Free The Chorister at the Abbey by Lis Howell

Robert had suggested marriage, he and Suzy had discussed nothing more personal than who should carve the turkey. There was an amnesty on emotions. Nothing was really resolved. But Robert was painfully aware that he wanted it to be. He pulled Suzy to her feet and held her for a minute, feeling her warmth.
    Then he kissed her on the nose. ‘We’ve had a great day. You’re seeing Nigel in forty-eight hours. Put him on hold and come to bed with me.’
    ‘OK,’ she whispered softly.
    In Notting Hill on Christmas night, Wanda whispered ‘Freddie’ again, to no response. She wiggled her toes and wondered why she felt irritated. It could be because of Freddie’s comatose sleep, but over the years she’d grown used to his inert body beside her. Strange how something so still and heavy could emit funny noises – little piping snores or great rumbles, booming farts or whimpering sighs.
    So what was on her mind? They had had a marvellous dinner party with two local gay friends of hers from the BBC, who were experts on all the latest TV chefs’ recipes, and she and Freddie had been able to walk back to the flat which was so clean and white and chic after the bric-à-brac horror of the Norbridge cottage.
    But during the conversation one of the guests had mentioned going to midnight mass, much to the amusement of the others, and it had jogged Wanda’s memory. Whatever her failings, Wanda Wisley was conscientious. She had a nagging feeling that she ought to check her emails. She swung herself out of bed and, naked, padded over to the real beech-wood desk where her computer sat waiting.
    What had Edwin asked? Why had that man Morris Little been in the Music Department? With a horrible sense that she might know the answer, she logged on.
    Here it was, the correspondence between herself, and a man called . . . shit. Wanda had been so busy and preoccupied, she really hadn’t put two and two together. When Morris Little had started to email her she had just written him off as the church music nutter.
    I’d like to talk to someone really knowledgeable about music in Norbridge , he had written, flattering her. He had some pet theory about ‘church music with a local connection’. He had emailed her every day until she had given in and agreed to a meeting.
    Wanda glanced quickly through the correspondence. Now she knew why Morris Little had been in the Music Department. It was because she had invited him – and completely forgotten about him. The Friday before Christmas, she had suddenly decided she couldn’t bear another minute at work and had left without even picking up her expenses. But would anyone believe her? What a pain! Wanda logged out and padded back to bed.
    There was no way she was going to mention this to anyone.

10
    Thou shalt not be afraid of any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day. Psalm 91:5
    Six days later, the only spot of nightlife in Norbridge which was still rocking in the New Year at two in the morning was Strumpets on Fletchergate. Chloe Clifford pulled a reluctant Poppy Robinson after her and they sidled down the alley beside the club.
    ‘Go on, Poppy, try it.’ Chloe was giggling and trying to light up a badly made joint. She succeeded in starting a small fire at the end of the paper but after a minute the shreds which had flared up calmed down. Chloe had already spilt bits of grass and tobacco down her new black silk-effect jacket. She’d dropped the grinder and Rizla papers a few times because she’d already drunk six shots of vodka in an hour after meeting Poppy in the Crown and Thistle.
    ‘I don’t think it’s for me,’ Poppy said nervously.
    ‘Oh, go on, twit. Everyone does it in Leeds.’ Chloe took a huge drag and then poked the mangled bit of paper and vegetation towards her.
    ‘All right.’ Poppy put the soggy end in her mouth and inhaled. But nothing happened except that a badly ground bit of hot grass detached itself and stuck at the back of her throat. She coughed