The Burning Girls

by C. J. Tudor

  The same school photos of the girls have been used in all the papers. Not particularly good photos. Blurry, old. Both girls look younger than in the photo I found in Joy’s room. I wonder if that hampered the search.

  And then, finally, I find a longer article. This one seems to have been written sometime after the girls’ disappearance. And not for a newspaper. I squint. At the top of the page, in small print, a header reads: Sussex Stories—Local Mysteries and Legends. March 2000. Issue 13.

  I start to read:

  The Mysterious Case of the Sussex Runaways

  Merry and Joy were the best of friends. Inseparable, many used to say. They grew up together, went to school together, played together, rode their bikes together. And during one week in the spring of 1990, aged fifteen, they disappeared together.

  Oddly, there were no frenetic searches. Villagers did not beat bushes. Divers did not dredge the rivers and streams. It was presumed, almost from the start, that both girls had run away. The police inquiry was perfunctory, to say the least, and the case failed to really catch the attention of the national newspapers. To understand why the girls’ disappearance was given so little heed it’s probably best to start with the village in which they grew up.

  Chapel Croft is a small hamlet in East Sussex. Its main features are farming and the church. It’s a religious area; Protestant, with a bloody history of martyrdom.

  During the religious persecutions of Queen Mary in 1556, eight villagers were burned at the stake, including two young girls. A memorial stands in the chapel graveyard. Each year, on the anniversary of the purge, small twig dolls called Burning Girls are set alight to commemorate the martyrs who died.

  It would be fair to say, like many small villages, Chapel Croft is an insular place, inward-looking and protective of its church and its traditions.

  Both Merry and Joy’s families were religious. Both had lost their fathers at an early age. But there the similarities ended. Joy grew up in a strict but loving household. Doreen was a good mother. Joy was her only child, and her daughter was her life.

  Merry, on the other hand, grew up in far more chaotic surroundings. Her mother, Maureen, was devout and yet also an alcoholic. Merry and her brother didn’t always attend school. Their clothes were dirty and secondhand. Often Merry had unexplained bruises.

  Nowadays, these would probably be seen as warning signs of abuse and neglect. But in a small village a decade ago, people still believed that you let families take care of their own problems.

  Reverend Marsh, the parish priest at the time, later confessed that he regretted not doing more: “It was obvious that there was something ill about the household. Perhaps if someone had stepped in, a tragedy could have been avoided.”

  Perhaps, indeed. The only respite for Merry from the miseries of home appears to have been her friendship with Joy, and the time that they spent together. However, that too was about to be threatened.

  Joy’s mother had never been happy about her daughter’s relationship with Merry. She didn’t think Merry was a “suitable” friend. Both girls already attended Bible lessons with Reverend Marsh. But it was agreed that Joy would take extra lessons as a means to “keep her on the right path.”

  Joy’s lessons were with a young trainee priest at the chapel, the curate, Benjamin Grady. Grady was young—only twenty-three—and ambitious, a handsome man, outwardly charming. A lot of the village girls developed a crush on him. Did he also catch the eye of Joy?

  Joy was a beautiful girl, and there were certainly rumors, unsubstantiated, that she had been seen attending the chapel at night, at times other than the scheduled lessons. However, a few weeks before her disappearance, Joy abruptly stopped attending her classes with Grady.

  Could heartache or unrequited love be the reason Joy ran away? Or was it something more sinister? Grady, after all, was an adult, in a position of power.

  The police spoke to Grady. But when Joy was last spotted, at a bus stop in Henfield, Grady had an alibi. He was preparing a service with Reverend Marsh.

  Joy was never seen again.

  The police visited Merry’s house to ask her about her best friend’s disappearance but were informed that she was “ill.” For some reason, they never called back.

  Less than a week later, Merry vanished.

  This turn of events only reinforced the police view that Joy had run away. Joy had packed a bag. Merry had left a note: I’m sorry. We have to get away. I love you.

  The use of the word “we” certainly made it seem as though the girls had planned to run away together. Perhaps the intention had always been to make their escape separately and meet up again later. Concerns for the girls’ safety changed to appeals for them to get in touch.

  Of course, they never did.

  Oddly—perhaps coincidence, perhaps not—just after Merry disappeared, Grady also left the village suddenly. There’s no record of him ever working as a priest again. Of course, he could have abandoned the Church, perhaps even adopted a new name. But why?

  Even more strangely, almost a year to the day after Merry ran away, her mother and younger brother disappeared, leaving their home and taking nothing with them. Again, neither has been heard of since.

  No one in Chapel Croft really wants to talk about the girls. Joy’s mother suffers from dementia and still believes her daughter is on her way home. It seems cruel to deprive her of this notion.

  Perhaps Merry and Joy really did escape to better lives. Perhaps they met less pleasant fates. Perhaps they just don’t want to be found.

  But one can’t help feeling that someone, somewhere, must know what happened to the two best friends, the Sussex runaways. Merry and Joy. Their names inseparable still.

  I sit for a moment, fighting different emotions. Partly sorrow. Partly anger. I stare at the byline on the piece. Something clicks. I flick back through the newspaper stories, looking for the name of the reporter who covered the disappearances for the local paper. It’s the same. Of course.

  Once a reporter, always a reporter.

  J. Hartman. Joan.

  “I’d say you’re looking at maybe £100, plus parts.”

  The man in the camera shop looks at her sympathetically.

  Flo sighs. “Right.”

  “Not what you wanted to hear?”

  “No, but what I expected.”

  “Sorry, love.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Maybe if you ask your mum or dad nicely?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  She walks to the door.

  “Oh, hang on.”

  She turns back. He holds out a film canister. “Took the film out for you. Don’t think it’s damaged.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  She pockets the film canister. At least she hasn’t lost the photos. Small consolation. How the hell is she going to find a hundred quid?

  She walks despondently out of the shop, the bell jangling cheerily behind her and only serving to heighten her black mood. Fucking airgun-slinging, crow-shooting bastard yokel. She’d felt a bit bad about busting Tom’s nose, but now she hopes it remains crooked. She hopes he has bad sinuses for the rest of his rotten life.

  Not Christian, she imagines her mum telling her, but screw it. Fat lot of good her religion has done her so far. Turfed out of their home. Forced to move to this shithole. Yeah, devotion to God was really paying off.

  She spots a café across the street and crosses the road. Right now, she could do with catching up with Leon and Kayleigh and just feeling normal for once. She walks inside. The café is busy, but she spots a table by the window. She slings her hoodie over the back of the chair, joins the queue for coffee and takes a mocha and a muffin back to her seat.

  She sips her drink and connects to the wifi. A full signal. Hallelujah. She opens up Snapchat. Flo isn’t real
ly a huge fan of social media. She doesn’t like how everyone pretends they have an amazing life or how they filter their faces a zillion times so they don’t even look human. It’s all false and fake. She doesn’t even like taking photos with her phone and would rather use her Nikon (although that’s not going to happen again any time soon), but Kayleigh and Leon are on Snapchat and it’s the only way to stay in touch with her friends.

  She misses them. And she’d rather see them in person. She tries not to get down about it but, sometimes, it’s hard. When Mum first told her about the move, she was angry. They had argued, doors slammed—the lot. Okay, she knew they needed to leave the church at St. Anne’s. All the stuff going on, it was getting too much. Mum was tense and worried all the time. It was tough.

  But why here? Why not another church in Nottingham? Or somewhere that wasn’t hundreds of miles away? The only thing she’s holding on to is that it won’t be for long. Mum is just the interim vicar here. When they get a permanent one, they can move back to Nottingham, and hopefully all the other stuff will have died down.

  She does a scan of recent posts, smiling at some of her friends’ selfies. She finds the photo she took of the creepy twig dolls and messages: “What the locals do for ‘fun’ (screaming face). Send news of civilization.” She waits for the replies, sipping her mocha and staring idly out of the window.

  A figure catches her eye. Standing by the bus stop a little further up the street. A skinny teenager all in black: jeans, hoodie, long black hair. Wrigley? She squints. The window is inlaid with the name of the café and a picture of coffee cups, so her view is distorted. But it looks a lot like him. Something about the way he is standing. Staring. Watching her? A bus pulls up, blocking her vision. When it pulls away, the figure is gone.

  She frowns. She can’t be sure it was him. He can’t be the only skinny boy in Sussex who likes to dress in black. And why shouldn’t he be here? Henfield is the nearest town to Chapel Croft, after all. Nowhere much else for anyone to go.

  She turns back to her mocha. As if to prove her point, a shadow falls over the table. She looks up.

  “Seriously?”

  Rosie smiles. “Hey, Vampirina.”

  Flo glares at her. “Are you stalking me?”

  Rosie smiles and pulls out the other chair.

  “You wish.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Meeting some friends. We’re getting our nails done. Mum’s treat.”

  “Wow. Lucky you.”

  “Not really. That bitch will pay for anything if it gets me out from under her feet. What about you?”

  “Wondering when I last went somewhere and you didn’t show up.”

  “Small place, Vampirina. You’ll find it’s hard to escape people here.”

  “I’m starting to sense that.” Flo folds her arms. “What do you want?”

  “Actually, I want to apologize.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You’re not just worried that I might have reported you to the police?”

  “Have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rosie glances at the broken Nikon. “You know, I could pay for you to get that fixed.”

  “I don’t need your money.”

  “Fine.”

  “Is that it?”

  “There’s no reason we can’t be friends.”

  “There are plenty.”

  “So, you prefer to hang out with wriggly Wrigley? Don’t you find all that twitching kind of repulsive? Or does it turn you on?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “So, you like him then?”

  “I only just met him.”

  “Want to see a picture of his dick?”

  Flo stares at her. Rosie laughs.

  “I sucked him off once. For a bet.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why? You think he’s special? Trust me—he’s just like any other boy. He doesn’t care where he sticks it. Grow up.”

  Flo shrugs. “Like I care.” Even though she does. Kind of. There’d been something about him. Or so she’d thought.

  “Got a nice picture, which I’ve shared everywhere. You’re probably the only person in this village who hasn’t seen it. Quite big, actually.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “What. You don’t like dick? Is pussy more your thing?”

  “Just fuck off.”

  “Actually, I came over to give you a friendly warning.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Has Wrigley told you about his last school?”

  “Like I said, I only just met him.”

  “He got kicked out.”

  “So?”

  “Aren’t you curious as to why?”

  “I’m curious as to why I should believe a word you say.”

  “He tried to burn it down. Almost killed a girl.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Look it up. The school is in Tunbridge Wells—Ferndown Academy.”

  “Like I said, I don’t care.”

  Rosie stand and shrugs. “Your funeral. But if I was you, I’d stay the hell away from Wrigley.” She winks. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  Flo watches her sashay off, willing someone to accidentally throw hot coffee in her face. She looks down at her phone. There’s a message from Kayleigh. Her thumb hovers over it. Then she opens Safari and types in “Ferndown Academy.”

  “You used to write for the local paper.”

  Joan totters over to the table with two mugs of coffee. They wobble somewhat precariously in her twisted hands, but she manages to make it without spilling a drop.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Give someone all the answers, they won’t ask questions.”

  “But maybe I would have taken what you said about Reverend Fletcher more seriously.”

  She feigns surprise. “You mean you didn’t? Perhaps you thought it was just the ramblings of a mad old lady?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m used to it. When you’re old, no matter what you have accomplished in your life, people only ever see your age.” She winks. “Of course, you can use it to your advantage too. I haven’t carried a shopping bag to my car in years.”

  I smile. “The girls’ disappearance must have been a big story for the local paper.”

  “At the start. But, gradually, that changed.”

  “Why?”

  “Small villages are strange places. Backward, in some ways. Oh, I know people don’t like to hear it, but it’s true. They’re resistant to change. Families have lived here for generations, and they have their ways.”

  I sip my coffee.

  “Everyone knows everyone,” she continues. “Or rather, they like to think they do. The fact is, they know what they want to know and believe what they want to believe. Anything that threatens their community, their traditions, their church, they close ranks to protect it.”

  She’s right. And not just villages. Any small community. It happens in cities too. It’s how some areas become ghettos. Us and them. However bad the “us” are, you still protect your own.

  “Did someone tell you to stop writing about the girls?”

  “Not directly. But my editor certainly discouraged me from asking too many questions. I think the police officer in charge, Inspector Layton, didn’t want to be seen as incompetent, and the church was a big influence in the community. To suggest any wrongdoing was almost heresy.”

  “By wrongdoing, do you mean by Benjamin Grady, the curate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I knew of him. I lived over in Henfield back then. I only spoke to him once, properly, after Joy’s disappe
arance.”

  “And?”

  She hesitates.

  “I didn’t care for him…”

  “Why?”

  “There was just something about him. I couldn’t put my finger on it. However, I know that a lot of the village girls were rather keen on him.”

  “It often happens. Girls developing crushes on priests. Of course, most would never abuse their position.”

  She nods. “Grady was certainly aware of his physical attributes. And Joy was a beautiful girl.”

  “That makes it seem romantic,” I say tightly. “He was an adult in a position of power. She was fifteen.”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “Was he ever considered a suspect in Joy’s disappearance?”

  “Not seriously. The police spoke to him, of course. But when Joy was last seen by a witness, Grady had an alibi. He was preparing a service with Reverend Marsh.”

  “The witness couldn’t be wrong?”

  “Her description tallied with what Joy’s mother said she was wearing.”

  “Who was the witness? It’s not mentioned in any of the reports.”

  “Clara Rushton.”

  I stare at her. “As in Reverend Rushton’s wife?”

  “Yes, although back then she was still Clara Wilson. She taught at the secondary school.”

  “I know…I mean, she mentioned it.” I consider. “So, she knew the girls and Grady?”

  “Yes. In fact, Clara and Grady grew up together in Warblers Green. Then Grady went away to university and theological college. When he returned, Clara helped out a lot at the chapel. Reverend Marsh didn’t drive, so Clara would often run errands for the church.”

  “You really did your research.”

  She smiles. “Oh, I always do.”

  Something about the way she says it suddenly makes me wonder if she’s done her research on me. I continue quickly: “So, it’s possible Clara might have covered for Grady?”

  “But how would she have known what Joy was wearing that evening?”

  “Maybe she saw her earlier, when Grady didn’t have an alibi?”