The Coldest Blood

‘Sorry. It may have escaped your notice, but I have to work for a living. Lane End. Chop-chop.’ Dryden ran a hand through his thick black hair, letting the fingers stick like a comb. This was the kind of useless errand he’d become a journalist to avoid. If the priest objected to anything in the story it was entirely academic as the paper had already gone. The presses were turning, there was no going back.

He looked at his face in the rear-view mirror: the green eyes dimmed, the immobile medieval face set on precisely geometric lines beneath the shock of black hair: he ran a hand through it again and tried to relax.

Humph edged the cab through the Jubilee and out down a long drove which turned regularly at right-angles to zigzag out of town into the Fen. They passed a derelict pumping station and a clay pit before reaching a hamlet of discarded council houses, now owned by a local housing association. Entertainment consisted of a telephone box and a bus stop, both of which had been vandalized. Just beyond stood St Vincent’s, another stunning example of the modern Catholic Church’s inability to build an inspiring place for worship. It looked like the living quarters from Noah’s Ark, a brick shed, the only decoration a life-size copper figure of Christ on the cross over the door which now bled green blood down the façade and over the doors.

Next door was the presbytery: a Victorian house, not unlike a seaside B&B, with bay windows and some stone decoration at the pinnacle where another simple cross was hung. The garden was over-neat and stone flagged and if it had been a B&B it would have had a sign in the window saying ‘No Vacancies’. A young priest, a gold and purple football scarf covering his dog collar, was hurrying towards the church. ‘Excuse me, Father,’ said Dryden, stepping out of the Capri. He felt an overwhelming memory of guilt, the legacy of that Catholic childhood.

‘Father,’ he said again, catching the young man up. He was in his mid-twenties, his face blank and devoid of charity, but a wave of well-cut blond hair hinted at vanity.

‘I’m looking for Father Martin. Is he in?’

‘He is here for those that need him,’ said the young man, and Dryden imagined a thunderbolt delivering instant retribution for the odious piety.

‘At home?’ he asked, nodding towards the presbytery.

The young priest’s eyes flickered towards the church.

‘I’ll be brief,’ said Dryden, walking on.

The young man dogged his steps: ‘He’s praying… I really think…’

But Dryden was through the padded door and into the body of the church. A single candle burnt in the gloom by a side altar and the crucifix which hung over the main altar was brutally bare: an oak cross without decoration. A Christmas tree stood in a side chapel, unlit. A crib of cardboard stood in the nave, but most of the two-dimensional figures had fallen over. Father Martin was sitting alone on one of the plastic chairs close to the confessional boxes. Glancing in the stone dish which held the holy water, Dryden noted that it was frozen.

He let his shoes slap against the polished parquet flooring and Father Martin stiffened as he took the seat behind: the priest’s hair was cut cruelly short at the back, the exposed neck red and sore.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dryden, trying to take his eyes off the flickering red light beside the altar.

Father Martin didn’t acknowledge him.

‘I’m from The Crow. There have been further allegations about St Vincent’s during your time as principal. I did call yesterday – at the house – but there was no answer. I should put these allegations to you in case you wish to make a statement.’

The priest turned. Dryden tried not to react to the birthmark, a livid red scar which covered one cheek and encircled the left eye. In compensation for this disfigurement the rest of Father Martin’s appearance was immaculate: the still-black hair combed flat, any grey obscured by Brylcreem, the dark cassock dust free. He smelt of coal-tar soap, and Dryden saw that his fingernails, where his hand rested on the chair-back, were white and trimmed, the skin underneath a baby-pink.

‘I am told by the lawyers employed by my diocese that I should not talk of these things.’ Dryden’s eye caught a shadow moving by the altar.

The priest stood and left by a side door on the far side of the church from the presbytery. Outside there was a memorial garden, some battered roses frozen against their sticks. Beyond the Black Fen stretched, scorched by the overnight frost. Where the ice was gone the grass on the peat was a deep green, like seaweed.

Father Martin buttoned up a heavy coat and raised a finger to point north. ‘The Catholic Orphanage of St Vincent de Barfleur,’ he said. A mile distant, on a slight rise, stood the ruins of a house. The building’s shadow in the low winter light was as substantial as the house itself.

Dryden nodded. ‘But you’re not saying anything on the record at this time. That’s the case?’

Father Martin nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Those are my instructions.’