his wife to excess.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Merrily said. ‘I think he’s going to need help getting his life back on track. That’s the kind of guy who goes back to his farm and hangs himself in the barn.’
‘If he had a barn.’
‘I thought he was a farmer.’
‘I don’t think I said that, did I?’
‘What’s he do, then? Not a copper?’
‘Built like one, sure. No, he’s a lawyer, as it happens. Listen, I’m gonna have a porter come up and we’ll do it the hard way.’
‘A solicitor?’
Cullen gave her a shrewd look. She knew Sean had been a lawyer, that Merrily herself had been studying the law until the untimely advent of Jane had pushed her out of university with no qualifications. The difficult years, pre-ordination.
‘Man’s not used to being argued with outside of a courthouse,’ Cullen said. ‘You go back and find your wee friend. We’ll sort this now.’
Walking back towards Intensive Care, shouldering her bag, she encountered Gomer Parry smoking under a red No Smoking sign in the main corridor. He probably hadn’t even noticed it. He slouched towards her, hands in his pockets, ciggy winking between his teeth like a distant stop-light.
‘Sorry about that, Gomer. I was—’
‘May’s well get off home, vicar. Keepin’ you up all night.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’ll stay as long as you stay.’
‘Ar, well, no point, see,’ Gomer said. He looked small and beaten hollow. ‘No point now.’
The scene froze.
‘Oh God.’
She’d left him barely half an hour to go off on a futile errand which she wasn’t up to handling, and in her absence...
In the scruffy silence of the hospital corridor, she thought she heard Minnie Parry at her most comfortably Brummy: Yow don’t go worrying about us, my duck. We’re retired, got all the time in the world to worry about ourselves.
Instinctively she unslung her bag, plunged a hand in. But Gomer was there first.
‘Have one o’ mine, vicar. Extra-high tar, see.’
4
Repaganization
TUESDAY BEGAN WITH a brown fog over the windows like dirty lace curtains. The house was too quiet. They ought to get a dog. Two dogs, Robin had said after breakfast, before going off for a walk on his own.
He’d end up, inevitably, at the church, just to satisfy himself it hadn’t disappeared in the mist. He would walk all around the ruins, and the ruins would look spectacularly eerie and Robin would think, Yes!
From the kitchen window, Betty watched him cross the yard between dank and oily puddles, then let himself into the old barn, where they’d stowed the oak box. Robin also thought it was seriously cool having a barn of your own. Hey! How about I stash this in... the barn?
When she was sure he wouldn’t be coming back for a while, Betty brought out, from the bottom shelf of the dampest kitchen cupboard, the secret copy she’d managed to make of that awful witch charm. She’d done this on Robin’s photocopier while he’d gone for a tour of Old Hindwell with George and Vivvie, their weekend visitors who – for several reasons – she could have done without.
Betty now took the copy over to the window sill. Produced in high contrast, for definition, it looked even more obscurely threatening than the original.