Page 29 of Beautiful Ugly
“Just someone I used to know. I thought I saw her on the island but I must have been mistaken.”
She nods in understanding and smiles kindly. “People come here for all sorts of reasons. Saint Lucy is the patron saint of writers and the island has always been a haven for creative souls. Thisold church has been visited by a lot of struggling artists over the years, seeking inspiration, comfort, a sense of direction and purpose perhaps. After all, creativity is a gift which can’t be given back. I like to think our Saint Lucy has helped to get writers who were lost back on the right path. Which was good for them. Good for us.”
It feels as though she is talking to me about me.
“I get the impression you know who I am,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I only knowwhatyou are, not who you are. News travels fast in a place where there’s rarely any news.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the new author, aren’t you?”
“It’s starting to feel as though everyone is talking about me.”
“They are, but don’t let it go to your head, you’ll be old news soon enough. This island, and the people who live here, have seen it all over the years. Take this old church, it’s beautiful, but it was built on the wrong side of history. They used to burn witches here,” she whispers, even though there is nobody around to overhear. “When the island decided they wanted to make a woman disappear, they called her a witch and with a puff of smoke—and a bonfire—she was gone. A murderous magic trick. First they got rid of all the birds, then they tried to get rid of the women.” I think I pull a face because she raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did you want the Disney version?” She smiles again then, and I do too, as though it is contagious. “Are you religious?” she asks.
“God, no,” I say before realizing my mistake. “Sorry, Reverend.”
“Please call me Melody,” she says, touching my arm. “And there’s no need to apologize. It’s a very close but mixed community here on the island, and this is the only place of worship. People of all faiths—and those who haven’t found faith yet—are welcome at Saint Lucy’s. Everyone is welcome here. Even four-legged visitors,” she says, looking down at Columbo. As soon as she gives him attention, he wags his tail and looks up at her adoringly. I realizethat I am doing the same. I can’t remember whether female priests are allowed to have relationships and I feel guilty just for wondering. I glance over at the donations box and my finger suddenly feels naked without my wedding ring.
“I heard the church bells a little earlier,” I blurt out, oddly desperate to keep the conversation going. “It was a strange sound. A single bell, ringing very slowly, but repeatedly and echoing all around the valley.”
Melody’s smile vanishes and her body language changes. “The tolling of the death bell. It rings once for every year a person lived.”
“Did someone die?”
She shrugs. “We’re all dying from the day we are born. It was just a rehearsal, nothing for you to worry about. But if you want to be helpful, the best thing you could do is leave.”
The stale air feels a little colder than it did a moment ago.
“Sorry?”
“The church,” she says, smiling. “So that I can lock up,” she adds, producing a giant set of keys.
“Right, of course,” I reply, already heading out of the door. “What does the inscription mean? The one above the gate?” I ask, seeing it again.
“Mors janua vitae? It’s Latin for ‘death is the gate of life.’ If you like that sort of thing you might want to visit the cemetery too before you go, it’s always very popular with visitors. Good to meet you, Grady. You take care now.”
The beautiful priest remembered my name.
She closes the large wooden door in my face before I can reply. Then I hear the jingle of keys and the unmistakable sound of heavy bolts sliding into place. Locking church doors seems like a strange thing to do on a tiny island that has no crime.
I do what I always do after meeting someone I like. I replay the conversation in my head, reliving all the moments I wish Icould change, hoping I wasn’t quite as awkward as I fear I might have been, and thinking of all the things I should and could have said better. I start to walk away from the church but then hear what is becoming a familiar sound on the other side of the locked door—the crackle of a walkie-talkie.
DEVOUT ATHEIST
Columbo wanders off toward the cemetery at the back of the church, and I follow like the obedient owner that I am. The corner shop doesn’t open for a few more minutes so we have some time to kill. My tired mind is now preoccupied with my missing wifeandthe woman I just met. I feel as though I’ve been unfaithful for finding someone else attractive. I never cheated on my wife, but I sometimes worry that she didn’t love me like she used to, that maybe I disappointed her in some way.
There were a lot of conspiracy theories at the time after Abby disappeared. Her colleagues at the newspaper were sure that it was something to do with her work because of the antique doll that was found in her abandoned car; they thought that she was investigating the wrong person and was silenced. I didn’t agree with them at the time. I thought it sounded too far-fetched. But the newspaper article someone slipped under the cabin door must meansomething. I need to talk to Cora and find out what she knows, if anything, but I don’t know what to say to the woman. Abby was the one who always knew what questions to ask. People are a tricky landscape to navigate.
The cemetery is large for a place with such a small population. Some of the ancient headstones are too weathered to be able to read the names once engraved on them, while other old stone slabs covered in moss are leaning at precarious angles or have completely fallen down. There is a section of more recent-looking graves toward the back of the cemetery, and I wander over to take a look. I am not religious—more of a devout atheist—but I sometimes wish that I had faith. I believe that when we’re gone, we’re gone, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect other people’s beliefs. Whenever I wander through an old graveyard like this, I read all the headstones and make up stories for the people buried beneath them.
I don’t have to make up a story for the next one I see. It stands out from all the others as it is bigger and made from black stone, and I instantly recognize the name. Charles Whittaker’s headstone is impressive, though the epitaph isn’t what I would have expected.
CHARLES WHITTAKER
“Go away. I’m still writing.”