Twenty-six #3
Ivy felt Helen’s arm link through hers on one side, while Trish hobbled along on her other side.
Behind them, the pub’s windows spilled light onto the pavement.
Ahead, the path sloped upwards towards the church, its steeple silhouetted against the dark sky, the bells echoing through the chilly night air inviting them to the service.
‘Heaven help anyone who tries to whistle at us now,’ Helen said, and despite everything, Ivy smiled.
The church rose solid and still against the winter evening, its old stone walls catching the light from lanterns lining the path to the arched wooden doors.
Inside, the high-beamed ceiling, draped in evergreen garlands, reflected the glow of the candles.
People shuffled into already packed pews, the scent of mulled wine and beer clinging to their coats.
The three friends found seats near the back.
Ivy sat at the aisle end of the pew and folded her hands in her lap.
Feet stamped, the congregation rose, and around them voices lifted in the first carol of the evening – ‘O Come, O Come, Emmanuel’ – a hymn of longing and hope. Ivy swallowed against the lump forming in her throat.
She closed her eyes and mouthed a silent prayer for both Fred and Omar, a plea wrapped in a wisp of regret.
Ivy sang carol after carol, the words springing out of her with energy.
She sat to listen to a reading. The heavy wooden door groaned open.
Cold air swept through the church, making the candle flames dance.
Ivy’s eyes flicked up. A tall figure stood in the doorway, spotlit by the moon. Her lungs locked tight. Omar.
He wore a dark jacket, and a smart pair of trousers, not the tattered pair he’d been wearing when he lived in her shed.
It was the first time Ivy had seen him so formally attired.
His fingers drummed restlessly against his thighs, eyes darting, scanning the faces that turned his way.
His jaw clenched, a muscle started twitching at his temple.
He swallowed, then squared his shoulders with deliberate purpose.
He was beautiful, standing tall in the church’s glow, his hands now steady as he formed them into fists at his sides, as if physically grasping the resolve that had eluded him for so long.
Ivy noticed the way he no longer averted his gaze when meeting others, and the newfound steadiness in his step.
Tears pricked at her eyes. Each measured breath he took seemed to fortify him, erasing the broken man she had known and revealing someone stronger.
He walked down the aisle, his steps sure, his gaze searching until it found hers.
Ivy’s heart ached with the love she felt for him – not romantic, not possessive, but deep, like a mother watching her lost son return home.
She barely realized she was crying until Omar reached her pew.
She shuffled down, and wordlessly he slid in beside her.
The bells in the tower struck the hour, their deep chimes vibrating through the stone walls. A miracle – at least to Ivy, who had been so sure she had lost him forever.
She swallowed hard as the choir began the final hymn – ‘Silent Night’. Omar’s voice, soft but unwavering, joined hers, and she smiled through her tears.
As the carol concert finished, Victor stood in front of the pulpit.
He cleared his throat, lifted his hands and prepared to bless the congregation.
But as he spoke, the words caught somewhere between nerves and the echoing silence.
‘May the peace of God, which ... uh, passes all ... em ... understanding ... uh, guard your hearts and your ... your ... minds,’ he stumbled, glancing down at his notes, then back at the expectant faces.
He hesitated, before adding with a sheepish smile, ‘And keep you safe from, well ... any unexpected carol surprises.’
The odd little stumble only made his blessing feel even more genuine.
A ripple of laughter spread through the congregation.
Victor took a breath and tried again.
‘May you be blessed with joy, love and, of course, plenty of mince pies.’
The congregation rose, gathering stray gloves and hats. Omar turned to Ivy.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was soft, almost lost in the scrape of shoes on stone and murmurs of departing churchgoers. ‘You were right. I wasn’t running from them. I was running from myself.’
She wanted to hold him, to shake him, to demand he never scare her like that again, but instead she gripped his hand and watched his eyes as he spoke. ‘I got lonely being all by myself after weeks with you, Fred, Helen, Trish, and so I opened your Christmas present early.’
‘And did you find solace in those verses?’ Ivy asked, thinking of the book she had given him. A copy of Nicholson’s translation of Rumi verses.
‘I did.’ His voice softened as he quoted,
Every phantasy is devouring another phantasy ...
... Hark, flee from the troop of huge devourers towards Him who hath said, ‘We are thy protector.’
His dark eyes steadied. ‘I’m ready to fight to clear my name’ he said. ‘God will help me; and I hope you will too.’
Ivy nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
She noticed Victor standing with one hand hovering over the bank of light switches.
They needed to go. She, of all people, knew how busy vicars were at this time of year.
Victor swept down the aisle. As he drew closer, he murmured, his voice light but thoughtful, ‘The hardest journeys often lead us exactly where we’re meant to be. ’
Ivy stared at him, his words striking a chord deep within her. Maybe he was cut out to be a vicar after all.
‘Goodnight Victor,’ she said, steering Omar towards the door. She popped her hymnal in the old bookcase used to store them, the top stained from generations of congregants leaving damp umbrellas there to dry. Omar pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘For you,’ he said.
She frowned, opened it with shaky fingers and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
Omar leaned over, pointing to the page. ‘It’s details of an online course in Persian, so we can read Rumi’s poems together.
I spent three days sorting out Margaret’s garden to buy you this.
’ Emotion surged through her – gratitude, relief, love.
Not just for the gift, but for what it meant.
He had thought about her. Even when he was running, he had thought about her
Helen, Omar, Ivy and Trish returned to the Smuggler’s Inn, collected their pre-ordered drinks and toasted Omar’s return.
The pub’s fairy lights reflected in Omar’s dark eyes as he spoke, his voice forceful.
‘I want to thank you all for trying to help me. When I was away, I came up with an idea. If Farid still works there, I think he would help.’
‘Farid!’ exclaimed Helen, her eyes darting from Trish to Ivy. Ivy held her breath, wondering if Helen would reveal that she had spoken to Farid.
‘Yes. he helped me, before. He knows my leaving protected him.’
Ivy watched him over the rim of her glass. The defensive young man who she had discovered in her shed over two months ago had vanished like morning mist. In his place sat someone stronger, determined. Somewhere a dart hit the board with a dull thud.
Helen shuffled closer to Omar, her notebook open. ‘If we gave you a list, do you think you could ask him for some specific information?’
Ivy caught Trish’s knowing look across the table – they’d both spotted Helen’s hand drift closer to Omar’s.
‘He could dig into those payments to suppliers we think are duplicated,’ suggested Trish.
‘And the bank accounts.’ Helen’s voice took on the sharp edge Ivy suspected dated from her journalism days. ‘Look for patterns. Connections. Money trails.’ Her shoulder brushed Omar’s as she reached for her pen. He shuffled closer to the teacher.
The scene blurred slightly, and Ivy took a too-large sip of wine to cover her sudden emotion.
Joy and loneliness tangled in her chest, knotted like old jewellery chains.
Omar deserved this, deserved someone looking at him that way; he’d found his courage, he’d earned his happiness.
If only she could find her own way past the Fred-shaped hole in her life.
Trish, who was practically vibrating with energy, said, ‘If we could get Farid to help, we could crack this wide open.’
‘I will call him,’ Omar said firmly. ‘Helen, you can give me a list of what you want.’
‘I’ll bring it round to you later,’ Helen said softly, her hand finally covering his.
Ivy felt Trish’s foot tap hers under the table, a silent ‘Are you okay?’ She managed a small nod. She had Omar. Not as the frightened refugee who’d needed her protection, but as something more precious. A son of her heart, if not her blood.
Then Helen’s journalistic instincts surfaced. ‘I’ve still got some contacts. I think I might be able to get someone interested in this story. We could do with some backup.’
‘What about taking the evidence to the police?’ Omar added.
Pride swelled again in Ivy’s chest.
‘To justice,’ Trish said, raising her glass.
‘To courage,’ Helen added, her eyes on Omar.
‘To friends,’ Ivy said softly, and Omar’s free hand found hers under the table and squeezed gently.
Ivy sensed the atmosphere alter, like a sudden drop in air pressure before a storm.
The laughter dissolved, conversations hushed, a whisper of unease threading through the room, punctuated by nudges and furtive glances toward the bar.
She craned her neck, searching for the source of the change in mood.
Then she saw him: Robby, standing with one elbow on the polished bar top.
He walked over, crystal tumbler in hand, looking at Omar with the same expression Ivy had seen people use for beggars.
‘I thought you’d pushed off. Finally gone back to where you belong.’ His voice dripped with false concern.
Omar didn’t flinch, but Ivy felt him go still. Then he drew his hand away from hers and spoke. ‘I’m not going back.’
Robby’s voice dropped low, each word tight as a drawn bowstring. ‘You don’t belong here. We don’t need your sort in this country.’
Ivy’s muscles tensed.
Omar’s voice was firm. ‘I said no.’
Robby exhaled sharply. ‘Look, I’m trying to do this nicely.’
Ivy glanced at Omar, saw his eyes quiver. A crack in the armour. She knew who he was thinking about. His sister. Robby’s expression sharpened. ‘You think this lot will always have your back? People forget. People move on.’
‘Not the right ones,’ said Omar.
Robby blinked. For once, he had nothing to say.
A thrill of pride shot through Ivy. Omar was fighting. Claiming his place. Ivy clenched her fists under the table. She wanted to tell Robby to push off, but Omar was handling it, keeping his voice level, despite Robby picking at old wounds, carving them open.
‘You’re being stubborn. Eventually you will go—’
‘No.’ The Prosecco fizzed in Ivy’s blood, making her reckless. Something inside her snapped, wound too tight for too long.
‘Stop badgering him. You don’t understand. He can’t go back, even if he wanted to!’
Ivy felt Helen’s warning touch on her arm but ignored it – too late. ‘Not if he wants his sister to stay alive.’
The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to drag them back.
Robby froze. ‘His sister?’
Damn it. Damn it. How could she have been so stupid as to reveal he had a sister?
Was being related to a suspected drug smuggler enough to get her hauled in for questioning by the Taliban?
She decided her only route was to double down and continued her tirade.
‘We know what you’re doing. What’s going on behind the protective shield of your sham charity.
’ The words burst out, striking like embers on dry kindling – unexpected, hot and impossible to take back.
Ivy heard Trish’s sharp intake of breath. Sensed Omar’s silence.
Robby’s laugh was soft and controlled. ‘It’s the retired vicar, isn’t it? The amateur detective?’ Slowly, he set his tumbler down. ‘I’d be careful about making accusations without proof, especially in public.’
‘We have proof.’ But even as she said it, Ivy felt their case crumbling. They didn’t have proof. Not yet.
Robby smiled, slow and calculating. ‘Try presenting it in court. Assuming you can afford the legal fees to defend a defamation lawsuit. If you’ll excuse me.
’ Robby downed his drink and walked away leaving the scent of expensive aftershave and the taste of failure in his wake. There was a horrible silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ivy whispered. ‘I’ve ruined everything. ‘We needed more time, more evidence. I should have waited until you’d spoken to Farid, but I couldn’t let him—’
If only she could take back those words. Omar had trusted her, and she had put his family in danger.