The Art of Standing Still Read Online Free PDF

pulled up the handbrake and clicked the security lock shut on her steering wheel. She opened the boot and took out the torch she always carried, then crossed the towpath to where the Ebony Hog was moored. The river seemed calm and quiet, and there was no sign of anyone on the towpath. She heard a rustle in a nearby elder tree. She held her breath. A blackbird flew out, squawking, and she exhaled with relief.
    The full moon was veiled in misty cloud. She glanced over to the twinkling rows of amber streetlamps in Monksford. She could see the two streams of lights: one red, receding, and one white, advancing along the bypass; and in the distance, the industrial estate with its state-of-the-art meat packing factory, illuminated like a football stadium. It was quiet, now, by the river, except for the rumble of traffic along the bypass and the water gently lapping on the boats’ hulls.
    She stopped and took a deep breath; the autumn smell of bonfires hung in the air, the outrider signalling winter’s imminent arrival. She would need to buy extra gas to keep the central heating running through the winter. Shining the torch, she carefully climbed up the ramp and onto the deck. She fumbled for her keys and unfastened the padlock. Shutting the door behind her, she sighed with relief. She was home.
    Jemma put on the kettle for tea, found the letter about the auditions, and opened her laptop. She typed ‘Mary Magdalene’ into the search engine. Her drama teacher had always encouraged her to research the character she would be portraying. She needed to get inside Mary Magdalene’s head if she was going to play her.
    The Internet connection was running slow. She sat back with a sigh, thinking she could have waited until she got to work tomorrow. But like a Boy Scout she wanted to be prepared even though last month her phone bill came to nearly as much as her mooring fees.
    â€˜Bingo!’
    There was certainly no shortage of information about Mary Magdalene on the Internet, and before long Jemma learnt that Mary was one of Jesus’ most significant female followers and that he had cast seven demons out of her. She was one of the women who witnessed his crucifixion and saw him laid in the tomb. Mary was the first one to witness his resurrection.
    â€˜So, Mary Magdalene, what were you really like?’ she whispered.
    Jemma glanced at her watch. The clock at St Sebastian’s concurred by striking midnight. Jemma stood up and closed her notepad. At the end of nearly an hour, she knew less about Mary than when she started.
    Was she the woman caught in adultery? Some sources claimed so, but there was no proof. Had Mary been a prostitute, and if so, why was she hanging around with this holy man? And why had he bothered to spend time with her? Surely the Son of God would have no time for women of that sort. What about his reputation? And that was assuming their relationship was purely platonic. She also found a lot of other material from various groups that claimed that Jesus had married Mary, fathered her children, and that they had come to live in Europe. But as far as Jemma could work out, that information wasn’t corroborated.
    As for the seven demons . . .
    Jemma shut down the Internet connection and folded the screen on her laptop. She started to undress for bed, her thoughts still whirling, grumbling, as she moved the three black bags from the bed onto the floor. She gave each of them a kick for good measure. How dare he clutter her space with his remains? When she had rather unceremoniously dumped his book, spare contact lens case, toothbrush, and shaver, as well as several jackets and jumpers and a pair of trainers, into black bin-bags, she wondered if there was any permanent reminder of their relationship. True, the hot water tap didn’t leak any more, but that was all. Two years of their lives and her single keepsake was a tap washer. The only place he remained was in her mind, and if she had her