by S J Bolton
A turnip, still bearing the crude drawing of a child’s face, had smashed apart on the flagstones. The wicker construction of the figure was in pieces. It was the smallest of the bone men, brought inside and dressed up in Millie’s sweater. The shivering running through his body began to feel less about relief and more about outrage. The message couldn’t be clearer. This was intended to be Millie, to show Millie broken to pieces on the church floor, as she so nearly had been on the night of the harvest festival, as Lucy Pickup had been before her. What in the name of God was going on here?
Conscious that Gillian was still waiting for him in the car, Harry reached the figure and crouched down. He couldn’t just leave it there. He stretched out an arm to start gathering the pieces together and stopped himself just in time.
Evidence.
From the vestry he brought a large black bin-liner and the Marigold gloves left behind by one of the cleaning team. Wearing the gloves, he gathered the pieces together, including the pink and orange sweater, and put them all in the black bag. When he was done, he tied a knot in the top and stood up.
He had to let the police know. Teenage prank or not, Millie was two years old and had already been put in real danger once. And this really wasn’t funny. Plus, changed locks or not, someone was still getting in and out of the church whenever they wanted to.
Gillian didn’t ask what had taken him so long; she hardly seemed to have noticed. Harry turned the heater up to full blast and set off down the hill. It only took two minutes before he pulled up outside the town’s post office and convenience store. Gillian lived in a flat above it.
She hadn’t moved. In her lap she clutched a small, pink soft-toy. He switched off the engine and climbed out. His shoulders were starting to ache.
‘Gillian, pet.’ He was leaning in, not really wanting to touch her again but suspecting it was inevitable. ‘You’re home now. Come on, let’s get you inside.’
Still she didn’t move. Swallowing his irritation, Harry slid his arm around her shoulders. She came willingly enough then, leaning against him as she slipped clumsily out of the car. As they crossed the street, Harry noticed two women watching them.
The outside door wasn’t locked. He took Gillian’s hand and pulled her up the narrow stairway with its worn, dirty carpet. At the top, he turned to her. ‘Keys?’ he enquired. She shrugged.
He pushed the door and it swung open with a waft of unwashed laundry and stale air. Either the flat wasn’t much warmer than the day outside or he was well on his way to catching a chill.
He steered Gillian towards the sofa and crossed quickly to the electric fire. Switching it on to full, he turned back to the girl. She was sitting at the edge of the sofa, staring at the wall in front of her. The toy in her hands was a rabbit.
‘Gillian, you need a blanket. Where will I find one?’
She didn’t answer and he turned away from her. If she looked at his face, she’d see how annoyed he was. Angry with her, angry with himself, angry with the old folks of Goodshaw Bridge who, even now, would be glancing at their watches, and very angry with the sick bastard who thought he could scare him by dressing up a pile of bones and twigs.
Gillian’s flat wasn’t large. He soon found the kitchen and then the bedroom. He caught a quick glimpse of a floor covered in clothes, empty glasses scattered around and a greasy dinner plate on the bedside table. He pulled the duvet off the bed.
Back in the living room, Gillian had curled herself up on the sofa, still clutching the rabbit. He put the duvet over her and returned to the bedroom for a pillow. He tucked it under her head and crouched down until he could look her in the eyes.
‘Gillian, I need to call someone,’ he said. ‘Someone who can come and look after you.’
Silver-grey eyes gazed back at him. ‘You,’ she croaked. ‘I want you to look after me.’
He shook his head. ‘I have to be somewhere. I’m late already and you need someone who can look after you properly, not a man you hardly know.’
Gillian pushed herself up on to one elbow. She took one hand off the pink toy and reached up to her hair. ‘Stay,’ she said, stroking her hair to neaten it. She pushed herself up higher and held her hand out to Harry. ‘Stay,’ she repeated. ‘We could, you know…’
‘Do you want me to call Dr Oliver?’ he offered, leaning back on his heels so that he was just out of reach. ‘It might help you to talk to her.’
Gillian was upright on the sofa now, glaring at him. Make-up was smeared on her cheeks. Her nose was red from the cold. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ she demanded.
‘Of course not,’ he said, knowing it was true but feeling as if he was lying. ‘I’ve only met her a few times.’ No, that wasn’t good enough. It was unfair to all three of them. ‘But I do like her,’ he added.
‘I thought you liked me,’ she wailed.
‘I do,’ he answered. When had she taken hold of his hand? ‘But I’m too old for you and…’
‘I don’t care.’
‘… and you need to get well again before you start any sort of relationship.’ He had to get his hand back. He had to retreat to a safe distance.
‘I could get well quickly if I had you, I know I could.’
He had to tell her. She had to know it was never going to happen.
‘Gillian, I know how difficult today must have been for you, seeing people visiting graves, having others around to comfort them. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be alone.’
‘I’m not a slag, you know. There hasn’t been anyone since Pete.’
‘I don’t doubt that. But trust me, that is not the way to get over Hayley. What about your GP?’
It wasn’t going to work. She was taking a deep breath, getting ready to…
‘You have no idea!’ she screamed at him.
She was right. He had no idea. He was completely out of his depth.
‘What about a friend?’ he offered. ‘Is there anyone who lives nearby?’
‘She won’t leave me,’ said Gillian, speaking to a point somewhere in the middle of his chest.
‘Who won’t? Do you mean Hayley?’
She nodded. ‘She’s dead, I know that,’ she said. ‘I’ve known for a long time, but she won’t go away.’ She grabbed his hand again. ‘She’s haunting me.’
‘Gillian…’
Her head shot up. Her eyes looked terrified. ‘Please help me,’ she begged. ‘You can do something, I know you can. Make her go away. You can do a – what do you call it? – an exorcism.’
The girl was unbalanced. She needed serious help.
‘Gillian, I’m going to call someone. You can’t-’
‘Listen to me.’ She’d grabbed both his hands now, had fallen off the sofa and was kneeling in front of him. ‘This is the Day of the Dead, right? When lost souls who can’t find their way to heaven come back to where they used to live. I never used to believe in all that, but I do now. She was here today. She took the toy, Pink Rabbit, and put it in our old house. I found it just now, where the kitchen fireplace used to be.’
‘Gillian…’
‘She talks to me all the time. I hear her voice, calling “Mummy, Mummy, help me.” It doesn’t matter where I am. In here, asleep, out on the moors, she’s always there, always talking to me. “Mummy, Mummy,” she says, “find me.” She moves things around, here in the flat, leaves little presents for me. Every time I turn round, every time I wake up in the night, I think she’s going to be there, just as she was the last time I saw her, in her Beatrix Potter pyjamas.’
Harry realized he was shaking.
‘She’s with me every day. She’s driving me insane.’
‘Gillian, you know, don’t you, there are no such things as ghosts?’
There was a loud banging on the outside door.
‘Sit down,’ he told her. ‘I’ll go and see who that is.’ She was still holding his hand. She clung on, unwilling to let go, but Harry headed towards the door and she had little choice. Overcome with relief at being
away from her, even for a few minutes, he jogged down the stairs and pulled open the door. The middle-aged woman with the dyed-red hair was standing outside.
‘Vicar.’ She inclined her head and stepped forward, clearly expecting him to move aside and let her in. ‘Edith Holcome phoned me,’ she said. ‘She saw you bring Gillian home. Said I should probably get down here.’ She moved forward again.
‘Are you a friend of Gillian’s?’ asked Harry. Had reinforcements arrived after all?
‘I’m her mother. Gwen Bannister. Nice to meet you, Vicar. Don’t worry any more, I’ll look after her now.’
Her mother? Oh, thank God.
‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Had he left anything upstairs? Did it matter? Were his keys in his pocket? Yes.
‘She’s extremely upset,’ he offered, not wanting anyone to go up those stairs unprepared. ‘I think she may need to see a doctor.’
‘I know, I know, I’ve seen it all before.’ The woman had pushed her way past him and was already halfway up the stairs. ‘I lost a child too and did I fall to pieces? We had more backbone in my day.’
Could he go? Darn right he could.
Without looking back, he slipped out of the door and ran across the street to his car. He’d left his coat behind but it seemed a small price to pay. He looked at his watch. If he drove as though all the devils in hell were after him and spent less than two minutes in the shower, he’d still be twenty minutes late. He really had no more time to waste.
So why was he picking up the phone?
Duchess’s hooves were clattering on the concrete of the livery yard when Evi’s phone started to ring. She reached inside the pocket of her coat and glanced at the screen. Oh!
‘Evi Oliver,’ she said, as Duchess edged closer to her box.
‘Hi, it’s Harry Laycock,’ said the voice on the phone. She’d known who it was. His name had appeared on the digital screen. Just the one word: Harry.
‘Oh, good morning.’ Was that right – friendly but with a faint note of surprise? ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘In a bit of a rush. Listen, I’ve been thinking. This bonfire thing. I think you should go. I mean come. Come with me.’
He was asking her out. Was he? ‘You told me you were going nowhere near it,’ she pointed out.
‘I’ve changed my mind. There’s something not quite normal going on up here, Evi, and I need to know what it is. And if you really want to get to the bottom of what’s bothering Tom Fletcher, I suspect you do too.’
She could see him? That night? ‘I’m not sure, Harry,’ she said. ‘It seems a bit…’
‘I could pick you up at six thirty and drive you up there. Help you over the rough ground. Not that you need any help, I fully understand that. And it wouldn’t be a date, or anything. Strictly professional, you know – work – for both of us.’
‘Thank you, I know what professional means. I was going to say, it seems a bit intrusive. The Fletchers might think I’m spying on them. Maintaining trust is really important when you’re working with a family.’ Oh, shut up, you silly cow, you’re going to talk him out of it.
‘I’ve already spoken to Alice. She’s fine with it. And we’re both invited for supper afterwards but, I repeat, it’s definitely not a date.’
‘Yes, I got that bit too. I quite understand.’ A date with Harry. She was going on a date with Harry. Duchess started backing away from the box, was twisting round on the concrete. ‘Look, you’ve caught me on the hop a bit,’ Evi said. ‘It might be a good idea but I’d have to talk to Alice myself. Can I call you back this afternoon?’
‘Of course. Now I really have to run. I’ll talk to you later.’
He was gone – and what in the name of all that was wonderful was she going to wear?
44
AS QUICKLY AS HE COULD, BUT NOT FORGETTING TO watch out for anyone who might be lurking, Tom ran through the churchyard entrance, skirted round the ruins, past the church and into the graveyard, then dived behind a stone to get his breath back.
It was four thirty, and a few stripes of orange and pink in the sky showed where the sun had been not five minutes earlier. The cloud cover was thickening rapidly. The light would fade fast now. He hadn’t much time.
He set off again, keeping as close as he could to the boundary wall. If anything happened, he could be over it and in through the back door in seconds. She was fast, Tom knew that, but he was fast too.
At Lucy Pickup’s grave he crouched low again. Someone had left a bunch of tiny pink roses on it and – it looked so sad somehow – a small cream teddy bear with a pink ribbon round its neck. He remembered, then, the reason why the town had its bonfire tonight instead of on November the fifth; November the second was the Day of the Dead. Harry had told them all about it. It was the day when people remembered and honoured all those they loved who were dead now. In Heptonclough people visited their graves, prayed for them, left presents. They honour their dead in Heptonclough, Harry had said.
Tom looked all around. Still enough light. And he was very close to the wall.
Yew trees are no good for climbing, anyone could tell you that. They don’t grow that tall and their branches don’t get thick enough. But this tree had just one strong branch that hung out over the Fletchers’ garden. If Tom was careful, if he didn’t worry about a few scratches, he could make his way on to it.
He had about ten, fifteen minutes. His mother thought he was doing homework and she’d warned Joe and Millie not to come near him. Fifteen minutes might be enough.
Climbing up, Tom was shocked to discover how much of his house could be seen from the tree. He could see Joe crawling along the back of the sofa with his machine gun tucked under his arm. Tom could even see quite a lot of the upstairs rooms too. There was his mum in the bathroom, reaching into the cupboard for one of Millie’s nappies. All of which made him wonder. Did she sit here, on this branch, watching them? Yew trees never lose their leaves. Tucked up in here, if she kept still, she could watch his family for hours and they’d never know.
Round his neck, tucked into his sweatshirt to keep it safe, he had his dad’s digital camera. He knew how to set the flash, how to focus and how to zoom in and out. He’d practised all yesterday evening, taking pictures of Millie dancing around the living room, and then his dad had showed him how to download them on to the computer. Tom was going to wait until the little girl appeared and take photographs. As many as he could. And then they’d have to believe him. If he could show them pictures they’d know he’d been telling the truth. That he wasn’t mad. Best of all, he’d know he wasn’t mad.
In a couple of hours it could all be over.
45
‘SO WHAT’S THE PLAN, REVEREND? KICK OFF WITH SOME voodoo rites before a spot of ritual sacrifice, quick break for a hot-dog and then zombies rising around midnight?’
‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ replied Harry, guiding Evi round two girls who were clinging to each other in the middle of the road. One of them had the glassy-eyed look of the seriously intoxicated. Ahead of them a pink and green firework exploded in the sky. For a second, he could see the sparks reflected in the clouds. Then darkness again.
‘Am too,’ said Evi. ‘I did a project in my first year on crowd psychology. I love seeing it in action.’
A boy in his late teens appeared from one of Heptonclough’s numerous stone alleyways and lurched towards them. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. ‘Godda light?’ he enquired, before looking into Harry’s face. ‘Oh, sorry, vicar.’ He stumbled away down the hill. Evi gave a soft laugh.
The town was more crowded than Harry had seen it before and he’d been forced to park almost a quarter of a mile down the hill. He’d offered to drop Evi off at the church, so that she could wait for him on the shepherds’ bench, but she’d refused and now they’d joined the others who were walking up the hill towards the bonfire field. The night was heavy with the smell of gunpowder and wood smoke.
Every fe
w seconds, people who were able to move faster passed them. Most turned to nod, wish Harry good evening and stare curiously at Evi. And he really didn’t blame them. In a dark-blue quilted coat the exact colour of her eyes and a matching hat, she might just be the prettiest girl any of them had seen in a long time.
‘What are your professional observations so far?’ he asked.
Evi stretched her neck to look round, then peered up at him. ‘Everything you might expect,’ she said. ‘Kids are excited, so they’re playing up. That makes the parents a bit tetchy – they’re scared of losing them in the dark, so they’ll be over-protective, a bit anxious. That’ll manifest itself as bad temper.’
There was that tiny freckle again, just below her right ear.
‘The older kids will be drinking more than usual,’ she went on. ‘Those old enough to get away with it will be in the pub. The younger ones will have bottles of cider tucked away in dark corners. There’s potential for arguments, even violence, but probably not for another couple of hours.’
If he kissed that freckle, he’d be able to feel the curve of her ear on his cheek, and her hair would tickle his nose.
‘The main problem,’ she said, ‘is that events like this create a certain sense of expectation. Everyone’s waiting for something to happen. People are in a state of anticipation, and if they’re disappointed in some way, then that’s when the trouble will start because they’ll need a vent for their frustration. Are you even listening to me?’
‘Most certainly,’ he said, knowing he was grinning like a fool. ‘Are we still talking about the bonfire?’
The Fletchers left the house just before seven, tucked up in all their warmest clothes. Millie was in her mother’s arms, Joe on his dad’s shoulders and Tom had been told, several times by both parents, that if they lost sight of him for a second they’d cut off his toes. The camera was round his neck.