There’s the smell from the incense I remember, and the fragrance of the church flowers. There must’ve been a funeral today. It’s freezing, though; I feel cold to the bone and I’ve still got the pain in my side. I’ve been drinking plenty of water as I’m sure it’s a water infection – I’ve had so many in the past, I’ve lost count. Antibiotics play havoc with the rest of my body so I’m not in any hurry to visit the doctor again soon. I can usually take care of it myself.
I had to walk here, had to get out of the house. I hoped that I might see Craig on my way here, as I passed the pub he used to go to.
I don’t really know why I came here, though. The prayers for Craig never worked last time, but they might work today.
Craig hadn’t got back by the time I went to bed last night, nor was he in when I woke. He’s going to get into trouble if he doesn’t take more care. I said he was asleep when his supervising officer, Adam, phoned for him at ten o’clock last night. Maybe Craig was asleep somewhere. All right, maybe not that early, but I would’ve heard if he’d gotten himself into bother.
I have Craig’s number in my mobile, but I didn’t want to call him too early this morning in case he’d had a sleepover at a friend’s.
Oh Jesus, what do I sound like? He’s not a youngster any more. He needs to get his act together. I should have sent him a message. A text would be far better than a mother ringing her thirty-seven-year-old son asking him if he’ll be back for tea, wouldn’t it? I hate not knowing where he is, though. I don’t know why I’m in church; he’d never come here. He never did like churches. Too quiet, I expect. Too many thoughts race through the mind when you’re faced with God.
I remember, when he was eleven, Craig was very late getting back from school. He’d been quiet all week, but he clammed up when I tried to talk to him about it. Denise helped me look for him when it got to six o’clock and I was worried sick. It was summer, so the nights were lighter, but it was nearly dark when we found him in the derelict house on Inkerman Street. Denise managed to get Jason to admit their hiding place after she threatened to call the police. Jason said that Craig was being bullied at school, said he was picked on because of his half-mast trousers, and that Craig was a bastard and I was a whore. It was like we were stuck in the seventies. Denise clipped him round the ear when he said those words.
Jason walked me down the path at the side of the house and round to the back. The grass was overgrown, and the greenhouse’s glass panes had collapsed and smashed. Inside were empty plant pots and old seedling trays covered in moss.
‘A man killed his wife in this house,’ said Jason. ‘That’s why hardly anyone goes in… no one’ll buy it.’
We stepped inside and there was a pentangle on the wall, painted in red; the drips of it made it look like blood. It made my arms and legs turn cold, but Jason just strolled in. ‘He’ll be upstairs,’ he said. I wanted to run out of there. I’m not a believer in ghosts or anything like that, but the place was ominous, made me feel physically sick.
Upstairs, Craig was sitting on a dirty old settee, reading a comic.
‘You want to be careful,’ Jason said to him. ‘We could’ve been anyone. Keep your guard up, mate. And your ears open.’
He was talking as though they were on the run from the police or something and he was only twelve.
Craig stood when he saw I was there, too.
‘Mum!’ He looked out of the window. ‘I didn’t know it was so late.’
I looked at the floor, where the wrappers of his packed lunch were scattered.
‘Have you not been to school?’ I said.
Craig glanced at his friend, narrowing his eyes.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Jason. ‘They were going to call the police.’
They? I held out my hand for him to take it, but then realised he wouldn’t do that in front of Jason.
‘Come on, love,’ I said. ‘It’s Friday. No school tomorrow. I’ll have a word with your Year Head on Monday… see if we can get this sorted.’
‘No, Mum! That’ll make it worse.’
‘We’ll talk more about this at home,’ I said.
‘Jason’ll keep an eye out for him, won’t you?’ said Denise, nudging her son in the ribs.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Jason. ‘I didn’t realise it got to you this bad, mate.’
Craig shrugged, kept his eyes on the floor.
‘Come on, lads,’ I said. ‘I’ll stop at the chippy on the way home and get us all a bag of chips.’
Jason rubbed his hands.
‘Nice one. Come on, lad.’
My son got up and followed Jason and Denise, leaving me in the bedroom alone. Its wallpaper peeled from the walls; the old fireplace with its tiny grate held ashes that must’ve been years old. There was a photograph on the windowsill and I couldn’t help but walk over. It was of a man and a woman. She was sitting on his knee, his arms wrapped around her waist and he was grinning. She wasn’t smiling. Her eyes were cheerless; a stare at the camera like she was telepathically begging for help. I knew it must be the woman who died here. I put the photograph in my pocket – couldn’t bear to leave her there, where it all happened.
I think I have that photograph stashed away somewhere. Perhaps that’s what’s brought me such bad luck. I should take it back to that old house; it still stands empty, unloved.
The confessional door slams shut. I flush slightly, which is silly, because Father Peter can’t hear my odd little thoughts. How long has he been in that box? No one must be confessing today because nobody else left from the other door. He brushes some dust from the top of one of the pews, looks down the aisle at the rest of them and shrugs.
He glances at me, and nods – unsurprised by my presence.
‘Cleaner mustn’t have been in this morning,’ he says. ‘Come to think of it – it’s been a few days since I’ve seen Mrs McNally.’ He tilts his head and looks to Jesus on the cross to my left. ‘Hmm. Must see how she is.’
I smile at him and he turns on his heels, his gown swishing at his ankles.
It must be nice for someone to care about where you are. I might come back at the same time tomorrow. If Mrs McNally doesn’t show up, Father Peter might be in need of a new cleaner. It’d be quite pleasant to have somewhere to go every morning, and no one would bother me in here.
He must be in his seventies now. I wonder if he recognises me from when I had to tag along with Mother. This was her church – the one nearest our house looked too much like a community centre. She always said she wished she’d married my father here, instead of the registry office in town. Not that it would’ve made a difference.
It’s strange, thinking about her having dreams and wishes. She always seemed content with her life, her friends.
Unlike her, the thought of marriage petrified me. I saw all these women rushing home from wherever they were so their husbands had a meal on the table when they got home from work (or the pub). Denise was one of them, too, in the end.
The night before her wedding, I’d stayed over at her parents’ house with her. It was 1975 and we were only nineteen. It was the best night of my life. We laughed so much we were in tears.
Her bedroom was big as she was an only child, and it had a single bed with a yellow and brown flowered quilt. The carpet was orangey brown as well. She still had the poster of David Cassidy above her headboard. It felt surreal that she put that up when we were in fourth year, yet here she was about to get married.
Her wedding dress hung on the front of her wardrobe. It was to the ankle, high-necked and had long flowing sleeves that cuffed at the wrists. It cost £30, but her parents had been saving for a wedding long before she’d even met Jim. They must’ve been itching to get the house to themselves.