Throw something and the person will try to deflect it. Instinctively, Wrigley raises his arm. The chair strikes his wrist and the knife flies from his hand. Flo takes advantage. She stamps hard on his foot and slips from his grip. The chair crashes into several candles. They fall to the floor and flames spring up all around. I remember the harsh chemical smell. Accelerant.
‘Run!’ I scream at my daughter.
She turns and sprints for the door. Rosie runs after her and grabs her arm, but before she can raise the knife Flo headbutts her. Rosie screams and doubles over. Flo knees her in the face and she crumples. Good girl. Flo fumbles with the key, and then she’s out, into the darkness.
My relief is short-lived. Wrigley is still blocking my escape route. He advances towards me. I back up, knocking over another candle. He lunges for me. I try to dart around him, but he’s quicker. He punches me in the face. I stumble and trip, falling backwards, head smacking hard into the stone slabs. Sparkling motes spin in front of my eyes. Wrigley throws himself on top of me, his hands around my throat.
‘You fucking bitch.’
I buck and twist, trying to throw him off. More candles topple. His grip is tight. I’m struggling to breathe. I grab at his hands, trying to prise his fingers loose. I can feel the heat of the fire all around us. I only have one advantage. My body weight. I roll to the right, taking Wrigley with me, towards the flames. He screams as his T-shirt catches alight.
The grip on my throat is released. I gasp and sit up. Wrigley is batting at the flames, rolling around on the floor to put them out. I start to crawl away. Beneath the pews I can see a glint of metal. The serrated knife. I reach for it. A hand grabs me by the hair and yanks me back.
His breath is hot in my ear. ‘I’m going to fuck you up like you wouldn’t believe.’
My fingers touch the worn bone handle … and close over it.
‘Too late for that.’
I turn and thrust out wildly. By luck more than judgement, I feel the blade plunge into firm flesh and hear him grunt in pain. His eyes widen. He looks down, clutches at his stomach and sinks to the floor.
I push myself to my feet, panting. The flames are spreading rapidly, licking at the pews, eating up the old, dry wood. Rosie is gone. I need to get out of here. To find my daughter.
‘Please,’ Wrigley moans from behind me. ‘Help me.’
I look back. He’s curled on the floor, holding his stomach. A darker stain is spreading out over the charcoal T-shirt. Parts of it have melted into his scorched flesh. He looks thin and young and scared.
‘You can’t leave me here. You’re a priest.’
He’s right. Reluctantly, I walk back and crouch down next to him. I lay one hand on his brow. I am a priest. A woman of God.
But I’m also a mother.
‘I’m sorry.’
I raise the knife and plunge it into his stomach again. Hard. Up to its hilt. And I watch as the darkness reclaims him.
I stand. My muscles don’t want to support me. I stagger and reach for a pew to hold on to, but they are all on fire. The air is thick with smoke. My throat is swollen, tight with heat. The door seems so far away. I feel weary.
I take a step forward, but my legs give beneath my own weight and I find myself on my knees, staring into the fire. My eyes water and burn. Through the tears, I see something.
Two figures. Girls. Always girls. Standing side by side. Whole again. Flames halo their heads and sprout like wings from their backs. They hold out their arms. I reach for them, barely feeling the flames crisping the tips of my fingers.
They tried to warn Flo, I think. Just like they tried to warn Reverend Fletcher.
They appear to those in trouble.
‘Thank you,’ I murmur.
My eyelids start to close. And then I see another figure, striding between the girls. Huge and dark, reeking of something sour and foul. He looms over me, like a vengeful demon.
I stare up at his face. I know him.
As I fall back, his arms seize me and lift me from the flames.
SIXTY-TWO
A memory. Standing outside the chapel with his mum and sister. His sister held his hand. The night air was cool and acrid with the stench of smoke.
A fire had been lit at the base of the big monument in the graveyard and a large crowd stood around it, chatting and laughing. Flames leapt up towards the night sky, painting their faces in orange, distorting smiles into crazy leers.
On a trestle table, big urns of warm cider steamed, sweet and pungent. Villagers ladled the cider into crude clay mugs and drank heartily. The clock above the chapel struck the hour and the vicar walked out, stern-faced and sombre in his dark robes. He stared around at the gathering.
‘Thank you, everyone, for coming to our annual Burning Girls commemoration. Tonight, we remember our ancestors who died here for their beliefs. We give thanks for their sacrifice and say prayers for their souls. And, just as the Sussex Martyrs gave their bodies to the flame so that they might enjoy everlasting life, we make offerings in remembrance. Please join me in the Martyr’s Recitation:
The group chanted: ‘For martyrs are we. In fire our end. Souls set free. To heaven we ascend.’
‘And now, please cast your Burning Girls to the flame.’
As he watched, one by one, each villager held up a small twig doll and threw it on to the pyre. His mum nudged him. He took his own crude creation out of his pocket. But he didn’t want to let her go. Didn’t want her to burn. Eventually, his mum snatched the doll from his hands and flung her into the fire.
The tiny twig body twisted and blackened and finally whitened to ash. Eaten alive by the hungry flames.
He felt the heat course through his own body. He closed his eyes. A tear ran down his cheek.
SIXTY-THREE
(Two weeks later)
‘Chips.’
Flo plonks herself down next to me on the bench and shoves a tray of greasy chips into my lap. An aroma of frying and vinegar rises into my nostrils.
‘Yum,’ I say, even though I’m not feeling remotely hungry.
I prong a soggy bit of potato with my wooden fork and stare out at the sea. It’s a peaky kind of day. Washed-out grey sky, the sea an inhospitable mucky-brown colour. It looks more like ridges of mud than water. Like you could walk over them, all the way to the horizon.
We’re staying in a tatty B&B just outside Eastbourne. It is not glamorous or particularly comfortable, but it’s all the Church would stump up for and it’s kept us away from the press intrusion around Chapel Croft. I couldn’t protect my daughter from Wrigley, but at least I can protect her from the fallout.
Mike has been keeping us updated with events, although even he doesn’t know where we’re staying. I haven’t quite forgiven him for leaving Flo alone, at the mercy of psychopaths, although I understand how he was tricked by the message Wrigley sent from my phone, just as plenty of us were fooled by the messages sent from his dead mother’s phone.
I think how easy it is to be someone else these days, with our reluctance to engage in person, to even talk to people. We rely upon texts and emails and never question who might be on the other end. Passwords can be worked out. Wrigley just had to use my thumb while I was unconscious to open my phone. But then, I suppose Wrigley fooled everyone face to face too.
The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was pretending he didn’t exist.