The Telling

door creaked open. I kept staring straight ahead. There was the sound of three pairs of leather soles on the stone floor; my breath caught in my throat. Mr Aitken and Mr Forster stopped at the bottom of the aisle, and I felt Mr Moore walk up the aisle, and pass me, and then I could see him, the dark shape of his head, his dark jacket worn thin at the cuff and elbow. He was in his everyday clothes; he didn’t acknowledge Sunday’s distinction in dress. He halted just ahead of me, at some distance from the pulpit; he did not have to crane his head back to meet the Reverend’s eye. I watched between the backs of the people in the pews in front. I could see one of Mr Moore’s hands as it clenched into a fist, the knuckles livid, then uncurled. I heard him take a slow thin breath. I wished I could go to him and stand at his side, let him see that he did not stand alone. I loved him. The world expanded in a moment; it seemed vast. I loved him.
    ‘I bring you here today,’ said Reverend Wolfenden, ‘to reveal what kind of a man you are, so that you may no longer deceive these good and simple people.’
    Mr Moore’s voice came out dusty-sounding, as if it had lain long unused. ‘You didn’t bring me. I brought myself.’
    ‘Admit you are a Chartist, and an Atheist.’
    ‘I have never made a secret of either.’
    ‘Admit that you are a criminal; that you have been transported .’
    His hand clenched again, the dark fingers pressing tight, nails pushing into the flesh of his palm, the white scar stretching livid. ‘I served my sentence.’
    ‘But clearly learned nothing from the experience.’
    ‘My wife and child died while I was in Hobart Town.’
    He stood alone in the centre of the aisle, as if he were part of church ritual, as if this had been going to happen, as if this always happened, like the Eucharist or Benediction. All the time that he had lived with us, every moment that I had known him, when he had laughed at me, when he’d shared his beer with me, when he’d left or retrieved a book; all the time that wound, that loss, had been bleeding in his side. It made me ache for him. It made me reconsider everything that had passed between us.
    A man’s voice called out from the congregation, ‘What did you do then, lad?’
    Mr Moore turned to him. ‘I injured a policeman.’
    Matthew Williams called out from behind me, ‘Why did you do it?’
    Mr Moore turned to answer him. His eyes caught on mine and I smiled; a slight attempt to reassure him, but the smile trembled, and threatened tears. I looked down, at my rough hands still gripping the black prayer book.
    ‘See,’ said Reverend Wolfenden, ‘a wolf in sheep’s clothing! A violent criminal in our midst, taken into your homes, you see how –’
    But no one was listening to him any more. Mr Moore was addressing Matthew Williams.
    ‘It was a peaceful meeting,’ Mr Moore said. ‘They had no right to break it up. The police said that they shot over the people’s heads, but a girl was wounded in the ankle, and I don’t see how you can shoot over people’s heads and still wound someone in the ankle, unless you’re such a criminally bad shot that you have no business to go armed.’ He took a breath, and the breath shook, and I realized he was not nearly as calm as he appeared. ‘She is a cripple now,’ he said. ‘She walks with sticks.’
    ‘This man,’ the Reverend said, ‘this man –’
    My gaze shifted back to him, to the pulpit. I felt faintly surprised to see that he was still there.
    ‘This man,’ Mr Moore said, turning back towards the Reverend, ‘is just a man, and not a devil. I’ve committed no deception here, and certainly no crime. I’ve done nothing but offer my books and my opinions; no one is obliged to accept either; I do not evangelize. I happen to believe that intellect is not commensurate with wealth: that the poor may read, and learn, and think, as well as the finest gentleman in the country, if they’re given the opportunity, and that’s all I seek to do, to give that opportunity. These are peaceful ends, pursued by peaceful means, and still no crime, even in this day and age. Men of my class have their fill of duties, and precious little in the way of rights; but I believe we still possess the right to be left alone.’ His voice had grown tired. He said, ‘I simply wish to be left in peace.’
    The Reverend’s lips moved soundlessly. Then he swept his right arm grandly in front of him, taking in the