Evil Intent (7 page)

All at once there was evidence of movement, as people began drifting towards the semi-circle of chairs which had been set up at the other end of the room. It was as if some inaudible bell had rung, but as Callie followed Brian, she saw that Leo Jackson had taken the chair in the centre, and his arrival was a signal to the rest that the formal meeting was about to get underway.

There was still no sign of Frances. Callie chose a seat beside Brian,
leaving
an empty chair on her other side for Frances. Adam, already seated, was at an oblique angle to her, so at least she wouldn’t have to look directly across at him during the meeting.

The man who had identified himself to her as the speaker sat next to Leo, and at the last minute, Frances slipped into the empty chair to Callie’s right, giving her arm a discreet squeeze of greeting. ‘Sorry to have left you on your own,’ she whispered. ‘You seem to have survived.’

‘It’s not been too bad.’

‘You’ve managed to avoid
them,
then?’ Frances nodded her head across the semi-circle in the direction of the two men who had walked out of the service.

‘Yes. Who are they, anyway?’

Frances whispered close to Callie’s ear. ‘Father Vincent is the white one, the one who looks like a slug. And the black one is Father Jonah.’

A slug. Callie studied him while Leo made a few introductory remarks. The description seemed apt, though she wasn’t quite sure why. There was, perhaps, a sluglike inertia about him in his posture, his hands folded
complacently
over his substantial belly. The expression on his very round, very pink face was smug, self-satisfied. He had a thatch of abundant white hair, styled in a way which suggested that he was proud of it, considering it a virtue to have retained such a quantity of it at his age when so many around him had lost theirs.

She was snapped out of her reverie at the sound of her own name. Leo was mentioning her, welcoming her to the Deanery, waving his hand in her direction. She composed her face into what she hoped was an appropriate expression and nodded in acknowledgement.

‘And we also welcome Adam Masters, who is serving his title at Christ Church with Richard Grant.’

Adam did her one better: he stood up. Callie’s eyes went to him
without
volition.

Till now, she’d managed to avoid looking at Adam; even when she’d shared the peace with him, when she’d seen him in the corner, her eyes had slid over him without really looking. Now, though, she saw him.

He had changed.

He seemed taller somehow, his back straighter. And he had cut his hair.

Adam’s hair was auburn and wavy. In the years she’d known him, he’d always worn it on the long side, curling luxuriantly round his collar.

Now it had all been cut off, shaped into short back and sides. Very establishment, very traditional.

To Callie’s eyes, the hair cut seemed to have removed part of his charm – part of what had made him Adam, and lovable. Like Samson, he had been shorn of some of his power over her. And she was glad. This was not the Adam she had known and loved, this well-groomed young man in the neat blue clerical shirt and wide white collar.

His voice, though, was the same. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s good to be here.’

Across from Callie, Father Jonah leaned towards Father Vincent and said something
sotto voce
behind his hand.

‘Before I introduce our speaker,’ Leo went on, ‘Are there any other announcements or notices?’

The man next to Adam put up his hand.

‘Yes, Richard?’ acknowledged Leo.

Richard Grant stood. ‘I just wanted to let everyone know that we have a new Alpha Course beginning next week. All are welcome to attend, of course.’

This time Father Jonah’s voice, though intended only for his
companion,
carried across the room. ‘Oh, joy.’

But Richard Grant was not fazed. ‘Yes, it
is
a joy,’ he said firmly. ‘A joy and a privilege to have the opportunity to bring people to Jesus.’

Callie observed that he was not wearing clericals; rather he had on a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing sinewy
forearms
covered with dark hair. ‘Muscular Christianity’ was the phrase which popped into Callie’s head, and it seemed particularly apt. His face was lean and sculptured, with high cheekbones and deep vertical grooves, and his black hair was cut in a style similar to Adam’s, the short sides revealing sprinklings of grey. He was not, Callie thought, a man to be trifled with.

‘Thank you, Richard,’ said Leo in a voice which precluded further
discussion.
‘I’m sure we’ll all be happy to steer interested parties your way.’

Richard Grant nodded, apparently satisfied, and sat down.

‘Now I’d like to introduce our speaker —’ Leo began, but Richard Grant bobbed back up and Leo stopped, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Yes, Richard?’

‘Aren’t we going to begin with prayer?’

‘Very well. Since you’re up, why don’t you lead us in prayer?’ From Leo’s straight face, Callie couldn’t tell whether he was amused or annoyed, serious or ironic.

There was a moment of shifting about, heads being bowed and suitable attitudes of prayer being assumed, as the two black-clad men opposite
muttered
to each other in an inaudible hiss.

‘We just want to thank you, Lord,’ said Richard Grant, ‘for bringing us together here tonight…’

Several minutes later he had finished, and sat down once again.

‘Now,’ said Leo, and this time there was no mistaking the irony in that one word, ‘I’d like to introduce our speaker, David Middleton-Brown. He is a priest in this diocese, in the Kensington area. And he is a recognised, though very modest, expert in the area of church furnishings and silver. Tonight he is going to talk to us about the treasures in our churches – how to recognise them, and how to take care of them.’

The talk was interesting, but after a few minutes Callie found her
attention
wandering. Surreptitiously she looked round the semi-circle at the people she could see without swivelling her head too obviously. Directly across from her, Father Vincent and Father Jonah were raptly attentive, their heads turned towards the speaker. Benedict Burton seemed quite interested, nodding now and again. Richard Grant looked bored. Beside him, Adam looked…well, like Adam. She knew him so well; she’d always prided herself on being able to read his face, to know what he was thinking. Now he was wearing the expression of polite interest which he had so often assumed during lectures at theological college, and she knew that his mind was far away. On
her,
then? Pippa, the paragon? The perfect, the
pulchritudinous.

Unwilling to go there, Callie tuned back in to the talk. The proper way to hang vestments was something which she was sure she ought to know
about, but the people here, in all of their variety, were far more interesting.

Hands, then.

Not Adam’s hands, though. She couldn’t bear to look at those
well-loved
hands, capable of such tenderness. Instead she slid her eyes past him to Richard Grant. His hands were as sinewy as his arms, tanned, the veins standing out on them, the fingers blunt. They were the sort of hands that Jesus might have had, she reflected: the hands of a working man. Idly she wondered what Richard Grant had done before coming to the priesthood.

Benedict Burton’s hands were as mottled as his scalp, the bones
showing
through and the flesh flaccid. Beside him, Father Vincent’s hands remained folded over his ample black-clad girth. Though his face was pink, his hands were white – soft and plump as undercooked dumplings. She couldn’t imagine those hands doing anything more energetic than lifting a cup of tea.

Father Jonah was a complete contrast, though he was equally still, his hands resting on his knees. They seemed to be carved out of some
beautiful,
tight-grained black wood, shiny and hard, every vein and muscle defined, strong yet delicate.

There was nothing delicate about Leo Jackson’s hands. A more
coffee-coloured
brown than Father Jonah’s black, they were as massive as the man himself. And they were far from still. Restlessly they moved – tapping out a beat on his knees, clasping and unclasping, scratching his scalp or rubbing his nose.

And then the leathery palms were coming together, leading the round of applause, as Leo thanked the speaker for his fascinating and informative talk.

There was no rush to leave after the speaker finished, as Callie might have expected. Leo produced, as if by magic, a couple of bottles of wine, and plastic cups were found somewhere.

Callie picked up a cup of wine and took a sip. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Adam was headed in her direction. Quickly she turned towards the nearest person; unfortunately, that happened to be Father Jonah.

It was too late to turn away, so she gave him a nervous smile. Up close,
she realised he was younger than she’d thought – certainly not much older than she. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m Callie Anson.’

‘I know very well who you are.’ His voice was clipped, accented – and very cold. ‘You are one of the people who have destroyed our Church.’

‘But…’ she sputtered, her eyes widening.

‘You have no excuse,’ he went on stonily. ‘There
is
no excuse.’

‘Leave her alone,’ said Frances as she materialised at her side, slipping her arm through Callie’s.

‘It’s like that, is it?’ the man sneered, his nostrils flaring. ‘I should have known. Abomination on abomination.’

Frances tensed, narrowing her eyes. ‘What, exactly, do you mean by that?’

‘I should think it’s fairly obvious.’ He looked pointedly at their linked arms. ‘You’re not content with taking away from us a church which has existed for centuries, divinely instituted by Our Lord. You have to flout God’s will as well, committing unspeakable acts together. “God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature.”’

It was so ridiculous that Callie wanted to laugh, but Frances wasn’t laughing. ‘How dare you,’ she hissed, not bothering to deny it. ‘How dare you pass moral judgements on us?’

He pressed his lips together. ‘The words are not mine. They are St Paul’s words. And Our Lord himself judges you, not me. He knows what grievous sins you have committed, against His Church and against natural law and common decency.’

‘You…sanctimonious hypocrite!’ Frances exploded.

Heads swivelled in their direction, and Leo crossed the room in a few strides to Frances’ side; his protective arm was long enough to encompass the shoulders of both women. ‘Steady on,’ he said warningly, then glared at Jonah Adimola. ‘Are you upsetting my sisters?’

Again the man’s nostrils flared. ‘I should have known that you would come to their defence, Son-of-a-Slave. After all, you allowed your altar to be desecrated, to be defiled and tainted, to be polluted by this woman, this spawn of Satan.’

Frances’ arm shot out, and a full glass of wine went into Father Jonah’s face, dripping down onto his cassock.

For a few seconds there was total silence; everyone seemed frozen in place. Then the spell was broken as Father Vincent, who had been
watching
the scene with bemused approval, moved to the side of his colleague. ‘Father Leo,’ he boomed in a carrying voice. ‘May I take Father Jonah to your vestry to clean up?’

Leo nodded, but his attention was on Frances, who had begun to
tremble
with shock.

Callie took a step back. ‘Frances, are you all right?’

Frances’ voice shook, but her words were firm. ‘I’m not sorry,’ she said defiantly. ‘He deserved it. He deserved worse than that. If I’d had a blunt instrument, I would have killed him.’

Leo put his arms around her, enveloping her in a hug against his chest. ‘Frannie, my pet,’ he crooned in a gentle voice. ‘He did deserve it. But you don’t mean that.’

‘I do.’

‘Come on, my love. Let’s get some fresh air.’ His arms still around her, he steered her towards the door.

Callie, along with everyone else in the room, watched them go. The silence was complete. What now? thought Callie. Should she wait for Frances, or should she make her own way home?

Indecisively, she turned. Turned, and found herself face to face with Adam.

He was smiling down at her, that lazy smile she’d always loved.

‘Hi, Cal,’ he said easily. As if none of it had ever happened, as if they were still together. He was the only one who called her that – Cal, a diminutive of a nickname.

‘Hi.’

‘What was that all about?’ Adam raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘All I heard was the last bit.’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘All right, I won’t.’

She waited, looking down at the floor, reminding herself to breathe.

‘Actually,’ Adam said, ‘I’ve been meaning to catch you all evening. There was something I wanted to ask you.’

Involuntarily she raised her head and looked into his brown eyes, her heart constricting. ‘Yes?’

‘I wondered if you were free on Saturday night.’

‘Free?’ she echoed in a tight voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘Saturday?’

‘I wondered if you might come to my place for a meal. You could see my new flat. And you could meet Pippa,’ he added enthusiastically. ‘She’s coming up for the weekend. I’d really like the two of you to be friends, Cal. I know you’d love her.’

‘I’m sure,’ said the voice that wasn’t really Callie.

Adam was beaming. ‘The thing is, Cal, she doesn’t know anyone in London but me. When we get married in a few months’ time, when she moves here, it would be great for her to have a friend.’

All for Pippa’s benefit, then. Not an attempt at reconciliation, or trying to salvage something – a vestige of friendship – from a relationship that had meant so much to both of them. It was all about Pippa. Callie swallowed a lump in her throat.

‘Say you’ll come on Saturday, Cal,’ he wheedled, with a pleading look on his face which had never failed to get him his own way where she was concerned. When the silence had stretched out for a few seconds, he added, ‘Pippa makes a great curry. ‘