The Art of Standing Still (32 page)

‘Oh no!' she moaned. She climbed unsteadily to her feet. ‘Oh, please, God, no.'

She staggered towards the first knight. She felt his neck for a pulse. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. ‘What was that?'

‘L – lightning, I think,' stammered Ruth. The others slowly sat up. Ronnie climbed unsteadily to his feet, and Josh rubbed his head. Ruth ran from one to another. No one seemed to be injured, just knocked off their feet and stunned.

‘Perhaps the scaffolding wasn't such a good idea,' Josh said.

Ronnie looked at Ruth. ‘Dear, do you think the Almighty is trying to tell us something?'

Scene Eight

JEMMA SLEPT BADLY. THE STORM HADN'T HELPED. SHE FELT PARTICULARLY
vulnerable on the boat. Even though the worst of the storm had passed by mid-evening, the crashes and flashes had been far too close for her liking. When it rumbled off into the distance she lay in bed, the storm inside her raging as mightily as ever.

Before the last peal died away, at around six, there was a knock at her door. As soon as she saw Josh's face, she knew something had happened. He recounted the evening's events.

‘Do you think God was trying to hit you or miss you?' she said.

‘I think he would have hit me if he had wanted to.'

‘So, was it a warning?'

‘No, it was weather . . . and that doesn't mean you can justify running it on the weather page of your rag.'

She smiled and made him some tea. They sat together in the cabin and listened to the thunder.

‘I came to see if you were all right. You seemed pretty upset earlier.'

‘I thought I had seen it all, that I was tough. I've attended coroner's courts, inquests, and scenes of violence and crime. I've seen court photographs that would make your stomach turn, but this – it was brutal. I couldn't bear seeing them do that to you . . . to him.'

‘It's just a play.'

‘But it isn't, is it?'

‘Well, no.'

She found her Bible. After Jemma had given up on the Old Testament, Ruth had pointed her to Psalms and the book of Isaiah, and her heart had started to melt.

He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.

Like one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he took up our infirmities
and carried our sorrows,

yet we considered him stricken by God,
smitten by him, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;

the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.

‘What does it mean?' she had asked Josh.

‘It was Jesus' willingness to give up his life, so that we, who are so helpless and corrupt, can be forgiven.'

‘So he suffered all that for us – for me?'

‘That's right.'

‘All that beating and flogging and abuse and when he was strung up on a cross . . .'

‘That too. He went through it all. He died for you.'

‘But that's . . . unbelievable.' The storm had returned, and a flash from outside lit up his face.

‘Ah, well,' Josh said, ‘there comes the crunch.
That's our side of the bargain – we have to believe it.'

Jemma had shaken her head. It was too difficult to accept. Why would any person, least of all, one that was supposed to be God, put himself through all that? Yet the words ‘by his wounds we are healed' kept going through her mind. As she witnessed the scene, as she heard the lashes, she wanted to cry out, to scream. She just wanted it to stop.

They had talked long into the night. Josh finally went home, the thunder grew distant, and Jemma finally drifted off in the early hours.

She groaned at the screeching alarm, dragged herself out of bed, and peered into the mirror at her reflection. She was still getting thinner. At first, it had suited her, but now she looked gaunt with dark circles under her eyes, and her hair had lost its shine.

She showered and pulled on the first clothes that came to hand, jeans and a black T-shirt. One of the kitten-heeled boots fell out of the wardrobe. A few months ago they had been the most important things in her life. She had been devastated when they got dirty. Having them cleaned would have cost nearly as much as she paid. She had anticipated that those heels by now would be clicking up the cultured pavements of Fleet Street on her way to her job on a national daily. The boot was still stained with mud, grass, cow pat, and a splash of tea. She flung it back in the wardrobe and dragged on some trainers.

MOHAN WAS POURING HIMSELF A COFFEE WHEN JEMMA ENTERED THE OFFICE.
She didn't need to look at him to know that he disapproved of her attire. She plugged in her laptop. It was before eight; at least he couldn't complain that she was late. She planned to ask for some leave but not until she had done a bit of digging to find out more about Alistair Fry and to see whether the police had traced the money to its owner. Just thinking about him made her shudder. How could Ruth even consider . . .

She dialled the police station.

‘Can I speak to WPC Patel, please?'

She was immediately put on hold. On the third time of listening to Pachelbel's Canon, she was about to give up.

‘Patel here. Who is it?'

‘It's Jemma Durham, from the
Gazette
. Can you confirm you have been holding Alistair Fry?'

‘I'm sorry. I can't give any information about an ongoing inquiry. You will have to contact the press officer for any details about Councillor Fry.'

Jemma clicked into the local radio website for their latest take on the case. All it said was that Councillor Fry had gone voluntarily to the police station to answer questions relating to an alleged assault. As Jemma had seen him at yesterday's rehearsal, she was more up-to-date than her sources.

She closed her eyes in frustration. She knew there was something going on, something potentially devastating.

‘Let sleeping dogs lie,' she muttered. But it was no good. This was big – bigger than a stolen kiss, bigger than a community play – and Jemma's metaphorical dog was determined to unearth its bone.

She had no alternative, she would have to go and see Fry herself. But she needed an excuse. She lifted the receiver to dial Josh's number, then changed her mind and replaced it. She could hear his sensible voice in her mind, trying to dissuade her from talking to Fry. She was not in a sensible mood.

She consulted the contact list Ruth had passed to all the actors and crew. Fry's address and telephone number were below hers, just under half way down. For the second time she picked up the phone to dial, then changed her mind.

‘For goodness sake!' Mohan shouted. ‘Will you show a bit of decisiveness? Are you going to use that phone or not?'

‘Er . . . yes. I mean no. Mohan, would it be all right if I slipped out for a while? I'll be back for the nine-thirty meeting, promise.' She slid out of the door before he could answer. She wanted the element of surprise when she called on Fry.

She drove first to the council chambers, but it was only eight thirty and the Town Hall did not open to the public till nine. Next, she stopped by his office. She knocked, and a woman in a green dress informed her that Mr Fry was on leave for a few days. Finally, she went to his house. Once again, all was locked up, but his car was in the drive. She knocked again. There was still no reply. She returned to her car and unlocked the door.

She was about to drive off when she noticed Fry walking along the road. He was striding quickly and seemed to be wiping his hands on a cloth. She climbed out of the driver's seat.

He balked when he saw her, but quickly recovered his composure. ‘Oh, hello, Jemma. I wasn't expecting to see anyone this early in the morning. How can I help you?'

‘Sorry, it is rather early. I have to get back to work. I didn't want to bother you, but do you have a minute? It's about the play.'

He looked her up and down. ‘I am rather busy.'

‘Please, Alistair.'

‘You'd better come in.'

He unlocked the front door, and the smell of stale air and Chinese takeaways hit her.

‘Sorry, it's a bit of a mess. I haven't had time to clear up. Amanda's . . . away.'

He cleared a place on the sofa and she sat down. ‘Don't apologise. I know the problem.'

‘And you probably heard, the police wanted to ask me questions following Mr Sutton's little outburst the other night.'

‘Yes, I had heard. Was everything cleared up?'

‘I assume so. After keeping me all night, they said thank you and let me go. Of course, I could have left at any time,' he added quickly.

‘I see,' said Jemma.

‘So what did you want to discuss with me about the play?'

‘It was the scene where Judas is describing Jesus' visit to Simon's house . . .' She pretended to fumble in her bag for her copy of the script. ‘So, what questions did the police ask you?'

‘Oh, just where I was, and had I seen anyone. Go on, Simon's house.'

‘That's right.' She flicked her script open. ‘I was wondering if, in this part, as Judas is describing the woman pouring perfume on Jesus' feet, Josh and I should be acting it out. To one side. Making the scene a little more . . . authentic.'

‘Possibly. What does Ruth think?'

‘I haven't discussed it with her yet.'

‘Harlan?'

‘Or Harlan. I wanted to know what you thought.'

‘Doesn't matter much to me one way or another. I would have thought that the directors would be the ones to ask.'

‘Yes, of course . . . and I was going to do that. It's just that . . .' She started to simper just a little. ‘I thought that as it's basically your scene, I wanted to check that it was okay with you first. I didn't want to make things difficult.'

‘It's fine with me. Do what you like.' He opened the front door. ‘If that's all, I'm afraid I have some housekeeping to do.'

‘There was one more thing . . .' Jemma hesitated. Fry looked apprehensive.

‘Yes, what is it?'

Jemma struggled to find a way of asking that wouldn't antagonise him further.

‘Cat got your tongue, girl? Don't be scared. Ask away. Or are you worried that curiosity killed the cat?'

‘My editor wouldn't let me get away with clichés like that.' She gave a little light laugh. He was standing in front of the door. She glanced behind her, looking for an alternative
route in case things turned nasty.

‘So, that's what all this is about.' Fry stood with his hands on his hips. He was a solidly built man and was at least six feet tall. ‘Your editor told you to use your connections and persuade me to give your grimy little rag an exclusive interview?'

Jemma wished she had thought of that one. It would have been far more convincing than ‘It's about the play.'

‘Well, tell your editor – no comment.' He stood aside from the door.

Jemma stumbled into the front garden, then paused and turned around. ‘Alistair, what do you know about the money in the river?' She watched an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, a glint of fear in his eyes, and she fancied his face paled just a little.

‘What money in the river? I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘My mistake,' she said. ‘Sorry to have bothered you. See you at the play.' Jemma walked calmly back to her car and started the engine. She pulled smoothly away and drove round the corner, where she pulled over and sat until she had stopped shaking. The flicker of emotion on Fry's face had been tiny, but unmistakable. Now she knew, beyond doubt, that he was involved. But what was his connection, and how could she prove it?

JEMMA RETURNED TO THE OFFICE, ONLY FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE FOR THE WEEKLY
team briefing.

‘Glad you could grace us with your presence,' Mohan said.

He caught her gazing out of the window, her pen in her hand and an empty notebook on her lap.