Flo feels her cheeks flush.
Blondie grins. ‘She is, isn’t she?’
‘And?’
‘That must suck?’
‘Not really.’
‘So, you’re some religious nut?’
‘Yes. That’s exactly what I am. A Goth religious nut.’
Beefy Boy gestures at her camera. ‘What’s that antique shit round your neck?’
She tenses. ‘A camera.’
‘What’s wrong with your phone?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Give us a look, then.’
He reaches for it. Flo clutches the strap and jumps up. Immediately, she regrets it. She’s shown a weakness. Something that makes her vulnerable. She spots the gleam in Beefy’s eyes.
‘What’s your problem?’
‘Nothing. Why don’t you and Taylor Swift just get out of my face?’
He stands. ‘Let me have a look at your camera then.’
‘No.’
It happens quickly. He lunges forward. Instinctively, Flo shoots out a hand. It smashes into his nose. He screams and clutches at his face. Blood spurts out between his fingers, staining his white T-shirt crimson.
‘Mmm … whuu fuuuck.’
‘Tom!’ Blondie gasps. ‘You’ve broken his nose, you crazy bitch.’
Flo stares at them, frozen, hand still half outstretched.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles. ‘I –’
The door to the village hall swings open. A dumpy dark-haired woman sticks her head out.
‘What’s going on out here? Oh, my goodness, Tom – you’re bleeding.’
Flo opens her mouth to defend herself, but before she can say anything Blondie steps forward.
‘Just a nosebleed, Mrs C. Have you got any tissues?’
‘Oh, of course, Rosie. Yes, yes. Come inside.’
Tom stumbles towards the village hall, still holding his spurting nose, shooting Flo an evil look as he goes.
Blondie turns to Flo and hisses, ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
‘But –’
‘I said’ – she smiles poisonously – ‘run, Vampirina.’
Flo doesn’t wait to be told again. She runs. As fast as she can, one hand hanging on to her precious camera. She doesn’t stop till she’s almost back at the chapel. Then she slows, bends over and tries to catch her breath. What the hell has she done? What if he reports her for assault? Mum will freak. And then she remembers the look in Blondie’s eyes.
Run, Vampirina.
Flo knows that look. It’s the look a cat gets when it’s tormenting a mouse. Toying with its prey.
This isn’t over. This is just the start.
SIXTEEN
The supermarket is busy, probably because it’s the only one within about thirty miles. I hurry around as quickly as I can, but one of the disadvantages of a clerical collar is that you can’t be rude to people or barge them out of the way when they block you in with their trolley, ram you with a pushchair or jump the queue (although my visit does reconfirm my belief that self-service tills are the work of the devil).
It’s a forty-minute journey home, along more twisty country lanes. The Romans forgot their rulers when they came to Sussex. I can feel the photograph in my pocket. I shouldn’t have taken it. But something about it tugged at me. I round the bend, hearing the shopping topple and bottles crash. And then I hit the brakes.
‘Crap!’
A battered MG is pulled up on the verge, rear end sticking out on to the narrow lane. A dark-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt is crouched alongside it, attempting, unsuccessfully, to get the car up on to a jack. I only just avoided hitting him.
I consider winding down the window and telling the man to move his car. He could cause an accident or get himself killed. On the other hand, he looks like he’s really struggling and … be Christian.
I sigh, pull my car up behind him and climb out.
‘Need a hand?’
The man straightens. He looks hot, annoyed and vaguely familiar. Late forties, weathered face, dark hair peppered with grey. And then I remember. He was at the service yesterday.
He offers me a rueful smile. ‘Could you pray for me to get better at changing a tyre?’
‘Nope, but I could help you set that jack up properly.’
A small flash of surprise. ‘Oh. Okay. I mean, thanks. That would be great. I’m really rubbish at car stuff.’
I walk over. He steps back and I bend down and reposition the jack under the car. I pump it up.
‘Tyre iron?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He picks up a rusty tyre iron from the ground and promptly drops it on his foot.
‘Ouch.’ He clutches at his toes.
I bite back a smile. ‘You really are rubbish at this, aren’t you?’
‘Thanks for the sympathy. Very Christian.’
‘I’ll say a prayer for your big toe later. Are you okay?’
‘My ballet-dancing days are over, but otherwise’ – he puts his foot down gingerly –‘fine.’
I pick up the tyre iron, fit it on to the nuts and pop them off quickly, one by one. Then I ease off the tyre. I lay it down on the grass and wipe my hands on my jeans.
‘Spare?’
‘What?’
‘Spare tyre?’
‘Right.’ He walks round to the back of the car. His face falls. ‘Crap.’
‘What?’
‘I forgot. I don’t have one.’
I stare at him. ‘You don’t have a spare.’
‘Well, I did.’ He glances at the tyre I’ve just taken off. ‘That’s it.’
Christ.
‘I don’t suppose you’re a member of the AA, RAC … any breakdown service?’
He looks even more sheepish.
‘Okay. Well, you could call a garage and wait here …’
‘I really need to get back home.’
‘Where d’you live?’
‘Just outside of Chapel Croft.’
‘In that case, I can give you a lift.’
‘Thank you. That’s really kind.’
He locks the MG and follows me over to my car.
‘I don’t think I got your name?’ I say.
‘Oh, Mike. Mike Sudduth.’
He sticks out a hand. I shake it. ‘Jack Brooks.’
‘I know. The new vicar.’
‘Word travels fast.’
‘Not much to talk about here.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ I glance back at his car, abandoned on the verge. ‘Will your car be okay?’
‘Not like it’s going anywhere.’
‘True, but what if someone hits it?’
‘They’d be doing me a favour.’
I eye the MG with its numerous dents and scrapes. ‘Also true.’
I climb into my car. Mike opens the passenger door. He frowns, staring at the upside-down cross scored into the paintwork.
‘Do you know someone has vandalized your car?’
‘Yep.’
He slides in and does up his seatbelt. ‘It doesn’t bother you?’
It bothers me, but I’m not about to admit it.
‘Just kids. Thinking they’re being clever.’