The lights hum and stutter into life. The bulbs are dim and jaundiced, coated in dust and cobwebs. They don’t do an awful lot to alleviate the gloom. The church looks empty. But that’s the problem with churches. They’re full of nooks and crannies where you can crouch and hide.
‘Hello? Anyone here?’
No reply, surprisingly. I grip the torch tighter. It’s sturdy enough to make a half-decent weapon. In my other hand, I hold the hefty key. I wedge it between my fingers, sharp edge poking out. Just like I used to do in the city at night.
I spotted the light upstairs, so I climb the steps at the side of the chapel to the upper balcony. It’s even darker up here. Only two lights provide illumination. And there’s that strange smell again. Smoky, charred. I swing the torch around. Nothing but the rows of wooden pews. I move along them, poking the torch into the dark areas in between. But no one is hiding.
At the far end of the balcony, there’s a small, narrow door. A storeroom, I guess. I walk forward, clutching the key, torch held out in front of me. I reach the door and yank it wide open. A pile of pew cushions topples out.
I leap back, heart jumping. And then I allow myself a chuckle of relief. Just pew cushions, Michael.
I peer back into the cupboard. It’s tiny, jammed with more cushions and prayer books; no room for anyone to hide in there. I bend and pick up the cushions, realizing now that they are blackened and scorched, like they’ve been set alight. Odd, but it might explain the smoky smell. I shove them back inside and shut the door. As I do, I hear a noise from below me. A creak, like the chapel door opening. My heart catapults into my mouth. I scurry back along the pews and down the steps, being careful not to twist my ankle.
At the bottom, I swing the torch around the nave. I can’t see anyone. I pause and swing it back, towards the altar. The reading lamp is on. I’m sure it wasn’t before.
I walk down the aisle towards it. There’s something on top of the altar. A Bible. Small and blue. The type given to children at Sunday School. It’s been left open and a passage highlighted: 2 Corinthians 11:13–15.
For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into apostles of Christ. And no wonder! For Satan himself transforms himself into an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also transform themselves into ministers of righteousness, whose end will be according to their works.
I stare at the words, feeling a coldness wash over me. And then I pick up the Bible. One corner is blackened, as if by a flame. I flick back to the very first page. When I attended Sunday School, we were made to write our names on the inside cover of our Bible. And sure enough, there’s a name. Written in blue ink, now almost entirely faded away. I trace my fingers over the ghostly letters:
Merry J. L.
They lay in the long grass behind the house. Hidden in the swaying fronds. Bible study was finished. They had a few moments to themselves before they had to head home.
Merry fumbled in her jeans and pulled out a crumpled cigarette and a Bic lighter. ‘Want to share?’
‘I can’t. The reverend is coming around for tea.’
‘Why?’
‘Mum wants me to take extra Bible lessons.’
‘Extra? With old Fudface?’
‘No. The new one. Have you seen him?’
Merry shrugged. ‘Yeah.’
‘He looks a bit like Christian Slater.’
‘Still a God-botherer.’
‘You shouldn’t say that.’
‘Why?’
‘God might hear you.’
‘There is no God.’
‘D’you want to go to hell?’
‘You sound like my mum.’
Joy leaned over and gently touched the bruise around her friend’s eye.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes. Get off.’
‘Do you hate her?’
‘Sometimes. Sometimes I wish she was dead. Mostly, I just wish she was different.’
They lay in silence for a while. Then Joy stood. ‘I have to go. I’ll call you later?’
‘Okay.’
Merry sat up and watched her friend skip off through the grass. She glanced back at the house. She could hear her mum screaming inside. She picked up the Bible and lighter. She held the flame near the corner, watching the leather blacken. Then, before it could catch, she threw the Bible back on to the grass, lay down and lit the cigarette.
I don’t care if I go to hell, she thought. It can’t be worse than this.
THIRTEEN
I fasten my shirt and adjust the white collar. I smooth my vestment. Then I walk from the vestibule and up to the altar. I stare out at the congregation. The worshippers sit, bent forward, heads bowed, faces in shadow.
‘Welcome,’ I say, and one by one the figures raise their heads towards me.
I see my husband, Jonathon, first. Smiling. Always smiling. Even on his worst days. Even now, when his head is caved in on one side, hair matted with blood and brain matter. Next to him is Ruby. Of course. She stares up accusingly. Her face is bruised and swollen from where they beat her with their fists, boots and her own wooden toys. She holds a stuffed bunny. The one I found her with. She loved that bunny, except, as I watch, I realize that it’s a real rabbit she’s clutching. Eyes never leaving mine, she bends her head and bites a chunk from one of its ears.
I step back, heart thudding, and something brushes the top of my head. I look up. Reverend Fletcher hangs from the balcony above me, feet twitching in a macabre death dance.
‘If you see the burning girls,’ he gasps between cracked and blackened lips, ‘something bad will befall you.’
I bite back a scream. More faces peer up at me from the pews. Some, I recognize. Some, I barely remember. Two figures rise and begin to shuffle down the centre of the aisle towards me. Halfway, they burst into flames. But still they keep coming.
I stumble backwards. A cold hand falls on my shoulder. I understand my mistake. I smell his rancid breath and hear a voice …
‘Mum. MUM!’
I flail, breaking the waters of sleep like a drowning woman breaking the surface of a dark and fetid lake.
‘Mum. Wake up!’
I tear my eyes open and focus blearily on Flo, who is holding my shoulders and looking worried and angry.
‘Jesus, you scared me.’
‘I … I –’
‘You were having some kind of nightmare.’
A dream. Just a dream. Awareness creeps in. I’m curled on the sofa, in clothes that stink of sweat and cigarette smoke. I swing my legs around to get into a sitting position. Daylight is edging in through the curtains.
Flo sits back on her heels. ‘Mum?’
‘I … erm … couldn’t sleep. I came down for a cigarette and saw a light in the chapel. So, I went to take a look –’
‘You went out on your own in the middle of the night?’ Flo stands and glares at me, hands on hips. ‘Mum, that is so stupid. You could have been attacked, killed.’
‘Okay, okay. There was no one there.’
‘What about the light?’
‘I don’t know. A dodgy bulb. My imagination.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Yes.’