tea
roses and he often smells them here. So we always try and make sure
there are some fresh ones in. The florist donates them when she
can. Tell me, do you know if the Fathers are well?’
When the email arrived from Rome granting
her full permission to proceed with an occult inquiry, she checked
with Atkins where Wyn Jones was. As she’d thought, he was back at
the police station. Fred assured her that they’d send someone to
pick her up and bring her over to Westminster as soon as Wyn
returned. Would she like to move into a room there now? She almost
said yes, then thought better of it and said she’d stay here but
would it be all right if she came over for dinner that evening? She
and Wyn could eat and talk then. Fred agreed and Maryam took her
weary body back upstairs and slept through the chaos of the various
women of the parish finally having free rein to clear out decades
of Father Edwards’s smoking. They were stripping the covers off the
furniture as she went past the parlour. The sight both made her
smile and her heart ache: what if the old priest could never bear
to return?
The four of them ate together, Fred, Maryam,
Andy and Wyn Jones. The Westminster housekeepers had laid out a set
of cold cuts with salads, there was warm soup in an electric
tureen; breads and cheeses. Wyn had arrived back from the police
station very late and was drained, as were they all. Fred had
opened an excellent bottle of wine, then another, and then had
brought in some port. Wyn had eaten little and drunk less. The case
against him was building momentum. Everyone in the room understood
that if he was called back to the police station again in the
morning, he would be unlikely to return. As soon as he was formally
charged, his life, his ministry, his priesthood, was gone. The
press would descend and devour him whole. Fred, who had been
informed of Maryam’s assessment by his own Cardinal, was on edge.
He tried everything he could to deflect Maryam, defer her
interviewing Wyn. Maryam put up with this until the eating was over
and she felt she had enough of a measure of Wyn to proceed on her
own, and quietly dismissed both Fred and Andy. This she would need
to do on her own.
Wyn Jones watched the tiny woman with the
grey eyes and silver hair send Bishop Atkins out of the room with a
nod of her head. His heart let loose a little of the pain it was
carrying. He was not sure who he’d been expecting, but he had
trusted in His Lord to send him someone to help. He had not
expected a fiery angel or a burning bush, but he’d been praying for
some sign that he was going to get out of the hole he was now in.
Looking at the calm and demure face of the woman in front of him,
he prayed that good things really did come in small packages.
Maryam went straight into it, knowing that
with her, unlike with the police, Wyn had no choice but to answer
when he could. It was when he could not answer she was interested
in, but bided her time.
‘Start from the beginning, Wyn, from when
these events started. What you now realise was the beginning.’
After days of being pummelled by words, Wyn started stiffly,
reciting by rote. However as she left him to it, only asking him
the occasional gentle question, above all showing him her respect
for him and his work, he relaxed into discussing it openly. The
story was not new to her, but it was new to the man sitting in
front of her and his pain, his shame and anger, was displayed
clearly as he took her through the events that had led up to the
murder.
‘Jason Briggs was an enforcer for a gang,
the Rye Runners; enforcer, part-time leader. Depended on who was in
prison at the time. He had no contact with the Church at first, but
his younger brother, Brad, was in the youth group for a while.
Their aunt, whom Brad lives with, isn’t home much and the boy fends
for himself with Jason’s help. Brad came in one evening with
another boy and stayed. He was good at singing, joined the
roses and he often smells them here. So we always try and make sure
there are some fresh ones in. The florist donates them when she
can. Tell me, do you know if the Fathers are well?’
When the email arrived from Rome granting
her full permission to proceed with an occult inquiry, she checked
with Atkins where Wyn Jones was. As she’d thought, he was back at
the police station. Fred assured her that they’d send someone to
pick her up and bring her over to Westminster as soon as Wyn
returned. Would she like to move into a room there now? She almost
said yes, then thought better of it and said she’d stay here but
would it be all right if she came over for dinner that evening? She
and Wyn could eat and talk then. Fred agreed and Maryam took her
weary body back upstairs and slept through the chaos of the various
women of the parish finally having free rein to clear out decades
of Father Edwards’s smoking. They were stripping the covers off the
furniture as she went past the parlour. The sight both made her
smile and her heart ache: what if the old priest could never bear
to return?
The four of them ate together, Fred, Maryam,
Andy and Wyn Jones. The Westminster housekeepers had laid out a set
of cold cuts with salads, there was warm soup in an electric
tureen; breads and cheeses. Wyn had arrived back from the police
station very late and was drained, as were they all. Fred had
opened an excellent bottle of wine, then another, and then had
brought in some port. Wyn had eaten little and drunk less. The case
against him was building momentum. Everyone in the room understood
that if he was called back to the police station again in the
morning, he would be unlikely to return. As soon as he was formally
charged, his life, his ministry, his priesthood, was gone. The
press would descend and devour him whole. Fred, who had been
informed of Maryam’s assessment by his own Cardinal, was on edge.
He tried everything he could to deflect Maryam, defer her
interviewing Wyn. Maryam put up with this until the eating was over
and she felt she had enough of a measure of Wyn to proceed on her
own, and quietly dismissed both Fred and Andy. This she would need
to do on her own.
Wyn Jones watched the tiny woman with the
grey eyes and silver hair send Bishop Atkins out of the room with a
nod of her head. His heart let loose a little of the pain it was
carrying. He was not sure who he’d been expecting, but he had
trusted in His Lord to send him someone to help. He had not
expected a fiery angel or a burning bush, but he’d been praying for
some sign that he was going to get out of the hole he was now in.
Looking at the calm and demure face of the woman in front of him,
he prayed that good things really did come in small packages.
Maryam went straight into it, knowing that
with her, unlike with the police, Wyn had no choice but to answer
when he could. It was when he could not answer she was interested
in, but bided her time.
‘Start from the beginning, Wyn, from when
these events started. What you now realise was the beginning.’
After days of being pummelled by words, Wyn started stiffly,
reciting by rote. However as she left him to it, only asking him
the occasional gentle question, above all showing him her respect
for him and his work, he relaxed into discussing it openly. The
story was not new to her, but it was new to the man sitting in
front of her and his pain, his shame and anger, was displayed
clearly as he took her through the events that had led up to the
murder.
‘Jason Briggs was an enforcer for a gang,
the Rye Runners; enforcer, part-time leader. Depended on who was in
prison at the time. He had no contact with the Church at first, but
his younger brother, Brad, was in the youth group for a while.
Their aunt, whom Brad lives with, isn’t home much and the boy fends
for himself with Jason’s help. Brad came in one evening with
another boy and stayed. He was good at singing, joined the
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