‘I’m just looking for rational explanations. I’ve never believed in ghosts.’
‘Me neither.’
‘But I believe you.’
What I don’t add is that I also believe that the last few weeks have been traumatic. All the trouble in Nottingham. The sudden move here. Flo has never given me any cause to worry about her mental health. She’s always been remarkably well balanced. But then, Jonathon was good at putting on an act. And there are some professionals who believe that mental health problems are hereditary.
‘So, what are we going to do?’ Flo asks.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Exorcism? I mean, you’ve got the kit.’
I smile weakly. ‘If there are lost souls stuck on this earth, I don’t think ripping them from it violently and in anger is the best way to treat them, do you?’
‘I guess not.’
‘The folklore says the burning girls appear to those in trouble.’
‘So, you think I’m in trouble?’
I look pointedly at her leg.
‘An accident,’ she says again.
‘The second in two days.’
‘Here we go. I suppose you’re going to blame Wrigley?’
‘Both times you’ve met him, something bad has happened.’
‘He rescued me tonight.’
‘And I’m thankful he found you.’
‘But?’
‘What if he was the person you saw going into the chapel?’
‘He wasn’t.’
‘Okay, but what do you really know about him?’
‘He lives just outside the village with his mum.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I didn’t give him a whole interrogation.’
‘I’d still like to meet his mum.’
‘We’re not dating.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Does he know that?’
‘Yes. And what about you and that bloke, Mike?’
‘Definitely not like that.’
‘Have you told him?
‘Okay, enough, young lady.’ I rise. ‘We’ll chat about this in the morning.’
She turns and reaches for her light, then pauses. ‘Mum, whose bodies do you think are in the vault?’
‘I really don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see tomorrow. Get some rest. Do you think you’ll sleep?’
She yawns. ‘The burning girls only haunt the chapel, right?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Then I should be fine.’
‘Night. Love you to the moon and back.’
A phrase we used to use when she was little.
‘Love you to the whole universe and back.’
‘Love you to infinity and back.’
‘Love you to the Big Bang and back.’
I smile and pad across to the bathroom. I wash, brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I feel exhausted but also on edge, as though I am teetering on the cusp of something; something bad. The feeling washes over me like vertigo.
Something wicked this way comes.
I reach for the silver chain I wear around my neck. And then I walk into the bedroom and kneel beside the bed. But I don’t pray. I slide my hand beneath the mattress. My fingers fumble around, touching wooden slats. I frown. I lift the mattress and stare under it in disbelief.
The knife has gone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Prayers should not be selfish. Something my old mentor, Blake, told me. God is not a concierge. He’s not here at your beck and call. By all means, ask for guidance, but if you need help, you must learn to help yourself.
I’ve always tried to follow his advice. Along with his other important biblical teaching: everything looks better after a good night’s sleep, a strong coffee and a cigarette.
I get dressed, go downstairs, make a very strong coffee and retrieve my tin of tobacco and papers. Then I take it all upstairs, open my bedroom window and sit on the windowsill. Smoking out of my bedroom window is neither safe nor hygienic, but I need to think, and I need to make some phone calls. Here is the only place I can do both.
I roll a cigarette, staring out at the fields across the road. The grass glints with dew. The sun is a silver disc in the misty blue sky. It’s beautiful, but it does little to lighten my mood.
The knife has gone. I checked again when I got up. Not beneath the mattress. Not in my wardrobe, not in the case. How can it be gone? Who can have taken it? Well, basically only two people were alone in the house last night: Flo and Wrigley.
Could Flo have found it? Did she take it in the same way that she hides my tobacco? Perhaps for my own safety? Because she was worried about me? But how would she even have found it? Why would she have been looking beneath the mattress?
My first instinct was to confront her last night. But then I changed my mind. It was late. We were both tired. And if she hadn’t taken it, that would have just led us on to a more uncomfortable discussion. Why had I hidden a knife under my mattress? And who else had been in the house today, perhaps with opportunity to go sneaking around? Wrigley?
This move was supposed to be a chance to get away from our problems. To escape. To set things right. But all I am finding are more worries, questions without answers. I feel like I’ve stepped into a puddle only to find that it’s quicksand, and the more I try to drag myself out, the faster I’m hastening my descent into the quagmire.
The prison release letter still festers in my glovebox. The death of Reverend Bradley lurks at the back of my mind. Much as I keep trying to tell myself that the two are not connected, doubt lingers. And what of the mysterious items left for me here? Not to mention the newspaper clipping? Who left them? What message are they trying to deliver?
I drag harder on the cigarette and take out my phone. Okay. First item of business. Call the stonemason and ask them to find out exactly what is under the chapel, and why no one seems to have been aware of it. It’s just gone eight thirty. They’re probably not open yet, but it’s worth a try. I press call, half expecting it to go to voicemail but, to my surprise, a bright female voice answers:
‘Hello, TPK.’
‘Oh, hello. This is Reverend Brooks at Chapel Croft.’
‘Hi.’
‘I was wondering if it might be possible for you to come and take a look at an area of damaged flooring in the chapel?’
‘Yes. Of course. What sort of damage are we talking? Chipped, cracked?’
‘More like a great big hole in the floor and a hidden vault underneath.’
‘Wow – now that sounds interesting! I’ve actually had a job cancel this morning. I could be with you in about half an hour, if that’s convenient?’
‘That would be great. Thank you.’
‘I’ll see you shortly.’
I put the phone down. One job done. Next, I cannot continue risking life and limb for three bars on my phone. I need to call BT and …
‘Hello, up there!’
I jump, wobble on the windowsill and clutch at the frame.
‘Jesus!’
I peer down. A bald man in what looks suspiciously like a BT uniform stands beneath the window. I was so preoccupied I hadn’t noticed the van pull up.
‘I’m looking for a Reverend Brooks? Are you Mrs Brooks?’