Adam, Rita and Ly-on had left Allhallows-on-Sea with its vast caravan-amusement park and had walked along the coastal track towards Egypt Bay. The great flat expanses of the Kent marshes, with their winding fleets, their dykes and drainage ditches, were on their left, the wide river glinted, with a nacreous sheen, on their right, and their shadows were cast strongly on the path behind them as the sun occasionally broke through the ragged, high film of clouds. They sauntered along, carrying their plastic bags that contained their picnic, Ly-on occasionally scampering down to the small strips of sand and shingle to pick something up or shy a stone into the water. Ly-on was taller and slimmer, Adam thought, since he had last seen him, his pot belly gone. He was still not sure if he was any happier, however.
When Adam had decided to go looking for Ly-on, his conscience prodding him, he had been reluctant to return to The Shaft — too many risks, too many people who might recognise him — so he had revisited the Church of John Christ, thinking that, of all places, this was one that had known Mhouse, might have some record of her and what had happened to her son. He put his badge on, for old times’ sake, and presented himself at Bishop Yemi’s office. Bishop Yemi wasn’t in, he was told, the Bishop was running late at a meeting with the Mayor at City Hall. Adam said he’d come back another day. But as he was leaving he saw that the door was being opened for the evening service by Mrs Darling, ‘John 17’ herself, who was also setting up the welcome desk, a few blank ‘John’ badges fanned out in front of her in case some potential converts wandered in.
Adam introduced himself: John 1603.
“I remember you,” she said suspiciously. “You’ve smartened up, John.”
“Do you remember Mhouse?” he asked.
“Course I do. Poor dear Mhousie. Bless her. Horrible thing that happened. Horrible.”
“Do you know what became of her son, Ly-on?”
“Ly-on’s very well, being well looked after.”
This news had cheered him, unbelievably. He felt a sense of relief wash through him that was so intense he thought he might need to sit down.
“Where is he? Do you know?”
“He’s at the Church of John’s orphanage in Eltham.”
“Can I visit him?”
“You’ll have to talk to the director — but seeing you’re a fellow ‘John’, I think that might be OK.”
“Who’s the director?”
“Hang on — I’ll get a letter with his name on.” She went and found some headed notepaper and pointed the name out: Kazimierz Bednarczyk, ‘Director of Special Projects’. Adam noted the empurpled, embossed solidity of the letter head—‘THE CHURCH OF JOHN’ and its prominent sunburst logo, its registered charity number. Some C-list celebrities were on its roster of’honourable patrons’, a devout backbencher, a chat-show host, a born-again member of a boy band. The Church of John was not sitting on its hands, that was for sure. An avenue of bright tomorrows stretched ahead for Bishop Yemi.
Later that day Adam telephoned the number on the notepaper and was told by a friendly young woman that they did indeed have a young boy at the Eltham orphanage called Ly-on. Ly-on ‘Smith’—nobody knew his last name, including the boy himself, so he’d been called ‘Smith’ pending any future adoption. Adam said he was a family friend and would like to take him out for the day, if that were possible. Oh yes, we encourage visits and trips out, he was told. There would need to be a brief meeting with Mr Bednarczyk first and of course there was a fee of £100.
“A fee?…”
“Yes, that’s the fee for a day’s outing.”
Adam had given his name and made an appointment for the following Saturday.
So Adam and Rita hired a car and Rita drove them to Eltham on the following Saturday, mid-morning. Adam had told Rita that he just wanted to see the boy again, see how he was getting on, make sure he was happy and being looked after properly. Rita said she was perfectly prepared to be their chauffeur, thought it was an excellent idea and looked forward to meeting Ly-on. They stopped on the way at a supermarket and bought food and drink — sandwiches, pies, scotch eggs, water, colas, juices — and a travelling rug and paper cups and plates, some plastic knives and forks. On a whim, passing a toy shop two doors down, Rita had suggested they buy some beach games — a Frisbee, a diabolo, some flat paddles with a ball to hit.
The Church of John’s orphanage at Eltham — Adam noticed that the claim ‘John Christ’ was more and more frequently absent in the light of the church’s new prosperity — was a detached Victorian brick villa in a large garden with a car park where the front lawn had once been. Rita said she would wait in the car and Adam went into the building for his appointment with Mr Bednarczyk.
Inside, it was like stepping into an old school, Adam thought. A smell of cooking, of rubberised floor coverings, dusty radiators and chipped paintwork. A struggling prep school that had seen better days and whose pupil numbers were remorselessly dwindling, was the image that came to mind. Through a rear window Adam could see half a dozen little boys in jeans and matching emerald-green fleece jackets kicking a football about on a piebald rectangle of grass fringed by a tall cypress hedge. He could hear a piano being played badly in an upstairs room: chords struck heavily, wrong notes amongst them. A young, hot-faced woman in a nylon overall clattered down the stairs with a mop and a bucket.
“I’m looking for Mr Bednarczyk,” Adam said.
“Down the corridor, first left.”
Adam followed her directions to find a door with a plastic nameplate: ‘K. Bednarczyk’. He knocked and a voice invited him to enter.
Kazimierz Bednarczyk was sitting at a desk covered in papers and files and behind him could be glimpsed a partial view of the orphanage’s front car park through the dangling, dusty, oatmeal louvres of a vertical blind. Adam could see their hired car and Rita walking around, taking the air, exercising, windmilling her arms. Badnarczyk’s peroxide-blond hair and neat blond beard failed to disguise the man Adam knew as Gavin Thrale. They looked at each other for a few seconds. Thrale remained utterly impassive.
“Mr Belem,” he said offering his hand. “Do take a seat.”
They shook hands and Adam sat down.
“What are your plans for the day?”
“I thought we might go down to the coast, find a beach, have a picnic.”
“Sounds delightful. Ly-on would need to be back by six o’clock.”
“Not a problem — I understand.”
“Just fill this in and sign — there.” Thrale pushed a release form across the desk towards him. “I think we can waive the fee — seeing as it’s you.”
“Thank you,” Adam said.
As Adam filled in the form Thrale picked up the phone, punched out a number and asked, “Is Ly-on ready? Good. We’ll meet him in the hall.”
They sat there looking at each other.
“How are you?” Adam said.
“I’m surprisingly well, considering. And you?”
“I’m fine.”
“The church has been very good to me,” Thrale said, cautiously. “I believe you had the same opportunity offered.”
“Yes. But it just wasn’t the right time.”
“Bishop Yemi is a most accommodating man.”
“One might say a remarkable man.”