Firewatching

by Russ Thomas

  “Ah, now. Well, that makes all the difference then. Where is she?”

  “She was here earlier. She’s gone home with Jean Thorogood.”

  “The vicar’s mouse? All right, let’s go see the grieving granny. But can we at least get some breakfast first?” He steps into the garden and takes three sharp sniffs at the early morning air. “You know, for some reason I could murder a bacon breadcake.”

  Tyler stares at him.

  “What?” Doggett asks innocently.

  * * *

  —

  Lily wakes slowly, piecing herself together from half-remembered dreams. She knows there is something she has forgotten, and she’s running out of time to remember. There’s something coming for her out of the darkness. Something heavy and hairy that smells strongly of cologne. She opens her eyes and turns toward Edna. Instead she sees a wooden door, its white gloss thick with multiple coats that have bled into streaks. She doesn’t know this place. She shouldn’t be here. She fights her way out from under the bedclothes and is shocked when she throws them off easily. The duvet falls with a dull flump off the end of the bed. And then it reaches for her, the monster from the darkness, arriving like a great slavering beast here to feed on her sanity. She feels it clawing at her stomach, raking its bony digits through her mind, pulling her back with it, down into the shadows. And then she is simply lying in the sun, still fully clothed, in a strange room. And she remembers. She remembers that Edna is gone.

  The vicarage. Not the old one that she knows so well. The new vicarage, the home of the Thorogoods. Yes. She remembers, but only vaguely. It’s hard to separate dream from reality. Except for Edna. That was real. Edna is gone.

  She raises herself up on one elbow. What on earth convinced her to come here of all places? Someone, Mrs. Thorogood presumably, has taken her shoes off for her and placed them neatly by the bedside. It feels like a very intimate act from a comparative stranger. But she is certain it is not the sort of thing the reverend would have done. God help her! She swings her legs round, sits up, slips her stockinged feet back into her shoes, and laces them. She brushes down the floral dress. When was the last time she slept in her clothes? Perhaps that night on the rooftop. After the noise and the fear faded, after the flames died and their violent vigil subsided into quiet contemplation. She’d slept then, her head cradled in Edna’s lap.

  She has slept, she realizes. It seems almost disrespectful how easily sleep claimed her. Not that she feels rested in any real sense, but still, she’s sure Edna wouldn’t approve. She stands and walks to the window. The day is to be bright and hot. The weather has made no allowance for her loss. On the contrary, the summer has made another assault on them, fighting to the last. The end of the world is surprisingly pleasant.

  On a chair next to the bed Mrs. Thorogood has left a towel. Lily picks it up and goes in search of a bathroom. How long has she been here? How long has Edna been gone? Judging by the sun it’s late morning, but on what day? Was it only last night that Edna fell? Or perhaps she has slept longer, right through: a day, a night, another day. “A healing sleep,” her mother would call it. A year, even. Perhaps this is the next summer or the one after that. Not that it matters. From now on they will all be the same: empty and long. She can’t breathe in this place. The corridors seem to go on and on. She quickens her pace, hurrying toward the stairs. When she reaches the top she trips on the rutted carpet, begins to fall, saving herself at the last moment with a wobbly banister. She hurries down the stairs and tries the front door, but it’s locked. She dashes along a hallway, finds the kitchen; the door into the garden stands wide open before her. And then she’s out, out into the warm morning air where she can finally breathe again.

  It’s a small garden, only a few feet long, once well-kept but now the grass is a little overgrown, the flower beds thickening with weeds. For some reason the Thorogoods appear to have had other priorities than gardening lately. Lily sits down on a bench by the back door and considers all the things that will need doing. Funeral arrangements, solicitors, notifications. All the things Edna tried to tell her about, but she wouldn’t listen. She’ll have to see the man at the bank—what’s his name? Edna would know—and the house will need cleaning, too, since she can’t very well invite people back for tea with that stain on the front carpet.

  Then what? Life goes on, isn’t that what they say? But what for and for how long? She is so full of questions suddenly, questions only Edna can answer. Why had she so stubbornly refused to ask them when she had the chance? But there is one question she steadfastly refuses to acknowledge. Edna. Lying on the floor with her head smashed into the fireplace. No, she won’t think about that.

  Lily steadies her breathing. Stick to the practical things; that’s what Edna would say. First she has to contact people.

  Oscar.

  The grief hits her like a physical force. It takes her down and pins her under its weight. She cries out into the choked garden, her body heaving with sobs that threaten to burst her chest. She can hear herself crying, like she’s listening to some kitchen-sink drama on the wireless. She wants to stop but the more she tries to, the worse it gets. How will she tell him? He’ll blame her, and he’ll be right to; after all, all of this is her fault. When Edna needed her most she wasn’t there.

  The rotting bench groans under her insubstantial weight and shocks her into silence. Oscar. She has to be strong for him. She’s the adult now. She is all he has left, and for a moment that treacherous thought thrills her. The shame helps dry her tears.

  Mrs. Thorogood arrives back full of apologies. She just popped out for some milk. She wouldn’t have normally left her alone but Sebastian had been so intent on getting to the church, it being a Sunday and all. Is Lily feeling any better? Lily thanks her for her kindness, but she must get back.

  When she gets home the cottage is still being invaded by strangers. Lily sits back down on the steps leading up to the lawn and stares at the house. Funny how once, not so long ago, she had felt trapped by this place and now it feels as though the cottage is shutting her out, rejecting her. As though this was Edna’s place and she has no right to be here.

  You’re too hard on yourself, says a voice behind her. It’s accompanied by the sound of the canopied sun lounger groaning as it swings. But the sun lounger is still inside, folded up where Edna left it.

  Lily says, “I thought you’d gone.”

  Yes, says Edna, that’s always been your trouble, Lily Bainbridge. You think too much.

  “You were right about the trip. I shouldn’t have gone.”

  Edna grunts. What’s done is done.

  The phantom swing continues to creak. For a while they sit together in silence watching the strangers moving in and out of their home.

  After a while Edna says, They’ll be coming to ask you questions now. I can’t protect you any longer.

  “I know,” says Lily. “But I don’t think I have the answers.”

  We knew this was coming.

  “Did we?” Lily asks.

  The swing stops.

  * * *

  —

  Rabbani is on her way back from the café in the village, Doggett’s bastard bacon sandwich tucked under one arm. After a morning of poking round both the old ladies’ cottage and the Old Vicarage, Doggett had been complaining that his stomach thought his throat had been cut. She’d spent the morning looking into Thorogood, or Felbridge, or whatever he liked to call himself, and she’d actually found something. Something important. But did he want to hear it? No. Just banged on about her knowing her place, and how she better not forget the brown sauce. She knows this is just his way of testing her, that she won’t be fetching the sandwich orders forever, but still, it rankles. She should have gone to Tyler with what she’d found, but there’s something about him she finds even more intimidating than Doggett. Well, she won’t make the same mistake again. When she gets back she’l
l go straight to him and . . .

  It’s then she sees him, the Reverend Thorogood, hurrying along the road ahead of her. He moves quickly, hampered only by the fact he keeps slowing to look over his shoulder. He stops once at the churchyard gates, does the perfect impression of an amateur spy, and then rushes up the path and into the church itself.

  Now, what was he acting all furtive-like about? It isn’t as though he doesn’t have a reason to be there. She checks her watch. Morning service would be over by now, but he must have other chores to be getting on with. Still, there was something about him. . . . She revises her opinion. Not furtive exactly, more . . . scared. She thinks about it for a good thirty seconds or more before she decides to follow him in. If she’s going back to Doggett with a cold butty, she’d better have something to show for it.

  She opens the iron gate of the churchyard and it squeaks its resistance. She hurries up the path, the greasy sandwich still warm under her arm, and places a hand on the big iron ring of the door. This time it turns with a loud click. She pushes on the heavy wood and it creaks loudly. She steps inside.

  Inside, the church is in better repair, although the prayer cushions are faded and frayed and the pews are pitted with age. To her right, against one of the central columns, stands an ornate golden cross on a pedestal, chained to the floor so no one can steal it. She wonders how much that would add to the cardboard thermometer outside. There’s no sign of Thorogood.

  She wouldn’t describe herself as a devout Muslim—she doesn’t pray five times a day, she has the occasional drink with the girls—but still, this place is a long way from what she’s used to. Stained-glass windows, statues, ornate carvings. The decadence is astounding. Perhaps part of it is the age as well—the oldest mosque she’s ever been in was built in the ’60s—but there’s something about this place that seems almost obscene. Why would you need all this to feel closer to God? There’s a crucifix hanging behind the altar, four feet long, the ornately carved wood covered with dust. She’s always hated those things. It’s just plain gruesome. How can they expect you to pray with that hideous thing looking down on you?

  There’s no denying there’s a serenity about the place, though. She has second thoughts about her reasons for being here. Can she really question a man of God in his place of worship? Even if it isn’t her god, and, let’s be honest, who’s to say that it isn’t? But then she remembers how Thorogood treated her a couple of days ago, the lascivious look he gave her. She decides she can. She’ll be respectful, of course, but he’s up to something and it’s her job to find out what.

  Where is he? She considers calling out for him, but something stops her. There’s a doorway tucked to the left of—whatever that bit round the altar is called. The chancel? The apse? No, an apse has a dome, doesn’t it? They did all this at school, but she can’t remember it.

  She moves quietly toward the door. It probably leads into the vestry. Or maybe that’s the chancel? The door is ajar, and from behind it comes the sound of voices. Something makes her slow her pace a little, and when she reaches the door she stops to listen for a moment.

  Two voices. Raised. She still can’t make out the words; they come to her deadened by the thick wood of the door. She can see nothing through the gap but a thin sliver of wall. She leans in, puts her ear to the space between the door and the jamb.

  She recognizes the clipped, pious tone of the vicar. The other voice is unfamiliar, though. A rougher, deeper voice.

  “. . . not a coincidence, is it?” asks the deep-voiced man.

  “Why now?” The high-pitched reverend.

  A grunt. “You think they don’t know you were involved?”

  “Who, for Christ’s sake? Who’s doing this?”

  The deep-voiced man says something but Rabbani misses it.

  “Christ, Wentworth, you shouldn’t have come here! What do you want?”

  “Some journalist woman’s been asking questions. About you.”

  “Thank you for the warning, but I’m well aware of her.”

  There’s silence for a few seconds and then the deep-voiced man—Wentworth—speaks again. “I’m going away for a bit.”

  “Brilliant! And that’s not going to look at all suspicious.”

  “I need some cash. Not a lot. Few hundred, maybe.”

  Now it’s the reverend’s turn to go quiet. When he finally speaks, it’s quietly, so Rabbani can barely make out the words. “Jesus Christ, you’re serious!”

  “There’s stuff I could tell her.”

  Rabbani jumps. He’s right on the other side of the door. She hurries back down the aisle, missing Wentworth’s reply. She hears the door squeak behind her and Thorogood’s voice chases her through the church. “Get out of here!”

  She’s halfway down the aisle when she realizes she isn’t going to make it without one of them seeing her. Why does that matter? She has every right to be here. But then some small element of self-preservation reminds her that one of these men could be a murderer. Possibly both. She veers to the right and ducks behind a screen, her heart hammering inside her chest, the grease of the sandwich oozing across her palm. She sees now that the screen is in fact a paneled noticeboard. The blue felt is covered with line drawings and artist impressions—the restoration plans for the church, tacked up for public viewing. If they discover her here she can pretend she is merely curious about the renovation of a local landmark. They won’t know that she heard anything. If she can just get her breathing under control.

  Their footsteps echo through the church and instinctively she ducks, crouching low behind the screen and ruining her alibi.

  “Get out,” the vicar shouts again.

  “You want to be careful, Sebastian. You’ve got just as much to lose as me. More, come to think of it.”

  “And if it comes to it, it’s your word against mine. Who do you think they’ll believe?”

  “What about this fire starter, eh? You think he gives a toss about words?”

  There’s a narrow gap in the bifold screen, but when she puts her eye to it she’s in time only to see the back of someone leaving the church. Wentworth, she supposes, the gardener Tyler and Doggett spoke to. She sees Thorogood’s face is red with fury. He stands there panting for a few seconds, recovering his equilibrium. Then he kicks the backmost pew, and the wood lets out a harsh screech as it grates across the flagstones. He sighs, turns, and walks out of the church. The door closes with a loud thunk, and the turning of the key reverberates round the church, echoing through the rafters above.

  “Wait!” Her voice booms out across the pews. She runs for the door. She bangs on it and rattles the handle. “Hey!” She’s sure he’s still out there; she heard him grunt. “Hey,” she shouts again, “I’m locked in here.” She listens, thinks she might be able to hear him breathing. “This is the police. Open the door.” She rattles the handle again and then waits. Nothing but silence.

  She looks round the church. There must be another way.

  The room where the argument took place is hot and stuffy in comparison with the cool interior of the church. There’s a smaller door on the far side that must lead into the community hall she saw when she was here before, but this door is locked as well.

  This is ridiculous. How long is he planning to leave her here? Not all night, surely. Fuck that. She reaches into her pocket for her phone. The lads are going to have a field day with this. Her hand finds nothing, and an image forms in her mind of her mobile on the desk in the incident room, Doggett shouting at her about bacon and Muslims. She had grabbed her purse and pretty much run to the village. She looks down and finds she’s still holding the greasy sandwich in her left hand. “Oh, for f—” She throws it down on a table, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath.

  She sees an old kitchen chair draped in discarded robes—cassocks—the word comes to her in an unsatisfying flash of inspiration. This is bullshit! She push
es the garments onto the floor and sits down. Now what? She can’t just sit here until he comes back. She coughs a little and clears her throat. She’ll look a complete twat, which is exactly what he wants, of course. There must be a phone . . . or something. She coughs again. It isn’t as though she can even climb out the windows; most of them are too high to reach, and the ones that aren’t are patterned with stained glass and leaded lights. Even if she could find a way to climb up there and smash the glass, there’s no way to get through the lead. Not to mention how much they must be worth; Jordan would crucify her! What is that smell? Something like car fumes or . . . she coughs once more, violently this time, struggles to catch her breath. And now she notices how dark the room has grown while she’s been sitting there. A sense of movement draws her eye back to the door that leads into the community hall. Rolling clouds of dark gray smoke begin to billow up and fill the room.

  * * *

  —

  Tyler decides that persuading Doggett to forgo his sandwich in order to question Lily Bainbridge is probably going to turn out to be marginally easier than persuading him not to sack Rabbani when she finally gets back. The wasted journey to the Thorogoods’ house does nothing to improve his temper either. By the time they return to find Bainbridge sitting back in the garden of her own cottage, knees up to her chin, arms wrapped protectively round her legs like a schoolgirl waiting for the bus, Doggett is ready to kill someone.

  Tyler decides he’d better take the lead. “Miss Bainbridge?”

  She looks up. “Oh, are you finished now?”

  He glances at Doggett, who shrugs his approval to go on. “Not quite,” he tells her. “We just have a few more questions.”

  “You’d better come in,” she says, getting to her feet.

  Danny Atkins from Uniform is standing guard in the conservatory and he turns, intent on barring her path, but Bainbridge stops anyway, before she even reaches the doorstep. The smell comes to Tyler over her head. He watches her as she stares beyond the conservatory to the stain on the living room carpet.