by C. J. Tudor
Real life isn’t like that. I know from pastoral visits to prison that real crimes aren’t clever or complicated. They’re opportunistic and poorly thought out. Murderers very rarely “get away with it” and, if they do, it’s usually because of luck rather than planning. Killing someone is almost always a desperate act, with no thought of the consequences. For your life, or your soul.
I accelerate up to thirty. I’m so preoccupied I almost drive straight past the wooden sign for Harper’s Farm.
“Bugger.”
I brake hard, reverse and pull on to a long gravel track. It winds up between fields to a handsome red-brick, slate-roofed farmhouse perched at the top of a hill. The house has been extended and modernized, with a huge double-height window and large conservatory offering views across the countryside all the way to the Downs. It’s breathtaking.
I park up next to a battered truck and Simon Harper’s Range Rover and climb out of the car. My nostrils are immediately assaulted by the smell of manure and something slightly rotten. A herd of brown cows graze in one field and sheep are dotted around another.
Close by, another area has been turned into a paddock for two glossy brown horses. To the left of the farm, along a muddy track, I can see more barns and a modern warehouse-type building which, I presume, is the slaughterhouse.
I’m not sentimental about animals. I abhor cruelty, but I eat meat and I understand that it doesn’t just drop down from heaven, or Tesco. An animal has to die and the best we can do is ensure the animal has a good life and a swift, painless death. In many ways, the fact that the slaughterhouse is on site is good. But the thought of a little girl stumbling inside still makes me feel uncomfortable. And how exactly did she just “stumble” inside? I think again about Poppy’s blank stare, Simon’s aggressive bluster. Embarrassment? Or guilt?
I crunch across gravel to the farmhouse’s front door. This is exactly the type of thing Bishop Durkin would advise me against doing. Poking my nose in. Making a nuisance of myself. On the other hand, this is why I became a priest. To protect the innocent. There are things that people will tell a priest that they won’t confess to the police, or even a social worker. Also, a white collar gives you access that other people don’t get. It’s almost as good as a warrant card.
I raise my hand and knock briskly. I can hear voices and then the door swings open. A willowy teenage girl leans against the doorframe, nonchalant in cropped jeans and a vest top, blonde hair pulled carelessly back into a loose ponytail.
She has an older sister, Rosie.
“Yes?”
“Hello, I’m Jack Brooks—the new priest in charge at Chapel Croft.”
She continues to regard me silently.
“There was an incident with your sister yesterday. I just thought I’d drop by and check she’s okay.”
She sighs, steps back from the door and calls out: “Mu-um?”
“What is it?” A female voice echoes down the stairs.
“Vicar. About Poppy.”
“Tell her I’m just coming.”
She flashes me a quick, insincere smile. “She’s just coming.” And then she turns on one pedicured foot and slinks off back down the hall, no invite in, nothing. Fine. I step inside.
The hall is huge and the massive window bathes the room in light. A wooden staircase winds around to a balconied landing on the first floor. I guess the business must be doing well.
“Hello?”
Another willowy blonde descends the staircase. For a moment, I wonder if there’s a third sister. As the figure gets closer, I reprise my opinion. The woman is older and, despite what looks like some subtle cosmetic work, you can never really defeat the aging process. She’s probably in her forties, like me. Still, the resemblance to her elder daughter is startling.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Reverend Brooks. Jack.”
The woman glides across the quarry floor. I feel immediately lumpen and scruffy in her presence.
“Emma Harper. Nice to meet you. I heard all about the little misunderstanding yesterday.” She smiles. “I’m so sorry you got caught up in it.”
“No problem. I was happy to help. I just wanted to see if Poppy is okay.”
“Of course, she’s fine. Come on through. I’m sure she’d like to say hello. Coffee?”
“Thanks,” I say. “That would be lovely.”
Emma is gracious and nice…and yet? Is she a little too gracious and nice? Or am I just judging her because of her husband?
I follow her through to the kitchen, which is straight out of Grand Designs. Huge island, granite worktops, shiny appliances. The whole caboodle. It blends into the glass conservatory which houses a long table and benches, comfy sofas and a hanging egg chair.
I feel a stab of envy. I’ll never live somewhere like this. I’ll probably never even own my own home. If I’m lucky, the Church will let me continue to live in the house I end up in, in exchange for occasional help with services and administration. If I’m unlucky, I’ll be out on my ear, forced into the rental market with no savings or equity.
Such is the life of a vicar. Of course, we live in our accommodation rent and mortgage free. If you’re savvy, you can save a modest deposit. But vicars earn around half the average wage in the UK and, with a teenage daughter, money does not go far. At present, my savings might buy me a mobile home near a dump.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say.
“Oh.” Emma glances around as if noticing it for the first time. “Yes, thank you.”
She walks over to a sleek-looking coffee machine that probably cost more than my car. The green-eyed monster grumbles.
“Cappuccino, latte, espresso?”
I fight the urge to say, Nescafé.
“Just black, thanks. No sugar.”
“No problem.”
As the coffee machine gurgles, I walk across to the trifold doors and peer out. Part of the field has been fenced off into a garden area with a wooden climbing frame, slide and a trampoline, upon which Poppy is bouncing. Up, down, up, down, hair flying. Yet her face, when she turns, is blank. No smile or expression of pleasure. The sight is slightly disconcerting.
“She’ll do that for hours.” Emma pads over and hands me a mug of coffee.
“She must enjoy it.”
“It’s hard to say. Often with Poppy, it’s hard to say how she feels about things.” She turns to me. “Do you have children, Reverend?”
“Just the one. Florence, Flo—she’s fifteen.”
“Ah, the same age as my older daughter, Rosie. Is Florence going to Warblers Green Community College?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. We should get them together.”
“That would be nice.”
I can’t see the pair getting on. But you never know.
“So, is your husband a vicar too?”
“He was.” I swallow. “He died when Flo was very young.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve brought Flo up all on your own? That must have been tough.”
“Being a parent is tough full stop.”
“Tell me about it. If I’d known what hard work Poppy would be compared to Rosie, I might have stuck at one—” She catches herself. “Not that I’d be without her. Shall we sit down?”
We walk to the table and perch on the benches. Stylish, but not very comfortable.
“How has Poppy been?” I say, steering the conversation back to the reason for my visit. “She seemed quite upset yesterday.”
“Oh, well, yes. It was all very unfortunate.”
“It must be difficult stopping the children getting attached to the animals.”
“Yes. Simon showed Rosie the slaughterhouse when she was about Poppy’s age.”
“He did?”
“
It’s part of their heritage. Our livelihood. Rosie wasn’t fazed. She’s not like Poppy.”
“She was looking after Poppy yesterday?”
“Yes, she’s very good with her. But Poppy can be difficult. Poor Rosie was in pieces.”
“I’m still a little puzzled as to how Poppy got covered in blood.”
She smiles tightly. “There’s a lot of blood in a slaughterhouse.”
I get it. But it still doesn’t really answer my question. I glance out of the window and see that the trampoline has been deserted. The kitchen door swings open and Poppy walks in.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Emma says.
Poppy spots me sitting at the table.
“Hi, Poppy. D’you remember me, from yesterday?”
A nod.
“How are you?”
“I’m getting a hamster.”
My eyebrows rise.
“Great.”
“It was Simon’s idea,” Emma says. “But remember you have to clean it, Pops. Mummy isn’t doing it.”
“Nor Daddy,” a deep voice booms from behind us.
I turn. Simon Harper stands in the doorway in a frayed jumper, stained jeans and heavy socks. He walks over to the kitchen, grabs a glass and fills it with cold water from the fridge. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, but then he’s probably spotted my car outside. The sticker on the back—“Vicars do it with reverence”—is a bit of a giveaway. Not mine, I hasten to add. Like most things, I inherited the car from a predecessor.
“Reverend Brooks. Nice to see you again.”
His tone suggests otherwise.
“I hope you don’t mind me popping round—I just wanted to see how Poppy was.”
“She’s fine, aren’t you, Pops?”
Poppy nods obediently. Her father’s presence seems to have switched her back to mute.
He looks at Emma. “You should have called to let me know we had a visitor.”
“Sorry, I thought you were busy.”
“I could have found time.”
“Right, well, I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t.”
The words hang in the air, sharp with accusation. I glance between them, and then I stand before I say something someone in my position shouldn’t.
“Emma, thank you for the coffee. It was nice to meet you. Good to see you again, Poppy.”
“I’ll see you out,” Simon says.
“There’s no need.”
“I’d like to.”
We walk out into the hall. As soon as we’re out of earshot he says:
“You didn’t need to come here, checking up on us.”
“I wasn’t.”
He lowers his voice. “I know about you, Reverend Brooks.”
I tense. “Really?”
“I know where you come from.”
I try to keep my face composed but I can feel sweat dampening my underarms. “I see.”
“And I’m sure you mean well, but you’re not in Nottingham now. This is not some inner-city shithole where we go around abusing our kids. We’re not like those people.”
“Those people?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.” I stare at him coldly. “Perhaps you’d like to elaborate?”
He scowls. “Just look after your flock and I’ll look after mine, okay?”
He holds the door open and I walk stiffly out. It slams behind me. What a twat.
I walk over to my car, the afternoon heat heavy on my back. And then I stop. Two deep, jagged lines have been scored along the paintwork on the passenger side, forming an upside-down Christian cross. I stare at the occult symbol, the sweat cooling on my body. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when I left this morning, although I didn’t check. I look around. The driveway is empty. But I feel like I’m being watched. I glance up, squinting against the sun. Rosie leans out of an upstairs bedroom window. She smiles and waggles her fingers in a mocking wave.
Be Christian. Be Christian.
I smile back. Then I give her the finger, climb into my car and pull off in a spray of dirt.
The boy is around her own age. Thin, dressed in skinny jeans, a hoodie with a skull on the back and Docs. His hair is dyed black and long. It falls over his face as he lies on the ground, squirming.
“I asked you a question.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I just come up here sometimes and—”
“And what?”
“I…like to look…and draw stuff.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Just stuff.” He pulls a battered sketchbook out of his back pocket with some difficulty and hands it to her, his arm jerking. Flo takes it and flicks through. The pictures are mostly charcoal, graves and the church, but intermingled with odd graphic monsters and strange ghostly figures.
“These are really good.”
“You think?”
“Yes.” She snaps the book shut and hands it back to him. “You still shouldn’t have been using our outhouse as a toilet.”
“You live here now?”
“My mum’s the new vicar.”
“Look, I just really needed to, you know, go, and I don’t like to…” He gestures toward the graves. His arm twitches and trembles even more violently. “It seems wrong to do it out here.”
Flo regards him for a moment more, weighing him up. He seems genuine and she actually feels a little sorry for him, what with the odd, involuntary spasms. She holds out her hand. He takes it and she heaves him up.
“I’m Flo.”
“W-Wrigley.”
Even as he says it, his whole body convulses.
“Is that some kind of joke?”
“N-no, it’s my surname. Lucas W-wrigley.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. The irony, right? It’s like I’m doing half of the bullies’ work for them. ‘Look, it’s wriggly Wrigley.’ ”
“That sucks.”
“That’s bullies for you. None of them is going to win any points for imagination.”
“True.”
“It’s called dystonia, by the way. The twitching and stuff. The doctors say it’s neurological. Something wrong in my brain.”
“They can’t do anything for it?”
“Not really.”
“That’s rough.”
“Yep.” He glances at the camera around her neck. “You’re a photographer?”
She shrugs. “I try. I was thinking of turning the outhouse into a darkroom.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah—that was before I realized it’s being used as a toilet.”
“Sorry.”
She waves a hand. “I might look at the cellar instead.”
“You just moved in?”
“Yesterday.”
“What d’you think of it here?”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a dump.”
“Welcome to the shit end of nowhere.”
“You live in the village?”
“Yeah, over the other side, with my mum. You?”
“Just me and my mum too.”
“So, are you going to Warblers Green Community College?”
“I guess so.”
“Maybe I’ll catch you in school then.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay. Cool.”
Conversation momentarily exhausted, they stand, looking at each other. His eyes are an odd silvery green, she notices. Almost feline. They’d be cool to photograph. She could really bring out the strange flecks. And then she wonders why she is thinking about his eyes so much.
“Right, well, see you.”
“See you.”
Wrigley starts to turn, then pauses and looks back. “Yo
u know, if you like taking photos, I could show you a really cool place?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s this old, abandoned house, over the fields that way.” He points with a wavering arm. “It’s creepy as hell.”
Flo hesitates. Wrigley is weird, but weird isn’t necessarily bad. And, if it wasn’t for the strange twitching, he’d actually be kind of cute.
“Okay.”
“Are you around tomorrow?”
“Well, my diary is packed…”
“Oh.”
“Kidding. I’m free. What time?”
“I dunno. Two?”
“Okay.”
“There’s an old tire swing in the field past the graveyard. I’ll meet you there.”
“Fine.”
He grins at her from under his hair before loping jerkily away. Wrigley. Flo shakes her head. Hopefully, she hasn’t just agreed to meet the village’s resident psycho.
She snaps a few photos, but she’s losing enthusiasm. She starts to wind her way back down toward the chapel. Her foot catches on something and she almost goes flying. She just manages to regain her balance in time and stop her camera from smashing on to the headstone in front of her.
“Shit.”
She looks back to see what tripped her. A toppled headstone, submerged in the undergrowth, half covered in moss, the inscription almost worn away. She raises her camera to take a photo and then frowns. It seems a bit blurry. She fiddles with the focus. Still not quite right. She turns to try and refocus the camera on something else in the distance and almost jumps out of her skin.
A young girl stands a few feet away.
She’s naked. And on fire.
Orange flames flicker around her ankles and lick at her legs, blackening the skin and stretching up to her smooth, hairless pubis. That’s how Flo knows it’s a girl. It would be hard to tell otherwise.
Because she’s missing both her arms and her head.
Damn. I accelerate along the narrow lanes, cursing Simon Harper, his family and myself.
Fair to say, my tenure here is not turning out to be the quiet idyll Durkin intended. In fact, things couldn’t get much worse if I stood naked in the middle of the village and sacrificed a few chickens. Or pheasants. They seem intent on committing suicide beneath my wheels anyway.