Beastings Read online

  She passed the parcel to him and he took it.

  Is it business that brings you here to our town Father?

  Yes.

  She sniffed.

  Of course your business is your business.

  I’m here about one of my parishioners.

  Not the missing girl is it Father?

  Which missing girl?

  The one everyone’s talking about. The one I reckon to have walked by the stall not but an hour or less since.

  Is she alive?

  His voice rasped as he said this.

  Reckon she must be said the woman.

  Where is she now?

  Know her well do you?

  I thought you said my business was my business.

  I expect you’ll know where to find her then Father.

  Joseph’s?

  Not for me to say Father.

  Joseph’s then.

  Expect you know where to find that too.

  Yes.

  He turned to leave.

  Father? said the stall-holder.

  Yes?

  Seems a bit strange you’d come all this way and not even ask about the wee one she was carrying across her back.

  He turned and left.

  MISS MULLEN SAT the girl down and put more logs on the fire and pulled the blanket over her and told her that she would be back before the doctor arrived with milk and maybe some cold apple sauce left over from Sunday for the child.

  She met Miss Pegg at the bottom of the stairs. She took the bottle of milk and more blankets from her and instructed her to mind the girls who had long finished their breakfast and were already getting restless over rumours of a new arrival.

  There was a knock at the door which they both answered. It was the doctor. Killip. The best in town. The only in town.

  Then right behind him two policemen. One they recognised as one of the Daldry brothers. The other was young and not from town. A new recruit probably.

  Doctor said Miss Mullen. Officers.

  Is it her? said Daldry.

  The lass that’s stole the bairn? asked the new recruit.

  The policemen tried to squeeze past the doctor but the doorstep was too crowded and there was a brief awkward moment as bodies collided then Daldry pulled rank and stepped through with purpose.

  We think so said Miss Pegg.

  We don’t know that for sure said Miss Mullen. Could just be that she’s a stray. She acts like the bairn’s hers.

  The young policeman snorted.

  We’ll find out right enough said Daldry. Where’s the girl?

  She’s indoors.

  The doctor said nothing.

  And the bairn?

  With her.

  What about the parents of the bairn?

  They’ve been notified.

  Take me to her said Daldry.

  HE LEANED AGAINST THE railings and opened his coat. He ducked his head and took a long sniff from the vial. It was nearly empty. He was down to the final white grains. The town felt crooked. Askance. Like it had no centre or its point of gravity was constantly shifting. Variable. Like it was a new version of itself. He walked along the road to St Joseph’s. There were people at the door. Police. He walked past them then turned left down the side street and entered through the back door. There was a renewed urgency in his stride. The powder gave him strength and clarity but he knew it would wear off soon.

  He walked through the kitchens and down the corridor turning door handles and putting his head round doors to look in rooms moving swiftly and economically and precisely; his mouth dry his pulse racing his temples throbbing. He saw girls cleaning. He saw girls scrubbing. Girls half undressed. Girls surprised girls distressed. He quickened his step. He tried more doors. He found the right door. He entered the door. He closed the door behind him.

  A SCREAM. THERE was a scream to ice the blood and turn hairs white. A scream to stop clocks. A sound that seemed to come from nothing human.

  The howl was long and sharp and barbed and made of delicate crystal. It cut through the building and down corridors. Everyone heard it – the girls the staff the doctor the police – and even after it ended it hung in the air a moment before it fell to the floor shattering in shards of pain. Fragments of despair.

  Feet rattled across floorboards in competition to reach the source of the sound first. And then bodies were crowding the room. The two women and the three men of authority. The room seemed to shrink in size. It became a hot tight space. The air singed with the scent of something acrid.

  The girl was curled on the floor by the hearth. Hunched and foetal and quivering lightly.

  And there was a man there too. A priest. A stranger. He was standing over her. A man they did not know. An ugly man. A wild panting man. A man with a collar and a bruised face tight like a death mask.

  His hands were held in loose fists by his side and his slitted nostrils were flaring like those of an animal that has detected a scent on the spring breeze. There were scratches down the side of his face. Great fresh wet gashes. The skin around them was red. He was breathing heavily. Beside him on the chair was a blanketed heap.

  Where’s the child said Daldry. And who are you?

  The Priest stared back. He stayed silent.

  What have you done? said Miss Mullen.

  She moved towards the girl and she put a hand on her shoulder and then she carefully rolled the girl over to her.

  They saw that her top was undone and her breasts were bared. They were white sagging things that spread flat across her chest as she turned onto her back and one of them had tiny shining traces of milk around the darkened teat. The droplets looked like jewels. Like diamonds.

  Only then did they see her hands. They were two smoking shapeless stumps. They were stripped and blistered and trembling. The fingers were gone now and what remained had melded into two inverted waxy claws. The girl’s hands were spent candles dripping skin.

  Miss Mullen gasped – they all did – and the girl stared upwards. Her face advertised surprise that there were several people there in the room with her. The flames were reflected in the shine of feverish sweat on her upper lip and strands of hair were stuck to her brow and the back of her neck. She turned and blinked and took them in. One eye was sealed and swollen like an exotic fruit but the other was wide and wild and dark and alert. Her ruined hands were held up before her.

  Miss Mullen went to touch the girl but she flinched and seemed to shake harder and the moment was one of such surprise and revulsion that no-one else moved then the fire cracked and popped loudly and broke the frozen seconds.

  You said Daldry. His voice trembled as he pointed towards the Priest and said: your name.

  The wages of sin is death said the Priest. But the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

  As Miss Mullen reached for the girl again Miss Pegg stepped forward to the chair. She pulled back the blanket. Beneath it were rags and a dirty knotted piece of cloth. The dolly rag.

  The child she said. Where is it?

  Behold said the Priest. Children are a gift of God – the fruit of the womb – a reward. And so we give back unto you. Praise the Lord.

  The bairn said Daldry.

  The girl was shaking. The girl was rattling. Her tongue ran across dry cracked lips and still her hands were held in front of her and a gruff sound caught in her throat. It squirmed there. It gurgled there.

  The bairn said Miss Mullen.

  Where’ve you hidden it said Miss Pegg.

  The girl raised her head and licked her lips again.

  What bairn she said.

  She spoke said Miss Mullen. She –

  The Priest turned to the fire. They all did. It was roaring and crackling with a renewed hunger. They saw what the girl saw. A blazing bundle. A new fo
rm within the raging flames.

  Amen said the Priest.

  Acknowledgements

  For their support and encouragement I would like to thank the following: K Blundell Trust and The Society Of Authors. Claire Malcolm, Anna Disley and all at New Writing North and the Northern Writers’ Awards, supported by Arts Council England. Kevin Duffy and Hetha Duffy and family, my editor Leonora Rustamova and all at Bluemoose Books. My agent Jamie Coleman at Greene & Heaton. Carol Gorner and everyone at the Gordon Burn Trust. Deborah Orr. Chrissie Wilson. Sarah Hall. Stephen May. Michael Stewart. Kester Aspden. David Brewis. Andrew Bannerman-Bayles. Alan the Postman. Thanks also to Michael Curran at Tangerine Press, Geraint Hughes at Blackheath Books and Sam Jordison and Eloise Millar at Galley Beggar Press.

  Thank you to the Myers, Stripe, Calveley, Usher, Cooper and Carney families and all my friends.

  And special thanks and love to Adelle Stripe.