A VACANCIES sign hangs in the window of the Traders Hotel. This is unheard of in August. Beth hesitates at the open front door, then walks slowly into reception. A room key hangs on almost every hook. There are no guests in the lobby and no one behind the desk.
Low conversation rumbles from the bar. Beth rounds the doorway to see Becca sharing a table with Reverend Paul Coates. They are poring over open books together, their heads bent so close that they are almost touching. It hasn’t taken Becca long to find a new target. Beth, who has come to see Paul as her confidant over the last few days, feels the now-familiar kick of betrayal. She holds her breath the better to eavesdrop.
‘So basically you’re a year behind the projections, with no sign of an upturn,’ says Paul. ‘And the bank is demanding a repayment of ten thousand pounds within forty-two days or they repossess.’
Becca blows a blonde curl from her eyes. ‘What with the weather, and then this…’
This, thinks Beth. My son’s death. How dare she? A small sound escapes her and Becca looks up. Shame darkens her face.
‘Beth! Didn’t expect to see you…’ she begins.
I bet you fucking didn’t, thinks Beth as she barges her way behind the bar. The first breakable to hand is an empty pint glass, still warm from the dishwasher. Beth hurls it at the floor where it shatters into diamonds. It feels fantastic. There’s a row of highball tumblers at eye-level. Beth quickly establishes a rhythm: grab, smash, grab, smash, grab, smash. The champagne flutes, with their crystal chime at the breaking point, are the most satisfying. She flips the taps on the beer pumps so that the drink pours freely, overflowing the drip trays and flooding the floor. Let Becca’s profits drain to nothing. The sooner she’s out of Broadchurch, the better.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ explodes Becca when Beth reaches for the spirits. ‘That’s enough!’
Beth stifles a manic laugh. ‘Enough? I’m doing your windows next.’ A shard of glass, long as a dagger, rests on the bar. Beth could pick it up now, run it across Becca’s neck. It’s easy to take a life, easy.
‘Beth,’ says Becca, turning off the cider tap. ‘I’m so sorry, it was a mistake.’
‘Fucking right, it was!’ says Beth, turning the tap back on. ‘My husband. I will nail you to the floor before I let you wreck fifteen years of my life!’
Becca looks helplessly to Paul. ‘If we’d known what was going to happen…’
‘Don’t you dare!’ shrieks Beth. ‘Don’t you dare bring that into it. Come near my family and I will break your fuckin’ face.’ She is out of control, like she’s drunk all the booze she’s spilling. She doesn’t recognise the way she’s speaking.
She feels hands on her upper arms and tries to break free, but Paul’s hands are large and his grip is strong. ‘All right,’ he says, guiding Beth away from the bar. ‘We should get some air.’
‘D’you know what she did?’ says Beth.
‘I’ve got the gist,’ he replies.
The fight goes out of Beth as suddenly as it arrived, and she lets him steer her across the sodden carpet, glass crunching under their feet. They turn left out of the Traders: he’s walking her home. Beth wonders bitterly whether it’s for her protection or Becca’s.
There’s a sobering breeze on the High Street and Beth starts to come down from the high of destruction.
‘Sorry. To you, not to her.’ She wants to laugh but the tiny detached part of her that still cares about these things knows how it will look, and she bites it back. ‘It felt good, actually. Do you think I’ll have to pay her? I’m not paying her, she can whistle for it.’
‘Beth…’ Paul stops her in her tracks. ‘Have you thought about seeing a bereavement counsellor?’
Not him too. They’ve got themselves on some kind of mailing list. Victim Support and the doctor keep writing to them with offers to talk it through. So far she’s managed to stash the letters and leaflets in the bookshelves where Mark never goes. ‘I don’t want to see a counsellor,’ she tells him. ‘A counsellor will want me to stop being angry. I need my anger. It’s all I’ve got right now.’
Paul doesn’t flinch, merely nods to show his understanding. He mirrors her pace as they turn right out of the High Street. Not for the first time, Beth wonders what’s really going through his mind. Is he honestly as non-judgemental as he seems, a forgiving Christian through to the bone? Or is his mind a relentless stream of suppressed criticism? She finds that she doesn’t much care, as long as he listens. This priest, a virtual stranger up until a few weeks ago, has become one of the few constants in her life, and in some ways she is more intimate with him than she is with her husband. Thinking about this prompts another confidence.
‘Mark knows,’ she blurts. ‘About the baby. He said I had to keep it.’
He gives the only answer a priest is allowed to. ‘I think he’s right.’
‘Oh well, if the men think that’s what’s best, let’s do it,’ Beth deadpans, then grows suddenly shrill. ‘I hate it!’ Paul’s eyes mirror her own shock. It’s the first time she’s said it out loud, but she’s started now and she can’t stop. ‘This thing, growing inside me. I don’t want it. It’s not right. Danny should be growing, I’m not done with Danny yet, I didn’t finish my job. I want him.’ Her voice cracks and rises. She doesn’t care if anyone overheard her. ‘I had one job as his mum. Get him ready for the world, set him up to meet it and be the best he could be. And I failed him. I let him down.’
‘No. You didn’t. He was taken.’
She turns on him. ‘Why? Why did your God create him, and then take him back?’
‘I don’t know. Some people think He takes those He loves most first.’
‘Pretty bloody selfish God. Why am I being punished?’
‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’ At least he’s got the grace to look apologetic while he says it. He clears his throat. ‘Have you thought any more about a memorial service for Danny? It’d be a service of thanksgiving for his life. The shape of it’s completely up to you. We can have music he liked, people can talk about him.’
What Beth really wants is a funeral. A coffin. A goodbye. But that impulse to move, to act, to do something for her son, remains irresistible. Something dormant stirs within her as she realises that she must not let his death overshadow his life. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘I want to do it. Mark’ll agree with me.’
Paul looks pleased and then almost sheepish. ‘We should think how we announce it. I mean, I’m very happy to go on the local news, give them some quotes, save you the bother.’ Beth can’t resist a smile. He’s not your average vicar, what with the computers and now a hotline to West Country News. ‘I’ve got a feeling this service might end up being quite big. There’s going to be media coverage, but also people will want to come. We may spill out from the church. Are you all right with that?’
‘Big as possible,’ says Beth. Paul’s enthusiasm is infectious. She would invite the whole world if she could.
He leaves her at the top of Spring Close, as though he doesn’t want Mark to see them together. He doesn’t retrace their route over the pavements but cuts across the field. Beth can’t tell whether he’s going back to his church or back to Becca Fisher.