Silent Saturday

by Helen Grant

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Book

  De Jager, that was what he called himself, that was what defined him. The hunter.

  And tonight, he had work to do . . .

  Veerle is frustrated with her life in suburban Brussels. But a chance encounter with a hidden society, whose members illegally break into unoccupied buildings around the city, soon opens up a whole new world of excitement – and danger.

  When one of the society’s founding members disappears, Veerle suspects foul play. But nothing can prepare her for the horror that is about to unfold when an old foe emerges from the shadows.

  No one is safe, and the hunter will strike again.

  For my father, William Bond

  Prologue

  Holy Saturday, ten years ago

  When the screaming got too bad, Veerle ran away.

  She had no idea what the row was about, how it had started. It was new and baffling and it gave her a creeping sensation of fearfulness, as though something cold and slimy were slithering over her bare skin.

  At first she simply tried not to listen. She pushed back her thick dark hair and put her hands over her ears, and did her best to concentrate on the book in front of her. It was large, hard-backed and entitled Explorers. The text was too difficult for a seven-year-old, but Veerle always loved to look at the pictures. The book was open at a double-page illustration of the Arctic, with a fur-clad man confronting a polar bear. Beyond the two figures was a seemingly endless expanse of snow and ice – pure, empty. Silent.

  Another scream rose from downstairs and Veerle flinched, her eyes round and shocked. Her hands were still clamped to her ears but it was no good, she could still hear it, and the only thing she could think of was to run away, out of earshot. She jumped up and the book fell unheeded onto the rug. Veerle ran. She ran out of her room and along the narrow landing, and then down the wooden staircase, her feet clattering on the boards. There was no danger of being heard; her parents were too busy screeching at each other. As she passed the kitchen door, closed in a futile attempt to keep the row from her tender ears, there came another great roar of fury that carried her like a tidal wave down the hallway, running as fast as her legs would carry her, the ends of her red cardigan flying out like wings. She had just enough presence of mind to close the front door carefully without slamming it, and then she was standing on the pavement, with her chest heaving.

  She wasn’t crying, not yet, but now there were drops of water on her face, running down like tears. Rain was falling, and she had not thought to grab her rain jacket from the peg in the hallway. It was too daunting to think of re-entering the house, the narrow hall that reverberated with anger like the throat of some monstrous beast. Instead she dashed across Kerkstraat, the street of terraced brick houses where she lived, slipped through the gate in the wall, and ran for the door of the Sint-Pauluskerk, the great stone-built church.

  It was open; as she slipped into the cool darkness inside, she was greeted by the familiar church smell of stale incense, wood polish and dusty hymn books.

  The door did not lead directly into the church interior; instead there was a kind of vestibule, lined with wooden panels. Leaning against the panelling, turning something over in his hands, was a boy, perhaps a year older than she was, skinny and sharp-featured with a shock of untidy dark hair. Veerle recognized him at once, as anyone in the village would have. Kris Verstraeten, of those Verstraetens.

  The local telephone directory was full of Verstraetens but everyone knew who you meant if you talked about those ones – even someone as young as Veerle. She had heard her mother talking about them. Kris was the youngest of five; the oldest was already a jailbird. Veerle actually thought Kris was nice. Unlike his older brothers, he didn’t swear at smaller kids or shove them out of the way, and he never laughed at anything she said, even though she was younger than he was. All the same, she hadn’t expected to see him here, and for a moment curiosity intruded in spite of her woes. What is he doing in here? She opened her mouth to ask but Kris put a finger to his lips, tilting his head to indicate that someone was in the church.

  ‘Look,’ he said in a low voice, holding out his hand. Something gleamed in his palm. ‘The key to the bell tower.’

  Involuntarily, Veerle looked upwards. There was nothing to see, only the shadowy recesses of the wooden capsule that enclosed them, but she knew that the looming height of the tower was directly above their heads, thrusting into the grey sky like a rocket awaiting takeoff.

  ‘It’s Silent Saturday, right?’ continued Kris. ‘The day all the church bells fly off to Rome to get the Easter eggs. Supposedly.’

  Veerle nodded, her hazel eyes solemn. She knew the legend, as did all Flemish kids her age.

  ‘Well,’ Kris continued, ‘I’m going to go up there and see if it’s really gone. I bet it hasn’t. They just stop it ringing for the day, that’s all. I bet it’s still hanging up there.’

  Veerle heard a tiny metallic click as he slid the key into the lock, then a rattle as he turned it. The door swung towards them, light from an upper window revealing a circular stone staircase, the centre of each step worn with the passage of feet over hundreds of years.

  Kris looked at her. ‘Well? Do you want to come too?’

  Veerle thought about it. ‘Yes.’

  The stone stairs went up and up, spiralling away out of sight. It was like clambering into the whorl of a gigantic seashell. After a dizzying series of turns they reached the top of the stone stairs, and found themselves in the corner of a square room, the floor laid with wooden planks. There was also a worn and cobwebby wooden staircase, barely more than a ladder, running up to an opening in the ceiling.

  Kris went up it first, as agile as a monkey. His head reappeared in the hole. ‘It’s like a ladder. Just hold on with your hands.’

  Veerle approached the wooden steps. Kris was right: it was like climbing a ladder, and almost as steep. Halfway up, she began to wonder how she was going to get down again, but by then the floor was a long way below her, and it was easier to go up.
When she had almost reached the top, she felt Kris’s hands gripping and pulling her up. She flopped onto the wooden floor at the top of the steps and almost immediately sat up again, pulling a face.

  ‘Bird poo.’

  Kris wasn’t looking at her; he was standing up, brushing his hands on his jeans.

  ‘There’s another ladder,’ he said.

  Veerle glanced at it as she got to her feet. It was horribly cold here. The large square windows were not glazed, simply louvred, and in places the wooden slats were broken. The wind came straight through, howling dolefully and plucking at her clothes and hair. The combination of the yawning opening leading to the stairs and the sensation of rushing air was vertiginous; it was like being perched in the crow’s nest of a sailing ship, rolling and pitching on the sea. It was daunting to think of climbing up the ladder – and this one really was a ladder, there wasn’t even a handrail. All the same she didn’t want to look like a scaredy cat in front of Kris. She went over and stood by him, ready to do anything he did.

  Kris laid his hands on the ladder and pushed. It shifted, and with the movement a cloud of dust and pigeon droppings came down. He slapped his hands together.

  ‘I’m not going up there,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘No big deal. Maybe we can see from here.’

  He began to circle the foot of the ladder, peering up at the opening in the ceiling above. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. Veerle couldn’t tell whether he was satisfied or disappointed. He gestured for her to look.

  They both peered upwards. At first all you could see was a tangle of cross-hatched beams. Then Veerle leaned forward a little and she saw it. The mouth of the church bell, rimmed with grey-green, with the great round head of the clapper hanging in the centre.

  ‘It’s there,’ said Veerle. ‘It didn’t fly to Rome.’

  ‘No,’ said Kris disgustedly. He shrugged. ‘Let’s look out of the window.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We might as well. Now we’ve come all this way up. Maybe we can see as far as Brussels from here. See the Manneken Pis waving at you.’

  Veerle began to giggle at that – at the idea of seeing the little statue breaking off from his endless piddling to give her a cheery wave. She followed Kris over to one of the windows.

  The wind was very strong here. It made her eyes water. There wasn’t much to see, either; even standing on tiptoe she could only just peep over the bottom slat of the louvres. She caught a glimpse of slate roofs, a single chimney, grey sky.

  ‘Boring,’ was Kris’s verdict. He went over to one of the other windows, the one looking out from the front of the church. Veerle didn’t bother to follow him; she knew there would be nothing much to see. There had been a shop, long since closed down, on the corner opposite the church, but it had been knocked down months before and the site had not been redeveloped. Beyond the remains of the foundations there was nothing more interesting than a large expanse of allotments.

  ‘Can we go?’ she said.

  Kris had his back to her. He was looking out of the window, and when she spoke he didn’t turn round. ‘Wait,’ he said, preoccupied, and then, ‘I’m just . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  Veerle waited for a couple of seconds and then she said, ‘Just what?’

  There was no reply. Kris’s posture was hunched, as though he were concentrating hard on whatever he could see from the window. He seemed to have forgotten Veerle entirely.

  ‘Just what?’ she repeated insistently, and began to make her way over to him, with an idea of pulling on his arm to make him come away.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Kris very clearly.

  Veerle’s jaw dropped. He turned towards her and she saw that his face had a white, strained look. He put out his hands. ‘Stay there. Don’t look.’

  ‘Don’t look at what?’ Veerle tried to get past him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s – it’s Joren Sterckx.’

  ‘Who?’ The name didn’t mean anything to Veerle. The only thing that interested her right now was whatever it was that Kris didn’t want her to see. In spite of the wind and the cold, she couldn’t help wanting to look.

  She feinted left and then dodged to the right, slipping past Kris with ease. He didn’t look as though he had the energy to catch her. He looked as though something essential had drained out of him. He sagged against the rough stone wall and his face was almost greenish.

  There was a ledge running along the bottom of this wall. Climbing onto it, Veerle had a good view between the louvres.

  Who is Joren Sterckx? What is he doing?

  First she saw the foundations of the old shop opposite, fenced off to prevent anyone falling in. She could see a length of red-and-white warning tape twisting in the wind. Beyond the foundations were the allotments. Perhaps half a kilometre behind them was a row of houses, all but lost in the relentless grey rain. Down the centre of the allotments was a dirt track, rutted and muddy, and down this filthy path someone was walking, directly towards the church.

  The name Joren Sterckx had meant nothing to Veerle, but she recognized him all the same. She must have seen him dozens of times in the village. He was probably only about nineteen or twenty, but to Veerle he belonged to the ranks of Grown-Ups as clearly as Goliath belonged to the ranks of Giants. Tall, broad-shouldered and hulking, he had heavy, coarse-looking features and small surly eyes that peered out from under an untidy thatch of dirty blond hair. Even under normal circumstances he would have appeared intimidating to a small child, with his great bulk and unsmiling expression. Now he looked absolutely terrifying. His mouth was stretched impossibly wide in a silent howl, and his hair was plastered flat to his head by the pouring rain, and his eyes were screwed into tiny specks. With his blunt wet head and great gaping maw he looked like a man-eating shark.

  That was bad enough, but the rest was worse. Joren Sterckx was holding something in his arms, holding it across his body so that each end of the bundle flopped and bounced with every lumbering step he took. He had taken off his jacket and wrapped it around his burden, so now he was in his shirt, and it too was plastered to his skin with wet. You could see the outline of his massive shoulders through the sodden fabric, and the muscles of his meaty arms. The shirt, which had probably been white to begin with, had turned a kind of dirty yellow where it stuck to him – all except the front. The front was red, and it was not a neat, even red with clearly defined edges, as you might get from a panel of crimson fabric; it was a ragged, streaky dark red, staining the shirt from collar to hem and bleeding into the fabric of his jeans.

  Veerle knew what the red was but she couldn’t take her eyes off Joren Sterckx – his red shirt and his thick arms and the thing he was carrying. She could see that what bobbed and flopped at one end of the bundle were shoes. She tried not to look at what was at the other end but she couldn’t help herself. The round, dark object, that was a head, although the way it lolled so limply on the neck meant that the owner of the head was not merely asleep. The red too – that meant something bad for the person whom Joren Sterckx was carrying across the allotments, back to the village.

  Still she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was coming closer; if he kept going in the same direction, he would come right up to the church. Supposing he came inside? Supposing he knew they were up in the bell tower, spying on him? Anything seemed possible. Joren looked huge to Veerle; he looked unstoppable. Supposing he came up those spiral stairs, with his bloody burden in his arms?

  Veerle dropped down below the window onto the filthy floor, heedless of the cobwebs and the bird droppings, heedless of Kris standing, sick and trembling, beside her. Then she began to scream.

  1

  The present day

  VEERLE DE KEYSER hung upside down, her face in a grimace, every muscle in her body taut, her dark plaits swinging. She tried bracing her toes against a small outcrop, hoping to take some of the weight off her upper body, but her arms were actually hurting, from the shoulders right down to her fingers. It’s only
pain, she told herself, but she wasn’t convincing anyone. She could feel tremors running through the muscles. If she didn’t make a move soon she would fall off the wall like an overripe fruit dropping from a branch.

  ‘Be careful,’ said someone in English close by, and that was enough; her concentration was broken. She managed to hold on for long enough to let her legs swing down under her, and then she crashed onto the mat.

  ‘Don’t fall off,’ said the voice.

  Veerle looked round, a retort rising to her lips, and realized that the remark wasn’t addressed to her at all. The speaker was a woman of about forty, slightly plump, pink-faced, with thick blonde hair held back from her face by an unsuitably girlish band. She looked like an overripe child, pudgy, flushed and pouting, compared to Veerle, who was serious, and pale in spite of her dark hair, and slender to the point of wiriness.

  English, Veerle surmised. The hairband was part of the uniform: sunglasses pushed to the top of the head in summer, hairband in winter. She wasn’t one of the climbing wall’s regular customers – Veerle knew most of those by sight, but even if she hadn’t, you could tell just by looking at her that the woman wasn’t a climber. Those fingernails for a start . . .

  The woman was speaking to a bristle-haired, pudgy boy of about eight, who was clinging onto the wall close to the overhang Veerle had been attempting. An escapee from the birthday party taking place raucously on the kids’ wall, Veerle judged. Whatever his mother might think, he wasn’t in any danger; his chubby feet were only fifty centimetres off the floor with its padded mats.

  The child swung round, hanging by one arm, his small eyes scanning the room belligerently. He saw Veerle sitting on the mat flexing her chalky fingers and looking at him, and he stuck his tongue out.

  Veerle didn’t really care about his rudeness but the woman’s words had touched a raw nerve. Be careful. How often had she heard that? It was a constant litany at home, had been ever since she could remember. Stay away from the edge of the road, don’t talk to strangers, don’t go near the lake in the park, don’t climb trees. Be careful, be careful, be careful. Sometimes those two words made Veerle want to scream.