by C. J. Tudor
—
The crows caw. He closes his eyes. He is not that boy anymore. Nor is he the substance-addicted young man who spent most of his twenties in and out of prison for various petty crimes—drugs, assault, theft. He’s changed. They all told him so. The counselors. The parole board. But it’s not enough. He needs to hear it from her.
She wrote to him, after she left the first time. That was how he knew where to look for her. But Nottingham is a big city. And when he finally found her again, the anger took hold, he did the really bad thing and messed it all up.
She only came to visit him in prison once. His letters were returned unopened. He doesn’t blame her. She had her reasons. And he has forgiven her.
Now she just has to do the same. And then they can be together again. Like before.
He’ll show her.
This is how much I love you.
Flo walks downstairs as I’m putting away the last of the shopping. Straightaway, I notice that she seems tense.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Took a walk to the shop.”
“Anything interesting to report?”
“Nope.” She scrapes a chair across the floor and sits down without meeting my eyes. “How did your errand go?” she asks.
“All right.”
“Anything interesting to report?”
I pause with a bag of peas in my hand, thinking about Joy’s mother, the photograph in my pocket and my encounter with Mike Sudduth. I shake my head. “Nope.” I shove the peas in the freezer. “After lunch I thought we could maybe take a look at the cellar for your darkroom. But it needs clearing out. Apparently, there’s a lot of junk down there.”
“Oh. Right.”
Not quite the enthusiastic reaction I was hoping for.
“I thought you wanted a new darkroom?”
“I do. But I was planning to go and take some more photos after lunch. Wrigley says there’s this—”
My head snaps around. “Whoah, rewind. Who’s Wrigley?”
She looks down, fiddling with the zip on her hoodie. “Someone I met yesterday.”
“You didn’t mention meeting anyone yesterday.”
“I forgot.”
“Right. Well, I’m going to need a little more information.”
“He’s just a boy, okay?”
No, it was not okay. But I couldn’t say that. And it wasn’t as if I didn’t want Flo to have friends who were boys. Boy. Friend. I would just rather they stayed separate nouns for as long as possible.
“So, Wrigley—that’s an odd name?”
“It’s his surname. His first name is Lucas.”
“Okay. And how did you meet him?”
“I met him in the graveyard. He draws pictures. He’s really good.”
“He draws pictures of graves. Nice.”
“I take photos of them.”
“Obviously a match made in heaven, then.”
“Mu-um.” She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised smoke doesn’t come out of her ears. “It’s not like that. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, not believing her for a second. “So, what did Wrigley say?”
She hesitates.
“This place?” I prompt.
“Yeah—” Another hesitation. “These really pretty woods.”
“Right.”
She scowls at me. “Don’t say it like that.”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Look, I’m not sure I want you wandering around the woods with a boy you barely know.”
“So, you’d rather I went on my own?”
“No.”
“But you don’t want me going with a friend who knows the area.”
Oh, she’s good, my daughter. I don’t want her going at all. But she’s fifteen. She needs her freedom. She also needs friends here. And forbidding her is only going to make her want to do it more.
I sigh, heavily. “Fine. You can go—”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“But…be careful. Take your phone. In case you fall down a ditch or something.”
“Or get attacked by a mad cow?”
“That too.” I eye her suspiciously. “And I want to meet this Wrigley.”
“Oh God. Mum.”
“That’s the deal.”
“I’ve only just met him.”
“Doesn’t have to be right now, but I want to know who my daughter is seeing.”
“I’m not…oh, for God’s sake, fine.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“And you’re not making this up to get out of helping me clean the cellar?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“You’re fifteen. So, yes.”
“Like you never lie?”
“Of course I don’t. I’m a vicar.”
She shakes her head, but I see a hint of a smile. “Vicar or not—you are so going to hell.”
“You have no idea. Now, what d’you want for lunch?”
* * *
—
I stand at Flo’s bedroom window and watch her amble up through the graveyard at the rear of the cottage, all skinny legs and attitude, camera slung around her neck. My stomach tightens into a hard knot. She’s hiding something from me. But then, I can hardly berate my daughter for keeping secrets.
I walk downstairs. The photograph shifts in my pocket. I take it out and look at it again. Merry and Joy. One blonde, one dark. Both slight, dressed in baggy jumpers and leggings, friendship necklaces glinting around their necks.
Joy is the more beautiful. Doll-like, with her pale blue eyes and flaxen hair. The girl next to her is not so obviously pretty. Her smile is less open, her eyes guarded. A face that already speaks of lost hope, fear, suspicion.
What became of you?
I tuck the photo away in my Bible hidey-hole and stand in the living room, feeling lost. I consider rolling a cigarette and then change my mind. I need to do something more productive, and better for my lungs. I told Flo I would clean out the cellar, so I might as well make a start.
I retrieve trash bags and rubber gloves from the kitchen cupboard and advance upon the cellar door, which is under the stairs in the nook between the kitchen and living room.
I stare at it. What’s that line from Donnie Darko? Something about, of all the endless combinations of words in history, “cellar door” is the most beautiful.
True. Yet I don’t believe anyone has ever approached a cellar door without a frisson of foreboding. A door that leads down into darkness, a room hidden in the earth. I tell myself not to be stupid and yank it open. A smell of mold and a cloud of dust billow out. I cough and wipe my nose on my sleeve. I spot a limp piece of string hanging near the door. I tug on it. A small puddle of yellow light spills over the uneven steps, like a urine stain. It will have to do.
I make my way gingerly downward, slightly crouched over because of the low ceiling. Fortunately, at the bottom, the ceiling rises, and the cellar spreads out before me. I stare around.
“Christ!”
When Rushton said there was a lot of junk, he wasn’t joking.
Box after crumpled cardboard box, yellowing newspapers and broken furniture fill almost every inch of the large cellar. I shine the flashlight around, revealing more boxes and unidentifiable mounds covered in old sheets. I don’t know where to start. Maybe the best thing would be to call a house-clearance company and let them deal with it.
On the other hand—I eye the boxes mutinously—how much would a clearance company charge to deal with this? Several hundred pounds. The Church won’t contribute, I’m broke and I’m not sure that fund-raising to empty the new vicar’s cellar of crap will rank highly on the parish
council’s agenda.
I sigh and approach the least intimidating stack. First, I’ll deal with the boxes, because, I reason, most of those will be full of stuff for recycling. And there’s always the chance I might unearth some long-lost treasure that could turn out to be worth thousands.
Half an hour later, it’s apparent I won’t be troubling Antiques Roadshow any time soon. Instead, I have dumped numerous ancient copies of the Church Times into black sacks. I have ditched old newsletters and sermons, and plastic cups and paper plates no doubt intended to be used at fetes and other events but long since devoured by mold. One box contains a pile of old Christmas hats, streamers and rotting crackers.
I shuffle over to another box. This one appears to be full of DVDs. Reverend Fletcher’s, I presume. Star Wars (originals), Blade Runner, the Godfather trilogy, Ghostbusters. Fletcher had good taste in films. And then I spy Angels and Demons lurking at the bottom (well, I guess everyone has a guilty pleasure). The next box is full of CDs. Mostly Motown and soul. A few generic pop compilations. Some old eighties stuff. Alison Moyet, Bronski Beat, Erasure. Okay. Eclectic. But, as someone who has a penchant for playing My Chemical Romance loudly in the car, who am I to judge?
A third box is full of books. It occurs to me that Clara said she had cleared out most of Reverend Fletcher’s stuff. She doesn’t seem to have done a very good job.
I take some of the books out. Bulky hardbacks. C. J. Sansom, Hilary Mantel, Ken Follett, Bernard Cornwell. Huge nonfiction tomes about history, local legends, superstitions.
It’s clear to see where Fletcher’s interests lay. And for the first time, I feel like I’m getting more of a picture of my predecessor. You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you can certainly judge a person by their books. I think I would have liked Fletcher. If he’d still been alive, we would probably have enjoyed chatting over a coffee.
I pull out a few more paperbacks. And frown.
The Witching Class. A Shower of Spells. The Coven Seekers.
These don’t quite sit with the others. I flip one over and read the blurb. Some kind of YA series about a school for witches—Mallory Towers meets The Craft.
The author’s name is Saffron Winter. It rings a distant bell. Was she the YA author whose books were being made into films (although that doesn’t really narrow it down)?
I flick to the back of the book. There’s a small black-and-white photo of a woman who looks to be about my age, with a mass of curly dark hair and a knowing smile. I wonder why authors’ photos always make them seem so smug. Look, I wrote a book. Aren’t I clever?
And then I see there’s a piece of paper sticking out of the pages, obviously used as a marker. I slip it out. It looks like an old to-do list:
Summer fete—volunteers?
Coffee morning, new kettle
Speak to Rushton re: plans
Aaron
Sainsbury’s click and collect
I stare at it, feeling suddenly sad. It’s just a mundane day-to-day list. But those are often the things that are the most poignant. I remember a parishioner who had recently lost her husband telling me it wasn’t the funeral or the wake or even the news of his death that broke her. It was when an Amazon delivery for some books he had pre-ordered turned up.
“He had been looking forward to reading them so much, and now he never will.”
Those pristine, unthumbed pages. That was what had caused her to collapse, howling, on to the floor.
But then, we all make those small investments in our future. Tickets to a concert, dinner reservations, a holiday booking. Never letting ourselves imagine we might not be here to enjoy them; that some random event or encounter might snatch us from existence. We all take a punt on tomorrow. Even though every day is actually a leap of faith, a step out over the abyss.
I wipe my arm across my forehead. The air down here is both damp and stuffy. There must be air bricks somewhere, but they have probably been clogged by dirt and blocked by more of the omnipresent boxes. I’ve filled three rubbish sacks already and still barely made a dent upon the metropolis of cardboard.
Time for a break. I’ll take the sacks upstairs, make a coffee and then tackle some more later. I pick up two sacks. I’m feeling dirty and dusty and…
“Bugger.”
As I heave the sacks around, one catches the corner of another teetering pile of boxes. I see them about to collapse a moment before it happens, but I’m powerless to stop it. I drop the sacks, grabbing for the wobbling boxes, but it’s no good. The whole lot comes piling down, sending me crashing into the mound of rubbish on the ground, my fall thankfully broken by the bin bags full of magazines. My elbow still connects hard with the rough cellar floor. I curse and cup the throbbing bone, rubbing at it viciously.
“Crapping hell.”
I curse again and ease myself up, still rubbing at my bruised elbow. I look around. Fortunately, most of the toppled boxes don’t contain anything breakable or skull-crushing—just more old newspapers and magazines. I scramble to my feet and start to stuff them into the black sacks. As I do, I notice something. Another box. It stands out because it’s newer and unmoldy. It is sealed with brown tape. It must have been stuffed in one of the older boxes. Hidden? I slide the box across the cellar floor toward me, get my nonexistent nails beneath the edges of the brown tape and eventually manage to peel it off and open the flaps.
The first thing I see is a folder, secured with an elastic band. Scribbled on the front—“Sussex Martyrs.” I lift it out. It’s bulky, paper bulging out of the sides. There’s another folder underneath. This one is lighter. Scribbled on the front: “Merry and Joy.” Reverend Fletcher really had been interested in the village’s history. This looks like a lot of research.
I look back inside the box. There’s something else at the bottom. Something small, rectangular and black. I reach in and take it out.
It’s an old portable tape recorder, with a cassette still inside. I stare at it, feeling sick. Written on the label in neat, precise handwriting:
“Exorcism of Merry Joanne Lane.”
Wrigley is already there, skinny frame wedged into the tire swing, rocking back and forth. He raises a hand as Flo approaches, arm jittering from side to side. She fights her way through the tangled grass toward him.
“Hey.”
“You came.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Thought you might have changed your mind about meeting the village’s resident weirdo.”
“Don’t give yourself so much credit. You’ve not met my mum.”
He hops off the swing. “How weird can she be? She’s a vicar, right?”
“Exactly.”
They fall into pace alongside each other. A track has been worn into the field, leading toward a small copse of trees.
“What about your mum?” Flo asks.
A shrug. “What about her?”
“Just asking.”
“She’s all right, but she can be a bit intense.”
“Yeah?”
“I had a pretty shit time at my last school. It’s why we moved. Mum is kind of overprotective.”
“I guess that’s her job.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“That’s mums for you.”
“Right.”
They reach an overgrown stile. Despite his weird twitches, Wrigley jumps over it easily. Flo struggles a little, not being used to stiles and with the heavy camera around her neck. Wrigley proffers a trembling hand and, reluctantly, she takes it. She hops off the other side, quickly retracting her hand.
“So, you ever get any crap about your mum being a vicar?”
Flo thinks about the graffiti on their old house. The smashed windows at the church. The messages on social media.
Bitch. Cunt. Child killer.
“Not really
. Most people didn’t care.”
“Yeah, well, watch out here.”
“Why?”
“Small village. In some parts of the world, they’re yelling, ‘Revolution, revolution!’ Here, they’re yelling ‘Evolution, evolution! We want our thumbs!’ ”
Flo looks at him, surprised. “Bill Hicks?”
He turns and grins. “You know it.”
“Mum’s a fan. She got me into a load of eighties and nineties stuff.”
“Cool. Favorite film?”
“Well, The Lost Boys is a classic. What about you?”
“The Usual Suspects.”
“Keyser Söze?”
“ ‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled is pretending he didn’t exist.’ ”
They smile at each other. Then both quickly look down again.
“Anyway,” he says. “Just warning you. A lot of the kids are, like, totally inbred.”
“Harsh.”
“But true.”
“Yeah, well, I can look after myself.”
He shrugs again, and his whole body convulses.
“Just giving you a heads up.”
They wander along an uneven track through the trees, so narrow they have to slip into single file. Flo finds herself watching Wrigley’s jerky progress, thinking that it reminds her of something. And then she has it—Edward Scissorhands. He has the same kind of awkward clockwork motion. There’s something weirdly appealing about it.
Stop it. No odd crushes. You don’t really know anything about him.
Which probably means that following him through dark woods to an abandoned house isn’t necessarily the smartest idea.
“Just over here,” Wrigley says. “There’s a bridge over a stream.”
They cross the bridge; the path rises up and the small copse ends at another stile. Wrigley hops over. Flo manages to clamber over it with a little more dignity this time. She jumps down.
“Whoah!”
Ahead of them, she can see the shell of an old building. It stands stark and aloof, bricks blackened, windows hollowed out. If someone wanted to find the perfect creepy house for a horror movie, then the location scout would wet themselves at this.