by Rosie Dean
Oblique shafts of sunlight beamed through the windows. Huge sprays of flowers in creams and pinks flanked the aisles and the fragrance of lilies almost blocked out the dry, dusty smell of old church. The bride was in an ivory-coloured dress in lampshade couture, and her two bridesmaids wore purple, off-the shoulder numbers, which I’m confident would never again see the light of day. There were big hats, little fascinators and fancy hair-dos. I was taking this all in, as displacement activity from the main event…studying Josh Warwick at work.
He stood before the bride and groom, confidently belting out the hymn in a clear baritone, as he surveyed the faces before him. I looked down at my service sheet, determined not to catch his eye – although I stuck out like a sore thumb, with four empty rows between me and the wedding guests.
After the hymn we sat. Josh smiled at the couple and muttered something that made them chuckle, before he addressed us all. The cool temperature in the church was a bonus, so I hitched up my skirt and enjoyed the flow of air around my legs.
Josh’s voice, though raised for the benefit of an audience, still had a mellow quality; the kind of voice that’s easy to listen to – I mean properly listen to, like you wanted to hear what he had to say.
After the official bit of the ceremony, his personal address really got to me. He said, ‘There are so many terms you can use to sum up how you feel about each other: You complete me; You’re the light of my life; You rock my world…but I think one of the simplest things you can say, and should continue to say to each other, is Thank you. Whether that’s Thank you for sharing my life or Thank you for putting the dustbin out. Don’t take each other for granted. Right now, you are the most precious thing in each other’s life and if you can hold onto that, you’ll make an unbeatable team.’
A snapshot of Emma and Tony coohing over Moses, surfaced in my mind, followed by another of Trina and Elliot. Who would be my team mate or was I destined to fly solo? I conjured up another snapshot of me, in this very church, pledging my troth to Alexander Marshal.
As the bride sat to sign the register, I slipped outside, ready to catch some pictures of them emerging into the sunlight, and was quickly followed by the official photographer, who marked his territory with bags and tripod, so I retreated to the back of the graveyard and fitted my telephoto.
They were so lucky with the weather. No wild gusts of wind threatened to throttle the bride with her own veil or stir her mother’s feathery fascinator. I moved around the graveyard, apologising quietly to the grave dwellers as I trampled over mossy, crumbling stones. The church looked good too. I zoomed in on window mouldings, a house-martins’ nest beneath the eaves and the bells in the tower. Most of the guests were chatting and laughing, and a small group were passing round a packet of Rothmans. By contrast, standing apart from them, one guy looked downright grumpy – as if the groom had stolen his one, true love. He was tall and scrawny with pale, pock-marked skin. He resembled a vulture, with his hooked nose and rounded shoulders. As I focused on the blur of a tattoo crawling up his neck, he looked straight at me – a nasty frown depressing his forehead and shaming me into lowering my camera.
Eventually, the wedding crowd left in a drift of artificial rose petals. I caught some neat shots by scrambling onto the graveyard wall and looking down on the departing newlyweds. As the last of the cars drove away, I wandered back to the church, hoping Josh wouldn’t mind if I took some pictures inside, and possibly even pose for me.
As I stepped into the porch, a hot, sweaty hand clamped over my mouth and another grabbed me round the waist. I heard myself gurgling like the victim in a horror movie, just as a heavy, oil-smelling cloth was thrown over my head. I kicked out with my legs, connecting with someone. There was a low curse before another hand grabbed my leg and the back of a fist cracked against my cheek.
Steel-tipped heels ground against flagstones and chimed against metal gratings on the church floor.
My throat swelled. My head buzzed. My heart throbbed faster and larger in my chest. The hand over my mouth was clamped so hard, thumb and forefinger sealed my nostrils. Light that was seeping through the cloth dimmed, and I passed out.
Chapter 17
Coming to, I could feel and smell sticky tape over my mouth. My hands had been tied behind my back with coarse rope. There was a hot, stinging throb on my cheekbone and the taste of blood in my mouth, where the cheek had torn against my molars.
Visions of unspeakable atrocities flicked through my mind, like a horror show at double speed. In that moment, I knew I was relatively undamaged, but who knew what else my captors had planned for me?
I was lying on a cold, stone floor. I could make out stone carvings and plaques on the walls. Light from within the church was coming through a wrought iron gate at the top of a short run of stone steps. Looking further around, it didn’t take much to work out I was in the crypt. A chill deeper than the stonework passed through me.
But today was Saturday. Tomorrow, the church would surely open again for Sunday services and I’d be found…or maybe not. Maybe they’d gone off to commit some other, more serious crime and would be back.
I listened.
Somewhere in the church there was movement. Josh? Could he be involved? Was my judgement of men so out of whack I’d completely misread his motives?
My heart thumped as it picked up speed and my stomach clenched. I dropped my head back down and feigned unconsciousness.
Footsteps approached. Keys turned in the heavy gate. There was the smack of something landing on the floor. I opened my eyes and lifted my head to look round but one of my stupid bunches flopped over my eye. The footsteps retreated and I heard the church door close with a heavy and final thunk. Another lock slid into place.
Crunching gravel outside died away until car doors slammed – two – an engine fired, a gear was selected and the vehicle drove away.
Silence. I breathed heavily and closed my eyes.
Oh sweet Jesus. Mary Mother of God and all the Angels in Heaven, I prayed. Funny how you can find religion when the time’s right.
No, that was nonsense.
Tears sprang to my eyes. Dad, I pleaded silently, please help me. If his spirit had survived, he’d look after me.
I lay still – listening, watching. I don’t know what I was expecting to happen but there were no clouds of golden light or whispers of comfort. Just silence. Finally, I rolled up into a sitting position and let out a muffled cry at the sight of a body lying close by. It was not a celestial body. In the dim light I couldn’t tell who it was or if they were alive or dead.
I held my breath to listen for theirs.
Nothing.
I drew my knees up and prepared to stand. Did I want to find out? Did I have a choice?
I stood, shakily, and braced myself against the wall. Finally, I moved over to take a better look at the crumpled heap in the shadows. It didn’t take long for me to recognise Josh; his hair stuck to his temple by congealing blood. I leaned over, trying to see how much damage there was. The blood was still moist. I knelt right up against him, turning my ear to listen for breathing.
He was alive. I closed my eyes and thanked the universe.
I leaned over and made a noise that came as close to saying his name as possible.
Nothing.
I hovered over his ear, close to the scar and gave it my loudest shot. He groaned, then his head lolled over and our noses touched. I moved back, nudging him with my thigh until his eyes opened. There was a delay as he tried to figure out where he was and probably why I was looming over him with parcel tape across my face. Suddenly, he raised his eyebrows. He frowned and glanced hastily to and fro.
I nodded and hummed, ‘Okay? Okay?’
He frowned some more and tried to move. His hands were also fastened behind his back. Eventually, he sat up but lolled groggily. Worried he might keel over again, I shuffled up to him to support his back – the stone floor scraping my knees. He sighed and looked over his shoulder at me, his eyes focusi
ng momentarily on my taped mouth. He shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he seemed to be saying.
I smiled. At least, I hoped my eyes did.
‘Wait.’ I grunted again, and pressed my forehead against his back to look down at the knots of rope around his wrists. I felt sure I could undo them. I grunted at him and moved myself round so we were back to back, where I could work on the ropes with my constricted fingers. Over and over again my fingers contorted on the tight, harsh knots. I tugged with my nails, painfully snapping one of them. Every time I thought I was close to loosening it, cramp bit into my muscles. In one last ditch effort, I rode the cramp, wincing and grunting through the pain until I felt the loop give and one knot was undone. Finally, the rope loosened completely and I felt his hands move apart. I collapsed against him, tears of relief welling up. There was a noise as he peeled the tape from his face.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get up now, okay?’ I grunted and leaned away. He came round to take the tape from my mouth, placing one hand beneath my ear, his fingers supporting the back of my head and his thumb lightly touching my jaw. I watched his eyes, half-closed with concentration. Carefully, he lifted the corner of tape with his other hand and began to peel it back. ‘This might hurt a bit,’ he said, in a low, soothing way that inspired confidence.
It did, but I gritted my teeth. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’
He nodded and wiped a tear from my cheek. ‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘I’m okay. Who were they? What did they want?’
He moved around the back of me and began working on the knots of rope. ‘No idea. But they’ll have taken the silver and the cash from the collection.’
‘Do you have a key to the gate?’ I asked, more in hope than expectation.
‘Not on me. Our best bet is somebody coming into the church,’ he said, finally loosening the rope.
I shook my arms free and rubbed the muscles. Then I dug the phone out of my pocket and switched it on. ‘I think I heard them locking the door but we can ring the police,’ I said, all fired up until I spotted ‘No Signal’ flashing across the screen. I stood and went over to the gate, pushing my arm through the bars. Still no signal. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘The village is in a dip. I barely get reception at the vicarage.’
His hair was dishevelled and the blood was congealing above his brow. He was still wearing his long, black frock; the white smock was gone, as was the embroidered scarf, but he still looked unsettling in a Thornbirds forbidden fruit kind of way. I moved to the far edge of the steps.
‘Maybe there’s somewhere in here where it’ll work.’ I wasn’t going to give up until I’d tried every corner of that wretched crypt. Josh watched while I went from side to side, thrusting my hand up against walls and tombs in the futile hope of a result, until finally, I conceded defeat. ‘What about the gate?’ I asked. ‘Can we pick the lock or rattle it loose?’
‘Not unless you’ve got a very big hairpin.’
The lock was huge. You’d need a handbag for the key alone.
I went over and grasped two of the bars. Like a caged animal, I shook it. There was barely a movement.
Josh spoke. ‘I’m afraid we might have to miss out on Classics at Clavering.’
Of course. Lex would give up on me completely if I didn’t make it tonight. ‘It’s the perfect evening for it, too,’ I said, dropping my forehead against the gate.
‘Yes, it is.’ There was a note of sympathy in his voice, which made me feel like the spoilt little madam I was turning into. There he was, like Reverend Green who’d been coshed on the head with a candlestick, and I was Miss Scarlet – worrying about missing out on a fancy picnic.
I turned towards him and noticed a bottle of water on the floor. Maybe the robbers had had a pang of conscience. ‘Here, you could probably do with a drink.’
He thanked me and took a sip. ‘Best not drink it all at once,’ he said.
‘Why? How long do you think we’re going to be here?’
He shrugged. ‘If the church is locked then I’m afraid, unless one of the church wardens comes down, we’re here for the night.’
‘Noooo!’
He gave me a sympathetic look, completely misinterpreting my frustration.
Lex would think I’d stood him up. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Chapter 18
So we were locked in a crypt, surrounded by dead people. How many times had I watched Ghost Hunters and wondered why people willingly spent long, dark nights in spooky places, just to goad the spirits into their fifteen minutes of fame?
Josh must have read the look on my face. ‘We’ll be okay. Although it might get a bit chilly later.’
Chilly? Later? My blood was running cold just thinking about it. So cold, my jaws had locked.
‘It’s one night, Millie. Sixteen hours, tops.’
Sixteen hours? I looked around me. Sixteen hours in a burial chamber? I gulped. There was no comfy bed, no TV and no mini-bar but the main concern pressing on my brain was: no toilet.
Josh offered me the water. ‘Do you want a drink?’
I shook my head.
He placed the bottle on the floor and, as he straightened up, staggered towards the wall. I shot forward and caught hold of him. ‘Hey there, big fella,’ I said as he leaned heavily against me. I managed to sit him down with his back against the wall.
‘Is there a light in here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but the switch is on the panel by the main door.’
Fortunately, we were in a pool of light opposite the gate, so I could get a better look at his head. The gash was a couple of centimetres and had stopped oozing blood but his forehead was hot. I poured some water onto the hem of my skirt and cleaned around the wound, mopping his forehead as I did so. And it’s strange, but the brain can cough up the oddest phrases when in extremis. My particular gem on this occasion was: ‘Thank goodness I wore a circular skirt.’
To which he replied, ‘As the actress said to the bishop.’
And it was at that point, the prospect of sixteen hours with Josh Warwick didn’t seem quite so tedious, after all.
Remembering what I’d learned on a first aid course for dealing with concussion, I asked him to tell me how many fingers I was holding up, what was his date of birth (Pisces), did he feel sick and could he recite the alphabet? So, he took a deep breath, looked me in the eye and recited it backwards.
‘Smartarse,’ I muttered and he smiled back at me.
We sat, side by side, for a while and discussed whether or not we should scream for help but since there was half a metre of stone between us and the outside world, and the church was isolated from the rest of the village, decided it would be a waste of energy. We were a good three hundred metres from Marshalhampton House, with hedges and trees between, and the nearest house was the empty vicarage.
‘Surely, they’ll notice we’re missing and come looking for us?’ I suggested. ‘After all, my car’s outside Vonnie’s house and…oh no. I was leaving it there, anyway. But Lex and all the others will be worried when we don’t turn up, won’t they? They’re bound to raise the alarm. Don’t you think?’
His head tilted to one side and he smiled. ‘Unfortunately, just because they notice we’re missing, doesn’t mean they’ll come looking for us. For all they know, the car broke down.’
‘But surely, someone will see your car outside the vicarage and know we haven’t left.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I usually keep my car in the garage.’
Of course. His pride and joy. I dropped my head. Lex would probably still have a great evening without me…especially with the supremely gorgeous Serena being stood-up as well.
‘Won’t Serena try to call you?’
‘I expect so. But she knows how poor the mobile service is around here.’
We sat for a few moments while I thought about Lex and Serena consoling each other – as they surely would – and Josh no doubt thinking the same
.
‘Did they hurt you?’ he asked, studying my face.
I could feel my cheekbone throbbing. ‘No.’
‘It looks very red, is that where you fell?’ he asked, smoothing hair back from my face and focusing on my cheek. It was a platonic gesture but after months of repression, the recent shake up in my hormones had turned them feral, and I could feel a molecular reaction brewing.
‘No.’ I inched back and put a hand up to feel how tender it was. ‘One of them hit me.’
‘Bastard!’ he spat out, which shocked and yet impressed me. Then his hand touched my face again, very tenderly, as he steadied it to take a closer look. He smelled warm, clean and male.
I swallowed. ‘But I think I might have bruised one of them. I was kicking like mad.’
He frowned. ‘Good job they didn’t do you any more damage.’
My mind replayed the scene and my heart thumped. ‘What if they come back? They might just be moving the silver to a hiding place and come back in the dark to bump us off and stick us in one of these tombs. Nobody would think to look there. It’d be the perfect crime.’ I could hear the pitch of my voice rising. ‘Or they might take us to that building site outside Churchill and drop us in concrete. Maybe when I kicked him, I made it worse...’
Josh took hold of my hand and held it in both of his. ‘Millie, they won’t come back. They’d have nothing to gain. For all they know, we could have been found by now, so the last thing they’ll do is return to the scene of the crime and get caught.’ I looked down at his strong hands holding mine. One of his thumbs was stroking my wrist.
‘But what if they’re watching the church?’
‘Why would they? Millie, they hit me because they wanted to immobilize me and steal the silver. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’