Submersion (27 page)

Then there was Agnes and her odd behaviour.

It seemed to begin with her change of heart regarding work. Much as I thought her return was premature – she was
anything
but ready – her abrupt change of mind on the day itself was distinctly out of the character. Agnes was solid, reliable; she didn’t let anybody down, no matter what the circumstances, she just carried on. And yet her response when I questioned her –
I got to the door and I simply couldn’t go any further –
didn’t strike me as quite genuine. I had a sense that something was going on; I just didn’t know what.

One evening I came home early and had the sense that someone else was in the house. Heard sudden movements above me – the scraping of chairs, the swift shutting of a door – as I ascended to the first floor. But, once my outdoor gear was removed and I saw Agnes’ face without the blur my mask provided, all seemed fine. There was nothing but a feeling.

Yet there had been another incident.

The day after Agnes had met with Jerry Carter and finally agreed a return-to-work date, I slipped back unexpectedly – I’d left a bag of tools behind, hanging off the bannister of the lower staircase – and I heard voices. At least, I heard Agnes’ for certain, but it sounded as if she was talking to someone else, rather than just herself. I listened out for a second, to hear if they continued, but whatever was in progress was paused. I left, puzzled, but kept my thoughts to myself. It was probably nothing and Agnes could definitely do without me questioning her about who she may or may not have in her company.

But one thing continued to bother me. Something I heard in the tiny snippet of conversation from Agnes. A name.

Reuben.

For now, I kept my thoughts to myself. But, as that name niggled away at me, I knew that eventually I would have to start asking questions; I would have to understand exactly what was going on.

Whilst the hard graft and the holy venue offered some distraction from my concerns, it unfortunately brought with it fresh unease: that face from the past,
Father
Neil. It was definitely
him,
no doubt. As the week progressed, further memories came back to me. And he knew it, too. I saw a shadow of fear crawl across his face and he would glance back at me whenever I caught his eye, at least twice, just to check if I was really staring. Jessie noticed, too. Worried that I was looking to kick off some trouble with the local man of God, he pulled me to one side at the end of the fourth day on the job.

‘Will you give up on whatever it is between you and the priest?’ he instructed, his tone seething with irritation. ‘I know you object to this place on principle, but you’re happy to take the money, so can we simply proceed on a civil basis?’

‘It’s not that-.’

‘I don’t really care what it is.’

‘Oh, you don’t? Oh, that’s fine then. I’ll shut up, smother my conscience and just carry on, because you don’t really care.’

He was taken aback by my near-sulky outburst. It wasn’t the usual reaction he got from me, no matter how sensitive the subject.

‘Jesus, he’s really got to you?’ he said, a line that instantly had us both laughing, expecting a lightning strike for his blasphemy at any second. ‘But he has though, hasn’t he?’ Jessie continued, once we’d recovered. The humour had helped break the tension between us. ‘Come on, Tris, what is it this guy has done? Considering he remembers you and you don’t-.’

‘I do remember him,’ I confirmed.

We were on our own by then, sitting on the edge of the expansive platform, testing out the replacement boards as they took our weight, our legs dangling over the water that lurked beneath us. We faced the great stone arch that led to the outdoors. The volunteers had all disappeared, returning to their tightly packed-in homes behind the church.
Father
Neil had popped out on some
community errand
as he called it and would return later to lock up.

‘Not at first, not when he mentioned it,’ I explained, kicking my heavy work boots together, looking into the cold, still sea below. ‘But eventually it came back to me, and he knows I know. The way he’s been looking at me all week. He’s guilty and he knows it.’

A laugh burst from Jessie, but dissipated from his features instantly when he realised I was serious.

‘Guilty?’ he questioned, his brow creased incredulously. ‘What is our local priest guilty of?’

I shrugged, still staring down.

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

Yet, I wasn’t sure I could. Also, there were certain people I couldn’t mention; however much I trusted those around me, I’d returned to the city in search of a particular person. In search of Xavier Riley. For all I knew, I could be mentioning his name to the very people who were harbouring him. However unlikely, five years into my arrival, not once had I taken that chance.

‘Years ago, before the floods, before I left this place the first time round and before I knew you, I worked in a tiny shop in the Atrium.
Albert’s Film Emporium.’

I checked Jessie’s response; yes, he vaguely recalled
Albert’s
and the previous conversation we’d had about my employment there. In my head I could see the small shop-come-cinema so vividly. Out the front, Albert sold all genres of film and associated stuff – books, magazines, collectables. Out the back was the tiny cinema, just six seats in total. And I could see us all there, meeting and greeting, getting ready for whatever cinematic delight Albert had unearthed for us.

‘After hours, Albert ran a kind of film club – just people he’d invited. He never confirmed what his motive was for running the shop – it didn’t have a great commercial pull from what I could see and it was expensive to lease in the Atrium. Maybe he got a good rate? You never knew with Albert; in the years I’d known him, on and off, he’d always fallen on his feet. Maybe he simply had a great passion for film, and making money – if he made any – was incidental, a bonus. Who knows? Albert and his motivations had always been a mystery to me.’

I paused briefly and Jessie asked a question.

‘You knew him before this cinema thing?’

I answered with a nod, but didn’t elaborate on that point. Jessie accepted this and allowed me to continue.

‘That’s where I remember him – your
Father
Neil. Albert disappeared one day, and he,
Father
Neil, had started coming to the film club in the weeks prior to him going missing. He was a friend of a friend.’

He came with Xavier Riley,
I could have said, but I didn’t, as much as I was in the mood to confess it all.

‘I came to the shop one morning to be greeted by a man in a suit who informed me that the shop was closing, that my services were no longer needed. He handed me an envelope of cash, stating that Albert had left me this
in his will.
  Albert had been absent for a week by then and I had been opening the shop up myself and making as best a job of it as possible until then. I couldn’t believe he was dead. Couldn’t believe this man’s ceaseless luck had finally ceased. When I asked how, I was told he had drowned. In a freak accident, near the Black Sea. His death was reported in the papers a day later – the account matched that of the man in the suit, with one addition: no body had been recovered.’

I saw Jessie react as the parallel to Elinor’s disappearance hit him. We were silent for a moment as we both chewed this over. Then he spoke out abruptly.

‘But what is Father Neil guilty of? You’ve still not answered that.’

I took the deepest breath. I had to be careful what I said. Could I give a clear explanation, without veering into territory I’d rather steer clear of?

‘He was guilty by association,’ I managed, realising instantly that it was a feeble explanation. Jessie’s exasperated sigh validated this. So, I went a little further. ‘The man he came to the film club with. He was a terrorist and I suspect that
Father
Neil was protecting him. Has been and might still be. This man, this terrorist. He took refuge in a place just like this,’ I added, pointing up into the vast cavern above us. ‘Coincidence?’

Jessie sighed.

‘I don’t know what to think, Tris,’ he answered. ‘It all sounds a bit flimsy. So he knew this terrorist guy, and your old friend went missing about the same time.’ He paused here, doubtless recalling the comparison of circumstances to Elinor’s. ‘This terrorist was harboured by a church and your man Neil is now a priest in one. Nothing definite, is it? It might be all linked up, but I think you’re jumping to conclusions.’

‘Maybe,’ I conceded, shrugging.
Maybe,
but my gut told me something else; it told me something definite.

‘This terrorist,’ Jessie began, as another element of our exchange caught his interest. ‘I’m not aware of any such character in this place. I’ve lived here all my life, so how come you know about such a thing and I don’t?’

I felt Jessie’s eyes on me as I stared into the water below, considering my response.

‘Just someone I knew from back then,’ I offered eventually. ‘Someone I met in my teens.’

Jessie knew what that meant. It was the time we didn’t speak about. Not usually. But today Jessie took a different approach.

‘When you were taken?’ he said, crossing a line that had only been traversed once or twice, experiences blurred and erased in a wash of alcohol.

I nodded, externally solemn. Internally, I wondered where the hell this was going.

‘So are you too guilty by association?’ he eventually asked, cautious.

‘No!’

My response was instant, a sudden, short outburst.

He hadn’t expected that and I had to recover quickly.

‘No,’ I echoed, calmer. ‘No, I’m not guilty at all. He is, though.
Father
Neil and his
friend.’
No amount of calm in my voice could have disguised the bitterness as I spat that last word.

‘This terrorist,’ Jessie asked, returning to an opening he had used before. ‘Who is he, Tristan? I mean, I feel like I’m missing something. I
know
I’m missing something. What aren’t you telling me?’

Five years ago I came looking for a man who turned against the very people who had saved him. A damaged man who went off the rails. A man who is determined to avenge what has happened to him no matter what the cost. No matter who gets hurt. The most dangerous man I have ever known, and I’ve known a few.

‘Tris, give me something here. I’m not sure where to go with this, what to think.’

A man who used Albert’s little film club to recruit followers. A man who went missing again after the old man was reported drowned. Rumour had it a church in the city had offered him refuge. And here I am, in a church and the priest is an old associate of the very man I’m tracking down.

‘Tristan?’

I considered the truth. Considered that it might be time to share the burden. So that’s what I did. Gave Jessie Morton the truth. At least, a part of it.

‘Albert was my father, Jessie. And the man I’m looking for, this terrorist, I believe he killed him. When I eventually find him, I’m gonna kill him in return. And your
Father
Neil, he was there when it all-.’

At that moment, before I could express another word, the hefty doors to the church were split apart:
Father
Neil had returned.

‘Time to lock up, boys!’ he announced, ageing himself with his words as much as his grey hair.

Our conversation ended and we left in silence.

Over the last few days of our job, I did my very best not to return to the subject. I had satisfied Jessie’s curiosity over my attitude towards the priest; he knew that any further confession would need to come voluntarily. And, even if he was eagerly intrigued, he didn’t show it and respected what he knew would be my wish. I would tell him eventually – whenever I started something with Jessie, I always finished it.

However, I knew that once I ventured further into this particular history, I’d have to trust him with something I hadn’t needed to before: I’d have to trust him with my life.

In the days that followed, we were subjected to a distraction that gave us obvious licence to steer clear of dangerous territory – there was a local disturbance on tug-boat day in the streets that surrounded
St Mary’s.

Days before, there had been some fuss around Cedar Street. Accusations that one of the neighbours had ripped open all the floating garbage bags, further polluting the waters with a bric-a-brac of waste. It had been cleaned up swiftly and no official cause had been reported, as far as we had heard.

Then, five days into our job at the church, a similar thing occurred: the residents awoke to find their black refuse bags torn apart, packets and labels floating like blurred paper lilies on the murky surface. As with Cedar Street, once the tug-boat teams had cleared up what they could, a second team came through and trawled the river roads, sifting the dark waters for any remains. And that’s where it got interesting. One of the refuse workers was a local and a parishioner and, at the end of his working day, he came into the church, tugging off his gas mask, revealing his ashen features, in search of the priest.