Free Mercy Seat by Wayne Price Page A

boy. Get him in the shade there.
    Is he in the shade now?
    He’s fine now. Keep him tight in. That’s where you want him.
    There wasn’t any shade that I could see. Even right in at the banks there was no overhang, just one long bright strip of sand and pebbles and gravel under the sun.
    Over the bridge, in the garden of one of the cottages, a slow-moving old woman had started hanging out her washing. Can you mind the banks if you have to fish there? she said, eyeing the boy suspiciously. They’ll be washed away, see, if the grass gets loosened.
    He’s minding the bank all right, the old man answered. The boy glanced up at her, his mouth slack and innocent-looking. He shuffled his feet back an obedient few inches from the water’s edge.
    She finished hanging out the clothes. There were just two shirts and a bed sheet. Some things she left in thebasket. She stared at the boy’s back for a while, then shuffled indoors.
    The old man watched her go. Get him tight in again, that’s the boy, he said, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it now.
    Shall I try a spinner? the boy asked.
    You could try a spinner. He nodded carefully, as if contemplating this, but his eyes were wandering away from the water now, taking in the sky, the garden opposite and finally me, on the bridge, looking down at them.
    I like spinners better than worms.
    Well then. Let’s try a spinner, is it?
    A finger tapped me on the shoulder and I turned.
    Hello stranger, Christine said. The old man looked up again and for the first time the boy realised he was being watched and craned to face us too. I tried to think of some reply, but couldn’t.
    Any luck? Christine called down brightly to the boy.
    No, no luck, the old guy answered for him. He nodded at us.
    I had a bite but it might have been a stone, the boy piped.
    We left them and sat with Jenny and Michael on the bench. Food’s in the bag, I said. Just some rolls.
    Jenny handed them out and we started eating. It was warm in the sun and easy to sit there without speaking, savouring the sunshine and the cool sea breeze.
    I heard the old man say something about the tide, then the sound of the boy reeling in his line drifted up from near the bridge.
    You could take Christine to see the church while I feed Michael, Jenny suggested. I was telling her aboutthe carvings on the way up from the beach. Among other things. She leaned forward and grinned at her sister. A cool smile ghosted onto Christine’s lips, but her eyes were closed, lids angled to the sun like petals.
    Don’t you want to go yourself?
    I don’t mind. It’s something for you to do while he’s fed. She looked at me meaningfully, as if I was missing something.
    I looked across at Christine again. Her eyes were open now but seemed unfocused, disinterested. The roll she was eating was less than half finished but she slipped it back into the carrier bag anyway and brushed a few crumbs off her jeans. She took a light sip from her can, then set it down on the bench and said she was ready.
    Neither of us spoke on the way to the church, though when we got to the porch she asked me to wait while she read through a dog-eared booklet which gave some information about the building. When she was done I lifted the heavy black latch and we stepped in.
    I found out about the carvings in the church not long after moving out to Pugh’s farm. I’d walked along the cliffs one cool, lonesome Sunday afternoon and discovered the bay and then the church behind it. An old caretaker was inside, working on one of the iron radiators. When he saw me staring at the woodwork on the pulpit, he called me over to the choir stalls. If you like carvings, look at these now, he said, and pointed out a series of narrow ledges, half-seats set in the shadows of the backmost row. The stall, almost hidden behind the others, was clearly much older than the rest of the furniture in the place. The wood was smoother and