April, 2004
He was bathed in light as it penetrated the stained glassed windows, the bright and easy colours an ironic contrast to his bitter discomfort as he snuck into the pew at the back. The church was packed, aside from a handful it was full of token worshippers, he knew they, like he, only turned to the house of God on Christmas and Easter.
The priest was halfway through his sermon, the tardy arrival of Mickey Webb irrelevant to his religious teachings.
Mickey sat, the sermon sheet twisted in his hands as he nervously waited for someone to cast him out of the church. He didn't belong here and wasn't entirely sure why he'd felt compelled to sit amongst the crowd. The people were too close, far too close. He shifted slightly, breathing a silent sigh of relief as the gap between himself and the person next to him widened. No chance of contact. Good.
The priest kept talking and Mickey kept tuning him out. He hadn't really come for enlightenment, he'd seen too much darkness to welcome the light so easily. He didn't really feel overwhelmed with the joy of his supposed Saviour's rebirth, he knew he should have, knew those who truly wanted to be here, those who weren't dragged by wives or mothers or strict fathers to sit in their Sunday best, he knew they felt the joy.
He'd forgotten what care-free felt like, could barely remember what happiness was.
He sharply careened his thoughts away before they could lead him back to Delaney, knew his mind walked that torturous path often enough as it was; turned his attention to the altar where the priest was still talking.
A monotone soliloquy into the happenings of Good Friday. A recap for those who had actually turned up at church that day, new information for half the congregation who had showed up today, children dragged in tow with the promise of Easter eggs, the foiled chocolate bribery to keep them quiet.
Mickey hated Good Friday. Always had. Ever since he was eight and the school forced his class to perform part of the Easter story in assembly. Looking back it was a stupid activity to do with a bunch of council estate kids, probably gave them endless inspiration for how to torture the local animal population residing in Dagenham.
All it had given Mickey was nightmares and a reason to keep his parents away from school after his dad had drunkenly caused a scene under the pretence of fatherhood.
Easter – slightly lower in the hatred stakes than Christmas, but hated nonetheless.
Not wanting to hear the detailing of Jesus' suffering - the thought of someone nailed and bound to a cross sickened him more than usual these days - Mickey glanced upwards seeking distraction. Instead his eyes landed on the crucifix bolted in the alcove above the altar. He could tell it had once been gold but time had caused it to fade until it was almost silver in its bronzed haze.
The words were seeping through, and he couldn't block them. He cringed, curled his fingers protectively over his palms as the visualisations forced their way into his mind's eye. He resisted the urgent desire to pull his sleeves down over his wrists as the priest continued lamenting the fate of Jesus Christ, knew it was stupid to believe cuts and blemishes resided on his skin six months later; to believe that the marks from the ropes still scorched him like some perverse stigmata was ridiculous. He knew the bruises had faded somewhere in the first or second month following the attack.
Mickey's head was pounding, a steady beat pulsating from fear and lack of sleep. Annoyance only made the hammer drum at his skull harder, as if determined to punish him for his lack of concentration and conformity. He'd drank himself to sleep last night, had necked cans of cheap lager until he'd passed out into oblivion, free of the memories as he succumbed to his inebriated slumber.
He'd only come to the service this morning because it was what his mum would have done; late as a result of attempting to make himself look less like an alcoholic and more like a presentable member of society. Even now as he sat in church he was sure his pallid flesh and mauve ringed eyes spoke volumes, could feel the neon sign of victim-trying-too-hard stamped across the crumpled suit he had rescued from the back of the wardrobe, fifteen minutes too late as usual.
The coffee smudge on the lapel of his jacket was just another reminder that he was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole.
He squirmed in his seat, restlessly shifting in an attempt to wake his foot. He wasn't sure how long he'd sat here, didn't know how much longer he would have to pretend to listen before he could visit his mum's grave and get the hell out of Sun Hill.
He'd had to return to the station a few weeks prior as a representative of the Murder Investigation Team, the discomfort he'd felt still weighed heavily on his mind. Everyone had treated him like some sort of leper, as if being the victim of sexual assault was something you could catch. As if shame was contagious. He bristled at the memory.
He hadn't even seen Jack. Didn't really want to after his encounter with Smithy. It would just be one long eternity of silence, broken only by uneasy glances and stupid questions such as "Are you ok?" and " How's work?" questions Mickey felt he couldn't give an honest answer to right now.
Ok would mean he was sleeping without alcohol acting as an anaesthetic to the pain. Ok would mean sleeping for more than four hours a night. Ok would mean he didn't stay in MIT offices until the cleaners turfed him out because they wanted to go home and he didn't.
So no he wasn't ok. And as long as he didn't see Jack he could keep up the pretence that he was. The mask he was wearing could only slip if confronted by the familiar – by someone who knew him better than himself. For now he would keep himself surrounded by the unsuspecting members of MIT.
There was some sort of fury building, trying to force its way over the heavy hurt pressing on his chest as he allowed the priest's talk about Jesus dying for his sins to trickle into his stream of consciousness. The everlasting promise of forgiveness a little too sour for Mickey to contemplate.
There were some people that just didn't deserve redemption. People like Martin Delaney for one.
His father.
Tom Chandler.
Hell he could make a list, which was one of the many reasons he struggled to stomach any of the preaching he'd heard this morning, whether he was doing it in memory of his mother or not.
He certainly wouldn't do this next year.
He fingered the tiny gold cross beneath his shirt, the fine chain scratching at his neck as he traced. He'd been wearing it since he left school, a gift from his mum for passing his exams, for actually earning himself a future that didn't involve working in some run down factory in Dagenham with his mates from the estate.
Now it was tainted. He didn't have a future, not the one he'd envisioned anyway. Sure he was working his way towards DS but he had never thought he'd earn it this way. His new DI told him if he kept going at each case with the ferocity he'd exhibited in the last six months he'd make Sergeant by Christmas, exams notwithstanding. He had always planned to make DS through ruthless ambition and hard work; not by using work as his distraction from the world he now lived in, where the past haunted his every move.
He didn't want to wear the sullied jewellery anymore. It was meant to represent hope and belief and he held neither. All it was, was a lie.
He grappled for the crucifix, wrestled to detach the chain so that the cross could slip and slide haltingly to rest in his palm.
Mickey held it in his hand, feeling the gold warm beneath his touch as he debated what to do with it.
He startled as the man reached across him, managed to resist the urge to shrink back at such invasion of his personal space but could still feel his skin crawl at the threat of undesired touch, felt his heart rate quicken at the thought.
The collection plate caught his attention and he realised he'd zoned out through the offertory. The rattle of the basket beneath his nose made him understand that the man next to him had merely been trying to donate to the church and not accost him.
He reached into his pocket and collected the loose change that resided there, dropped it with a clatter to join the rest of the collection, the cross he'd removed landing with it. Send it back from whence it came, let the church deal with the corrupted symbol.
With a whisper of thanks the designated person moved onto the pew in front allowing Mickey to feel reassured that the sermon was thankfully drawing to a close.
He didn't go to Communion, refused to sing hymns and mumbled the prayers, spending more time listening to hacking coughs and stern reprimands whispered to disobedient and bored kids echoing round the church than on concentrating on thanking a God who had let him down, a merciless being who had taken his mum and his dignity in the same year.
Mickey wasn't sure why he didn't just get up and leave. It wasn't as if they'd bolted the doors and forced him to stay there under duress.
Maybe he liked being here more than he liked being in Canley.
They'd reached the happy part of the story now - the part where Jesus was resurrected on the third day. Mickey couldn't help classifying it as a story now that he didn't have a semblance of faith to clutch to like straws,
He bit back a snort of contempt, if only a person could start anew in the short space of three days.
There was always something that stopped you from succeeding, that held you back shackled to your past.
He'd been trying to shrug off the ghost of Delaney for the last six months and no matter what he did he was at the forefront of his mind. He hated being anywhere near Sun Hill, detested the pitying stares that he received from anyone who knew him. Hated Smithy and Tony and Jack for daring to feel sorry for him, for being uncomfortable because he was Mickey Webb; rape victim.
Well stuff them all. The bitterness was flowing freely now, coursing through his veins as he remained in the back of the church as the rest of the congregation rose to leave. He glared up at the crucifix that had captured his interest earlier, saw it through slits of resentment.
He wasn't going to stay tied to Sun Hill. Easter was about new life, about resurrection and re- birthing. What little of the service he'd paid attention to he'd digested. He would cast Mickey Webb aside, replace him with someone else. Someone stronger, someone who was successful and powerful and couldn't be stripped bare of denim jeans because he wouldn't be caught dead in them. He'd be professional, slick. A suit and tie kind of guy, polished shoes – the works. He'd be someone who caught murderers and solved crimes and didn't screw up. He certainly wouldn't need his DCI to bail him out all the time.
He would be that person.
It might take him longer than three days, but he'd get there, reducing Mickey Webb to some forgotten memory - a distant shadow swallowed in the darkness of his mind, insignificant in the wake of DS Michael Webb; no crime statistic attached.