The figure walks towards him and smiles, revealing dazzling white teeth.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’
He stares at the burly black vicar.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Reverend Bradley.’ The priest holds out a hand. ‘And I’m happy to welcome you to our church.’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. This isn’t right. This is not how he imagined it. How he planned it. ‘Where’s the other vicar?’
‘I’m afraid she left.’
‘Where did she go?’ He can’t control the desperation in his voice.
The vicar frowns. ‘I don’t know.’
He’s lying, he thinks. The fat black vicar is lying. He knows where she is. He just doesn’t want to tell him.
The priest is still holding out a hand. ‘Are you all right?’
He fights down the anger, and then shakes the liar’s hand. It’s large and surprisingly soft. ‘Yes. Just tired and hungry.’
‘Why don’t you go and help yourself to some food? I can especially recommend the chicken curry.’
He forces a smile and nods subserviently. ‘Thank you.’
He joins the queue and accepts some of the food. Then he takes his plate and sits on the edge of a bench, forking it into his mouth. It smells good, but he barely tastes it. He’ll have to come back here later, he thinks, when the liar is alone. Then he’ll make him tell him what he needs to know. The priest might be large, but he’s out of condition. It shouldn’t take long.
He catches himself, shakes his head. No. He mustn’t hurt the priest. He’s changed. He is not that man. Controlling anger is not weakness. It’s strength.
But he needs to find her.
Then only hurt him just enough.
Just enough. He considers. Controlling anger is not weakness. Perhaps he could do that. He smiles. All right.
And try not to enjoy it.
She huddled in the cellar, in the darkness.
Above her, she could hear Mum moving around, Songs of Praise playing loudly. This was her punishment for blaspheming on a Sunday. Or so Mum said. In truth, it was just another one of her mind games. Favouring one child, punishing the other. At least, now they were older (and bigger), they were spared the worst punishment. The well. Lowered down. Left for hours.
The cellar wasn’t so bad. Apart from the dark. And the rats.
She thought about the plan. To escape. Since they had first discussed it, she had seen less of Joy. Her mum was trying to keep them apart. And now, two evenings a week, Joy was taking extra Bible lessons with the new priest.
Joy had hurried past her the other day, barely saying hello. There was something different about her. A flush to her cheeks. A secrecy in her smile. Merry was worried. What was going on? Was it the priest?
Lots of the girls had a crush on him. But Merry didn’t like him. Whenever he read stuff from the Bible, especially all the sin and damnation stuff, his eyes got kind of glassy and his face got red. She swore once she had seen a hard-on in his pants.
Upstairs, she heard her mum turn the television up.
From the corner, there was a rustling. Her eyes strained in the darkness. She hated the dark. Hated how vulnerable it made her feel. She tried to summon up comforting words from an old childhood book. Reciting them to herself.
‘Darkness is fun, darkness is kind. Darkness –’
Her mother’s voice rose: ‘Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee. How great Thou art, how great Thou art.’
The rustling drew closer.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Shit!’
I open my eyes. My vest is stuck to me, clammy with sweat, my bedclothes kicked off on to the floor. The bedroom takes form around me. My bedroom in the cottage. Another nightmare.
I sit up and reach for the water on my bedside table. I swig it down. I can see silvery daylight edging around the curtains. The cottage is silent and stuffy. I glance at the clock: 6.13 a.m. I’m not going to get any more sleep, so I might as well get up. I have my wedding consult this morning so an early start can’t hurt.
I sling on my joggers and creep down the creaky stairs. The cottage smells of the veggie stir fry I made for dinner. Afterwards, Flo and I curled up on the sofa with a large packet of M&Ms and watched Heathers until I realized that she had drifted off to sleep on my shoulder. I left her like that for a while, relishing the closeness. When she was little, she would curl up on my lap while we watched films together. Just the two of us. Like it’s always been.
Flo’s dad died when she was just eighteen months old. She doesn’t really remember him. He was attacked by an intruder at his church. During a struggle he fell and hit his head. I told Flo as soon as she was old enough to understand. I also told her what a good dad he was and how much he loved her. Which is true. Mostly. But like many things, it’s a version of the truth. A story told so many times I almost believe it myself.
Eventually, at just gone midnight, I nudged Flo awake and we both trudged wearily up to bed. Our dirty plates are still sitting in the sink. Flo’s broken camera lies on the kitchen table. I wander over and pick it up. I have no idea how much it will cost to fix, but I’m pretty sure it will be more than the £6.50 I have in savings.
Looking at it again, my stomach tightens. The young think they’re invincible but, as you grow older, especially as you become a parent, you see danger everywhere. Flo knows who shot the airgun. I’m sure of it. Wrigley too. But for some reason they don’t want to tell me. And what about Wrigley? I can’t decide. Am I wary of him because I would be wary of any boy Flo brought home, or is there something else?
I sigh and stare out of the kitchen window at the chapel. I feel the strongest urge to pray. Obviously, as a vicar, that’s not unusual. I pray every night and, sometimes, randomly during the day. These aren’t ‘on my knees, hands clasped’ kind of prayers. More like short conversations. Stuff I need to get off my chest.
God’s a good listener. He never judges, never interrupts, never jumps in with a better story. And, even if I’m talking to myself most of the time, getting the thoughts out there is good therapy.
Some days, a little like the urge to smoke, prayer is more of a compulsion than on others. Like this morning. The tendrils of the dream are still clinging to me. Things I’d rather not remember. Bad memories are like splinters. Sometimes painful, but you learn to live with them. The problem is, they always work their way up to the surface eventually.
The key to the chapel is lying on the kitchen worktop. I pick it up and let myself out of the cottage. The clouds part and the sun gleams in the sky. I stare out over the graveyard and my eyes alight on the monument. I walk over to it.
There are more twig dolls arranged around the bottom today. When we arrived, there were half a dozen. Now, there look to be around ten or twelve. Some are dressed in scraps of clothing. It makes them look even more creepy. The stuff of children’s nightmares. I can imagine them coming to life at night, shuffling themselves up on their stick legs, marching towards the cottage, slipping in through cracks in the open windows …
Stop it, Jack. You’re not a child any more. I fight down a shudder and turn my attention to the monument. There is an inscription near the top:
In memory of the undernamed Protestant Martyrs, who, for their faithful testimony to God’s truth, were, during the reign of Queen Mary, burned to death in front of this chapel on 17 September 1556. This Obelisk, provided by Public Donations, was erected AD 1901.