He realized he’d stopped running. And that he was freezing. He had to get home, shower and change, then attend an old folks’ lunch in Goodshaw Bridge. And he had a phone call to make. In another few yards he’d be able to follow a footpath along the edge of a field, to bring him out at the end of Wite Lane.
He squeezed through the gap between two tall boulders and set off again along the field edge, heading downhill, keeping his eyes on the ground. At the corner he climbed the low wall into the stubble field beyond. In less than a minute he was at the lowest end. He jumped over the stile and down into Wite Lane. Almost home.
Huddled in front of the burned-out fireplace of the Royle cottage was the thin, trembling body of a girl. Gillian. Twenty yards away he could hear her crying. Except it wasn’t really crying. Keening. That was the only word for it: a high-pitched, heartbreakingly sad keening. The Irish called it the song for the dead.
43
‘IT’S OK, IT’S OK.’ HE’D PUSHED OPEN THE GATE, WAS stepping up the overgrown path. ‘Come on, love, let’s get you home.’ He walked through the space where the front door used to be. Gillian didn’t look up. She remained hunched over, clutching something to her chest. He crossed the uneven ground and bent down beside her. She looked up at him then and he fought a temptation to pull back. For a second the look in her eyes had scared him, had made him think that something essential inside her had slipped out the back way.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here. Come on, pet, you’re freezing.’ Gillian was only wearing a thin sweater and her wrist felt colder than stone. He put an arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet.
She continued to sob as he guided her out through the gate and half led, half dragged her along Wite Lane. The churchyard and street were deserted and his was the only car in the lane. He steered Gillian across the road and opened the passenger door. He never locked the car in Heptonclough and his keys were still in the vestry, with his clothes. He reached into the car, pulled out his coat and wrapped it round her shoulders.
‘Get in,’ he told her. ‘I need to grab my bag from the vestry, then I’ll drive you home.’
Shivering, he ran up the churchyard path, pulled the key out of his shorts pocket and opened the vestry door. His bag was where he’d left it. Grabbing a sweatshirt, he pulled it over his head. He was about to leave when something made him stop and turn.
Someone had been in here. The door to the nave was open. It hadn’t been when he’d left, he was sure of it. Harry took a step towards it. It would have been one of his churchwardens, Mike or Sinclair. They were the only other people who had keys now. And yet they’d formed a habit, over the last few weeks, of telling him when they were going to be in the building. He’d seen both of them less than an hour ago. Neither had mentioned plans to come back. Still, it could only be …
He stopped in the doorway, knowing that his heart was beating too fast and his breathing was too shallow, and telling himself it was the result of a fast run over hill country. Not his churchwardens then. Neither Mike nor Sinclair would have taken every single hassock from the pews and thrown them around the building. Harry stepped into the chancel. Dozens of cushions: on the carpet, caught between the organ pipes, on the choir stalls, everywhere but where they should be.
Harry walked forward, knowing that this wasn’t just about the hassocks, that there was more for him to find, and that it was only a matter of seconds before he did. He wasn’t breathing too fast any more, he was struggling to breathe at all.
Something was growing, fungus-like, in his throat, pressing against its sides, blocking the airway as he reached the centre of the chancel and turned to look down the aisle. He was ready to be shocked. Just not that shocked. He wasn’t prepared to see a small child, broken in pieces, beneath the gallery.
Millie Fletcher! He’d seen her wearing that sweater.
For a few seconds it was impossible to do anything but stare. No air at all was getting into his body now. His head would start to spin at any moment. He began to walk forward, clutching the ends of pews like a toddler unsure on its legs. As he reached the halfway point, he realized he was trembling in relief, not fear. And he was breathing again. Not Millie, thank God, thank God, it couldn’t be Millie – or any real child, for that matter – because no part of a child’s anatomy was made up of vegetables. Oh, thank God.
A turnip, still bearing the crude drawing of a child’s face, had smashed apart on the flagstones. The wicker construction of the figure was in pieces. It was the smallest of the bone men, brought inside and dressed up in Millie’s sweater. The shivering running through his body began to feel less about relief and more about outrage. The message couldn’t be clearer. This was intended to be Millie, to show Millie broken to pieces on the church floor, as she so nearly had been on the night of the harvest festival, as Lucy Pickup had been before her. What in the name of God was going on here?
Conscious that Gillian was still waiting for him in the car, Harry reached the figure and crouched down. He couldn’t just leave it there. He stretched out an arm to start gathering the pieces together and stopped himself just in time.
Evidence.
From the vestry he brought a large black bin-liner and the Marigold gloves left behind by one of the cleaning team. Wearing the gloves, he gathered the pieces together, including the pink and orange sweater, and put them all in the black bag. When he was done, he tied a knot in the top and stood up.
He had to let the police know. Teenage prank or not, Millie was two years old and had already been put in real danger once. And this really wasn’t funny. Plus, changed locks or not, someone was still getting in and out of the church whenever they wanted to.
Gillian didn’t ask what had taken him so long; she hardly seemed to have noticed. Harry turned the heater up to full blast and set off down the hill. It only took two minutes before he pulled up outside the town’s post office and convenience store. Gillian lived in a flat above it.
She hadn’t moved. In her lap she clutched a small, pink soft-toy. He switched off the engine and climbed out. His shoulders were starting to ache.
‘Gillian, pet.’ He was leaning in, not really wanting to touch her again but suspecting it was inevitable. ‘You’re home now. Come on, let’s get you inside.’
Still she didn’t move. Swallowing his irritation, Harry slid his arm around her shoulders. She came willingly enough then, leaning against him as she slipped clumsily out of the car. As they crossed the street, Harry noticed two women watching them.
The outside door wasn’t locked. He took Gillian’s hand and pulled her up the narrow stairway with its worn, dirty carpet. At the top, he turned to her. ‘Keys?’ he enquired. She shrugged.
He pushed the door and it swung open with a waft of unwashed laundry and stale air. Either the flat wasn’t much warmer than the day outside or he was well on his way to catching a chill.
He steered Gillian towards the sofa and crossed quickly to the electric fire. Switching it on to full, he turned back to the girl. She was sitting at the edge of the sofa, staring at the wall in front of her. The toy in her hands was a rabbit.
‘Gillian, you need a blanket. Where will I find one?’
She didn’t answer and he turned away from her. If she looked at his face, she’d see how annoyed he was. Angry with her, angry with himself, angry with the old folks of Goodshaw Bridge who, even now, would be glancing at their watches, and very angry with the sick bastard who thought he could scare him by dressing up a pile of bones and twigs.
Gillian’s flat wasn’t large. He soon found the kitchen and then the bedroom. He caught a quick glimpse of a floor covered in clothes, empty glasses scattered around and a greasy dinner plate on the bedside table. He pulled the duvet off the bed.
Back in the living room, Gillian had curled herself up on the sofa, still clutching the rabbit. He put the duvet over her and returned to the bedroom for a pillow. He tucked it under her head and crouched down until he could look her in the
eyes.
‘Gillian, I need to call someone,’ he said. ‘Someone who can come and look after you.’
Silver-grey eyes gazed back at him. ‘You,’ she croaked. ‘I want you to look after me.’
He shook his head. ‘I have to be somewhere. I’m late already and you need someone who can look after you properly, not a man you hardly know.’
Gillian pushed herself up on to one elbow. She took one hand off the pink toy and reached up to her hair. ‘Stay,’ she said, stroking her hair to neaten it. She pushed herself up higher and held her hand out to Harry. ‘Stay,’ she repeated. ‘We could, you know …’
‘Do you want me to call Dr Oliver?’ he offered, leaning back on his heels so that he was just out of reach. ‘It might help you to talk to her.’
Gillian was upright on the sofa now, glaring at him. Make-up was smeared on her cheeks. Her nose was red from the cold. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ she demanded.
‘Of course not,’ he said, knowing it was true but feeling as if he was lying. ‘I’ve only met her a few times.’ No, that wasn’t good enough. It was unfair to all three of them. ‘But I do like her,’ he added.
‘I thought you liked me,’ she wailed.
‘I do,’ he answered. When had she taken hold of his hand? ‘But I’m too old for you and …’
‘I don’t care.’
‘… and you need to get well again before you start any sort of relationship.’ He had to get his hand back. He had to retreat to a safe distance.
‘I could get well quickly if I had you, I know I could.’
He had to tell her. She had to know it was never going to happen.
‘Gillian, I know how difficult today must have been for you, seeing people visiting graves, having others around to comfort them. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be alone.’
‘I’m not a slag, you know. There hasn’t been anyone since Pete.’
‘I don’t doubt that. But trust me, that is not the way to get over Hayley. What about your GP?’
It wasn’t going to work. She was taking a deep breath, getting ready to …
‘You have no idea!’ she screamed at him.
She was right. He had no idea. He was completely out of his depth.
‘What about a friend?’ he offered. ‘Is there anyone who lives nearby?’
‘She won’t leave me,’ said Gillian, speaking to a point somewhere in the middle of his chest.
‘Who won’t? Do you mean Hayley?’
She nodded. ‘She’s dead, I know that,’ she said. ‘I’ve known for a long time, but she won’t go away.’ She grabbed his hand again. ‘She’s haunting me.’
‘Gillian …’
Her head shot up. Her eyes looked terrified. ‘Please help me,’ she begged. ‘You can do something, I know you can. Make her go away. You can do a – what do you call it? – an exorcism.’
The girl was unbalanced. She needed serious help.
‘Gillian, I’m going to call someone. You can’t—’
‘Listen to me.’ She’d grabbed both his hands now, had fallen off the sofa and was kneeling in front of him. ‘This is the Day of the Dead, right? When lost souls who can’t find their way to heaven come back to where they used to live. I never used to believe in all that, but I do now. She was here today. She took the toy, Pink Rabbit, and put it in our old house. I found it just now, where the kitchen fireplace used to be.’
‘Gillian …’
‘She talks to me all the time. I hear her voice, calling “Mummy, Mummy, help me.” It doesn’t matter where I am. In here, asleep, out on the moors, she’s always there, always talking to me. “Mummy, Mummy,” she says, “find me.” She moves things around, here in the flat, leaves little presents for me. Every time I turn round, every time I wake up in the night, I think she’s going to be there, just as she was the last time I saw her, in her Beatrix Potter pyjamas.’
Harry realized he was shaking.
‘She’s with me every day. She’s driving me insane.’
‘Gillian, you know, don’t you, there are no such things as ghosts?’
There was a loud banging on the outside door.
‘Sit down,’ he told her. ‘I’ll go and see who that is.’ She was still holding his hand. She clung on, unwilling to let go, but Harry headed towards the door and she had little choice. Overcome with relief at being away from her, even for a few minutes, he jogged down the stairs and pulled open the door. The middle-aged woman with the dyed-red hair was standing outside.
‘Vicar.’ She inclined her head and stepped forward, clearly expecting him to move aside and let her in. ‘Edith Holcome phoned me,’ she said. ‘She saw you bring Gillian home. Said I should probably get down here.’ She moved forward again.
‘Are you a friend of Gillian’s?’ asked Harry. Had reinforcements arrived after all?
‘I’m her mother. Gwen Bannister. Nice to meet you, Vicar. Don’t worry any more, I’ll look after her now.’
Her mother? Oh, thank God.
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Had he left anything upstairs? Did it matter? Were his keys in his pocket? Yes.
‘She’s extremely upset,’ he offered, not wanting anyone to go up those stairs unprepared. ‘I think she may need to see a doctor.’
‘I know, I know, I’ve seen it all before.’ The woman had pushed her way past him and was already halfway up the stairs. ‘I lost a child too and did I fall to pieces? We had more backbone in my day.’
Could he go? Darn right he could.
Without looking back, he slipped out of the door and ran across the street to his car. He’d left his coat behind but it seemed a small price to pay. He looked at his watch. If he drove as though all the devils in hell were after him and spent less than two minutes in the shower, he’d still be twenty minutes late. He really had no more time to waste.
So why was he picking up the phone?
Duchess’s hooves were clattering on the concrete of the livery yard when Evi’s phone started to ring. She reached inside the pocket of her coat and glanced at the screen. Oh!
‘Evi Oliver,’ she said, as Duchess edged closer to her box.
‘Hi, it’s Harry Laycock,’ said the voice on the phone. She’d known who it was. His name had appeared on the digital screen. Just the one word: Harry.
‘Oh, good morning.’ Was that right – friendly but with a faint note of surprise? ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘In a bit of a rush. Listen, I’ve been thinking. This bonfire thing. I think you should go. I mean come. Come with me.’
He was asking her out. Was he? ‘You told me you were going nowhere near it,’ she pointed out.
‘I’ve changed my mind. There’s something not quite normal going on up here, Evi, and I need to know what it is. And if you really want to get to the bottom of what’s bothering Tom Fletcher, I suspect you do too.’
She could see him? That night? ‘I’m not sure, Harry,’ she said. ‘It seems a bit …’
‘I could pick you up at six thirty and drive you up there. Help you over the rough ground. Not that you need any help, I fully understand that. And it wouldn’t be a date, or anything. Strictly professional, you know – work – for both of us.’
‘Thank you, I know what professional means. I was going to say, it seems a bit intrusive. The Fletchers might think I’m spying on them. Maintaining trust is really important when you’re working with a family.’ Oh, shut up, you silly cow, you’re going to talk him out of it.
‘I’ve already spoken to Alice. She’s fine with it. And we’re both invited for supper afterwards but, I repeat, it’s definitely not a date.’
‘Yes, I got that bit too. I quite understand.’ A date with Harry. She was going on a date with Harry. Duchess started backing away from the box, was twisting round on the concrete. ‘Look, you’ve caught me on the hop a bit,’ Evi said. ‘It might be a good idea but I’d have to talk to Alice myself. Can I call you back this afternoon?’
‘Of course. No
w I really have to run. I’ll talk to you later.’
He was gone – and what in the name of all that was wonderful was she going to wear?
44
AS QUICKLY AS HE COULD, BUT NOT FORGETTING TO watch out for anyone who might be lurking, Tom ran through the churchyard entrance, skirted round the ruins, past the church and into the graveyard, then dived behind a stone to get his breath back.
It was four thirty, and a few stripes of orange and pink in the sky showed where the sun had been not five minutes earlier. The cloud cover was thickening rapidly. The light would fade fast now. He hadn’t much time.
He set off again, keeping as close as he could to the boundary wall. If anything happened, he could be over it and in through the back door in seconds. She was fast, Tom knew that, but he was fast too.
At Lucy Pickup’s grave he crouched low again. Someone had left a bunch of tiny pink roses on it and – it looked so sad somehow – a small cream teddy bear with a pink ribbon round its neck. He remembered, then, the reason why the town had its bonfire tonight instead of on November the fifth; November the second was the Day of the Dead. Harry had told them all about it. It was the day when people remembered and honoured all those they loved who were dead now. In Heptonclough people visited their graves, prayed for them, left presents. They honour their dead in Heptonclough, Harry had said.
Tom looked all around. Still enough light. And he was very close to the wall.
Yew trees are no good for climbing, anyone could tell you that. They don’t grow that tall and their branches don’t get thick enough. But this tree had just one strong branch that hung out over the Fletchers’ garden. If Tom was careful, if he didn’t worry about a few scratches, he could make his way on to it.
S. J. Bolton Page 19