Transgressions Read online

  “Yes. Czech into English.”

  “Ah, that would explain your surname. Your father’s Czech?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you translate?”

  “Oh, different things. Some business stuff, books, short stories. I’m working on a novel at the moment.”

  “Really. Anybody I’d know?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So not Milan Kundera.”

  She smiled. “No. Rather more pulp, I’m afraid. It’s a thriller.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It’s popular,” she said. “Got its eyes on the American market.”

  “Aaah. And you work from home?”

  “Yes. I have an office at the top of the house.”

  “So when you’re up there you presumably wouldn’t be able to hear anything going on down here.”

  “That depends what it is. I suspect if it started throwing plates I would.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  She shrugged. “What do I know? Apparently I’m just controlling it.”

  The women smiled. The reverend opened the sugar bowl and scooped out a hefty spoonful. There was a silence. It didn’t seem to bother her. “I rang a couple of people this afternoon,” she said at last. “To get some advice. I’ve not come across many poltergeists before. They said that sometimes, though it can be a manifestation of distress, it may well be distress that the people themselves don’t even know they’re feeling.” She paused. “You mentioned this morning that you’d split up from your partner.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Seven and a half years.”

  She nodded. “Do you think you’re perhaps still mourning that?”

  Here it comes, the pseudotherapy. I don’t want to talk about this, she thought, suddenly extremely angry. She took a deep breath and sat waiting for her fury to activate a few bits of crockery, start some thrashing and smashing around the room. Everything remained stubbornly in its place.

  “We did the right thing,” she said in the end, through half-clenched teeth. “And I’ve been more happy than sad.”

  “But sometimes lonely?”

  And what would you know about it, shacking up with God every night, telling him your deepest thoughts, getting the hotline version of things, then going out and dispensing divine love like breakfast wafers to anyone who sticks their tongue out. She shrugged. “Maybe, sometimes.”

  But it was clear that more was expected of her. The silence grew. She ignored it angrily. Many years before, after her father died and she had found herself in a vise grip of pain that seemed altogether too vicious to be just grief, someone had advised her to see a psychotherapist about it. She had even gone as far as having—what did they call it?—an assessment session. That person had been a woman, too, very quiet, very calm. She had asked a few questions and then left her to talk. They had spent forty-five minutes in total silence at the end of which Elizabeth was absolutely clear that whatever the pain, it was hers and hers alone and could not be shared.

  Over time the crippling grief had eased itself and be-come manageable, more soaked into the fabric of life. Now, as she sat there, this silence seemed to put something of the same weight of expectation on her shoulders.

  “You know, one of my colleagues this afternoon told me this story about a parishioner he’d seen a couple of years ago,” Catherine said, helping herself to more tea as if nothing had happened. “She lived alone, this woman, not a member of the congregation or anything, just someone who turned up one day rather like you did. She was older than you—in her early fifties, I think he said—very creative apparently, an artist. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer and had to have one breast removed. She was so traumatized by the operation that she couldn’t work. They’d offered her reconstructive surgery but she’d refused.

  “Anyway, then these things started happening in her home. She had some very beautiful objects, she’d traveled a lot, all over the world. And some of them started to go missing. Statues, ornaments, that kind of thing. But only when there were two of them. One would suddenly go. It affected even quite mundane things apparently. Once she had two milk bottles sitting on the kitchen table. One of them disappeared. Each incident was the same destruction of symmetry. He said that she hadn’t even noticed this pattern until he pointed it out to her. And that when he did she got very upset. She was upset for quite a while. But after that it stopped. Somehow the release of the pain, no longer denying it, helped her to come to terms with it.

  “She went on to do a rather wonderful set of sculptures about women’s bodies. There was an exhibition of them in a gallery about a year ago. I’d just got the post at St. Mary’s. I went with my colleague to see it. Although he didn’t tell me the whole story until later, when I spoke to him today, in fact. It’s amazing, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” she said, because it was. “Did they come back later?”

  “The objects, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman laughed. “You know, I asked him the same question. He said he couldn’t remember. Men. They sometimes miss the obvious.”

  “Is that a theological observation?” she asked because she couldn’t resist it.

  The woman laughed again. “I don’t know. Probably. Probably mildly heretical, too.”

  I like you, Elizabeth thought. I like you very much. But I still don’t see how you can help me. How anybody can. “It’s not that I miss him,” she said after a while. “I don’t think we were very good for each other. It’s more that I don’t quite know what to do now. Or if I want to do anything. Sometimes I don’t know how people get close to each other. Why they bother.”

  “Are your parents still alive?”

  “No, no. My father died before I met Tom, my mother two—no, three years ago.”

  “I see. How about friends?”

  “Loads,” she said. Then quietly, “I don’t see them much these days.”

  “Which means you don’t go out a lot?”

  “Hardly at all.”

  She left a silence. “Do you mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “Being so alone. I don’t mean necessarily lonely, just alone.”

  “Er . . . do I mind? I don’t know. I don’t seem to be able to do anything different at the moment.” This is the longest conversation I’ve had in months, she thought, maybe the longest since Tom left. Weird.

  “You don’t think these things happening . . . well, you don’t think they might be a way of keeping yourself company?”

  The very idea of it made her laugh out loud. “What? Somebody putting on the stereo before I get home, or laying the table and feeding the cat for me?” But she thought about it anyway. Once again it made no sense. How could she have done these things to herself? It was not only absurd, it was surely impossible. “I’m not mad,” she said angrily.

  “No, you’re most certainly not.”

  “But, then, how? I mean, do you really believe that I did all of this without knowing it?” And she gestured to the cups and saucers on the table in front of them.

  “Not consciously, no, of course not. Any more than the woman with the mastectomy moved her own objects. But the subconscious is an extraordinarily powerful force in terms of the psychic energy it can release. Well, I don’t think it’s inconceivable. Do you?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s nothing to do with me. Sometimes I think that someone’s just trying to scare the shit out of me. See how strong I am.”

  “And how about if you were doing that to yourself? Testing yourself now that you’re alone.”

  She shook her head. “If I am, then I don’t need a priest, I need a shrink.”

  If the woman was offended by the remark she didn’t show it. “Perhaps what you need is to decide that you’ve passed the test.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean that you’re coping so well, it’s obviously important to you
to do so. Maybe it’s time to let yourself off the hook. Accept that you can sometimes be lonely without being destroyed by that.”

  “I don’t know.” God, how many times can you say that phrase, she thought? At some level everything the woman said made some kind of sense. But, then, in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. Maybe that was the problem. “I really don’t know what to think,” she said carefully. “What do your colleagues suggest?”

  “About you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not anything specific. Each case is unique to itself. Although they do say that prayer is effective.”

  “Yes, well, that’s hardly an option for me at the moment.”

  She smiled. “I think they meant me rather than you.”

  “What, you praying for me?”

  “Yes. Does that upset you?”

  She laughed. “Not at all. It’s just it’s the first time you’ve mentioned God. I did wonder why you hadn’t brought him up earlier.”

  “Why? Would you like me to have?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it was er . . . well . . .”

  “Compulsory?”

  “Something like that.”

  She sat for a moment. “You know, there are times when I think they only let women into the Church because they didn’t know what else to do. Then at least if things got worse, they could blame us.” She stopped, playing with the rim of her cup, deciding where to step next. “I think that people’s lives are very hard at the moment. There no longer seems to be any sense of a future, no vision of utopia to work toward. At least not any kind of social or political one.” She paused. “But the fact is I do think God can help. I think that realizing that you’re loved, that you’re cared for, is the most powerful gift a person can be given. It’s like opening a door that’s been locked for too long. Once you’ve seen outside, everything, even the room behind you, looks different. It gives you such strength, such freedom. And nothing can ever be so frightening again. Or quite so painful.” She stopped, then smiled slightly. “Or that’s how it was for me. And still is.”

  She had done it as well as it could be done. They both knew that. It wasn’t that the idea wasn’t tempting. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want things made easier? Or less painful. But wanting wasn’t the same as getting. Or believing. She shook her head, almost more embarrassed for the woman than for herself. “I’m sorry but I don’t think we’re fighting the same demons,” she said quietly.

  The reverend smiled, pushing her teacup away from her across the table. “I’m not entirely sure about that. But don’t worry. It’s not like Avon calling. You’re not expected to buy the product.” Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed. “I might just pray for you anyway. If you don’t mind.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Good.” She nodded her head, as if searching for further advice. “You know, you could always think of going away for a bit, maybe stay in a hotel for a night or two. It might dilute the intensity.”

  “Getting out of the war zone, you mean?” She tried to imagine herself packing a bag and walking out of the house, closing the door on its mischief and mayhem. But the picture wouldn’t stay in focus. Leaving, it seemed, was not an option. But she had known that for a while. “I’m not sure I want to give it the pleasure of my exile.”

  The woman smiled. “Well, it was just an idea.” She got up. “I’m afraid I’m due back at the vicarage at seven o’clock,” she said. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  “Yes. Fine. Thank you.”

  She saw her to the door. Despite the awkwardness of God’s name between them, the atmosphere was not hostile.

  “Can I make another suggestion?” she said as she picked up her coat. “I think you should start seeing people again. Make an effort. Get out of the house, if only for an evening. Perhaps you should think about trying to find another boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” How coy the word was, full of teen romance and sucky, smooching kisses. Church magazine stuff. “Don’t tell me you think all this is really some weird manifestation of frustrated sexual energy?”

  The laugh was almost a guffaw. “No, I most certainly don’t think that. However, I do think that it—whatever it is—could well be exaggerated by you spending so much time on your own. I can’t see that it would hurt to relax for a while. Be kind to yourself, have a good time. Maybe use that breakfast table laid for two.”

  The suggestion, coming as it did from her, seemed so outrageous that it made Elizabeth laugh out loud. “I’ll bear it in mind,” she said, as she held out her hand. “I must say this is one conversation I certainly couldn’t imagine having if you’d been a man.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it. Can I quote you in my newsletter?” She took the outstretched hand and shook it. The grip between the two women was warm and firm. Physical contact, thought Elizabeth—maybe I have missed it more than I realized.

  “You do know that I’d be happy to come again if and when you need me?” said the reverend, closing her coat over the dog collar.

  “Yes. I know that.”

  “Alternatively you could always call me.”

  “You sure? Some of this stuff happens late at night,” she said, smiling.

  “Anytime. I’m sure. Good-bye, Elizabeth. And good luck.”

  Back in the kitchen she cleared up the tea things, and unlaid the breakfast table. Spoons, forks, and knives. Clearly her unconscious was in need of a full cooked breakfast. Not her usual style at all. She turned her attention to the floor, washing up the saucepans and putting them in the cupboards. The place returned to normal. She sat and looked at it. Her kitchen. Was it also really her soul? “No more, all right?” she said quietly, looking around. “It’s time to move on.” Then she called Sally.

  “Darling, a voice from the grave. How are you?”

  “I’ve been busy. Wrestling with the devil.”

  “Mmmmm. Nice. How was he?”

  “You wouldn’t want to know. Listen, Sal—”

  “No, you listen. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you because—guess what? A certain desirable man we know has been pestering Patrick for your phone number.”

  “Is he scared of the dark?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Tall, floppy hair?”

  “That’s the one. You must have scored a hit. So, shall I invite him ’round again?”

  “No.”

  “Now listen, Lizzie—”

  “Just give me his number instead.”

  ten

  Given the shit up till now, it had been a good week for Jake. The crackdown at the home end of the market had been sharp enough to get a few of the middle guys squealing about the unfairness of New York police protection not buying what it used to anymore. And by the time they’d finished complaining, they had a good idea who was to blame. And why.

  At the same time, Jake’s end was starting to pay off, too. These Eastern European cops may have been living in the Dark Ages, but at least it meant that when it came down to it they knew how to squeeze balls. Put it all together and pretty soon they had themselves the name of a fancy antiques merchant operating off Wenceslas Square: a guy who specialized in selling illegal religious artifacts to tourists who then found themselves having to pay him even more to swing a license to get them out of the country. So far, so acceptable. But he had got greedy and in the last twelve months he’d also started importing stuff from farther east, shipping it overland through routes that were growing white with the powder they were leaving behind. Of course, they could have just stopped every truck at the border, but that wasn’t the message that Jake wanted to give. He was looking for something more subtle. And anyway it was always easier to deal than to bust.

  It was what Jake was good at. The guy turned out to be Mr. Urbane: good English, good breeding, good lies. A shrewd man though. Somebody who could see the attraction of a deal where he got to keep one illegal trade rather than losing both. “Don’t worry,” Jake had said to him as he let hi
mself out the back way. “They’ll never know it was you who told us. You have our word.”

  But if I were you, buddy, I’d look after my family now, he thought. Don’t wait until death duties take their toll.

  Yep. He was feeling pleased with himself. Three weeks down the line and they were going to wonder why they’d messed with him. If he were them he’d make himself an offer he couldn’t refuse soon, just to get him off their backs. Then he could have the pleasure of telling them to go fuck themselves. He was lucky really. His honesty had less to do with scruples than with temperament. Money had never been the high for him, he got off more on the pleasure of the fight, though there were times when he was at his most sour when he wondered if Mirka’s pain might have been relieved by a bigger bank account. He knew enough cops’ wives where it had been. But, then, who’d want to live with them anyway, sharp-looking bitches with faces and butts reconstructed by the surgeon and not enough intelligence or curiosity to ask where all the bonuses came from? That was never Mirka. Not the body work or the lack of brains. If anything she had too much of both. Christ, how he missed her: her wit, her style, the way her foreign accent caressed New York slang, the shine of her smile, the tight curls of her pubes, and those few straggling dark hairs that led up to her navel. There had been times these last six months when the need for her had driven him half crazy with pain. He must have picked up the phone and dialed her number a dozen times before he could stop himself. But he had always put it down again before she answered. He wouldn’t go crawling to anyone. If she wanted him she knew where to find him. Yes, Jake was a man for whom the fight was often sweeter than the victory. But, then, she knew that about him, too.

  After the meeting he took the rest of the day off to celebrate, wandering through the old city, sitting out in the squares, enjoying the way the first heat of spring encouraged the women to take off their coats. But his heart wasn’t in it. The body curves all led back to the one he couldn’t have, and that evening he ended up in his local hotel bar drinking more than he should and paying in dollars to smooth his drunken path.