S. J. Bolton

by Blood Harvest

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant at all.’

  ‘So why did he kiss me?’

  Evi took a deep breath. ‘Gillian, my only concern is whether you’re ready to get involved again. Emotionally, you’ve been very badly damaged.’

  He’d kissed her?

  The girl had shrunk into her chair again. She didn’t seem able to look at Evi any more.

  ‘Do you really like him?’ Evi asked softly.

  Gillian nodded without looking up. ‘It sounds stupid,’ she said, speaking to the rug at her feet, ‘because I hardly know him, but it’s like I care about him. When I went in the church he was just sitting in the front pew. I went and sat down next to him and put my hand on his. He didn’t pull his away. He said he was sorry about what had happened, that it must have been dreadful for me, after what I’d been through.’

  ‘Sounds like it was pretty grim for everyone,’ said Evi. Ten minutes before the end of the session. A tiny amount of time in the greater scheme of things. And yet too long to carry a picture in her head of Harry and this girl, in a dimly lit church, holding hands.

  ‘It was like we had such a connection,’ Gillian was saying. ‘I felt I could say anything. So I asked him what I’d wanted to the first time I met him. How could God let bad things happen to innocent people, like Hayley? And almost to Millie. If He’s all powerful, the way people say, why do these things happen?’

  And me, thought Evi. What part of the great plan made me a cripple? What part of the plan whisked Harry away from me just when … less than ten minutes to go.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

  ‘He started quoting this prayer at me. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed. Incredible memory. Something about Jesus not having any hands or feet …’

  ‘No hands but ours,’ said Evi, after a moment.

  ‘That’s it. Do you know it?’

  ‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ said Evi. ‘That prayer was written by St Teresa in the sixteenth century. “Christ has no body now on earth but ours, no hands but ours, no feet but ours.” It means that everything that happens here on earth – all the good things, all the bad things too – are down to us.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Harry said,’ replied Gillian. ‘He said it’s up to us now. He said God had a great plan, he was sure of it, but that it was a plan in outline and that it was up to us to fill in the details.’

  ‘He sounds quite wise, this Harry of yours,’ said Evi. So ridiculous. She’d only met him twice. There was no reason, really, for her stomach to feel like lead.

  ‘I think so,’ said Gillian. ‘I’m going to church on Sunday. First time in years.’

  Gillian turned suddenly and looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I have to go,’ she announced. ‘I said I’d meet him at noon. I’m helping decorate the church. Thank you, Evi, I’ll see you next week.’

  Gillian got up and left the room. There were still eight minutes of her appointment left to run but it seemed she didn’t need Evi any more. And why would she? She had Harry.

  27

  ‘THE ASSISTANT REFEREE RAISES THEBOARD AND THERE’S only three minutes of injury time to play in this crucial top-of-the-table clash. The ball goes to Brown … he turns, passes to young Ewood debutante Fletcher… Fletcher, still Fletcher… a little look up … Green’s in space … I think Fletcher’s going all the way … GOAL!’

  Giving the supporters a modest wave, Tom jogged back to the centre of the pitch for the final kick-off. Less than a minute of injury time to go and victory, as they say, was in the bag. Then one of the other players turned to him.

  ‘Tommy,’ he whispered.

  Tom was awake in an instant. No longer the new star striker, leading his favourite football team to victory. Just ten-year-old Tom Fletcher, lying in bed in the middle of the night. With a big problem on his hands.

  Outside, the wind was racing up the moor. Tom could hear it whistling through alleyways, making windows tremble in their frames. He lay, not daring to move, with the quilt pulled up around his ears; he was used to the wind by now. In the radiator pipes he could hear the odd gurgle as the house settled down for the night. He was used to that too. From two feet below he could hear the soft ticking of Joe’s breathing. Everything normal.

  Except that someone else was in the bedroom with him and Joe. Someone at the end of his bed, who had just tugged at his quilt.

  Completely awake now, Tom didn’t dare move. The tugging could have been part of his dream, he just had to stay still, make sure it didn’t happen again. He waited for ten, twenty seconds and realized he was holding his breath. As quietly as he could, he let it out. A fraction of a second later, someone else breathed in.

  Still he didn’t dare move. It could have been his own breath he’d heard, or Joe’s. It could have been.

  The quilt moved again, pulled away from his face. He could feel the night air on his cheek now and his left ear. In the bunk below Joe called out in his sleep – a muffled word that sounded a bit like ‘Mummy’ and then a low moan.

  ‘Tommy.’ Joe’s voice. Except Joe was asleep.

  ‘Tommy.’ His mother’s voice. But his mother would never scare him like this.

  Tom’s eyes were open. How had it got so dark? The landing light that was always kept on at night in case one of the children needed to get up had been switched off and his room was darker than it ever normally was. The furniture, the toys left scattered around, were little more than dark shadows. They were familiar dark shadows though, the sort he was used to and expected to see. The one he really hadn’t expected to see was the one at the foot of his bed.

  Whatever it was, it was sitting quite still, but breathing, he could see the slight movement of the shoulders. He could see the outline of the head and the two tiny points of light that could have been almost certainly were – eyes. The shadow was watching him.

  For half a second Tom wasn’t capable of movement. Then he wasn’t capable of anything else. He scrambled backwards, kicking against the cover with his heels, pushing with his elbows. His head slammed hard into the metal frame of the bed-head and he knew he couldn’t go any further.

  The shadow moved, leaned towards him.

  ‘Millie,’ it said, in a voice that Tom thought was perhaps supposed to be his. ‘Millie fall.’

  28

  3 October

  ‘ARE THEY OK?’ ASKED HARRY, WHO‘D BEEN LISTENING TO the story in fascination.

  , Gareth shrugged. ‘Well, they’re all pretty quiet,’ he said. ‘Tom and Joe aren’t speaking but neither of them will let Millie out of their sight. Tom’s developed something of a fascination with window locks, checking they’re secure, wanting to know where the keys are.’

  ‘And he says it was a little girl? Who’s been watching you all?’

  Gareth nodded. ‘He’s mentioned her before, we just didn’t take much notice. There are lots of kids around town, and Tom’s imagination has always been on the colourful side.’

  ‘And where was Alice while …’ he stopped. Did that sound judgemental?

  ‘In her studio,’ said Gareth, either not noticing or choosing to ignore it. ‘She’s been working on a portrait of old Mr Tobias, he’s been sitting for her several times a week and she wants to get it finished before the end of the month. She heard Tom screaming upstairs but by the time she got to him he’d woken the other two and they were yelling their heads off too.’

  ‘Any sign of a break-in?’ asked Harry. ‘Is it possible Tom did see someone?’

  Gareth shook his head. ‘The small window in the downstairs loo was open but no normal-sized person could get through it. And a child – even if one were out on her own at night – wouldn’t be able to reach it.’

  The two men had reached the back of the church. They stopped in front of a tall narrow door that looked as though it had been made from yew. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to do this?’ asked Harry. ‘It’s not urgent. You should probably …’

  Gareth picked up the tool-box he’d brought with hi
m. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone on a walk. Joe wanted to have a look at the Tor. I said I’d join them when we’re done.’

  ‘Well, if you sure.’

  ‘I’m sure. Let’s open this crypt.’

  Harry found the right key and pushed it into the lock. ‘Technically, not a crypt,’ he said. ‘More of a cellar. Might be handy for storage. I just want a steer on whether I need to call a surveyor in to check it’s safe.’ The key turned easily enough. Harry took hold of the handle and raised the latch.

  ‘And you don’t want to look round the spooky place on your own,’ said Gareth.

  ‘You’re absolutely right about that. Blimey, this door is stiff. Shouldn’t think it’s been moved in years.’

  ‘Oh, step out of the way, Vicar, this is a job for a man.’

  ‘Back off, buddy, I’m on it,’ said Harry. ‘Here we go.’

  The door swung inwards just as a bubble of sour-smelling dust burst in front of them. Harry blinked hard. Gareth cleared his throat. ‘Stone me, that’s a bit rich,’ he said. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing dead down there?’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything,’ replied Harry, picking up his flashlight and stepping on to the spiral staircase that wound its way down beneath the church. The cold air seemed to steal around the back of his neck. ‘Stakes and garlic flowers at the ready.’

  The damp smell of the church’s cellar got stronger as the two men went down. Before they were halfway Harry was glad he and Gareth were wearing fleeces. Twenty-two steps and they were at the bottom, shining their torches around. The two beams picked out massive stone pillars and a vaulted brick roof. So much bigger than either of them had expected.

  ‘I stand corrected,’ said Harry, after a few seconds. ‘This is a crypt.’

  *

  If Tom had been asked a couple of weeks ago, he might have said October was one of his favourite months. Because October was when the trees started to look like toffee apples and ploughed fields turned the colour of dark chocolate. He liked the way the air tasted on his tongue, fresh and sharp like a Polo mint, and he loved the sense of expectation, as first Hallowe’en, then Bonfire Night, then Christmas drew near. This year, though, he was struggling with the whole expectation business. This year, he just didn’t like to look too far ahead.

  ‘Hold on, you two,’ his mother’s voice called up the hill. ‘Wait for us girls.’

  Tom glanced back. Joe was a few yards behind, dressed as a medieval archer with a plastic bow strung over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows on his back. He was keeping up well and singing quietly to himself. Almost thirty yards further down the hill Alice and Millie were just appearing through the fog.

  ‘Tom, stay on the path!’ called his mother.

  ‘OK, OK!’

  He carried on up.

  Harry walked forward until he was in the centre of the wide, dark space. Three rows of ornate brick columns held up the vaulted ceiling. The floor was not the earth one he’d expected but was lined with old headstones like the church paths at ground level.

  ‘Just incredible,’ muttered Gareth at his side.

  The two men walked on. A few yards ahead the wall to their right seemed to come to an abrupt halt and Harry’s torch hit blackness. As the two men drew closer they realized an archway led through the wall. They could see nothing beyond.

  ‘You first,’ said Gareth.

  ‘Wimp.’

  Harry stepped through the black archway and shone his torch around. ‘Well, I’ll be …’ he began. The underground space on the other side of the wall was even bigger than the church crypt.

  ‘We’re under the old church,’ said Gareth, who’d followed close behind. ‘Two churches, one massive cellar.’

  ‘I don’t imagine storage space is going to be a problem somehow,’ said Harry, shining his torch round to see arched and gated alcoves against the far wall. ‘I don’t think this was ever just a cellar. There’s too much ornamentation. I think it was used for worship. Can you hear water?’

  ‘Yeah. Sounds a bit more than a burst pipe,’ said Gareth. ‘I think it’s coming from over here.’

  Gareth led the way; Harry followed, admiring the stonework around the walls, with its carvings of roses, leaves and insects. He saw a procession of carved stone pilgrims heading for a shrine. The flags beneath his feet were worn smooth. For hundreds of years monks had silently trod these stones. Ahead of him, Gareth had found the source of the water sounds.

  ‘I have never seen anything like this,’ he was saying.

  Set into the furthest wall of the cellar was a massive stone scallopshell. Water was streaming into it from a narrow pipe several inches above and then, almost like a decorative water feature in someone’s garden, it poured over the sides of the shell and disappeared into a grille. Harry held out his hand and scooped up some of the water. It was freezing. He held it to his mouth, sniffed, then dipped in his tongue.

  ‘Probably drinkable,’ he said. ‘Do you think this was some sort of massive priest hole for the monks? When enemies came they fled down here. With their own water supply they could probably hole up for weeks.’

  ‘There are several underground streams around here,’ said Gareth. ‘We had to watch out for them when we were putting the house foundations in. Maybe you can bottle it.’

  ‘Heptonclough Spring,’ said Harry, nodding. ‘Has a ring to it.’

  ‘So can we discuss this whole crypt-versus-cellar business?’ said Gareth, who was shining his torch into the nearest of the alcoves. ‘Because I can’t help thinking there are dead things yonder.’

  Shapes loomed out of the fog and for a moment Tom slowed down. Then he realized there had been buildings here at one time. He was looking at their ruins.

  ‘Tom, stop now!’

  She meant it this time. There was no mistaking that particular tone and volume. He waited until his mother and Millie had caught up. Both looked tired.

  The previous night, when his mother had come racing from her studio, smelling of paint and strong coffee, to find her eldest son crouched terrified behind his bedroom door, Tom had been convinced the little girl was still somewhere in the house. He’d refused to go back to bed until everywhere – absolutely every possible hiding place – had been searched.

  Joe, the lying toe-rag, had refused to back him up, to admit that he too had seen the girl, had even spoken to her. Joe had just opened his eyes until they were as wide as saucers and shaken his head.

  ‘Thank you,’ said his mum. ‘Now can we all stay together, please? No one is going out of my sight in this fog. OK, I think it’s this way.’

  With Millie on one hip, Alice set off and the boys trailed behind. Tom kept his eyes on the ground. If Joe said anything to wind him up he would land him one.

  They reached the edge of a copse of trees just as the fog seemed to lift a little. A carpet of beech leaves lay before them. The trees were old and massive. Tom and his family stepped forward until they were in amongst them. The tiny cottage, straight out of a fairy tale, appeared before them.

  Harry and Gareth were standing beside a small, stone-lined alcove. The entrance was covered in intricate ironwork and the gate was locked.

  ‘Don’t have the key to that one,’ said Harry.

  ‘Really not a problem, mate,’ replied Gareth, shaking his head.

  Beyond the ironwork the two men could see four carved stone coffins, set on shelves on either side of the alcove. Prone statues of men in clerical robes lay on each of them. The name Thomas Barwick was inscribed on the first. He’d been abbot in the year 1346. The writing on the other coffins was too worn for Harry to make it out. The men started walking back down the length of the cellar, shining their torches into each locked alcove they passed. They stopped at the last. Beyond the stone coffins, set into the far wall, was a wooden door.

  ‘Where do you think that leads?’ said Gareth. ‘I’ve completely lost my bearings.’

  Harry shrugged. He had too. ‘There are some old keys in the d
esk in the vestry,’ he said. ‘Shoved to the back of one of the drawers.’

  ‘Another day, perhaps,’ said Gareth.

  ‘I can’t believe no one told me this was here,’ said Harry. ‘Its historical significance could be huge. There’ll be coach parties visiting.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why it’s been kept so quiet,’ suggested Gareth. ‘Does your churchwarden strike you as the sort of man who wants his town turned into a tourist attraction?’

  ‘He doesn’t own the whole town,’ said Harry, annoyed. Abbots from hundreds of years ago could be interred in this very space. It was an incredible find.

  ‘Just most of it.’

  ‘Yeah, well he doesn’t own the church. And he certainly doesn’t own this.’

  ‘Red Riding Hood’s house,’ said Tom, forgetting that he was sulking.

  ‘Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house,’ corrected his mother, as Millie toddled up to the cottage’s front door.

  Unlike the ruined buildings they’d just passed, the cottage seemed solid and in good repair. The walls were intact, the roof looked sound, the front door firm on its hinges. There were even two windows, with shutters pulled tight. And a chimney.

  Alice reached out and tried the door handle. Locked. She turned back to her children and shrugged. ‘Guess Grandmother’s not home,’ she said. ‘I think this must be the cottage Jenny told us about. The one she and her sister used to play in.’

  Tom shivered. He glanced at Joe, who was looking down at the ground, as though he had no interest in the cottage. A sudden thought struck Tom. What if this cottage was where the girl lived?

  ‘Let’s go,’ he announced. Alice nodded and the family walked on until they came to the Tor.

  ‘Can we climb up, Mum?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ replied Alice. ‘In this fog and without your father, this is as far as we’re going.’

  Tom was staring up at the massive pile of rocks that disappeared into cloud. There was something about the way they towered over him that made him feel nervous. And he certainly didn’t like looking up, the way his mum and Joe and even Millie were doing. Turning away, he cried out before he could stop himself.