I shake my head. ‘I can only imagine the pain. To go to play at a friend’s house and never come back.’
‘And, of course, Fiona blamed Emma.’
‘That’s understandable, but you can’t watch children every minute.’
‘Emma wasn’t there.’
‘What?’
‘She’d popped out to the shop. Only down the road, but –’
‘She left them alone?’
‘No. She left Poppy’s sister in charge. Rosie. She was the one watching them when Tara died.’
TWENTY-SIX
I have married hundreds of hopeful couples (and many hung-over ones). I have buried the bodies of the young, the old and the barely born. I have anointed the soft, downy heads of countless babies and consoled the victims of terrible traumas. I have visited prisons, served in soup kitchens and judged numerous baking contests.
But I don’t think that will make any difference to Emily and her fiancé, Dylan.
The young woman regards me suspiciously: ‘You are a proper vicar?’
‘I’ve been a practising vicar for over fifteen years.’
She frowns. ‘Have you finished practising now?’
Dear God, it really is going to be a long morning.
I force a smile. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘Only’ – she grips Dylan’s hand. He’s a sturdy young man with a beard and floppy hair – ‘we want this to be a very traditional wedding.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘This is your wedding. It can be anything you want. That’s what we’re here to discuss today.’
They glance at each other. ‘We really liked the other vicar,’ Dylan says now.
‘He’s a very good priest,’ I say neutrally. ‘But you want to get married on September the 26th and Reverend Rushton isn’t available that day. Besides, I am the presiding vicar at Chapel Croft.’
‘Right.’
‘You do want to be married here in this chapel?’
‘Yes. Our parents were both married here. So, you know, it’s –’
‘Tradition?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, well, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourselves?’
Silence. More nervous glances. I sigh and put down my pen.
‘Or how about you tell me what’s bothering you?’
‘It’s not that we don’t think you’ll do a good job,’ Emily says.
‘We’re sure you’re qualified and all that,’ Dylan adds.
‘Good.’
‘It’s just the photos,’ Emily says.
‘The photos?’
‘Well’ – she looks me up and down – ‘I just don’t think you’re going to look right in the photos.’
I set the kettle to boil and get out some bread for toast. I have sent Emily and Dylan away to reflect upon what is most important about their special day: the wedding in the chapel or the fact that I don’t have a penis (although I may not have worded it quite like that).
The meeting has not helped my mood. The twig doll and the newspaper clipping are troubling me. I’m not easily scared, or intimidated. But I have Flo to think of. I don’t want a repeat of what we went through in Nottingham.
I stuffed them both in the bottom of the bin, but I wonder who else knows. Who might have read the story in the paper or online? It’s not hard to look up. My first thought was Simon Harper. He strikes me as vindictive, and a bully. But I’m not sure he’s that imaginative. So, who else? Only Rushton, Aaron and I have a key to the chapel. But is that true? Keys can go missing, be copied, borrowed. I think about Clara, standing at the chapel door, watching me.
I slam the bread into the toaster. Although, now I keep seeing the dead crow, its blood smeared over the chapel windows, my appetite has somewhat diminished.
I’m just searching for the marmalade when Flo trots downstairs. I glance at the clock. Ten thirty.
‘Morning. How did you sleep?’
She yawns. ‘Okay.’
‘Want some toast?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Coffee?’
‘No.’
She opens the fridge and takes out some milk.
‘Any plans for the day?’
‘I thought I might go into Henfield.’
Henfield is the nearest small town to Chapel Croft.
‘Oh, right. What for?’
‘Drugs. Booze. Maybe some porn.’
I stare at her. She shakes her head. ‘What’s with all the questions?’
‘Sorry. You’re right. Why should I care what my only daughter does? It’s not like she almost got herself killed yesterday.’
She glares at me. ‘Are you ever going to let that drop?’
‘Maybe when you’re thirty, or forty.’
She pours the milk into a glass. ‘Actually, I’m going into Henfield because they’ve got a photography shop.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I googled it, and they do repairs.’
‘You got some reception on your phone upstairs?’
‘Just. When are BT coming, by the way?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll chase them.’ I relent. ‘D’you need a lift?’
‘Nope. I downloaded the bus timetable.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
Sometimes I am proud that my daughter is so practical, mature and self-sufficient. Other times I wish she needed me just a little bit more. Fifteen is when you start to lose them. Although, really, I think you start to lose them from the moment they slip from your body and take their first breath.
‘Will you be all right catching the bus on your own?’
She gives me a withering look. ‘I have caught buses before. It’s only a fifteen-minute journey.’
‘I know, but –’
‘I’ve got it. I almost got myself killed. I’ll try not to annoy any homicidal pensioners on the bus.’
‘Well, they have been known to pack.’
A small smile. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum. I just want to get my camera fixed. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘And, no offence, but I really need to get out of this house for a bit. Somewhere I can actually get some internet access. I haven’t been able to catch up with Leon and Kayleigh properly. I just need some time back in civilization. Well’ – she considers – ‘semi-civilization.’
Of course she does. Guilt sucker-punches me in the stomach. I’ve uprooted my daughter from a bustling city and dumped her in the middle of nowhere. For what? To make amends. Because Durkin gave me little choice. Because of my own guilt? I might tell myself we are safe here, but I’m more worried about Flo than ever.
I force a smile. ‘Okay. But any trouble, call me and I’ll come and pick you up, okay?’
‘Mum, I’m going to a camera shop and then I’m going to find a café that has wifi. There won’t be any trouble.’
‘Fine.’ I hold my hands up in surrender. ‘Have you got enough money for the bus fare and coffee?’
‘Actually, could you lend me a tenner?’
I sigh. No trouble, she said.
After Flo has gone I make a coffee, resist the temptation of a cigarette and take Fletcher’s box back out from beneath the kitchen sink.