The Translation of the Bones (22 page)

What it’s of?

Yes. Out there—office blocks and dirty streets, gas holders and train tracks—well, you wouldn’t send a postcard, would you?

But, faraway . . .

Yes, she agreed. That’s true. The distant hills.

May I sit down?

If you’re planning to stay, she said, but she let herself sink into her chair beside the window. Father Diamond looked round. The small room was neat enough. But the woman opposite was obviously neglected. Her hair, deep brown and only slightly streaked with gray, was tangled and unwashed. Now that she was sitting he could see her legs, bare beneath the hem of her skirt, great dimpled slabs of blotchy white, forked with streaks of red; her feet in dirty slippers. He could also see she had once been lovely. Beneath the quivering layers of flesh lay the memory of bones. Her mouth was finely drawn and generous and her eyes the dark blue of deep sea or sky on summer nights, a rare and precious color.

Mary-Margaret? she asked. Her voice was shaky.

Ah. Yes. They’re looking after her in hospital, I’m sure. Her doctor’s asked to see me. Has he not been in touch with you?

Is it true, so?

True? Well, what have you been told?

No informative information. Except that a child is dead.

Yes. His name was Felix.

I saw it on TV, she said. But it was a tangled story. I didn’t understand. I don’t. Are they saying Mary-Margaret killed him?

He died from a stab wound. Your daughter had a knife. But no one saw the actual stabbing except for another little boy, and he can’t say what happened.

Because he’s shocked?

No. Because he’s too young to speak.

Tears were running down her face. She left them unchecked. Father Diamond watched her for a while. Then he got up from his seat and went toward her. She looked at him, and her eyes were full of sorrow. Crouching down beside her, he put his arms around her. She stayed still. He smelled her smell of sweat and cigarettes and something fishy, and he held her while she sobbed.

She couldn’t have meant to, she said. She wouldn’t hurt a child. She’s not very bright, but she is not a monster.

No, Father Diamond agreed. Did you have any sense there was something wrong—I mean, did she say anything, or seem upset?

No. A bit off-color, maybe. A bit distracted.

Well, I expect the doctor will get at the truth somehow. And she’ll have a lawyer.

But they’ll lock her up?

We’ll see. Try not to worry. Shall I ask if you can see her?

She’d come here, you mean?

No. No, I don’t think they’ll let her out of the hospital just yet. I meant that you might be able to visit.

I can’t do that.

Father Diamond had been kneeling beside Mrs. O’Reilly all this time. Now he got back to his feet. Why not? he asked, a little stiffly. He had not expected a flat refusal. I’d drive you there, he said. You wouldn’t have to go alone.

It’s not that. It’s not, it’s not, ah, it’s difficult to explain . . .

She was crying again, so hard he knew he would get no other answer. I’ll make you some tea, he said. In the kitchen he found the empty shelves. Back down he went for the second time in the fetid lift, and to the corner shop. Milk
and bread and eggs. Tea and oranges. Some ham. Cigarettes, why not? He guessed the brand. Up on the nineteenth floor again, he let himself into the flat. Fidelma was quiet now. He made tea and scrambled eggs and left her with them, promising to come back.

Kiti Mendoza ate the last of Auntie Rita’s leche flan. There had been a lot of food left over; Auntie Rita always cooked too much. Her friends seemed to enjoy last Sunday’s picnic, even though it had lost its real purpose. But she was cross. The next day, when she heard about the child, she was mollified a little, but her curiosity was even more aroused. Something very strange and sinister was happening in that church. All this week it had been shut. But today was Saturday. She had worked an early shift. Now she had the afternoon and evening off and she was going to take another look. She didn’t ask Melinda to come with her. Melinda had confessed to Auntie Rita that she wasn’t really sure what she had seen all those days ago. The candle flame was wavering, she said.

Kiti, though, was confident. If the statue had not moved its eyes and bled, why would the priest have veiled it? He wanted to keep the miracle for himself, that was the thing, for himself and for the rich; he thought it was too good for common people. But everybody knows that Jesus loved common people and did not like the rich. If he were to come again, he’d come as an immigrant like her. Or an asylum seeker.

On the way to church, Kiti stopped at the print shop,
where the aspiring photographer had a Saturday job. She’d seen quite a bit of him as a result of all the goings-on. He’d taken lots of pictures and had sold some of the church—the ones with Mary-Margaret O’Reilly and the priest—when the kid was murdered. That had been a big news story. It was yesterday’s story now, but Kiti expected to revive it. She thought she’d better let Zak know, so that he’d be ready.

Zak was doing some copying in the back. The shop manager shouted to him. Hiya, he said when he came out. Kiti’s heart gave a little flutter. Zak was really handsome. His girlfriend, Kiti’s colleague, was at a hen party in Barcelona, Kiti knew. And she also knew they were not a serious item. She told Zak her plan. But you don’t really believe in all that stuff? he asked. I mean, like God and stuff. I thought you’d made it up. For a joke, yeah? A good story.

Kiti smiled at him. She knew better than to argue. Her smile found its mark. Fancy a drink tonight? Zak asked. When you’re done with Jesus.

As chairman of the parish council, Major Wetherby had tentatively raised the question of reconsecration. Post sacrilege. Father Diamond supposed he should consult his bishop but something in him revolted against the idea that a child’s death could make the church less holy. Indeed there was a gossamer-thin shred of consolation that his blood had spilled on sacred ground. Behind his closed eyes Father Diamond constantly saw versions of what might actually have happened in the short time he and Stella were
away. It could only have taken them three or four minutes to get the flowers from her car. And then the open doors. He left Mrs. Armitage’s teddy where it was as he made the preparation for the first mass he would celebrate since Maundy Thursday.

The vigil mass of the second Sunday of Easter. That morning he had been to Waitrose, where he bought grapes and salad, oatcakes, yogurt and the healthiest-looking ready meals he could find. As he did not want to cause upset, he had not chosen anything which described itself as calorie-controlled. It was a long time since he’d bought food with someone else in mind. In fact, had he done so ever? As a student he had only shopped for food to share. This imagining of another person’s tastes surprised him with its pleasure.

Mrs. O’Reilly was also surprised when he knocked at her door again. I didn’t think you’d come, she said.

I did tell you that I would.

I thought you were only saying.

There’ll be someone round on Monday, he told her.

On the way down in the lift he tried to remember what he had eaten yesterday or the day before. Whatever his housekeeper had left for him, it must have been but, like everything else he did by rote, eating had blurred into the backdrop of his one acute and conscious feeling: a helpless ache for Stella.

The vigil mass. A week to the day since Felix died. Was there a requiem ritual to mark the passage of a week? He knew that Stella would tell the hours and the last minutes of her child. Rufus too, perhaps. A week. There would be a funeral, but not yet.

Dominica in albis,
Divine Mercy Sunday. The lamb that bleedeth for the sheep.
Victor Rex, miserere.
Alleluia and Amen.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Father Diamond surveyed the congregation. It was as sparse as usual, the old, familiar faces, no horror-tourists yet at the unheralded reopening of the church. Seamus was serving by his side. How strange it is that the world just carries on, Father Diamond thought, as if nothing has changed, and the truth is nothing has—except for those who loved the slaughtered child. Or the one who slaughtered him. And in himself. He would not ghoulishly affect a share of grief for someone he had barely known, or make the onlooker’s empty claim to desolation. But even so, something had changed in him. He had witnessed other deaths but none that stripped the coverings from his soul.

Father Diamond was not a sentimental man. Children died and parents grieved; he had conducted funerals for some. This world heaved with pain. Why should the death of Felix Morrison make a lasting difference to him? This was not a question he would ask himself, but if he did his answer would be wordless.

A reading from the Book of the Apocalypse, Miss Daly announced.

“And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as one dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying, Fear not; I am the first and the last, and the living one; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive for evermore and I have the keys of death and of Hades. Write therefore the things which thou sawest, and the things which are, and the things which shall come to pass hereafter.”

Father Diamond raised his head. A late entrant caught his eye; he recognized her, one of the young women who had caused so much trouble. He sighed. He was too tired to remonstrate with her again. It was all right for the moment; she was alone and had slipped quietly into a vacant pew. He bowed his head again and prayed for Stella.

As soon as the mass was over and the priest had disappeared, Kiti left her place, took a lit candle from the stand and carried it to the chapel. No one tried to stop her. The church was emptying fast. She knew she must be quick. She knelt. Listen to me, she said. I am your handmaid, Lord. She waited. She said three Our Fathers in a row. The painted eyes looked down at her, unmoved. Please hurry, she implored. Still nothing. No sign at all. No glittering eyes, no scarlet beads of blood. She began to feel very cold and very sad. Then there was a voice. Kiti couldn’t swear that it came from the cross. She knew that it was meant for her but to be honest she had to say it was sort of soundless and internal. Also, she thought it spoke to her in her first language, not the blunt and unambiguous English she had learned to use now in her daily life. The words didn’t come like a telephone message that could be remembered and repeated but more like a murmur, sounds heard in another room, or a light wind in the trees. They were about being brave and patient, not being frightened, about loneliness and how even loneliness would end. Later, trying to recover them, Kiti was reminded of her mother and the kinds of things her mother had said when she was unhappy as a child. At the time, nearly grown-up Kiti, this fierce and lonely girl who had not been home in years, to whom Auntie Rita was poor substitute for the family she missed, who had to face
the indifference of strangers and claw her own way through this huge and alien city, who never gave way to self-pity, was suddenly surprised by tears.

Father Diamond came on the weeping girl as he was locking up the church. She was kneeling on the floor of the Chapel of the Holy Souls with a candle in her hand. She turned as she heard his steps. He saw how young she was, and pretty, with her joyful tear-streaked face. Are you all right, my dear? he asked. Is there anything I can do to help?

No thanks, she said. I’m good, I’m good.

You wouldn’t like a cup of tea?

Oh, I’m going to meet my boyfriend for a drink. Thank you anyway. Maybe another time? And smiling her disarming smile, she got lightly to her feet, gave Father Diamond her burning candle, sped down the aisle and from the church.

Mary-Margaret was disappointed in the ward. The one she had been in when she broke her head was so much cozier than this, where they wouldn’t let you stay in bed, the nurses were quite offhand and the food was not very nice at all. Well, it was all right sometimes—especially the lamb curry—but what she didn’t like was having to eat at the same table as the others. A bigger load of creeps and weirdos you never saw in your whole life. And nothing much to do in between meetings with the doctor. Boring telly. Something called experimental art. The day before yesterday she’d said to the bloke in charge that she was thinking of a wander round the shops. Well you’ve got another think coming then, love, the man had said. Until
then, Mary-Margaret had not known she was locked up. It was a very scary feeling. The only bit of silver lining to this particularly dark cloud was that it wouldn’t last long. She’d explained that to the gorgeous doctor. And to her solicitor, who was a young woman, so young it was hardly possible she was allowed to do a proper job. She’d explained, but both of them were being really thick. Perhaps they’d never understand until they saw the risen God. And this was a worry to her. Would He come and let her out Himself? Show Himself to these two doubters? Would they recognize Him in the form of the little boy whose name she didn’t know? Would she know Him, come to that? The first time round His friends had known Him in the breaking of the bread, but try as she might she couldn’t figure out how this scenario would replay now.

There was nothing for it but to wait and see. Only, the wait was shocking long. A whole week now exactly. Holy Saturday, it was. No one had said anything to her about mass tomorrow—she’d have to find out for herself. Maybe she’d meet a priest there, who could give her some advice. It was three days in the Bible, but then some time after that before the bread thing. Eight days, was it? She had that in the back of her mind. A priest would know, of course.

Eight days? Tomorrow? Here’s hoping. The first couple of days in this nasty place hadn’t been too bad. She couldn’t remember much about them, frankly, because she’d been in a bit of a tizzy after the terrifying business with the knife. She truly hadn’t expected anything like that. But, having had a few days now to get her head round what had happened, she’d understood you must expect the unexpected. It was making sense at last. “The Lord moves in mysterious
ways,” people were always saying. You can say that again, thought Mary-Margaret. Mysterious was an understatement. Flipping puzzling they were, His ways, not to mention frightening.