‘Perhaps that’s what weirdos like me do, right?’
‘Don’t be so stupid. I’m sorry. Okay?’
He stares at her from under his long fringe, eyes unreadable. Then he grins. ‘If I really wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have told you about the well.’ He turns and shambles away. ‘C’mon.’
Flo hesitates for a moment. She glances back at the well. Fucker. And then she follows him.
TWENTY
Blood throbs in my ears, heart expanding and contracting, expanding and contracting. Exorcism. Merry Joanne Lane. The name in the Bible. Merry J. L. The old leather case. I press eject, but the cassette is stuck. I fumble but can’t get my nails around it. I need a small screwdriver or a pen.
I stand. The thudding in my ears grows louder. And then I realize – it’s coming from above me. I glance up. Someone is knocking at the front door. Crap.
Reluctantly, I close the recorder and drop it back into the box, along with the folders. Then I hurry up the stairs and pull the door open.
Aaron stands outside, oily hair gleaming in the faint sunshine, dressed in his usual black suit and grey shirt ensemble.
‘Aaron. What are you doing here?’
‘I just came by to … Are you all right?’
I’m suddenly aware of how I must look: breathless and covered in dust. I brush at my smock, trying to regain some dignity.
‘Fine. I was just sorting some boxes in the cellar.’
‘I see. Well, I have a message from Reverend Rushton.’
‘He couldn’t call?’
‘I was passing by.’
Aaron seems to do a lot of passing by. I remember what Rushton said again: ‘Aaron and I are the only other people with keys to the chapel.’
‘I noticed that someone has vandalized your car,’ he adds. ‘Most unpleasant.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s the message?’
‘Reverend Rushton was supposed to be meeting a young couple tomorrow morning to talk about their upcoming marriage, but he’s double-booked himself. As you’ll be the residing vicar when they marry, he thought that you could chat to them instead.’
‘Okay. Have you got their details?’
‘Yes. I wrote them down.’
He takes out a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and hands it to me.
‘Thanks.’
We stare at one another. I will him to go away. He remains, standing patiently, like he’s waiting for something – the Second Coming, perhaps.
I sigh. ‘Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?’
‘Thank you, but I’m afraid I don’t drink caffeine.’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t have any decaf.’ Because what’s the point? ‘But I may have some mint tea at the back of a cupboard?’
‘That would be fine, thank you.’
Great. He follows me into the kitchen.
‘Have a seat,’ I say.
He pulls out a chair and perches on the edge, like he might set off an ejector button if he sits further back.
I set the kettle to boil and get out some mugs. ‘So, we haven’t really had a chance to chat, have we?’
‘No.’
‘How long have you been the warden here?’
‘Officially, about three years.’
‘Forgive me for saying, but you’re very young for a warden?’
Most wardens tend to be retired and, despite the old-fashioned clothes, Aaron can’t be more than mid-thirties.
‘Maybe so, but I’ve been helping at the chapel since I was a child.’
‘Were your family very involved with the chapel?’
He gives me an odd look. ‘My father was the vicar here for over thirty years.’
‘Your father?’
‘Reverend Marsh.’
Marsh. I never asked Aaron’s surname. But now, I can see the resemblance to the picture in the office. The same dark hair, sharp features.
‘You seem surprised?’ Aaron says.
‘I, erm, no, I just didn’t realize.’
I turn and plop a teabag into one mug and spoon coffee somewhat unsteadily into the other. ‘So, I suppose this was your family home?’
‘Yes. Until my father retired.’
The thought that Aaron grew up here, has his own memories of this place, makes me feel awkward, like I am somehow intruding.
‘And do your mother and father still live in the village?’
‘My mother died when I was six. Cervical cancer.’
‘I’m sorry. And your father?’
‘My father is very ill. That’s why he retired.’
‘I see. Is he in hospital?’
‘I care for him at home. He has Huntington’s. There’s nothing the hospital can do for him.’
‘Oh, that’s awful.’
And it really is. Huntington’s is a horrible, cruel disease that gradually robs people of their movement, their cognitive thought, their ability to talk, to eat and eventually to breathe. It is incurable and relentless. And worse, it’s hereditary, with a child having a 50 per cent chance of acquiring the defective gene from their parent.
‘You’re his sole carer?’
‘There are nurses who come in. But mostly, yes.’
I regard Aaron with more sympathy. It’s tough being a carer. You have to put your own life on hold. It isolates you from people, makes it impossible to hold down a job. I suppose that’s how Aaron ended up being a churchwarden – something he can work around his father’s care that gives him a purpose. I realize I feel sorry for him, and then think that he probably doesn’t want my pity.
‘Well, I’m very grateful for your help and dedication to the chapel, especially with all the other demands on your time.’
‘Thank you. It’s always been a part of my life.’
‘And your father’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must know a lot about its history?’
‘You mean the Burning Girls?’ He offers a thin smile. ‘Everyone in the village knows about them. Although I imagine, to an outsider, it seems rather a strange custom.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve experienced stranger.’
‘My father didn’t really like the burning of the effigies. He felt it was pagan, but you can’t change a tradition that’s taken place in a village for hundreds of years.’
‘Well, if that was the case, we’d still be burning witches and using leeches to cure mental illness.’
He gives me an odd look.
‘Sorry.’ I wave a hand. ‘I just find that “tradition” is often used to defend things we’d otherwise rightly condemn.’ Especially in the Church. I bring the drinks over to the table and sit down opposite him.
‘There was actually something else I wanted to ask you –’
‘Yes?’
‘The box you gave me when I arrived. Do you have any idea who might have left it?’
‘No. Why? What was in it?’
‘An exorcism kit.’
‘What?’
He seems genuinely shocked, and I don’t think Aaron is any kind of actor.
‘It looks quite old. I’m wondering where it could have come from.’