by Amy Cross
I take a step back, and then I copy the salute that he's doing.
“Respect,” I say, trying to stand like a proper soldier for a moment. I even fix my posture, straightening my back the way the soldiers are doing in all these old photos. “Duffley, Mark, reporting for -”
Suddenly I hear a rustling sound coming from somewhere nearby, and I turn to look over my shoulder.
The door is open, leading out into a corridor, and the rustling sound continues for a few more seconds before fading away. I know it's crazy, but it sounded like someone moving about under a bunch of bed-sheets, and sure enough a moment later I hear a faint creaking sound, as if someone's shifting their weight on a bed. I start to feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, because I know that there's not supposed to be anyone else out here, but then I remind myself that an abandoned place like this is probably heaving with rats and other animals.
“Hello?” I call out, just in case.
I wait, but now the place is silent again.
“Hey, yo, is anyone here?”
Silence.
“If this is just someone messing around,” I continue, “then knock it off. I'm not in the mood for this kind of dumb shit.”
Once I'm sure that I'm alone, I take another look around this abandoned old office. There are a few documents on one of the tables, although the words have faded away, but for the most part this place is just a massive collection of dust and grime. Someone left an old map on one of the desks, and I recognize the shape of southern England, although I don't know what all the marks and numbers mean.
There's a big window at the far end of the room, overlooking the runway, and I stand there for a moment and try to imagine what it must have been like when this place was in use. I reckon I'd have been really useful in the war. Not that I'm glorifying fighting or anything like that, but when you've got to fight for your country, that's what you do. I'd have been right here, giving orders, or I'd have been out there in one of those planes. Sometimes I think I'd be good in the army. You get told what to do in the army. You don't have to figure it out for yourself.
Smiling at my own stupid thoughts, I turn and head out into the corridor, and then back toward the door that leads outside. I feel up for a few more bike races along that runway.
“I need a priest,” a voice gasps suddenly.
I turn and look over toward an open door at the far end of the corridor.
“Please,” the voice continues, sounding raspy and agonized, as if the person on the other side of the door can barely speak at all. “Fetch a priest.”
Then there's that creaking sound again, like someone moving on a bed.
I hesitate for a moment, before hurrying along the corridor and stopping in the doorway. As I get there, the creaking sound stops, and I'm left looking through at an old bed that's pushed against the far wall. There's no-one on the bed, however, and when I look behind the door I realize that there's definitely no-one in the room. This is where the voice was coming from, I'm certain, and after a moment I feel a ripple of dread in my chest as I take a step back. Then, spotting an old cupboard against the far wall, I head over and pull it open, to prove to myself that no-one's hiding here.
Turning, I can't help looking at the bed. I still don't see anyone there, but somehow in my mind's eye I feel like there should be someone. I don't know who the person is, but he's hurt really bad, with burns all over his body, and it's like I can feel his pain. It's almost like I remember him being there, even though I've never been here before in my life.
After a moment I realize there's a weird smell in the room too, and it smells exactly like I'd imagine burned human flesh to smell. There's fear, too, lingering in the air. I can feel the fear, but it's not mine. It's as if someone else's fear has been left behind and now I'm breathing it in. It's getting stronger, too, and after a moment I reach my hand out and move it through the air, half-expecting to somehow feel something in the room. Finally, realizing that this room feels way too freaky, I turn to leave.
“Please,” the voice gasps suddenly.
I freeze in the doorway, with my back to the bed.
“I need a priest,” the voice whimpers. “Won't somebody fetch me a priest?”
I tell myself to turn and look, to prove to myself that there's nobody there, but I can't quite bring myself to move. It's as if I'm frozen here, too scared to turn around.
“I have to see a priest,” the voice continues, “before...”
He lets out a low, guttural groan.
“Before...”
I try again to turn, but my body just won't obey. It's as if I'm locked in position.
“Father,” the voice whispers, “I don't want to die. Please, I'm so scared. Tell me it'll be alright. Tell me it's not just emptiness and nothingness forever, tell me it's not just -”
Suddenly he screams.
Startled, I finally turn and look again at the bed. There's nobody there, but for a fraction of a second the scream still rings in my ears.
As if it was really here.
Looking around, I try to figure out what just happened. If this is someone's idea of a joke, then they sure as hell managed to play me, but somehow I don't think that voice was coming from a hidden speaker. It was right here in the room, it was a real person, but at the same time I can see for myself that there's no-one around. I swear I felt someone, though. I felt a presence, almost like a ghost. Fortunately, I'm not dumb enough to believe in that kind of shit.
I stare at the bed for a moment longer, before turning and hurrying back toward the way out. Fuck this place. I'm just getting jumpy, that's all. It's all Kerry's fault. She showed up, caused trouble and then died. I wish I'd never met her.
Chapter Eleven
Mark
Two weeks later
“There you are again,” Mr. Mynot says as I stop my bike and take his paper from my bag, “right on time. I've never known a more punctual paperboy in all my life.”
“It's nothing,” I reply, passing the rolled-up newspaper to him. “I'm just doing my job.”
“But you're doing it well, and that's the important thing,” he says, as he unrolls the local paper and look at the front page. “That'll hold you in good stead for later life, whatever you decide to do. Unlike the idiots who run this rag. They wouldn't know what really goes on around here, not even if the truth ran up and bit them on their rumps.”
Turning the paper around, he shows me a headline about a supermarket planning application that was recently turned down in one of the nearby towns. There's a photo of some people in a car park, and they look like they've chained themselves to a tree.
“I suppose nothing much happens round here,” I suggest.
“And what makes you think that?”
“Well...” I pause, trying to pick my words with care so that I don't seem rude. “I just mean, Briarwych doesn't seem like the busiest place in the world. It's kinda... sleepy.”
“That's what a lot of people think,” he replies. “It might look quiet from the outside, but there's more going on here than you might realize. You just have to look beyond the frivolous stories that get printed on the front page of the local rag.”
“What kind of things are going on?”
He pauses, before sighing. “Silly old men talking nonsense in the street, for one. Thank you for the paper, young man. I look forward to reading it from cover to cover, and learning all about local fetes and charity days.”
“I should get going,” I tell him with a faint smile. “See you next week.”
I start cycling away. I've only got a few more deliveries to make today, and so far my second week of work has been going pretty well. I'm well ahead of schedule, which means I should be able to get home early. Sure, I wasn't too excited when Caroline told me there was a part-time delivery job going at the corner-shop, but at least it gives me something to do, and I'm managing to save all the money I make. All thirty pounds a week, but still, it's more than I had when I arrived here. And as I
cycle up the hill and toward Mrs. Arnesbury's house, I can't help thinking that maybe I wouldn't mind sticking around here in Briarwych after my first month is up. If the Neills still want me here, that is. That's far from guaranteed. I need to make myself more useful around the place.
Hearing voices shouting, I glance to my left, and then I slow the bike and come to a stop as I see that two men are standing in the cemetery, arguing in front of the church's closed door.
One of the men is Tim Murphy. I didn't know his name when I first met him two weeks ago, back on the morning when he was putting a new lock on the door. Since then, I've come to learn that it's his job to deal with any matters concerning the church, although for the most part this seems to simply involve him watching to make sure that nobody goes near the place. He always seems so dour and annoyed with life, and I've actually started to feel sorry for him. One thing I've never seen him do, however, is get into an argument, and it's quite a surprise to hear that he's now really raising his voice as he talks to this other man.
The other man, meanwhile, is someone I've never seen before in my life. He's younger than Tim, maybe in his late thirties or early forties, and he's slightly taller than him too. For some reason, something about him makes me think that he's come here from somewhere far away. I can't really hear his voice too well, and overall he looks to be much calmer than Tim. As I ease my bike over toward the wall so I can try to listen to the argument, I can't help noticing that Tim is gesticulating wildly with his hands while the new man is simply shaking his head and gesturing repeatedly toward the door.
“I won't have someone coming and telling me how to handle this!” Tim is shouting angrily. “Nobody asked you to come here and interfere!”
The other man says something, but he speaks softly and I can't make out any of the words.
“Over my dead body!” Tim snaps. “I don't care who turns up, I'm not allowing it. Everything's been fine here for seventy-odd years. We know how to handle the situation and you don't have the authority to come here and start giving orders. Now get the hell out of this cemetery, and get the hell out of this village!”
There's a pause, and then the man says something in response before turning and walking toward the gate. As he goes, he glances this way and we briefly make eye contact. Turning, I set off again on my bike, but I stop at the next corner and look back once more. The man is now out of view, and I watch as Tim checks the lock on the church's door. Even from here, I can tell that he's angry about something. He's scowling, and I think he's even talking to himself, and then finally he turns and starts stomping over to the gate.
I don't know who that man was, but it's clear that he managed to make Tim Murphy absolutely furious.
***
As I open the front door, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. It's not until I've shut the door and started taking off my coat, however, that I realize I only recognize one of the voices. Caroline's in there, but she sounds stressed and a moment later I hear an unfamiliar male voice speaking to her very softly and calmly. Whoever she's talking to, it's certainly not Brian.
I hesitate for a moment, before heading to the doorway and looking through, and to my surprise I see that Caroline is talking to the same man I saw earlier in the cemetery. He was arguing with Tim Murphy back then, and now he seems to be upsetting Caroline. She's just about to say something to him, but then she freezes as soon as she spots me, and she looks horrified that I'm home early.
“Mark, can you go to your room, please?” she snaps. “Now.”
“What's wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing, just go to your room. I'll let you know when you can come down.”
“You must be Mark Duffley,” the man says, stepping toward me with an outstretched hand. “I'm -”
“Don't shake his hand, Mark,” Caroline says sternly.
I open my mouth to ask again what's wrong, but now I'm starting to feel really creeped out. Caroline looks like she's close to tears, while the strange man is staring at me.
“Go to your room,” Caroline says again. “That's an order, Mark.”
“I think the boy's old enough to make his own decisions,” the man says. “Mark, I'd like to talk to you about -”
“Enough!” Caroline shouts, before rushing over and pushing me back out into the hallway. “Go to your room!” she says firmly, as if she's on the verge of some kind of meltdown. I think there are even tears in her eyes. “Now! No arguments, just go!”
Shocked by her demeanor, I pause for a moment and then I do as I'm told. Turning, I head to the stairs and then up to the landing, and as I reach the halfway point I hear the kitchen door being slammed shut. By the time I get to the top of the stairs I can hear Caroline raising her voice in the kitchen, and it sounds as if she's really giving this man a piece of her mind. Honestly, she's usually so quiet and polite, so it's a real surprise to hear her getting so angry and animated down there. I can't imagine what could do this to her.
I make my way over to my bedroom, but then I stop as I hear the kitchen door opening again. Footsteps move toward the front door, and then I hear that open as well.
“If you change your mind,” the man says calmly, “I'll be at the Hog and Bucket for at least the rest of the week. I'm not trying to cause trouble here, Mrs. Neill. Quite the opposite. Containment isn't working, and sooner or later the people of this village need to accept that there's a -”
“Leave my house now, please,” she says firmly.
“It's only -”
“Get out of my house. Now. Before I call the authorities and have you removed.”
There's a pause, and then I hear the front door swinging shut, leaving the house in silence. And then, a few seconds later, I hear Caroline starting to sob.
My first instinct is to go down and ask if she's okay, but somehow I feel as if she probably wants to be left alone. Besides, it's not as if she'd actually tell me what's wrong. Over the past couple of weeks, I've noticed her having several hushed, secretive conversations with her husband, and the conversations always stop as soon as they realize that I'm around. I've never managed to overhear what they're talking about, and when I ask they just say that there's nothing for me to worry about. They treat me like a child who has no right to know the truth.
Heading into my room, I go over to the window and look out. At first I look at the spire of the church, but then I look down and spot movement in the street. The man is walking away from the cottage, heading back toward town. He's already upset two people here in Briarwych this morning, which makes me really wonder who he is and why he's here. Whatever it is, I reckon it must be linked to the way everyone whispers around here and acts like they're keeping some big secret.
I guess there's only one way I'm ever going to find out what's really going on here in Briarwych.
Chapter Twelve
Mark
My first stroke of luck is that when I arrive at the Hog and Bucket, there's no sign of Brian. Based on Caroline's reaction to the strange visitor earlier, I'm pretty sure that Brian would haul me out of here as soon as he spotted me. And my seconds stroke of luck is that, as I slip through the crowd and make my way to the bar, I spot the strange man eating at a corner table.
I don't go straight over. Instead, I go to the bar and order a Coke, and then I watch as the man continues to eat. He's wearing all black, which is something I hadn't noticed before, and there's something very calm about him. I can just about see his plate, and he seems to be eating from left to right. There's something strangely fascinating about this guy, and I can't help staring at him for a few minutes until, finally, he wipes his mouth on a napkin and then gets to his feet.
I immediately look down at my drink, in case I'm spotted, but out of the corner of my eye I can see the man heading through to the corridor that leads to the beer garden. I glance around, to make doubly certain that Brian's not here, and then I slip through the crowd of drinkers and head along the corridor myself. I don't even know what I want to say to this guy, b
ut I guess I just want to hear why he's here.
Reaching the back door, I pull it open and step out into the beer garden, but to my surprise there's no-one out there. I glance around for a moment, trying to figure out where the man might have gone, and then I shut the door before turning to go back to the bar.
“Hello, Mr. Duffley,” the man says as I almost slam straight into him. “Shall we talk in my room?”
***
“And what exactly did your friend say while she was sitting on the altar?” Liam asks, as he makes some more notes in his journal. “Do you remember the exact words she used?”
“Not the exact words,” I reply, “just... She kept asking me why I was in the church, which is stupid 'cause she knew why. And she said it was her church, which didn't make sense either.”
He makes some more notes.
“But I still don't get why you're asking me about all this,” I continue. “Kerry was sick, but it wasn't to do with anything in that church. It was just a coincidence that we were in there the night before.” I wait for him to agree with me, but he's simply writing more and more notes. “Are you a priest?” I add finally.
“Hmm?”
He glances at me, and for a moment he looks a little puzzled by the question.
“Oh,” he continues, “yes, I am. I mean, among other things. I have been a priest, but now my day-to-day activities are a little different.”
“Are you from, like, the Pope or someone?” I ask.
He furrows his brow. “The Pope?”
“Yeah. Did the Pope send you? 'Cause it's a church, and I guess we broke in, so maybe the Pope heard and he's sent you to sort it out.”
“Briarwych Church comes under the authority of the Anglican community in this country,” he replies. “It's not a Catholic institution.”