Discarded by M. Hunter (fantasy books to read .txt) 📗

kind of on the way home.’ His goofy grin appears and I find myself reflecting it.

‘On your way back to West London, is it? From Hampshire?’

‘Well, I’ve got to make a detour via Weymouth on the way home anyway, as I was planning on calling in on your friend Freddie and asking whether he recognises the late Reverend Peter Saltzing. If truth be told, I could do with the company if you wouldn’t mind forgoing the train and riding shotgun with me.’

‘What about Mila? Don’t you need to get back for her?’

He shakes his head but the goofy grin remains. ‘Her mum was released from the hospital at ten this morning, and her new baby brother will be out first thing so Chrissie wants a Mummy–daughter night for the last time.’

I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘Okay, Jack, then for your benefit – and only because I worry about you driving for so long on your own – I accept your offer.’

Chapter Thirty-Three Now

Weymouth, Dorset

We drive straight to the shelter where the queue outside is starting to grow as hungry guests await the opening of the doors. I nod and say hi to a few of the regulars I’ve served here before, but most keep their distance from Jack. Even though he’s dressed in jeans and a winter coat, I guess he still has that police-vibe that so many find intimidating.

Bypassing the queue, I lead Jack around the side of the former church hall and in through the rear entrance and into the kitchen, where we’re greeted by the sweet smell of garlic, warmed winter vegetables, and just a hint of chilli. Barbara briefly stops stirring her pot to glance at me before smiling welcomingly and confirming Freddie is setting up the tables out front. I thank her and we continue through to the main hall, finding Freddie setting out chairs around the tables in the centre of the room.

I don’t speak, but nod for Jack to help. Freddie pauses when he sees movement and looks at the two of us, but doesn’t say anything.

‘Jack’s come to apologise,’ I say to cut the tension, and Freddie’s eyes switch to Jack, whose arms are in mid-flight, reaching for the next chair in the stack. He freezes and nods.

‘What do you want this time?’ Freddie croaks.

There is hurt in his tone, and he has a point; it does seem these days that I only come to him when I need something. I make a promise to myself that I’ll pick up some shifts at the shelter next week with no ulterior motive.

‘I take it you heard the news about Tina Neville?’ I try, hoping to build bridges rather than leaping into the real reason we’re there.

He grunts and straightens the cutlery on the table he’s standing next to. ‘People like that deserve everything that’s coming to them. I think next time I look to help someone, I’ll think twice about it.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t see what she was up to sooner; it’s my fault you got dragged into the search. I think we’ve all learned a lesson there.’

Freddie moves to the stack of chairs, which Jack has continued to lower to the floor, and begins to position them around the tables. ‘Look, you’ve got ten minutes to ask me whatever you’re here to ask, and then it’s doors open and my attention will be on those who are in genuine need.’

‘Thank you,’ Jack whispers, looking back to me to take the lead, which is probably the smart move given their last encounter in this room. Not ideal for me, however, given what I’m about to ask Freddie to relive.

Reaching into my satchel, I extract the cutting of Peter Saltzing, Arthur Turgood, and the younger man. I rest it on the table cloth, and study Freddie’s face for any kind of reaction.

‘Where did you get this from?’ he asks, as the breath catches in his throat.

‘Do you recognise the two men in the photograph with Turgood, Freddie?’

His head snaps up to meet my gaze and the shine in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.

‘You’ve never mentioned Reverend Peter Saltzing to me in any of the conversations we’ve had, but you recognise his face, don’t you?’

Freddie holds my gaze but I don’t know how long he’ll keep the tears at bay. ‘That was their answer when the first rumblings about mistreatment surfaced – the local authority, or the governing body, whoever they were. A couple of the boys complained about beatings, and the solution was to send a local vicar in to provide pastoral care.’ He snorts with derision. ‘He wasn’t violent, but his motivation for being there was the same as Turgood and the others.’

He’s stopped positioning the chairs, as if his body is frozen by the memories now playing out behind his eyes.

‘He didn’t meet with me specifically – I guess by that time I was a bit too old for his tastes – but Mike will remember him. He used to run these group prayer sessions, where the boys in his care were supposed to pray for the Holy Spirit to help set them back on the path to enlightenment.’ He pauses, but maintains the ice-cold stare. ‘But then he’d keep one behind afterwards for additional spiritual guidance. He’d say, “Down on your knees, boy, and show the Lord how willing you are to receive his spiritual direction.” I never knew his full name, and when you and I discussed my time at that shithole, I didn’t even remember him.’

My heart is breaking for Freddie but I have to continue. ‘And do you know who this other man is with them?’

‘Graham Meacham, or “Grey” to his friends, former resident at St Francis. He was a few years older than me, so we didn’t tend to hang out in the same circles. He didn’t complain like some of the others and he didn’t seem to wear the same scars and