by S J Bolton
Harry and Tom turned left and the sound of the party faded until they could hear nothing but their own footsteps. The spaces between the lanterns became wider and the alley darker. They turned a corner and reached a dead end.
‘Joe and Millie couldn’t have got over that,’ said Tom, looking at the high stone wall in front of them.
‘No,’ agreed Harry. ‘But they could have gone through here.’
Tom turned and felt as if his insides had fallen out. He could almost imagine he’d see them, if he looked down, lying splat on the ground. There was a tall iron gate in the churchyard wall. A padlock lay open on the ground in front of it. Beyond the gate he could see gravestones, shining like pearls in the moonlight.
Harry looked into the graveyard and then down at Tom. ‘Tom, run back to the hall,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch till I see you’re safely back.’
‘No, I want to stay with you,’ said Tom, without thinking, because the truth was, he wanted to go into that graveyard like he wanted someone to poke a stick in his eye.
‘Tom, it won’t be very nice. Go back.’
It was a graveyard, for God’s sake! And not just any old graveyard, but the one at the back of their house where something decidedly odd liked to hang around. Of course it wasn’t going to be nice. But Joe and Millie were in it. Somehow Tom knew it. They’d gone through this gate.
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Tom. ‘We have to find them.’
Harry muttered something that, had he not been a vicar, would have sounded an awful lot like swearing and then picked up two of the candle-lanterns. He held one out to Tom. ‘Hold this away from you,’ he said. ‘Hold it high.’
Tom did what he was told and then they were pushing at the gate and stepping into the churchyard.
It was so quiet, as though the world had had its volume turned down. Then Harry spoke and Tom couldn’t stop himself from jumping.
‘This would have been one of the monks’ private entrances to the church in the old days,’ he said. ‘Now, we’re going to walk slowly, we’re going to keep to the path as much as possible and we’re going to listen hard. Only I’m allowed to shout. Is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Tom and they set off.
They’d been walking for several minutes before Tom realized they were holding hands. And the silence felt unnatural. They should have been able to hear something, shouldn’t they? Wind in the trees? Something? Tom could have almost imagined he’d gone deaf if it hadn’t been for their footsteps on the path and the sound of Harry’s breathing. Then Harry stopped and so did he.
‘Joe!’ called Harry. ‘Millie!’
From somewhere nearby came a rustling sound and Harry’s head shot round. ‘Joe?’ he called. They both waited. No one answered Harry and, after a second, he and Tom set off again.
‘Tom!’ called a tiny voice from a few yards further up the hill.
Harry stopped sharp. ‘That was Joe,’ he said. ‘Where did it come from?’ He let go of Tom’s hand and began to turn on the spot, holding his lantern high. ‘Joe!’ he yelled, louder this time.
‘Tom,’ called the voice again.
‘That was definitely Joe,’ said Harry. ‘Did you hear where it came from?’ Harry was still turning this way and that, looking more like a gun-dog than a man, as though any second now he’d put his nose to the ground and start sniffing. Tom, on the other hand, hadn’t moved.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ he said.
‘What?’ muttered Harry.
‘It wasn’t Joe,’ Tom repeated, looking back at the gate, trying to work out how far it was and if, once they started to run, Harry would leave him behind. ‘Harry,’ he went on, ‘let’s get out of here.’
Harry either didn’t hear or decided to ignore Tom. He caught hold of his hand again and began to pull him away from the path and up the hill towards the Renshaw mausoleum. ‘He’s not far away,’ he was saying. ‘Stay with me, Tom. Watch where you’re walking.’
Tom and Harry began to stumble across the uneven ground and soon their feet were soaked. Dew had already formed on the long grass and was gleaming silver where the moonlight touched it. The cold softness brushed Tom’s legs and headstones leered up at them. They didn’t look like pearls any more; they looked like teeth.
Tom fixed his eyes on the ground and concentrated on staying on his feet. Harry was going too fast and Tom wanted to yell at him to stop, that he was making a terrible mistake and that-
‘Tom,’ called the horrible voice, from right behind them. Tom pulled away from Harry and sprang round, ready to fight as hard as he could, because he’d had enough, absolutely enough this time and-
It was Joe. Real Joe. Half walking, half running across the grass towards them. Stepping forward, Harry had scooped Joe up off the ground and was hugging him tight, muttering, ‘Thank God, thank God.’ Tom was saying it too, in his head, Thank God, thank God. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. Because Joe was on his own.
19
‘YOU’RE OBSESSING, YOU SILLY COW,’ MUTTERED EVI TO herself. ‘Shut it down and go to bed.’ She looked at the JL clock in the bottom left-hand corner of her computer screen: 9.25 p.m. She couldn’t go to bed at half past nine.
Would there be anything on TV? She spun herself round in the chair and glanced across the room at the set. Was she kidding? It was Saturday night. And there was nothing on her bookshelves she hadn’t read at least four times.
She looked back at the screen, at the picture of Harry that she’d found on the Lancashire Telegraph’s website. He was wearing a black shirt, clerical collar and black jacket. The photograph was perhaps a year or two old. His hair was a little longer and in the lobe of his left ear he wore a tiny metal cross. The accompanying story told her that the Reverend Harry Laycock had been appointed to the living of the recently united benefice of Goodshaw Bridge, Loveclough and Heptonclough, and that in his previous post he’d been a special assistant to the archdeacon in the Diocese of Durham. Earlier in his career, he had spent several years working at an Anglican ministry in Namibia. He was unmarried and gave his hobbies as football (playing and watching), rock-climbing and long-distance running.
She could print the photograph off.
Except that she was absolutely, positively, not going to do anything that pathetic. She scrolled up the page and typed ‘Heptonclough’ into the search engine, pressing Return before she had time to think about what she was doing. The site found several entries. This wasn’t obsessing, this was legitimate research. She had a patient in the town.
Heptonclough didn’t make the news too often. The most recent story was the reference to Harry’s appointment. She passed over it quickly before she was tempted to open it up again. Heptonclough man fined for poaching, New bus service linking Heptonclough with nearby Goodshaw Bridge. He lived in Goodshaw Bridge – oh, get a grip, woman. She found the story about the fire in Gillian’s house, and then a follow-up article reporting that Barry Robinson had been discharged from hospital but remembered nothing about the fire. Search continues for missing Megan; Heptonclough pub’s warning to under-age drinkers…
Evi scrolled back up the list. Search continues for missing Megan. Why did that ring a bell? The story was six years old. And – she scrolled down the list – there were several follow-up stories and one that preceded it: Child missing on moors.
She opened the link and read the first few lines. She’d been working in Shropshire when the story first made the news, but she remembered a young girl going missing on the Pennine moors. The search had gone on for days. The child, or the child’s body, had never been found. Evi had even mentioned it in a lecture she’d given at the university – the particular stages of grief people suffer when their loss is unquantified and unconfirmed, and the difficulties of closure when hope – however unrealistic – lives on.
Dozens of local people joined the police search for missing four-year-old Megan Connor. Megan, who wandered away from her family during a picnic, has blonde, shoulder-length hair and b
lue eyes. She was wearing a red raincoat and red wellington boots. Photographs are being distributed throughout the north-west, and in the meantime, Megan’s family have asked the public to remain vigilant and pray for their daughter’s safe return.
The picture accompanying the story showed a girl in a Snow White costume, no longer a toddler but still with the plump, soft features of the very young. If Gillian had taken part in the public search for Megan, it might explain why, three years later, she’d become obsessed with the idea that her own daughter might be similarly lost.
It was no good, she couldn’t sit still any longer. For some reason the pain in her leg seemed worse tonight. She had Tramadol in her bathroom cabinet. She hadn’t taken one, hadn’t needed to take one, for nearly six months. Did she really want to start using them again?
20
‘WHERE’S MILLIE?’ SAID HARRY, PUTTING JOE BACK ON his feet. ‘Joe, where’s your sister?’
‘I think they went up there,’ said Joe, giving his brother a nervous look and pointing uphill towards the church. ‘Who?’ said Harry. ‘Who went up there?’
‘I didn’t see,’ said Joe, again looking sideways at Tom. ‘I saw Tom go under the table and then Millie was gone.’
‘Did she go outside? Did she leave the party?’
‘I looked outside,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I saw someone coming in here, but they went too fast.’
Harry took his eyes off Joe for a second and looked towards the older boy. He really didn’t like the look on Tom’s face.
‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked. ‘Do you know who took Millie?’
Tom wouldn’t make eye-contact with Harry, wouldn’t take his eyes off his brother. Slowly, he shook his head.
Harry pushed himself upright. ‘Hello!’ he yelled into the night. ‘Can anyone hear me?’ They waited. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’ he muttered, when no one answered him. ‘OK, are you two all right to come with me?’
Joe nodded immediately, followed – a second later – by Tom. Harry bent down again and picked up Joe. Leaving the lantern behind and holding tight on to Tom’s hand, he set off.
‘Millie!’ yelled Harry, stopping every few seconds. They reached the top of the hill and stopped in the shadow of the ruined abbey, ten yards or so from the church door. Joe, tiny though he was, had become heavy. Harry lowered him to the ground.
‘Millie,’ he yelled and heard his own voice bounce back from a dozen different directions. ‘Millie, Millie, Millie,’ called the echo.
‘Millie,’ called a voice that was loud and clear. Definitely not an echo.
‘Who said that?’ asked Harry, spinning on the spot.
Joe and Tom looked only at each other. ‘Has she taken her, Joe?’ said Tom, in a low voice. ‘This is serious. Where are they?’
‘And who are they?’ said Harry, who was walking backwards away from the boys towards the church. ‘What’s going on here? Millie!’
‘Tommy,’ called a high, thin voice and Tom sprang to Harry’s side.
‘OK, this has gone far enough, guys.’ Harry made sure he wasn’t yelling, but it was difficult to keep the anger from his voice. ‘There is a child missing and the police will be called, if they haven’t been already. Come on out now.’
They waited. In the distance a dog barked. They could hear a car engine start up. Then suddenly a high-pitched wailing broke through the night.
‘That’s Millie,’ said Tom. ‘That’s really her. She’s somewhere close. Millie! Where are you?’
‘She’s in the church,’ said Joe. ‘The door’s open.’
Harry saw that Joe was right. The door to the church was open just a few inches. Which it shouldn’t have been at this time of night. He sprinted across, aware of the boys following close behind. In through the doors he ran, pressing the light switches as he went. He ran into the nave and stopped dead. Above his head, someone was whimpering.
‘Oh, God save us,’ said Harry, looking up.
Tom and Joe lifted their heads to see what Harry had spotted. Way above them, on the wooden balcony rail, her little face screwed up in terror, sat Millie.
21
Dear Steve,
I’d really love your advice on something. I’m attaching two newspaper articles to give you background, although you may recall the case of Megan Connor. From what I can recall, she was never found.
I have a 26-year-old patient from the town where Megan went missing, whose daughter was accidentally killed three years after Megan’s disappearance. I can’t help thinking the prolonged grief my patient is experiencing might have been influenced by her memories of the earlier event.
I seem to remember the whole country was pretty traumatized by it, and it must surely have been worse in the area itself. My patient may even have taken part in the public search.
My question is this: can I bring it up in our discussions or should I wait for her to mention it herself? On the surface, she seems to be making progress but there’s a lot I still don’t understand. I can’t help thinking she’s keeping something from me. Any thoughts?
Love to Helen and the kids,
Evi
Evi checked her spelling, added a comma and pressed Send. Steve Channing was a sort of informal supervisor, a more experienced psychiatrist to whom she often turned for advice on difficult cases. Of course, he’d know from the date and time on the email that she was working on a Saturday night, but… well, she couldn’t hide from everyone.
22
‘HOW DID SHE GET UP THERE?’ WHIMPERED TOM, UNABLE to take his eyes off his tiny sister, balanced precariously twenty feet above the hard stone floor of the church. No one answered him – why would they? – it was a stupid question. The only important thing was how they were going to get her down.
‘Stay where you are, Millie. Don’t move.’ Harry was running back towards the church door. They heard his footsteps on the stairs that led to the gallery. He’d be in time, he had to be. Harry’s footsteps stopped and they heard the door that separated the gallery from the stairs being shaken in its frame.
‘You are kidding me,’ came Harry’s voice from behind the door. Then the church echoed with the sound of loud banging. Harry was kicking at the door from the other side.
‘They’ve locked the door,’ said Joe. ‘He can’t get to her.’
Scared by the noise, Millie looked down at her brothers. Then she held out both arms and Tom’s stomach turned cold. She was going to jump to him, like she did from the back of the sofa. She was going to jump, confident that he’d catch her, like he always did. But there was no way he could, not from that height, she’d fall too fast. There was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do, she was going to fall and her head would shatter on the stone like glass.
‘No, Millie, no, don’t move!’ Both boys were yelling up at her, watching in horror as the toddler lost her balance on the narrow ledge and tumbled forward. As Joe began to scream, Millie reached out and grabbed the rail with one hand. At the same time her feet, still wearing pink party shoes, found the smallest of footholds on a slim ledge that ran around the edge of the gallery.
‘Shut up, you two, shut up now,’ hissed Harry, who’d joined them again. Tom caught hold of Joe and pulled his brother to him. He hadn’t realized both of them had been yelling so much. Joe clung tight and somehow the boys managed to stop screaming.
‘Millie,’ called Harry, in a voice that Tom could hear shaking. ‘Keep still, sweetheart, hold tight, I’m coming to get you.’
Harry looked at both sides of the church and seemed to be making up his mind. Then he turned back to the boys.
‘Get the hassocks – the prayer cushions,’ he said. ‘Get as many as you can and put them down on the floor, directly underneath her. Do it now.’
Tom couldn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off Millie. If he looked away for a second, she’d fall. Then he was aware of Joe scurrying around at his side. His brother had already taken three hassocks from their hooks in the pews and had
put them on the ground beneath Millie.
Tom shot round and began gathering more from the pew opposite. As he pulled them off their hooks, he hurled them through the air at the spot where Millie would land. He threw six and then sped back to the aisle. Looking up, he positioned himself directly beneath his sister’s plump legs and pink shoes and began arranging the cushions to form a soft carpet. If they could only get enough, the hassocks would break her fall.
Out of the corner of his eye Tom could see Harry pull himself up on to the window ledge and then move sideways until he could reach the gallery rail. How he was going to get up higher, Tom had no idea, but Harry climbed mountains in his spare time – if anyone could do it, he could. Tom just had to concentrate on the hassocks. Joe was following his example and throwing them over the top of the pew. As fast as they landed, Tom placed them next to the others. Millie’s crash mat was getting bigger.
‘No, sweetheart, no.’ Harry’s voice was strained with the effort of climbing. And of trying not to panic. ‘Stay where you are,’ he was calling. ‘Hold tight, I’m coming.’ Tom paused for a second and risked looking up. Harry was clinging, like a huge spider, to the carved panelling that lined the rear church wall. If he didn’t slip, he’d reach the balcony rail in a few seconds and be able to climb over. Another second would take him to Millie and she’d be safe.
They were seconds he might not have. Because Millie had spotted Harry edging his way towards her and was trying to get to him. She’d moved along the ledge and was no longer directly above the hassocks. And those chubby fingers of hers had no real strength. She was sobbing hard. She couldn’t hold on much longer. She was about to fall. And she knew it.
23
EVI WAS LOOKING AT GILLIAN ROYLE’S MEDICAL RECORDS. When she’d accepted Gillian as a patient, they had been forwarded to her, following normal procedure. Luckily, the GP’s surgery Gillian attended had been one of the first to become fully computerized. Even the old paper-based records from the girl’s childhood had, at some time, been inputted on to the system.