Artifact Read online

  The Reverend McLean operated as a hard taskmaster. He needed to, being pretty much inept at just about everything. He possessed an image of himself which was wildly inaccurate and created chaos without bounds. Then with a wailing and gnashing of teeth, he expected everyone around him to clear up his mess and put the world straight. After which, he emerged with a smile, expecting congratulations. Nobody understood why the previous bishop gave him St Jude’s to destroy, two decades earlier. He’d landed on his feet by default and the ever-present phenomenon in which dross still rises to the top. Demons named Pride, Avarice and Deceit rode high on his shoulders, jostled out of the way by a circling Prejudice.

  The Reverend John McLean sincerely believed everyone loved him. He smiled and simpered and threw the occasional inappropriate sweets at his employees in an attempt to buy them off. To the bursar he gave a decorated office when the man requested a new computer. To the part-time assistant he gave an afternoon off when she requested more hours. For those in real difficulty beneath his rule, he offered the odd insincere platitude before they burst a blood vessel and left, retired or expired. His monotone monologues, coupled with his tendency to treat everyone as though they were an expectant five-year old, had decimated a previously thriving church and entered the death throes of ruining a fairly solvent business.

  Fortunately, the counselling offices were run and paid for by the diocesan administration, overseen by the bishop. He couldn’t directly destroy their success; notwithstanding the fact he’d tried. McLean loved to run with a megalomaniacal management style, in which nobody else knew what was going on except him and half the time he wasn’t sure either. He wrangled for long hours over minutiae; searching for the right sort of red rug for his office for weeks and arriving one morning with a blue one. Meanwhile, cancer snatched the church organist from under his nose without him visiting her once in hospital. His efforts went into replacing the poor woman at choir practice instead, behaving as though she’d died just to spite him.

  McLean played ‘favourites’ with real skill, elevating and disposing of employees and congregation members without a backward glance. One week they were ‘marvellous, amazing, irreplaceable’ while the next, they were ‘useless, irritating or divisive.’ Without warning he discarded people in exchange for a new toy which could perform to order. Curates came and curates left, arriving fresh faced and excited about their calling and leaving depressed and suicidal. Those who passed through the Reverend McLean’s ample fingers didn’t just flee from his church, they abandoned their faith on the doormat and wiped their sensible shoes on the way out. The Reverend McLean’s ineptitude turned their tearing pain into betrayal, engendering hatred for their abandonment of him in his hour of need.

  John McLean’s phone rang and he sifted through his cassock’s depths to retrieve it from his pocket. “No!” he snapped at his wife. “I don’t know how long I’ll be tonight.”

  Her frail voice rattled down the line and he rolled his eyes. “I told you; we’ll go to Skegness next month. I’m too busy this week. Stop going on about it. I bought you the darn house, didn’t I? Yes, I know the sea air’s good for you but I’ve got a crisis at work.” He disconnected the call and pulled a nasty face, as though sucking on a lemon.

  A shrewd man concerning his own progression and advancement, he shrouded himself beneath the veil of incompetence. There was always someone else to blame. Jayden’s threat rose to the fore again and he winced at her name embossed on a metal plate.

  “Bloody woman! I won’t let you drop me in the proverbial manure. You need a mate to knock you down a peg or two, you haughty female.” The reverend swished around with a squeak of his sensible brown Hush Puppy shoes on the stone floor and went in search of his curate. “Where’s the lazy sod?” he grumbled.

  “Briiiiaaaannn!” he called eerily into the empty church, smirking at the thought of Brian’s recent discomfort around him. “Stupid little man,” the reverend whispered into the growing darkness, hearing his words echoing back to him. “Briiiaann. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  McLean searched the vestry, expecting to find Brian’s chunky legs resting on the desk and tomato sauce stains on his black shirt. “Hope you’re not swigging communion wine and listening to the dog racing on your portable radio,” he chimed. He brushed off any sense of blame for not mentoring the young cleric in the previous ten years. Life got in the way and at thirty-five, the curate sought attention like a naughty teenager. Lately, the balding male with the revoltingly full lips had been trying to tell him something, which McLean did not want to hear. “Come out, Brian. I won’t get angry,” the vicar called. The silent church echoed back his shuffling movements but his curate remained absent.

  McLean steered his creaky body towards his favourite hiding place; the high balcony which ran uninterrupted around three sides of the church beneath the eaves. “Best place in the building,” McLean wheezed, stopping to catch his breath on the narrow staircase. “Greatest thinking spot in the city.” His muscles complained at the steep climb via the rickety back stairs and his heart fluttered for a while after the courageous ascent. He peered over the balcony rail into the nave of his Lord’s ancient house, the light stone reflecting the flicker of candles and tea lights.

  Spotting his curate, McLean drew an imaginary revolver and pretended to fell him where he lay; asleep on a pew in the south transept. The vicar stepped around the narrow walkway, his feet scuffing along the worn stone. He covered the remaining two sides of the cavernous space and peered over at his sleeping assistant. The overwhelming and unchristian urge to spit on the lazy man’s head caused McLean an uncharacteristic moment of mirth. He clamped his age-spotted hand over his thin lips to suppress the snorts of laughter. A plan came to him and with delight, he scurried back towards the unlocked balcony door and the steep stairs. “I’ll ring the new bishop first, Miss Haughty-Pants and Brian can take the blame for this afternoon’s fiasco. It’s time I got rid of him anyway. Silly Brian; fancy double booking the counsellors.”

  Brian the curate, slept on in the nave, his alcohol sodden liver hardening beneath dirty robes. Bitterness and Regret kept vigil overhead while Mischief returned to the vestry, watching as the vicar made his spiteful phone call.

  Chapter 4

  Jayden shook out her umbrella beneath the porch of the counselling rooms. Its cloth surface felt wet from her morning walk to work and she hoped it could see her home without blowing inside out again. Droplets scattered around her like light prisms of confetti as she hoisted it above her head. She picked her way through the crazy paved track around the outside of the building until it met the flying buttresses of the old church. St Jude’s formed an immense structure, constructed during the Norman conquest of Britain. Its colourful and varied history formed a rich tapestry of human involvement. The path meandered its way through the churchyard; valued at an incredible two million pounds-worth of prime central city real estate but ruined for resale.

  Within seconds, Jayden’s feet touched the pavements of Lincoln High Street. Leaving the grounds brought an immediate change of atmosphere. Shops and chain stores flogged their wares like beacons in the growing darkness and Jayden scurried past, her internal navigation set for home.

  Her boots sloshed in the gathering puddles and the umbrella groaned under the weight of the January downpour as she battled up the busy pedestrianised High Street. Crossing Silver Street at the lights, she felt emboldened by the short distance ahead of her. The sound of her name drifted on the wind and she paused, looking around. A swathe of unfamiliar faces greeted her and she brushed the thought away as fancy. Her hand pushed deep into her handbag to retrieve her front door key, relaxing for a second in distraction.

  The sudden grip on her forearm made her turn and her eyes flashed with danger. Fear settled on her head, obscuring rational thought and bringing a red veil over her vision. Jayden gasped and the hand released her wrist, the predator-face morphing into recognisable features.

  “Sorry, sorr
y,” the man said, raising his hands and jumping back from the can of pepper spray in Jayden’s other hand. “Stupid of me in the dark, I’m sorry. Don’t mace me.” Strong arms pulled her into an embrace by way of apology.

  “Raff! You’re soaked!” Jayden squeaked, fear leaking from her voice as she pushed him away. Anger hovered overhead as she shoved the mini aerosol back into her coat pocket and kept her shaking hands busy with the search for her key.

  “I said I’m sorry. I forget how jumpy you are sometimes.” Dark eyelashes flicked water droplets over a sculpted male cheek. The man reached for her again and then let his hands fall by his sides. Jayden unlocked the front door and led the way inside, shutting and bolting it behind them. Inside, her pulse rate sought a normal rhythm and she worked on slowing her breathing. Hidden between the bay windows of two large shops on the High Street, Jayden’s front door blended to invisibility. The same colour as the brick work when closed, it disappeared from view, leaving only four random steps up to the hidden entrance.

  The street narrowed, crowded with buildings where Jayden’s bolt hole lay and it suited her need for solace. Nobody ever knocked on her door, not even by accident. Her apartment occupied the two top storeys of a listed building with stores below. Its space included a spectacular roof garden and Jayden loved to close the world out once her front door slammed. On the bottom two levels of the building a clothing store operated, touting its expensive wares to the city. Designer tracksuits and surf gear adorned the window display; not her usual fare.

  Jayden pulled her wet boots off and stood them on newspaper at the bottom of a set of wooden stairs. Flicking the light switch with practiced fingers, she bathed Raff in a yellow glow and led him up steep steps to the flat, two floors higher. Turning left at the top of the stairs took them into an open plan living room which occupied the whole upstairs floor. Neutral, muted decorations offered gentle relaxation and safety, high above the activities of the frantic paced city. Enormous sash windows faced out onto the Victorian buildings opposite, the view obscured by red brick and the sightless eye sockets of office windows. Jayden dropped her handbag and keys onto a glass dining table whose perfect construction contrasted with the window panes adjacent, their surfaces betraying ancient, bubbled imperfections.

  “Grab a drink if you want one.” Jayden’s voice sounded terse, a poor attempt at masking her lack of control. She walked towards the centre of the huge open space and disappeared up a spiral staircase to the floor above. Raff and watched her ascent, tight skirt moving up with each step against stockinged legs. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed.

  “Turn round!” Jayden snapped, emerging from an ensuite bathroom tying her long hair into a ponytail. “Boil the kettle and make a pot of tea.”

  “No.” Raff turned his back on her, staring out through glass doors into the large, darkening rooftop courtyard which took up a third of the floor space. Flowers bloomed there despite the hard frosts and it looked neat and tidy. The windows of the second bedroom on the other side of the oasis glinted back at him through the foliage, lifeless and empty, its sumptuous fittings unused as long as he’d known their owner.

  Raff surreptitiously watched Jayden’s reflection as she moved around the bedroom, intrigued by the grace of her long legs, neat stomach and improved muscle definition. He observed with proud detachment; an artist critiquing his work from a distance to gain perspective. With his dark hair cropped against his scalp he admired his reflection in the glass, relieved his thirty-four years hadn’t marred his toned, athletic body. Italian genetics winked back at him through olive skin and deep blue penetrating irises, housed in eyes which were dark-lashed and expressive.

  Jayden laid her work clothes across the wide double bed and reached into her wardrobe for a pair of tracksuit pants and a comfortable tee shirt.

  “No!” Raff demanded, turning to catch her in her bra and knickers.

  “I said turn around!” Jayden cried in horror, holding the tee shirt against her chest to cover herself.

  “Don’t put those on,” her friend begged. “I need your help. Please wear something decent.”

  “No.” Jayden pouted like a petulant three-year-old. Raff groaned and in a fluid motion, crossed the room and ripped open the door of the pine wardrobe in frustration. He held up a glittering black cocktail dress.

  “This! Wear this!”

  Jayden stamped her foot as Raff bent to rummage in the bottom of the wardrobe for matching shoes. “I’m tired,” she complained, watching him dictate her style of dress whilst wearing gym branded tee shirt and shorts. Despite the cold weather, his work gear accentuated his tanned hairy legs and muscular calves.

  “These!” Raff popped out of the wardrobe and stood, his elegant face beatific with pleasure at the feel of the strappy sandals in his hands.

  “Weirdo.” Jayden laughed.

  “Please?” Raff’s face crinkled as he tipped his handsome face sideways and beamed. His straight, white teeth gave him the look of a model, striking Roman heritage oozing from him in waves of testosterone.

  “I worry about you, Mr Abbadeli,” Jayden teased and Raff sniggered. He spun the straps in long, artistic fingers. “I don’t want to go out, Raff; it’s been a pig of a day.”

  “Please! I need you to help me.” Raff threw himself on her plush double bed and buried his tousled head in his arms.

  “I hope you’re not sweaty.” Jayden pulled a distasteful grimace before recommencing her grunge dressing. Once the offending track pants and tee shirt covered her, she sat on the bed and patted Raff’s back as though his posture represented a four-year-old and not a man of thirty-four. He sighed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, forgetting he still clutched the heel straps of the sandals.

  “Ouch! That hurt,” he complained when the leather caught his skin and the buckle produced a small nick on his cheek.

  “I’m not going out.” Jayden lay on her back next to him and Raff placed his glossy dark locks on her stomach. She stroked his hair and winced at the stickiness of his hair gel beneath her fingers.

  “Please help me?” Raff whined.

  “What does your surname mean?” Jayden moved her eyes over the white ceiling, noticing a crack above the window. She sought to distract the man and it worked. Raff popped his head up in surprise.

  “Little priest in Italian,” he said and then frowned as Jayden laughed. His head bounced up and down on her stomach as the muscles tensed and coupled with the cross, petulant face he pulled, it increased her mirth.

  “It’s not funny!” he growled in annoyance.

  “Is funny!” she shrieked. “I can’t imagine anyone less priest-like.”

  “Whatever!” In revenge, Raff dug his fingers into her sides and Jayden squealed. He tickled her until tears ran down her face and into her hair. She begged him to stop and slapped at his hands. “No. This is your punishment. I come from a long line of clerics and they’re turning in their graves right now.” Raff resumed his playful torture, but when his fingers accidentally strayed to the ribs of her left side, Jayden let out a groan of pain. “Sorry, sorry!” he exclaimed, yanking up her tee shirt and kissing the livid red scar. It’s perfidious existence troubled him, causing his dark brows to knit into a line of concern. He knew of it, but not how it came to be there on her creamy lithe midriff.

  “It’s ok,” Jayden pushed him off her and pulled herself to a sitting position. She kept one hand over the radiating soreness.

  “No it isn’t, Jay. Why won’t you tell me how that happened? I know it hurts you; there must be something the doctors can do.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it!” Jayden snapped and Raff backed away. The atmosphere of fun and joviality dissipated, leaving awkwardness and other unspoken emotions.

  “Please help me?” He returned to whining, sighing with relief when Jayden smirked.

  “As long as it doesn’t involve me wearing those shoes or going back out in the dark,” she replied, watching Raff’s pleasant features
cloud over in disappointment.

  Chapter 5

  The help Raff needed didn’t include the shoes, but required better clothing and a trip into the bracing winter evening. Jayden moaned and grumbled as Raff chose a pair of tight, black slacks, a fluffy, mauve pullover and insisted she wore long, black, high heeled boots. “It’s freezing,” Jayden whined as Raff bundled her up the road in a heavy overcoat and stuffed her inside his flash bottle-green Mercedes. “And it’s icy; I’ll break my neck!”

  “Think of it as a night out,” Raff replied with a smirk. “When was the last time we had some fun?” He put the heated seats on and started the engine, still in his shorts and tee shirt and oblivious the Arctic conditions. The car purred uphill, taking the myriad turns under ancient city gates which arched overhead. It took the inclines with ease, reaching Raff’s expensive uphill residence in the angular courtyard, flanked by Lincoln’s castle and cathedral.

  “Here we are,” he declared, slowing on the cobbled surface and halting outside his front door. “My humble abode, parked between the city’s strongholds; church and state.” His face clouded. “Ironic when neither one finds me acceptable.”

  Jayden huffed out a white breath. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  Raff’s distinctive Georgian townhouse overlooked the top of iconic Steep Hill; serving as one of the most photographed buildings in the city. It stood three stories high with a formidable roof balcony. The downstairs level housed a thriving antiques business topped by a luxurious set of apartments. Raff’s penthouse apartment proved plenty big enough for a rich, unattached city businessman.