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29 October
THE INTERMENT OF TWO-YEAR-OLD LUCY ELOISE PICKUP, only child of Michael Pickup and Jennifer Pickup née Renshaw, was the last entry in the burial register. Harry flicked back to the beginning. The first entry recorded the burial of Joshua Aspin in 1897. A church register had to be closed and taken to the diocesan record office when the oldest entry was 150 years ago. This one hadn’t got there yet. He was about to close the book when he spotted the Renshaw name again. Sophie Renshaw had died in 1908, aged eighteen. The words ‘An innocent Christian soul’ had been entered after the basic details. Harry glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock.
He turned the page and spotted names he recognized: Renshaw several times, Knowles and Grimes more than once. There it was again, halfway down the third page. Charles Perkins, aged fifteen, buried on 7 September 1932. An innocent Christian soul. He looked at his watch again. Three minutes past eleven. Harry leaned back in his chair and glanced round the room. No damp running socks drying on the radiator; the draining board was clear of used tea-bags.
A sudden noise from the nave made him jump and almost overbalance. He lowered his chair until all four legs were firmly on the ground. No one could be in the main body of the church. The building had been locked when he’d arrived, he’d opened just one door, to the vestry, and that was less than three yards away. No one could have entered without him seeing them. And yet what he’d just heard had been too loud to be the random creaking of old wood. It has sounded like … like scraping metal. He stood up, crossed the room and opened the door into the nave.
The church was empty, of course, he hadn’t expected anything else. It just didn’t feel empty. He stepped backwards towards the vestry, his eyes roaming the chancel, looking for movement. He was listening hard. It was almost a relief to close the door. He might as well admit it, he just didn’t like this church. There was something about it that made him feel uneasy.
Scared, you mean. This church scares you.
He looked at his watch again. It was ten minutes past eleven and his visitor was indisputably late. Could he wait outside? Not without looking a complete prat, he couldn’t. He picked up his mobile. No messages.
He jumped again as a knock sounded on the vestry door.
Evi pulled up behind Harry’s car. Using her stick as a lever she pushed herself out of her own. It was a long walk to the vestry door and using her chair was the only really sensible option. Her stick would fold up and slot along the back, the briefcase would sit on her lap, she’d be able to push herself across those smooth old flagstones in a matter of seconds. Faster than many people could run. And Harry would see her in a wheelchair.
She locked the car and began the slow walk up the path. She walked for two minutes, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground, wary of uneven stones. When she stopped for a breather a shadow caught her eye. The sun was throwing the outline of the ruined abbey on to the grass in front of her. She could make out the tower and the three arches that ran up one side of the nave. She could see the arched gap where a stained-glass window had once shone. What was left of the window ledge was fifteen feet above the ground. Should someone really be sitting on it?
Using the stick for balance, she turned and looked at the ruin. What in the name of …
Life-sized figures, wearing real clothes but with heads fashioned from turnips, pumpkins, even straw, filled the ruined church. Evi counted quickly. There had to be twenty or more of the things. They sat in empty window frames, lay across the top of arches, leaned against pillars; one had even been tied by its waist to the tower. It dangled, high above the ground. Unable to resist, Evi took a step closer, then another, taking herself almost within the confines of the church. They were guys, exceptionally well made from what she could see. None of them slumped, lifeless and flattened, the way guys normally did. Their bodies were solid, their limbs in proportion. They appeared remarkably human; until you looked at their faces, on each of which was carved a wide, jagged grin.
Not really liking to turn her back on them, Evi glanced towards the Fletcher house. At least two of the upstairs windows would get a pretty good view of the newly decorated abbey. Tom Fletcher and his brother would have to look out on this when they went to bed.
Her left leg was telling her she’d been still for long enough. She put her stick forward and, glancing back every few seconds, continued up the path.
She was flushed. There was a frown line running vertically down her forehead that he hadn’t noticed before. Her hair was different too, sleek and dark, just reaching her shoulders and so shiny it looked wet.
‘You should have phoned from the car,’ he said. ‘I’d have come out to help.’
Evi’s lips stretched into a smile but the frown line was still there. ‘And yet I managed,’ she said.
‘So you did. Come in.’
He stepped back and allowed her into the vestry. She made her way across to the two chairs he’d positioned close to the radiator and clutched the arm of the nearest one. She lowered herself slowly and then folded the stick and put it by her side. She was wearing a scarlet woollen jacket with a plain black top and trousers, and she’d brought a soft, spicy scent into the vestry with her. And something of the autumn morning too, a smell of leaves, of wood smoke, a crispness. He was staring.
‘I can make coffee,’ he offered, turning his back and moving to the sink. ‘Or tea. There’s even some Hobnobs somewhere. Alice never visits without bringing a packet over.’
‘Coffee would be great, thank you. No sugar. Milk, if you have it.’ He’d forgotten how sweet and low her voice was when she wasn’t annoyed with him. He glanced back. How could eyes be that blue? They were so blue they were almost violet, like pansies at twilight. He was staring again.
He made coffee for them both, listening to rustling behind him as she opened her case and took out papers. Once she dropped a pen, but when he jumped round to pick it up, she’d already found it. The pink in her cheeks was fading. His own face felt far too hot.
He handed her a mug, took his own seat and waited.
Harry looked every inch the priest this morning: neat black clothes, white clerical collar, shiny black brogues. There was even a pair of reading glasses on the desk.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she began. He said nothing, just inclined his head at her.
She held out a sheet of paper. ‘I need to give you this,’ she said. ‘Alice and Gareth Fletcher have authorized me to speak to you. To discuss as much of their case with you as seems appropriate.’ Harry took the paper from her and looked at it. The glasses stayed on the desk. He was far too young to need reading glasses anyway. They must just be for effect. After a second or so he put it down and picked up his mug.
‘I’m also speaking to several teachers at Tom and Joe’s school,’ she continued. ‘To the headmaster of Tom’s old school. And to their GP. It’s normal practice when treating a child.’
She waited for Harry to respond. He didn’t. ‘Children are so affected by their environments that we have to know as much as we can about their surroundings,’ she went on. ‘About what impacts on their lives.’
‘I’ve become fond of the Fletchers,’ said Harry. ‘I hope you can help them.’
So different, this morning. So completely unlike the man she’d met.
‘I’ll certainly do my best,’ she said. ‘But it’s very early days. This is really just a fact-finding mission.’
Harry put his mug down on the desk behind him. ‘Anything I can do,’ he said, as he turned back.
So cold. A different man. Just wearing the same face. Still, she had a job to do.
‘Tom was referred to me by his GP two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘He was presenting with extreme anxiety, difficulties at school, trouble sleeping, aggressive behaviour – both at school and at home – and even the possibility of psychotic episodes. Taken together, these are all very troubling symptoms in a ten-year-old boy.’
‘I know his parents have been ver
y concerned,’ said Harry. ‘As have I.’
‘I don’t know how much you know about psychiatry, but—’
‘Next to nothing.’
Jesus, would it kill him to smile? Did he think this was easy for her?
‘The normal procedure is to see the child first, to establish some sort of rapport – even trust, if possible. If the child is old enough, which Tom is, I try to get them to talk about what their problems are. To tell me why they think they’ve been referred to me, what’s worrying them, how they think it might be addressed.’
She stopped. Harry’s eyes hadn’t left her face but she could read nothing from his expression.
‘It hasn’t worked too well with Tom yet,’ she said. ‘He’s really quite skilled at saying the minimum he can get away with. When I try and steer him towards talking about the various incidents – with this odd little girl, for example – he just clams up. Claims it was all a bad dream.’
She paused. Harry nodded at her to continue.
‘Then I try to bring in the rest of the family,’ she went on. ‘I observe how they interact with each other, try to spot any tensions, any sign of discord. I also take a full family history, medical and social. The aim is to get as complete a picture as possible of the family’s life.’
She stopped. This was proving even harder than she’d expected. ‘I’m following,’ said Harry. ‘Please go on.’
‘There’s always a physical examination,’ said Evi. ‘Of the referred child and any siblings. I don’t carry it out myself, I find it interferes with the rapport I try to create with them, but Tom, Joe and Millie have all been examined by the GP.’
Harry was frowning. ‘Are you allowed to tell me what he found?’ he asked.
Evi shrugged. ‘They’re fine,’ she said. ‘Physically, they’re all healthy children, with no significant medical issues, all developing normally. I’ve carried out a couple of evaluation tests myself with them. If anything, in terms of speech, cognitive functioning and general knowledge, Tom and Joe seem particularly well developed for their ages. Both would seem to be of above average intelligence. Does that accord with what you’ve observed?’
‘Completely,’ said Harry, without pausing to think. ‘When I met them they were bright, funny, normal kids. I liked them a lot. Still do.’
The Fletchers were his friends. He wouldn’t be able to be entirely objective. She’d have to win his trust too.
‘It might also be worth mentioning that the GP found no evidence of abuse with any of the children. Either physical or sexual. Of course, we still can’t rule it out entirely, but …’
He was glaring at her. Maybe he needed a reality check.
‘When a child is as disturbed as Tom appears to be, it would be irresponsible to ignore the possibility,’ she said, knowing her voice had hardened. Something in Harry’s eyes flickered back at her.
‘The most significant feature of their case, for me,’ continued Evi, consciously trying to lower and soften her voice, even though he was starting to piss her off, ‘is that the family’s troubles seem to date from their moving here.’
Definitely something in his eyes.
‘Tom’s record at his old school was exemplary,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to his former GP, his old football coach, even his old scout master. They all report a normal, well-adjusted, happy child. Yet the family moves here and it all goes wrong.’
Harry had dropped his gaze. He was staring at the floor now. He looked sullen. Did he imagine she thought he was to blame?
‘Mental illness in children rarely has a single identifiable cause,’ she said. ‘Anything pertaining to the Fletchers’ new environment could have acted as a trigger, woken up some dormant condition inside Tom. It would be really helpful to know what that trigger was.’
‘Is this where I come in?’ he asked her, glancing up.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re new here too. You’re probably in a better position than anyone to spot a possible catalyst. Can you think of anything?’
Harry took his time. Could he think of anything? The Fletcher family had moved to a town that hadn’t welcomed newcomers for over ten years and where ritual slaughter was an excuse for a good night out. Where whispers came scurrying out of nowhere. And where someone poured pig’s blood into a Communion chalice. Could he think of anything? Would he know when to stop?
‘This is an unusual town,’ he said at last. ‘People here have a way of doing things that’s all their own.’
‘Can you give me any examples?’ Evi had opened a small notepad and held a pencil between the fingers of her left hand. The hair on the right side of her head had been tucked behind one ear. Such a tiny ear. With a ruby stud.
‘The first day I came here I saw the two boys being menaced by a local gang,’ he said. ‘Slightly older boys. Some of them teenagers.’
‘On bikes?’ she asked quickly.
Puzzled, Harry shook his head. ‘Not at the time. Although I have since seen one or two of them riding around on bikes. They can certainly move at speed when they put their mind to it. And they’re agile. I’m sure I’ve seen figures climbing around among the abbey ruins, even on the church roof. We haven’t been able to prove it but we’re pretty certain they were responsible for what happened to Millie Fletcher a couple of weeks ago.’
‘And they were threatening Tom and Joe, that first day?’
Harry nodded. ‘They broke a church window, tried to put the blame on the boys.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time a close-knit community turned on outsiders,’ said Evi. ‘How have people here been with you?’
Harry thought about it for a second. ‘Well, on the face of it, quite friendly. There are some nice people here. But there have been strange things happening.’ He stopped. Did he want to tell Evi about the whispers he heard in the church? About what someone had tricked him into drinking? That a house of God scared him? ‘Nothing I really want to go into,’ he went on, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that someone with a rather malicious sense of humour had been trying to frighten the boys.’
‘That’s it.’ Evi was leaning forward in her chair. ‘That’s what I sense from Tom. Fear.’
A silver chain around her neck was glinting in the soft light of the vestry.
‘What’s he afraid of?’ Harry asked.
‘Normally when a child is afraid, we look close to home for the source,’ replied Evi, ‘but there’s no indication that Tom is afraid of his family.’
She was wearing make-up, which she hadn’t been when he’d met her previously. He hadn’t realized quite how beautiful she was.
‘We have a test,’ she was saying. ‘We call it the desert-island test. We ask the child to imagine he’s on a desert island, way out in the middle of the sea, miles away from everything and completely safe. And we ask him to choose one person to be on the island with him. Who would he choose, out of all the people in the world?’
You, thought Harry, I think I might just choose you. ‘What did Tom say?’ he asked.
‘He said Millie. His little sister. When he was asked to choose a second person he chose his mum. Then his dad.’
‘Not Joe?’
‘Joe was his fourth choice. I did the same test with Joe. He said the same thing. Millie first, his mum and dad next, then Tom.’
‘Interesting that they both picked Millie.’
Evi dropped her eyes and turned a page of her notebook. Her dark hair swung down, covering her face. She turned another page and found what she was looking for. ‘Then Joe said something that really puzzled me,’ she continued, glancing back up at Harry. ‘He said, would there be a church on the island, because if there was, he didn’t think Millie should go.’
The radiator didn’t seem to be working as well as it had been. Harry felt his fingers growing cold. They died, didn’t they? The little girls in the church.
‘I’m fine, really. I can manage,’ said Evi.
Harry was holding open the vestry door. She stepped out
and he allowed it to close behind her. ‘I don’t doubt that for a minute,’ he said. ‘But I see all my visitors to the gates. Can I …’
He was holding out his right elbow. She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said again.
They set off and Evi was acutely conscious of her stick tapping on the path between them. It took almost a minute to walk the length of the church. They turned the corner and she heard herself take a sharp breath. She’d forgotten that the ruined abbey had a new congregation. She stopped moving, glad of the excuse to rest for a moment.
‘What on earth are they, Harry?’ she asked, realizing she’d used his name for the first time that morning. ‘I can’t tell you the shock I had when I arrived.’
‘Be glad you’re not seeing them in the dead of night,’ said Harry. ‘I did. Came back to collect the church accounts and nearly had heart failure.’
Evi looked from one bizarre figure to the next. Some male, some female, one – oh cripes, that was the worst, the size of a small child. Then, conscious of Harry waiting patiently by her side, she started moving again.
‘I know it’s nearly Bonfire Night,’ she said, ‘but why so many guys? I’ve never seen such a collection.’
‘They’re not guys,’ said Harry. ‘They’re bone men.’
Evi’s head flicked from the ruins to the man at her side and then back again. ‘Bone men? As in rag-and-bone men?’ she asked.
Harry shook his head. ‘Oh, it’s more literal than that. They’re called bone men, apparently, because a large part of their make-up is exactly that.’
S. J. Bolton Page 17