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Authors: Peter Robinson
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Megan is. I’m afraid she had rather a nasty turn when I broke the news in assembly this morning.”
II
The brick shattered the vicarage window at nine-thirty that morning, waking Rebecca from the uneasy doze she had slipped into after taking three aspirin and a glass of water.
At first she lay there terrified, fearing that someone had broken in. Then, slowly, so as not to make the bedsprings creak, she sat up, ears pricked for any sounds. But nothing came.
She put on her dressing-gown and looked out of the bedroom window. Nothing but the drizzle on the trees and graves, and policemen in capes searching the grounds. She tiptoed downstairs, and when she got to the front room she saw the damage.
Shards of glass lay all over the floor, and some had even got as far as the sofa and coffee-table. The brick had clearly been thrown from the river path, beyond the small garden, an area that was unguarded because it didn’t provide access to the graveyard.
The brick had bounced off the coffee-table and ended up in the far corner by the sideboard. It had a piece of paper wrapped around it, fixed by a rubber band. Slowly, Rebecca bent, picked up the brick and unfolded the paper:
Once you let the devil into your heart he will corrupt every cell in your body and this is what has happened it is clear. You must confess your sins. It is the only way. Or else we must take things into our own hands.
Someone knocked at the back door. Crumpling the note in her pocket, Rebecca gathered her dressing-gown around her and went to see who it was.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?” asked one of the uniformed constables who had been searching the graveyard. “I thought I heard breaking glass.”
“You did,” Rebecca said. “But everything’s fine. Just a little domestic accident.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Rebecca started closing the door on him. “Thank you, everything’s fine.” When she had shut the door she leaned her backagainst it and listened. In a few seconds, she heard his footsteps going along the path.
She took out a dustpan and broom and busied herself sweeping up the glass, wondering what she could use to cover the broken window before she caught a chill and died. Maybe that would be best for everyone, she thought. It would be very fitting, too. Hadn’t Emily Brontë died after catching a chill at her brother’s funeral? But no. She wasn’t going to give the miserable, mean-spirited bastards the satisfaction.
Just as she was trying to tape up a piece of cardboard over the window, the phone rang.
“Can you talk?” the familiar voice asked.
“Patrick. Yes. Yes, I can.”
“We’ve been given the day off, pupils and staff. That terrible business with the girl. It must have been especially awful for you. How are you bearing up?”
“Oh, not bad, I suppose.”
“Is Daniel …?”
“He’s out. Meeting in York. Said he couldn’t get out of it.”
“Could we see one another? I could come over.”
“I don’t know,” Rebecca said, feeling herself flush with desire like a silly schoolgirl as she spoke. “No, I don’t think we should. Not the way things are around here.”
“But I want you.”
Rebecca put her hand over the mouthpiece and took a deep breath.
“Don’t you want me?” he went on.
“Of course I want you, Patrick. You know I do. It’s just … there’s police all over the place.”
“We could go for a drive.”
Rebecca paused and looked around her. She couldn’t stay here, not with this mess, not after the threatening note; she would go insane. And she couldn’t deal with the police, either. On the other hand, the very thought of Patrick made her tingle. God, how she hated herself, hated the way her body could so easily betray her morality and her good intentions, how her defective conscience found ways of rationalizing it all.
“All right,” she said. “But you mustn’t come here. I mean it about the police. We shouldn’t be seen together.”
“I’ll pick
II
The brick shattered the vicarage window at nine-thirty that morning, waking Rebecca from the uneasy doze she had slipped into after taking three aspirin and a glass of water.
At first she lay there terrified, fearing that someone had broken in. Then, slowly, so as not to make the bedsprings creak, she sat up, ears pricked for any sounds. But nothing came.
She put on her dressing-gown and looked out of the bedroom window. Nothing but the drizzle on the trees and graves, and policemen in capes searching the grounds. She tiptoed downstairs, and when she got to the front room she saw the damage.
Shards of glass lay all over the floor, and some had even got as far as the sofa and coffee-table. The brick had clearly been thrown from the river path, beyond the small garden, an area that was unguarded because it didn’t provide access to the graveyard.
The brick had bounced off the coffee-table and ended up in the far corner by the sideboard. It had a piece of paper wrapped around it, fixed by a rubber band. Slowly, Rebecca bent, picked up the brick and unfolded the paper:
Once you let the devil into your heart he will corrupt every cell in your body and this is what has happened it is clear. You must confess your sins. It is the only way. Or else we must take things into our own hands.
Someone knocked at the back door. Crumpling the note in her pocket, Rebecca gathered her dressing-gown around her and went to see who it was.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?” asked one of the uniformed constables who had been searching the graveyard. “I thought I heard breaking glass.”
“You did,” Rebecca said. “But everything’s fine. Just a little domestic accident.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Rebecca started closing the door on him. “Thank you, everything’s fine.” When she had shut the door she leaned her backagainst it and listened. In a few seconds, she heard his footsteps going along the path.
She took out a dustpan and broom and busied herself sweeping up the glass, wondering what she could use to cover the broken window before she caught a chill and died. Maybe that would be best for everyone, she thought. It would be very fitting, too. Hadn’t Emily Brontë died after catching a chill at her brother’s funeral? But no. She wasn’t going to give the miserable, mean-spirited bastards the satisfaction.
Just as she was trying to tape up a piece of cardboard over the window, the phone rang.
“Can you talk?” the familiar voice asked.
“Patrick. Yes. Yes, I can.”
“We’ve been given the day off, pupils and staff. That terrible business with the girl. It must have been especially awful for you. How are you bearing up?”
“Oh, not bad, I suppose.”
“Is Daniel …?”
“He’s out. Meeting in York. Said he couldn’t get out of it.”
“Could we see one another? I could come over.”
“I don’t know,” Rebecca said, feeling herself flush with desire like a silly schoolgirl as she spoke. “No, I don’t think we should. Not the way things are around here.”
“But I want you.”
Rebecca put her hand over the mouthpiece and took a deep breath.
“Don’t you want me?” he went on.
“Of course I want you, Patrick. You know I do. It’s just … there’s police all over the place.”
“We could go for a drive.”
Rebecca paused and looked around her. She couldn’t stay here, not with this mess, not after the threatening note; she would go insane. And she couldn’t deal with the police, either. On the other hand, the very thought of Patrick made her tingle. God, how she hated herself, hated the way her body could so easily betray her morality and her good intentions, how her defective conscience found ways of rationalizing it all.
“All right,” she said. “But you mustn’t come here. I mean it about the police. We shouldn’t be seen together.”
“I’ll pick
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