The Translation of the Bones by Francesca Kay Page A

Sunday and if they weren’t there she’d make sure to pop in on them during the week, check they were okay. It was easier to do that now that she had only a part-time job at the bus depot. And it didn’t take long to stick your head round a door or have a quick cup of tea.
    Today, though, there was a feeling of uncertainty in the air. The mass had not been interrupted; the organist had reached the last bar of the final hymn. But, as soon as he had done so, the visitors had all converged on the chapel. Mr. and Mrs. Armitage stayed on their seats. Sorry, the chapel’s closed, Mrs. Armitage said to anyone who tried to slide in past her. You can’t go in there now. There were muted protests but nothing more until one young girl thrust herface close to Mrs. Armitage. Those who hide the truth will burn in hell, she hissed. Just then Father Diamond arrived. His collar and soutane, the badge of authority; even the angry girl moved back and stood aside. It’s a health and safety issue, Father Diamond announced. I’m afraid that if we cannot keep people from clambering on the altar and the furniture, we will simply have to close the church. I wonder, Larry, would you kindly stay on here, until the last worshipers have left?
    Meanwhile Mary-Margaret O’Reilly was still in her place at the end of a pew, kneeling, her head bowed over her crossed arms. Mrs. Armitage glanced at her. As a rule she was rather scornful of the conspicuously devout, the supplicants who knelt in front of statues with their hands clasped and their lips moving; they made her think of the Pharisees, strutting through the temple. Even so, she could hardly go and tap Mary-Margaret on her shoulder, tell her to get a move on. Somewhat reluctantly, Mrs. Armitage went off to make the coffee.
    Larry Armitage stacked hymnbooks back onto their shelves and collected the discarded service sheets. There were a couple of women still peering into the chapel, another kneeling before the statue of the Sacred Heart, and Mary-Margaret, in her pew. He pushed a pew back into place as noisily as he could to show that it was time to leave. The organist clattered down from the organ loft. Just as Larry was beginning to wonder what else he could do to clear the place, Father Diamond came out of the sacristy again, locking the door behind him. Thank you, Larry, he said. I think it might be wise to close the church, for once. I’m going to turn off the lights.
    This unambiguous signal served its purpose. The last stragglers headed toward the door and Mary-Margaret got to her feet. But, instead of making for the door, she edged down the length of the pew, encumbered by her shopping bag, in the direction of the chapel. Larry got there before her. It’s closed, he said. But not to me, said Mary-Margaret. To everyone, said Larry. But He’ll be wondering where I am, said Mary-Margaret. He might need more ointment.
    Larry, who hadn’t a clue what she was saying, stuck to his guns. It’s closed, he said again. Health and safety. Mary-Margaret’s face crumpled and she began to cry, her mouth squared like a child’s. Father Diamond, seeing this, came hurrying to Larry’s rescue. Now, dear, he said. What’s all this? Let’s go and have a cup of tea and talk about it. You and me. Together.
    Mary-Margaret allowed herself to be led toward the door. Following the woman and the priest, in the unaccustomed dimness of the church, among the shrouded figures, Larry felt something stir or shift, a mere shiver, unseen and almost imperceptible. For no real reason he was reminded of the game that children play, Grandmother’s footsteps, the tagged child standing poised and tense, the stalkers creeping stealthily toward him. A game in which both pursuers and pursued shared the pleasurable dread of being caught. Not being prone to flights of fancy, Larry dismissed the thought.
    Father Diamond ushered him and Mary-Margaret out of the door before turning back to lock it from the outside. That’s