It isn’t much cooler outside. The air feels thick with trapped heat. She swats at a few midges. Thunder flies, her mum always calls them. The sign of a coming storm. In the city, the streetlights would just be starting to stutter on. Here, aside from the faint glow behind the cottage windows, there is only the muted grey of descending darkness; the silver and charcoal sky.
She stares over at the chapel. It looks a little like a ghost itself tonight. A spectre of times past. She walks across the uneven path towards the door. It gapes open. Didn’t Mum keep it locked in the evening?
She hesitates. She could call her mum, but then she would only freak and come rushing back. She was already on edge after the stuff with the airgun. Flo doesn’t want to give her another excuse to treat her like a kid. Besides, the door looks fine. No one has forced it. And who broke into a chapel? What was there to steal? The mouldy old curtains? The fake flowers by the altar? Mum probably just forgot. She’s been preoccupied since they moved here, not herself.
Flo pushes the door open a little wider. It’s much darker in the chapel. She pauses in the vestibule and lets her eyes adjust. Then she walks into the nave and looks around. Dim, dusty light drifts down in narrow shafts from the high windows. The pews are shadowy worshippers either side of the altar. They look empty. The whole nave looks empty. Of course, she can’t see upstairs.
She takes a few more steps along the aisle. She is halfway down, her breathing steadying, when there is a heavy clunk that shakes the building. She jumps, spinning around. The door has slammed shut. She blinks. Dust spins in the air.
And then she sees her. Standing at the top of the aisle. White dress, dark hair. Not the same girl she saw before. This girl has a head and arms. Flo feels the hairs on her own arms quiver, her heart beat a little faster. She fumbles for her phone. She will get a picture this time.
The girl starts to walk slowly towards her, head down, tangled dark hair obscuring her face. She wears a dirty white smock, feet bare. Slight, but not a child.
‘Are you all right?’
The girl remains silent.
‘It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.’
She still doesn’t reply.
‘I’m Flo. What’s your –’
The girl looks up.
Flo screams. The girl’s face is a mask of blackened and burnt flesh, melted away to bone and stubs of small teeth. Where her eyes should be there are just empty, dark craters. Flo stumbles backwards, terror snatching her breath.
No, no, no. Not possible.
As she stares in horror, the girl’s hair sparks and catches fire. More flames erupt at the tips of her hands and feet, creeping greedily along her limbs, darkening the skin until it peels away, like burnt paper.
A terrible dream. One that feels hideously real. She just has to wake up.
The girl draws closer, flaming hands outstretched. Flo can feel the heat, smell the stench of roasting flesh, hear the sizzle of her skin crisping.
Too real.
She takes another step backwards. Her back hits the altar. The girl is still advancing. Flo’s scalp prickles. Sweat dampens her underarms. This isn’t a dream. She has to get out of here.
She darts blindly to the right, crashing into the makeshift barriers around the broken paving stones. She trips, regains her balance and jumps over the barriers. Her foot hits the floor … and plunges straight through.
She screams. Pain tears up her leg. Her phone flies from her hand.
Jesus Christ. Her leg is trapped. She can’t move it. She stares around in panic. The chapel and her surroundings swim in and out of focus. Through the shock and pain, she realizes that the heat, the smell and the girl are all gone. She’s alone.
She looks down. Her left leg has half disappeared through the chapel floor. The crumbling stone must have given way and her knee is now wedged between the cracked slabs. She tries to release it. Fresh, bright pain shoots up her leg. Her phone lies just out of reach. Of course. Probably no signal in here anyway, but still she strains for it, willing her fingertips to grow a few more inches. No good. Not even tantalizingly close.
She bites back a sob. Mum won’t be back for another hour at least. What if she doesn’t check Flo’s room? No. She will. Of course she will. And then she’ll check the chapel, surely? But what if she doesn’t? What if she thinks Flo is in bed, asleep? Stop it, she tells herself. Do not panic. Someone will come and … Wait!
She can hear something. The creak of the chapel door? Footsteps. Yes, definitely footsteps. She tries to twist her body around. She can’t see who it is from this angle, down on the floor. But it must be her mum. She must have come back early. Relief floods through her.
She’s about to call out when the figure draws into view around the end of the pews. The words shrivel on her tongue. She looks up and fear throbs in her throat.
‘Flo.’
She fumbles in her back pocket and pulls out the knife.
‘Get back. Stay the hell away from me.’
THIRTY-TWO
Rushton sinks his pint and looks around the table regretfully. ‘Well, this has been delightful, but we should probably get going.’
Clara rises. ‘I’m so happy you came, Jack. Fresh blood.’
‘Yes, I think that was our best performance yet,’ Rushton adds, shrugging his arms into a worn blue anorak.
‘I’d hate to have seen the worst,’ I say.
Rushton laughs. ‘We don’t talk about it.’
‘I’ve had fun,’ I say, and realize I mean it. The evening, and company, have been enjoyable.
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it, and we’ll see you soon.’
I watch Rushton and Clara leave and reach for my hoodie.
‘Are you going?’ Mike asks.
I hesitate. I should. I’ve had two glasses of wine. Normally, my limit. Flo is waiting for me. On the other hand, I feel mellow, comfortable. It’s only nine thirty. I suppose one more couldn’t hurt.
‘Well.’
‘I can give you a lift back.’
‘Just a small glass.’
‘Okay.’
I slip my hoodie back over my stool and he saunters towards the bar. I note that Emma and Simon Harper have gone and wonder again about the conversation in the toilets. Emma had obviously had a drink, and maybe something else. Not that I’m judging her for that. Guilt is a little like grief. A cancer of the soul. They both hollow you out from the inside. But while you can learn to live with grief, guilt only grows as the years go by, spreading its tumorous tentacles. Who wouldn’t take a pill for that?
Mike returns from the bar with a small wine for me and a black coffee for himself.
‘No Cab Sav left. Hope Merlot is okay.’
‘Fine.’ I nod. ‘Call me a philistine but, after the first glass, I always think most wine tastes the same.’
He smiles. ‘Been a while, but I tend to agree.’
I raise my glass. ‘Well, here’s to our uneducated palates.’
He lifts his coffee cup. ‘Of course, I have now become a terrible coffee snob.’
‘How does that one measure up?’
He takes a sip. ‘Not bad. A little on the mellow side, but a good effort, considering I saw him spoon it out of a tin.’
I laugh. We sip our drinks. There’s an awkward pause, then we both start to speak at the same time.