Doctor Who_ The Hollow Men - Keith Topping [44]
She found an unoccupied booth, and sat down in a flurry of tired limbs and exhaled breaths. „I‟m not really a Catholic, right,‟ she began immediately to the face half-obscured by the mesh. „So don‟t give me any Hail Mary nonsense. I just want to talk.‟ She paused, and the fragility of her feelings welled like a wound. „I really need to talk to someone, OK?‟
„I‟m here to help in the name of God in whatever way I can,‟
responded the priest. He sounded young, but he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to emphasise that he had all the time in the world, and that Nicola was the sole object of his attention. „What troubles you?‟
„It‟s my dad,‟ Nicola blurted out. „Or rather, it‟s all because of my mum. She‟s dead, you see.‟
„I‟m sorry.‟
Nicola caught a flash of blue eyes framed by pale skin.
„Yeah. Well, Dad‟s always been very strict. You see, he‟s...‟
Nicola paused, unsure of what to say. „He works in the legal profession,‟ she lied. „He‟s very upright, very moral.‟
„Those aren‟t necessarily bad things.‟
„No, of course not. But, before she died, his strictness went hand in hand with his love. I never doubted then that they both thought the world of me.‟
„And now?‟
„I think we both feel very empty. She died years ago, and you‟d think the void we feel would have gone away by now, wouldn‟t you?‟
„No,‟ said the priest firmly. „There are some trials in life that we can never recover from. I believe that God‟s grace is sufficient for us, but that it would almost be... disrespectful to live on as if nothing had changed.‟
„Oh, but everything has changed. That‟s the point. As I grew up, he wanted me to be more and more like her. I don‟t even know who I am any more.‟
„But does your father still love you?‟
Nicola was crying now, and she did not respond for some time, the priest waiting patiently, his lips moving, perhaps in prayer. When she finally did speak again, her voice was thick with emotion and suppressed hurt. „Daddy‟s love... Daddy‟s love can be a very frightening thing.‟
Phil Burridge was not especially talented, but one skill he did possess was the ability to break into a house with the minimum of fuss and bother. And the vicarage was a particularly easy target, a huge tree dominating the back and affording easy access to one of the bedrooms.
The window was ornate, and composed of many small panes of glass, and Burridge pushed at one with a folded penknife. It shattered easily. He reached inside to twist open the window. With surprising agility for a man of his frame, he manoeuvred himself into the room from the big, thick bough of the tree, and then pulled the window closed behind him.
He glanced at his watch. Just after two o‟clock. The girl would still be at school, teaching, and her dad would be...
Doing vicary things in church, probably.
As he‟d been led to believe, this was her room, all tasteful scatter cushions and impressionist prints. The bed was enormous, and the duvet clearly had been pulled straight before the woman had left for school. Burridge sat on it for a moment, wondering what to do. Hatch had told him to find something incriminating, something to link her to the Proteus bombing.
Burridge wasn‟t surprised it had come to this. He‟d been suspicious when Matty Hatch had first become involved with the teacher, and now it seemed she‟d been screwing the poor bloke in every way imaginable.
There was something wonderfully voyeuristic about breaking into someone‟s room, like reading an intimate diary.
A woman‟s room, even more so. On an impulse, Burridge leaned across the bed and towards the pine chest of drawers to one side.
Rebecca Baber‟s knicker drawer was a delightful mess of scanty bits of brightly coloured silk and lace. Burridge