Fragments (15 page)

‘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 choir, and wanted to join the football
club as soon as we got it running. After a few weeks he started
coming to services.’

‘And Jason
objected?’

‘Not at first.
At first a lot of the gang members came in and out of the youth
group and the Church. But after a while, when there was nothing for
them...’

‘Nothing for
them to steal, or take, or to have for their own...?’

‘Yes, exactly.’
Wyn looked at her, surprised.

‘I’ve been
around for a few years, Wyn. I’ve seen this situation once or
twice. New priest, new activity, poor parish: everyone always
checks it out to see what they can have. A few stay on, take what
we offer and, in turn, start to give back: but not all.’

‘No, not all.’
In his voice was his youth and disappointment, a suggestion of
bitterness. ‘Not all.’

‘Was Jason one
of the ‘not all’?’

‘Yes. I’d
thought... I’d thought we were getting somewhere and then... then
it started to go wrong.’ Wyn had paled, his throat had caught, his
fist had clenched.

‘Tell me about
it.’

Initially the
youth club had a slow start. Months had gone by with only a couple
of boy and girls, usually grandchildren of parishioners, attending.
Over the months it had begun to build, then to flourish. The choir
had blossomed, bringing in many who had no contact with any Church,
any faith. Older boys such as Jason had started to come in. Wyn had
thought it was a sign they were reaching into the community, that
there was some hope of breaking the gang cycle.

‘But it wasn’t
what was going on. I didn’t notice it at first, then it became
obvious. They weren’t breaking away from the gangs, they were
recruiting into them. Using the youth club, the choir to gain
access to kids that were usually out of their reach. The kids whose
parents took them into the school yard and then picked them back up
from there. The kids whose parents knew where they were,
twenty-four seven. Those kids were allowed into the Church
activities anytime they wanted to attend.’

‘So the gangs
came recruiting for them, here, in your groups, in the choir?’

‘Yes.’ His
voice was as tired as Father Edwards had looked.

‘What did you
do?’

‘Discussed it
with everyone, with the local community leaders, the police, with
my Bishop, had a long think and prayed... and then closed out those
we felt were only there to recruit.’

The pain he was
feeling was self-evident. The sense that he’d failed, that he’d
somehow let down those who had come to him for help. A sharp life
lesson had been dealt to Wyn Jones and he’d not enjoyed it. A
bitter taste had been left, a defeat that had yet to be accepted
and moved past.

‘Is that when
the graffiti started?’

‘Yes. It all
started then. I’d banned Jason and a few others, told them they
were no longer welcome. I’d expected him to stop Brad from coming,
but instead, Brad started to bring in more and more kids his own
age or younger, ten year olds, eleven, twelve.’

‘Already gang
members?’

‘Yes, some of
the areas have their own self running mini gangs. The leaders are
eleven, twelve, maybe thirteen at most. The gang itself can have
seven year olds in it!’

Maryam, who had
seen machine guns in the hands of ten year olds, machine guns and
machetes with scalp and hair still stuck to the blade, and the ten
year olds who wielded them stood silent with dead eyes... listened.
You could only bear witness to some pains. Nothing you could say,
or do, could make it more bearable, make it better. Sometimes
listening allowed it out. In her silence, he found his voice.

‘I’ve been in
gangs, Miss Michael. I ran with one back in Cardiff. It used to be
called Tiger Bay, where I grew up. It wasn’t the sweetest area.
There were always kids running wild, even the ones with loving Mums
like mine.’ His voice lost its cultured tones, his accent more
pronounced as he continued. ‘Mam took me off the streets when she
lost me, when I lost myself. She sent me up valley, to my aunts.
Her aunts really, my great aunts, they put me back on the straight.
They let me find myself again. I thought I understood. I thought I
knew where these children were coming from, what their lives
were...’ His voice trailed off in despair. The tears in his eyes
were not pity or sadness: they were rage.

‘I HAD NO
IDEA!’ His open palm slapped down hard on the table, the bruising
on his knuckles was clear to see. He needed to move, jump, to
dissipate the energy in him. He stood up and kicked the chair away
from him.

‘How could I
have been so STUPID? So naive? How could I have done this?’

Maryam waited
for him to recover, which he did, picking up the chair and setting
it back to rights.

‘When I
realised what they were doing, who they were targeting in the
groups, I was so angry. I didn’t just ban them, I threw them out!
When they argued back, I lost it. Like the money lenders in the
Temple, I physically threw them over the threshold. I told Jason
Briggs if he came near the Church again I’d make sure he couldn’t
walk away. I’d break his legs.’

His face was
ashen, tears flowing out of his eyes, his voice knotted in
self-loathing.

‘When did this
happen?’

‘Shortly after
I’d called in the local police to help me make sense of it all. I
hadn’t understood... understood what they were doing. That it
wasn’t the young boys they were after. That’s why they got away
with it at first and got their claws into some of them. I was
blind.’

‘What were they
after?’

‘The girls.
They were after the girls. Courting them, buying them gifts, making
them feel special. Recruiting them.’

‘For what?’

‘The gangs.
They seek out girls and get them to join. But the girls aren’t
treated the same way as the boys. The girls are... owned.’

‘Owned? You
mean they prostitute them?’

‘Not in that
sense. They don’t sell them out. But they possess them, keep them,
use them. When the kids in the group started to get into trouble at
home, started to skip school, go wild... I hadn’t understood what
was happening, what terrible things were being done to the girls. I
hadn’t known.’

‘Known what,
Father Jones?’

‘That the girls
were a commodity, Miss Michael. That a girl joining gangs such as
the RRs, becomes... a prize. They are raped by the leader of the
gang or one of the lieutenants. When they’ve had their fill of
them, they are passed on down through the ranks. Sometimes the
entire gang will rape them. The girls are only allowed to stay in
the gangs if they accept this, accept anything being done to them.
And once a girl is truly owned by a gang...’ Wyn’s voice again
broke in anger and self revulsion ‘They recruit other girls in.
Before I’d realised it, half a dozen of the girls coming to my
group, good Catholic girls with families that adored them,
protected them... they started running wild. Ignoring their
parents, skipping school, running in the streets at night. But they
kept coming to the group, to the choir. Their parents would come to
me, begging me to help with them. I counselled them, reassured
them. ‘They are still coming to the House of the Lord,’ I said.
‘They are still singing in the choir. We will reach them.’ And all
the time they were there....’

‘To recruit
more girls?’

‘YES!’ Wyn’s
fist drove down on the table once more. ‘I found out that girls
from my group were prized by the Runners. The Runners actively
sought them out...’

‘Because they
were virgins?’

Wyn looked
shocked that Maryam had spoken such a thing, knew of such a thing.
She placed her hand very gently on his fist, still held fast on the
table.

‘The world has
always had bad places and people in it, Father Jones. Nothing you
could say would shock me or be new to me.’

Wyn pulled his
hand free, stood up and turned away, pacing the room before facing
a wall. His shoulders were crumpled, his heart heavy. She was sure
he was praying. His breathing came under control, his shoulders
straightened. Pride returned to his body, replacing the shame and
rage. He returned to the table, seated himself, and allowed her to
continue.

‘And this is
why you threw Jason Briggs out?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s
when the graffiti started, the desecrations?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it was
stamped out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why were
you and Jason Briggs fighting on the steps of the Church just four
nights ago?’

‘I can’t tell
you.’

They were at
the nub of it, the rub of it. The place she had not been able to
approach until Rome had given her permission. The place, if her
suspicions were correct, she could never progress from or break
into.

‘If I called
Bishop Atkins in, could he tell me?’

‘No...’ His
head dropped down, tears flooding onto his chest. ‘He could
not.’

‘Why would that
be?’

‘Because what
had been happening between Jason Briggs and myself was happening
under the Seal of the Confessional.’

Wyn Jones had
cried. He had sobbed until his broken heart had rid itself of much
of the poison that had been poured into it in the previous months.
Maryam had sat and born witness. When his eyes had run dry, he’d
risen, thanked her for trying to save him, and left her. Atkins
returned within seconds, Andy Scott by his side.

Maryam didn’t
hesitate in going straight to the point:

‘Why hasn’t he
told the police?’

Fred sat down
and poured himself another port. ‘I advised him not to.’

‘Why?’

‘Because once
he tells them that Jason Briggs has told him secrets in the
confessional, nothing will stop them in their pursuit of what they
were. I’m trying to buy him time.’

‘How?’

‘About six
weeks ago, Jason Briggs suddenly appeared in the confessional box
one day and announced to Father Jones that he was a Catholic, and
that he wished to confess.’

‘The police
said that he had no religion.’

‘I know. Wyn
didn’t believe him and advised him to discuss things with another
priest or to seek support from the Archdiocese.’

‘What
happened?’

‘Jason turned
up back in the confessional and showed Wyn a confirmation
certificate.’

‘Oh, my. How
could that be?’

‘Jason’s father
is Nigerian. He came and went in Jason’s life, turning up every now
and then, spending time with him. When Jason was seven years old,
his father visited and took the boy away for the summer, home to
meet his family. During that time he was seemingly both baptised
and confirmed. When he returned, his mother had finally lost
parental rights of three-year-old Brad, her drug use and
prostitution had taken over her life. His father could have gained
custody of Jason, but he would have had to stay and deal with
Social Services. His father abandoned him. Jason was also taken
into care, in a different home from Brad. Jason never left it. Brad
was taken in by his mother’s sister two years ago. She’d been out
of the country and returned to find that not only had her sister
died of a drug overdose, but that she had two nephews. Jason was
fifteen and completely feral. The police had stopped trying to
force him back to the care home. He lived by, and for, the gang.
His aunt never had anything to do with him. It was she that sent
Brad to the Church youth group, unaware that Jason was actually
Catholic. She just wanted Brad off the streets.’

‘And you are
sure that he was Catholic?’

‘No, that’s why
we’ve been stalling. The certificates Jason showed Wyn were the
right place and the right time but in a different name. They were
also very clean and well kept, which didn’t speak of a seven year
old child saving them all those years. Jason stated it was his
family name in Nigeria and that his father had him given a Nigerian
identity. It was his father’s surname. He’d claimed he’d written to
his father’s family and had the certificates sent to him’

‘A tad
unlikely.’

‘Precisely. We
are actively pursuing it. We have a full investigation within the
church, trying to track down the Bishop who undertook the
confirmation. The certificate is real, we are pretty sure it
doesn’t relate in any way to Jason.’

‘But you aren’t
certain?’

‘No. And, until
we are...’

‘Wyn is trapped
in the confessional with him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Goodness, what
a mess.’ Maryam poured herself a large port and studied the colours
in the depths of the wine.

‘How did he
conduct himself in the confessional, Jason Briggs? Did he know what
to do?’

It was Andy who
answered his surprise that Maryam asked the question evident.

‘He conducted
himself impeccably. I spoke to Wyn about it at length. He knew what
to do and say and couched everything he told Wyn under guise of
confession, as an actual confession.’