The Burning Girls

by C. J. Tudor

  He nods and heads to the bar. I realize I could do with using the loo.

  “Just popping to the ladies.” I squeeze out from my seat.

  They are tucked behind the bar. A slant-ceilinged room with two loos, a small washbasin and mirror. I’m just flushing when I hear the door from the bar open. I emerge and find myself face to face with Emma Harper. For some reason, I have the distinct impression that she has followed me in here. We smile at each other in that awkward way you do when you bump into someone in a toilet.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  I turn on the tap to wash my hands, expecting Emma to disappear into one of the cubicles. She doesn’t. She comes and stands beside me, smoothing her hair in the mirror. Up close, in the harsh fluorescent light, there’s shiny tightness to her skin—a facelift? Fillers?—and her nose has the chiseled sharpness of a nose job. Not that the lighting is doing my doughy complexion any favors. I turn the tap off and reach for the paper towels.

  “I didn’t expect to see you in here,” she says. Her voice sounds a little slurred.

  “Clara invited me. For the quiz.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes.” I screw up the towel and chuck it in the bin. “Even though quizzes aren’t really my thing.”

  “Me neither, but it’s something of a village tradition.” A lopsided smile. “Simon’s big on tradition. They all are around here.”

  “You’re not from around here?”

  “Me? No. I met Simon at uni in Brighton. We lived there for a few years. Moved back here after we married.”

  “Oh, why was that?”

  “The farm. His father was retiring. He wanted Simon to take it over.”

  “Right. And you were okay with that?”

  “I didn’t have much choice. I was pregnant with Rosie—and what Simon wants, Simon gets.”

  The bitterness is hard to miss. Alcohol, the great truth serum.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “Oh, I’m settling in.”

  She takes a lipstick out of her pocket and starts to apply it. “You seem to be getting on well with Mike.”

  “I try to get on with all my parishioners,” I say steadily.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about what happened, with his daughter?”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry. The death of a child is a tragedy. For everyone.”

  She stares at me in the mirror. Her pupils are constricted. The hand holding the lipstick shakes slightly. Maybe it’s more than a few drinks. Pills, perhaps?

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “It sounds like a terrible accident.”

  “I shouldn’t even have been watching Tara that afternoon. I was doing Mike a favor. He called and begged me to pick her up from school.”

  “Why?”

  A small smile, more like a sneer.

  “Because he was drunk. Too drunk to drive. And not for the first time.”

  I remember Mike saying that he didn’t drink anymore. The glass of orange juice. “So, he had an alcohol problem?”

  “He was an alcoholic. It was getting so bad Fiona was thinking of leaving. She gave him one last chance. If he blew it, she’d be gone, with Tara. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Tara.”

  The irony claws at my throat.

  “So, you agreed to cover for him?”

  “I was just trying to help. I know I shouldn’t have left Rosie to watch the girls, but it was only a few minutes…”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  Although, going out, leaving another child in charge, was careless. Rosie could have only been thirteen herself. But then, I remind myself, how often have I let Flo out of my sight because I was busy or distracted? No one is perfect. And we all think it will never happen to us. Bad stuff only ever happens to other people, right?

  She shakes her head. “You try so hard as a mother, to keep them safe. And then, just one moment, and they can be snatched away.”

  “You couldn’t have foreseen what would happen.”

  “But I should have.” She looks at me more sharply. “Do you believe in evil, Reverend?”

  I hesitate. “I believe in evil acts.”

  “You don’t believe that someone can be born evil?”

  I want to say no. I want to tell her that we are born a blank canvas. That murderers, rapists and pedophiles are a product of their environment rather than some darkness of the soul. And yet, I have visited many offenders in prison. Some are victims of terrible circumstances and horrific upbringings. A pattern of abuse repeating again and again. But others? Others come from good homes with loving parents and yet they still choose to kill, torture and maim.

  “I think we all have the capacity for good and evil,” I say. “But for some, one side is more prevalent than the other.”

  She nods and bites her lip. I watch her carefully. There’s something there. Just beneath the smooth, shiny surface. Barely contained by the Botox and the pills.

  “Emma,” I say, “if there’s anything you want to talk about, you can always come to the chapel. I’d be—”

  The door to the bar suddenly swings open. An old dear in tweed and wellies totters in, nods at us and lets herself into a cubicle.

  “Emma?”

  She smiles, mask firmly back in place. “Thanks for the chat, Reverend. And we really must get the girls together sometime. Bye.”

  And then she is gone, in a waft of perfume and pain.

  I sigh and look back at myself in the mirror. My face surprises me sometimes. The bags beneath my eyes, the heaviness around my jowls. If Emma has chosen to disguise herself with needles and knives, I have done the opposite. I have let myself go. I have let the years erase the girl I used to be, hiding behind crow’s feet and middle-age spread.

  I think about what she said again. Do you believe in evil? Can someone be born bad? Nature versus nurture. And, if so, can they change? Or is the best they can ever hope for to deny their nature, hide the darkness inside, try and fit in, act just like anyone else? I don’t have the answer, but I do wonder who she was talking about.

  I walk back into the bar and sit down. Mike pushes my wine across the table.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You were a long time.”

  “Queue.”

  He nods and picks up his orange juice. The not drinking makes sense now. Atonement. He blames himself for his daughter’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Just an unforeseeable tragedy. As all tragedies are. That’s what makes them so hard to bear. The acceptance that life is random and often cruel. We seek to attribute blame. We cannot accept that things happen without reason. That not everything is within our control. We make ourselves small gods of our own universe without any of God’s mercy, wisdom or grace.

  I pick up my wine and take a swig.

  “So, tell me, Jack?” Rushton says, interrupting my thoughts. “We were just discussing important theological matters.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “Yes. Who is the best on-screen devil? Al Pacino or Jack Nicholson?”

  I smile. “Who says the devil has to be a man?”

  “Stay the hell away from Wrigley. If you know what’s good for you.”

  Fucking Rosie. The girl was a bitch and a bully, but was she also a liar? Flo was pretty sure Rosie Harper could twist the truth until it screamed. But there was something about her face when she issued her warning about Wrigley. Flo didn’t like it.

  Flo had found the story online. It had headlined the local rag. A fire had been deliberately set in the sports hall of Ferndown Academy. It had devastated the hall but hadn’t reached the rest of the school. Firefighters had rescued a girl who had been trapped in a s
toreroom.

  A pupil was arrested on suspicion of arson. There was no mention of the pupil being charged. Neither the alleged arsonist nor the girl were named. It might not even have been Wrigley. And, even if it was, if he hadn’t been charged, they obviously didn’t have enough evidence. It could all be gossip. Rumors spread like, well, wildfire, in schools.

  Worst-case scenario, Wrigley had set the fire. That was bad, yes. But it didn’t mean he knew there was someone in the storeroom. Perhaps it was an accident.

  On the other hand, how well did she really know him?

  “If I really wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have told you about the well.”

  She had tried to put it out of her mind when she got home, distracting herself with a book—an old Clive Barker. But it was no good. It was still there, like an itch. And then Mum had come in, rattling on about some stupid quiz at the pub. She had cracked. Lost her temper. She shouldn’t have taken it out on her mum. It wasn’t her fault, not really.

  She lies back on her bed. What a shitshow. And the really, really crap thing? It isn’t even the arson that bothers her the most. It’s what Rosie had said about sucking Wrigley off. She’s more bothered that Rosie sucked his dick than the fact he could have burned a girl to death. She’s jealous. Stupid. She only spent a few hours with him. But she had thought he was different. He’s the only friend she’s made here. And now it turns out he’s an arsonist and the sort of twat that would let a bitch like Rosie go down on him.

  There’s a soft knock on the bedroom door.

  “Okay, I’m going.”

  She doesn’t reply. Anger has filled her throat.

  “Love you.”

  It’s not her fault.

  “Don’t get too drunk,” she calls gruffly back.

  She hears her mum go back into her room and then trudge downstairs. The front door slams and Flo is alone. She rolls over and tries, again, to concentrate on her book. But it’s too hot in the small room, even with the window open. And the claustrophobic silence of the cottage is distracting. She finds herself feeling tense, waiting for something to break it, even though she knows she is alone. What’s the scariest sound? A stair creaking in an empty house. The soft tread of nonexistent feet. Perhaps belonging to a headless, armless, burning girl.

  Give it a rest, brain! She reaches for her headphones and sticks them on, selecting something loud and punky to distract her. Frank Carter and The Rattlesnakes.

  She manages most of the album and several more chapters of the book before her stomach starts to growl. Despite what she told her mum, she’s starving. All she has eaten today is half a muffin.

  She swings her legs out of bed and pushes open the bedroom door. She pads downstairs. Even though it’s not fully dark outside and all the lights are on, the cottage always feels full of shadows. Something about the rooms. The light never seems to stretch into all the crooked corners.

  Despite the heat, she shivers. Reading too much horror again. She’ll be seeing frigging clowns next. She walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge, surveying the contents. Mum’s been shopping, but there still doesn’t seem to be much here. Cooking and domesticity are not exactly her mum’s strong points. She tries her best, but she is never going to be one of those TV mums who whips up a gourmet meal while spinning around the kitchen in an apron.

  She spots some eggs, cheese and peppers. She could make an omelette, she supposes. She grabs the ingredients, slams the fridge shut and dumps them on the table. Then she goes over to the sink to get a knife out of the drainer.

  Something catches her eye outside the window. A flash of movement. White between the grey headstones. From this angle, she can just make out a narrow strip of graveyard to the left of the chapel and then the chapel itself. She squints. There it is again. A figure. A girl? Moving swiftly from the graveyard toward the chapel. Instinctively, Flo turns and looks for her camera, then remembers that it’s broken. When she looks back, the girl is gone. If she was ever there at all.

  She debates. She has the strongest urge to follow her. But she’s also well aware that following a ghostly girl into a deserted chapel at twilight is pretty much “Dumb Movie Heroine 101.” She could only make it more clichéd if she was wearing a push-up bra and hot pants.

  Still, something about the girl tugs at her. She grabs her phone and heads for the door. She is still holding the knife from the drainer: a small, sharp vegetable knife. She thinks about putting it back and then slips it into the back pocket of her jeans. Just in case.

  It isn’t much cooler outside. The air feels thick with trapped heat. She swats at a few midges. Thunder flies, her mum always calls them. The sign of a coming storm. In the city, the streetlights would just be starting to stutter on. Here, aside from the faint glow behind the cottage windows, there is only the muted grey of descending darkness; the silver and charcoal sky.

  She stares over at the chapel. It looks a little like a ghost itself tonight. A specter of times past. She walks across the uneven path toward the door. It gapes open. Didn’t Mum keep it locked in the evening?

  She hesitates. She could call her mum, but then she would only freak and come rushing back. She was already on edge after the stuff with the airgun. Flo doesn’t want to give her another excuse to treat her like a kid. Besides, the door looks fine. No one has forced it. And who broke into a chapel? What was there to steal? The moldy old curtains? The fake flowers by the altar? Mum probably just forgot. She’s been preoccupied since they moved here, not herself.

  Flo pushes the door open a little wider. It’s much darker in the chapel. She pauses in the vestibule and lets her eyes adjust. Then she walks into the nave and looks around. Dim, dusty light drifts down in narrow shafts from the high windows. The pews are shadowy worshippers either side of the altar. They look empty. The whole nave looks empty. Of course, she can’t see upstairs.

  She takes a few more steps along the aisle. She is halfway down, her breathing steadying, when there is a heavy clunk that shakes the building. She jumps, spinning around. The door has slammed shut. She blinks. Dust spins in the air.

  And then she sees her. Standing at the top of the aisle. White dress, dark hair. Not the same girl she saw before. This girl has a head and arms. Flo feels the hairs on her own arms quiver, her heart beats a little faster. She fumbles for her phone. She will get a picture this time.

  The girl starts to walk slowly toward her, head down, tangled dark hair obscuring her face. She wears a dirty white smock, feet bare. Slight, but not a child.

  “Are you all right?”

  The girl remains silent.

  “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

  She still doesn’t reply.

  “I’m Flo. What’s your—”

  The girl looks up.

  Flo screams. The girl’s face is a mask of blackened and burnt flesh, melted away to bone and stubs of small teeth. Where her eyes should be there are just empty, dark craters. Flo stumbles backward, terror snatching her breath.

  No, no, no. Not possible.

  As she stares in horror, the girl’s hair sparks and catches fire. More flames erupt at the tips of her hands and feet, creeping greedily along her limbs, darkening the skin until it peels away, like burnt paper.

  A terrible dream. One that feels hideously real. She just has to wake up.

  The girl draws closer, flaming hands outstretched. Flo can feel the heat, smell the stench of roasting flesh, hear the sizzle of her skin crisping.

  Too real.

  She takes another step backward. Her back hits the altar. The girl is still advancing. Flo’s scalp prickles. Sweat dampens her underarms. This isn’t a dream. She has to get out of here.

  She darts blindly to the right, crashing into the makeshift barriers around the broken paving stones. She trips, regains her balance and jumps over the barriers. Her foot hits the floor…and plunges st
raight through.

  She screams. Pain tears up her leg. Her phone flies from her hand.

  Jesus Christ. Her leg is trapped. She can’t move it. She stares around in panic. The chapel and her surroundings swim in and out of focus. Through the shock and pain, she realizes that the heat, the smell and the girl are all gone. She’s alone.

  She looks down. Her left leg has half disappeared through the chapel floor. The crumbling stone must have given way and her knee is now wedged between the cracked slabs. She tries to release it. Fresh, bright pain shoots up her leg. Her phone lies just out of reach. Of course. Probably no signal in here anyway, but still she strains for it, willing her fingertips to grow a few more inches. No good. Not even tantalizingly close.

  She bites back a sob. Mum won’t be back for another hour at least. What if she doesn’t check Flo’s room? No. She will. Of course she will. And then she’ll check the chapel, surely? But what if she doesn’t? What if she thinks Flo is in bed, asleep? Stop it, she tells herself. Do not panic. Someone will come and…Wait!

  She can hear something. The creak of the chapel door? Footsteps. Yes, definitely footsteps. She tries to twist her body around. She can’t see who it is from this angle, down on the floor. But it must be her mum. She must have come back early. Relief floods through her.

  She’s about to call out when the figure draws into view around the end of the pews. The words shrivel on her tongue. She looks up and fear throbs in her throat.

  “Flo.”

  She fumbles in her back pocket and pulls out the knife.

  “Get back. Stay the hell away from me.”

  Rushton sinks his pint and looks around the table regretfully. “Well, this has been delightful, but we should probably get going.”

  Clara rises. “I’m so happy you came, Jack. Fresh blood.”

  “Yes, I think that was our best performance yet,” Rushton adds, shrugging his arms into a worn blue anorak.

  “I’d hate to have seen the worst,” I say.

  Rushton laughs. “We don’t talk about it.”

  “I’ve had fun,” I say, and realize I mean it. The evening, and company, have been enjoyable.