‘God has not given me guidance on this,’ he said caressing the bandaging wrapped around his right hand. Dark brown smudges of blood still showed through the layers of cotton and lint. Beneath the wadding his hand ached dreadfully.

He’d been incredibly lucky . . . blessed even. Jennifer’s shot had been poorly aimed, kicking to one side as she’d pulled the trigger. Some of the pellets from the round had caught the hand he’d raised to protect his face. He’d lost his little finger, and the top half of the next finger along. The rest of the shotgun’s pellets had whistled harmlessly past, rattling off the compression chamber’s far wall.

‘You should decide what is in your hearts,’ he told them. ‘And let that guide your decision,’ he added sombrely.

There was a silence for only the briefest moment, then Alice Harton broke it. ‘They should both be tossed over the side! She’s a fucking psycho. She’s bloody well dangerous. And Walter . . . he’s . . . he’s scum!’

Murmurs of approval from those standing behind her.

‘Jennifer is a very distressed person,’ said Valérie. ‘And it is understandable. Surely it is also forgivable?’

‘She went at you with a gun!’ shouted someone at the back of the room.

‘She shot you!’ added Alice.

‘Yet here I am alive and well. And that is as God wills it.’

‘Praise be,’ someone gasped.

‘The Koran and the Bible teach us that forgiveness is what brings us closer to God.’

He gazed at their faces, wary that someone, somewhere, might just ask him to cite a passage from either. He knew a little of both books; he’d certainly had time enough to read them both in Prison D’Arlon. He could manage well enough with a street-corner debate . . . certainly not enough to fool a theological scholar, though. Mind you, it never ceased to amaze him how little those of faith seemed to actually know of their books. It was easy enough to invent theological-sounding passages, provided you used the right language. Most people presumed you were quoting something too obscure for them to recognise. It was more than his knowing a little scripture that made people listen to him, though. It was the confidence of utter conviction that he carried. He hadn’t trained as a priest or a pastor, he had not studied as an imam. What he had was a far higher authority than that. What he had was the authority of a prophet.

God had picked him . . . despite his weaknesses; God had never judged him on that. In fact, Valérie realised, it was his weaknesses, the temptations of the flesh that goaded and teased and tempted him when his mind was still, that made him so perfectly suitable.

Natasha.

He’d dreamt of her last night. Smiling beautifully, sitting at the Lord’s side like a wonderful angel. And Hannah sat on the other side.

I am so sorry, he’d sobbed. Please forgive me. I am weak.

The mess was noisy with voices discussing the matter, shrill voices talking over each other with increasing volume.

‘—after what he did?’

‘—dirty bastard should go over.’

Dr Gupta cut in loudly. ‘We don’t know he did anything to Natasha! We found a shoe. That is all!’

She was shouted down by a wall of angry voices. Valérie raised his hands. ‘Let the doctor speak!’

Tami Gupta nodded gratefully at him. She had the floor, the room was quiet. ‘We found a shoe on his boat. That is all. A shoe. And that is all we have. And we are happy to see him dead because of just that? When you think of all he has done for us, that he has been amongst us for years and nothing like this ever happened—’

‘There’s always a first time!’ someone shouted out.

‘Yes . . . yes, but not Walter. I know it’s not Walter.’

‘How do we know it’s not his first time anyway?’ asked Alice. ‘How do we know he wasn’t a paedo before the crash? How do we know if he was ever convicted? Was on a sex offender’s register? Huh?’

Tami shook her head. ‘We do not know. But then, we know nothing really about each other’s lives before the crash, do we? Right? Only what people say about themselves.’ She looked around. ‘I am sure there are many more secrets in this room - things we did before the crash, things we did during the crash - that we feel shame for. That we keep to ourselves.’

She looked at Valérie. ‘Even you, Mr Latoc. You could be anyone; have done anything and we do not know.’

Valérie smiled. ‘And perhaps that is why this world is a new beginning. We have left our old selves behind and start with a clean slate.’

Tami nodded. ‘Yes. So . . .’ she looked at Alice, ‘so we should only judge Walter on the person we know—’

‘And we are. You’ve seen how he was with Hannah. He was all over her, the dirty pervert!’

Tami slapped her hand down on the table next to her. ‘How dare you!’ she all but screamed. ‘How bloody dare you!’ Her shrill voice bounced off the hard low ceiling. ‘She was like his own, like his own flesh and blood. It was never like that . . . like you say!’

‘But he was always in their rooms,’ replied Alice, ‘wasn’t he? Always hanging around them, always poking his nose in.’

Heads nodded either side of her.

Tami shook her head. ‘He was as good as a grandfather to her. I know you do not like him but I know he is a good man.’

‘Oh, yeah!’ Alice snorted sarcastically. ‘Just like a scout leader, or an outreach worker. A good man until you go and find all the filth on their computer. That’s how it usually—’

‘Alice!’ Tami snapped. She shook her head. ‘You have a dirty, poisonous mind! I know why he was with the Sutherlands so much.’

‘Why?’

‘He is in love with Jenny.’

That silenced Alice for a moment.

‘He loves her,’ she continued. ‘He . . . he worships her. That is why!’

‘And that’s exactly how manipulative people like him can be,’ said Alice. ‘Work through the mother to get to the child.’

Tami’s face creased with exasperation. ‘Why, Alice? Why do you hate him so much?’

‘I just know men, Tami. You don’t mix old men like Walter with young girls!’

‘But he has never done anything like this. How can you say he did things to Hannah or Natasha!’

‘Oh come on, you’ve seen him with Hannah. Carrying her, holding her . . . it’s not right, it’s not appropriate!’

‘It is not appropriate to hold a child?’ Tami looked incredulously at her. ‘Not appropriate to hug a child? Where my family come from . . .’ she paused a moment, ‘where my family came from, it was natural for all the family, the aunties and the uncles, the cousins, everyone, to cherish the children, to show them love, to hold them.’

‘Well that’s your fucking country!’ shouted someone from the back.

Tami lowered her eyes, infuriated. ‘My country? My country!’ She sighed, looking defeated. ‘Yes, you’re right, that’s how it was in my country. But in my country, a good man like Walter would have been respected. He would be treated much better than this.’

‘Oh,’ Alice tutted. ‘And that would probably explain a lot about your country.’

Valérie let them carry on, amused at how venomous some of them seemed to be regarding the old man. He almost felt sorry for Walter. The poor old fool’s biggest crime was looking too much the part; old and ugly. Wasn’t that how people liked their perverts to look? It made it so much easier to tear them to pieces.

Valérie could see his women were unanimous in wanting an example made of him. That much was obvious. They wanted a pound of flesh for Natasha Bingham. Nothing less would satisfy them. The matter of Jennifer Sutherland, though, that had yet to be addressed.

He raised a hand. It was enough to quickly halt the heated debate. The women shushed each other until the mess was finally silent.

‘I believe there is nothing more sacred than the innocence of a child. And I do believe it was Walter. What he must have done to the poor girl on that boat . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I cannot forgive him that.’

He could hear the muted sob of Mrs Bingham and murmurs of agreement.

‘Walter will be cast out for that. And may God have mercy on his soul.’ He rubbed his bandaged hand unconsciously. ‘As for Jennifer, she is a person who has been through so very much. I do feel much sympathy for her. Not anger. She has lost all of her family. She lost that little girl. And she is angry at me because she believes I have stolen all of you away from her.’

‘She a fucking nut!’ shouted someone.

‘She had it coming, the fascist bitch!’

Valérie raised his good hand to quieten them down. ‘No, she is not a . . . nut. And I do not think she should share the same fate as her friend. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I cannot trust her not to try and attack me again.’

‘Kick her off!’

‘She’s got to go!’

He sighed. ‘It may well be. I shall pray and consider. However, tomorrow the old man must be dealt with. It would be unkind to him to delay.’

Tami turned to him. ‘No, you cannot do this!’

Valérie looked at her and smiled sadly. ‘The judgment is not just mine. God has made His will known through our mouths, through this discussion.’ He could see from the set of their faces that that was just what they needed to hear; that it would be someone else’s call; blood - rightful blood - on the Lord’s hands, not theirs.

‘So then,’ he continued. ‘Let us pray.’