Chapter 42
I like churches. That might sound weird, coming from an atheist.
I like them in the same way I like Christmas.
For what they are, not what they represent.
I don’t believe in the fairy tale of Christmas, but I enjoy the story.
I like the tradition, the songs, the trees and lights, the overpriced city-centre markets and artificial ice rinks flung up in train station car parks.
I like wrapping presents while playing Now That’s What I Call Christmas and singing along to Wham!
, the Pogues and Mariah Carey. I like the sentimental claptrap and family movies. Oh, and Die Hard. Always Die Hard.
I like churches because they’re beautiful buildings. I mean, obviously, it’s a shame that while these masterpieces of stone and glass were being built the congregation were living in hovels of straw and mud, but hey, that’s religion for you.
After Nat disappeared I used to find myself in a church in Manchester sometimes.
I didn’t feel the presence of God. Just a pigeon trapped in the rafters and a tramp passed out on a pew at the back.
But I found the solitude and the atmosphere somehow comforting.
A momentary absolution from the rest of the world busying around.
I push open the gate to Serenity Falls Chapel and walk up the short path through the neatly kept graveyard to the arched door.
A sign outside reads: Welcome. Come inside.
We’re open 365 days a year, even on Christmas.
It’s not a bad pun; I have to give the pastor that. The door is ajar, so I step inside.
The interior of the chapel is white, sterile and cold. I spot subtle vents along the walls. Aircon. Of course. Rows of wooden pews run either side of a short aisle with a pulpit at the end. There’s a door to the left of the pulpit which, I presume, leads to an office.
Arched stained-glass windows depict biblical scenes.
The greatest hits, if you will. Birth of Christ, Jesus walking on water, the crucifixion (tough crowd).
Some Old Testament bangers – Adam and Eve, the Ten Commandments, a weirdly torturous scene which I guess must be Sodom and Gomorrah.
Above the pulpit, a larger window depicts an ocean of blue, delicately curling waves and, afloat upon them, a large wooden ark.
Below, written as if on a scroll, the words:
Go into the ark, because I have found you righteous in this generation.
Noah and the Ark. Again. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I’m having second thoughts about coming here. I’m not sure what it will achieve. But I promised Sadie. In return, she promised to pack a bag and wait for me at the house.
I guess my other reason for being here is Hailey.
I like her. Not in a romantic way. That would be weird.
I like Hailey in the way that I liked a lot of the pupils I taught.
Kids not given the best start in life but with a good heart.
Kids like that, they just need a little help sometimes. Someone on their side.
Obviously, May is confused. But I’ve met a few people with dementia, spoken to their relatives (those are the kind of conversations you get into when you have a parent in a care home), and dementia isn’t complete delusion.
It’s simply the brain getting lost. The events are all still stored in there, just jumbled up.
People with dementia don’t invent things.
They might get them in the wrong order, mistake people and faces, but they don’t lie.
Hence, here I am. Although I’m not sure whether this will be any help at all.
I’m not even sure where to find Father Miller if he isn’t here.
But fortunately, that part of the problem is solved as the door to the left of the pulpit opens and a tall man with shorn white hair, dressed in jeans, a black shirt and white clerical collar steps out.
He glances at me in surprise. ‘Oh, good afternoon.’
He looks to be in his early fifties – although the white hair makes it harder to tell – and something about him gives off a slightly austere vibe. Or maybe that’s just me and priests.
‘Hi. Erm, Father Miller?’
He nods and offers a smile. ‘And from your accent, I presume you must be Dan Barker, our newest resident.’
He walks forward. I notice he’s using a stick and limping slightly. He proffers a hand. I shake it. ‘Fresh off the boat … well, plane. Well, you get the gist.’
Priests always make me nervous for some reason. Like they’re judging me. Which I suppose, in a way, they are.
‘Good to meet you. I met your daughter, Sadie, the other day. Did she tell you?’
‘She mentioned it.’
‘So, what brings you here to our church?’
‘Well, I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.’
‘I’ll certainly try.’
I clear my throat. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Davey Junior … and Milo Miller.’
He stares at me. His eyes are two different colours, I realize. One brown, one blue. For a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer. Of course, he doesn’t have to. He would be perfectly within his rights to ask me to leave and mind my own business.
But he doesn’t. He smiles. It’s an odd smile. Like it contains a secret.
‘Why don’t I make us some coffee?’