by C. J. Tudor
I stare at the hole in the floor, mind still churning. If he’s right, and the floor was repaired at some point, then how come no one noticed the great big bloody vault underneath the chapel?
“What do you want to do?” Mike asks.
Tempting as it is to fetch a tire iron and find out exactly what’s under there right now, I’m not sure that will endear me to the powers that be, and I don’t mean God.
“I think I need to call out a qualified stonemason and get them to remove the slabs carefully, so we can investigate.”
“Well, there, I can help—”
He gets out his phone. “I still have the number of the stonemason I followed around.”
“Handy.”
“Well, we went out for a drink a couple of times afterward.”
“Oh.”
I try to contain my surprise. Because he was previously married to a woman, I had presumed Mike was straight.
“She’s really good,” he adds.
“Right.”
She. Stupid, Jack. Of all people, I should be used to people’s presumptions.
“Have you got AirDrop?”
“Err, yes.”
I get out my phone and it pings with Mike’s message. I press accept.
“Thanks.”
“What do you think is under there?” he asks.
“Well, usually vaults like this were built beneath churches for the wealthy and influential in the village.”
“Right. Like their own private graves, away from all the peasants.”
“Exactly.”
We both look back at the vault.
“So, the question isn’t really what, but who?”
* * *
—
I sit on the edge of Flo’s bed, something I haven’t done since she was a little girl. She’s propped up on her pillows, her bandaged leg poking out of the duvet. Her face is pale, eyes circled with shadows.
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad,” I say. “Not anymore. I just worry about you. I want to keep you safe.”
“I know, Mum. But you can’t protect me from everything. What happened in the chapel was just an accident.”
“Right.” I look at her more closely. “And the figure you followed in there?”
A hesitation. There it is. I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me.
“Okay. Promise you won’t think I’m crazy.”
“I promise.”
“I thought I saw another girl, like in the graveyard.”
“The same girl.”
“No, this girl had a head and arms—but she was on fire and all burnt up. It was horrible.”
I just stare at her. Burning girls.
“I’m not making it up.”
“I know.” I sigh. “Are you sure no one else mentioned the story of the burning girls to you? Wrigley, perhaps?”
“Why? You think someone told me something and my mind somehow conjured these visions up?”
“I’m just looking for rational explanations. I’ve never believed in ghosts.”
“Me neither.”
“But I believe you.”
What I don’t add is that I also believe that the last few weeks have been traumatic. All the trouble in Nottingham. The sudden move here. Flo has never given me any cause to worry about her mental health. She’s always been remarkably well balanced. But then, Jonathon was good at putting on an act. And there are some professionals who believe that mental health problems are hereditary.
“So, what are we going to do?” Flo asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Exorcism? I mean, you’ve got the kit.”
I smile weakly. “If there are lost souls stuck on this earth, I don’t think ripping them from it violently and in anger is the best way to treat them, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“The folklore says the burning girls appear to those in trouble.”
“So, you think I’m in trouble?”
I look pointedly at her leg.
“An accident,” she says again.
“The second in two days.”
“Here we go. I suppose you’re going to blame Wrigley?”
“Both times you’ve met him, something bad has happened.”
“He rescued me tonight.”
“And I’m thankful he found you.”
“But?”
“What if he was the person you saw going into the chapel?”
“He wasn’t.”
“Okay, but what do you really know about him?”
“He lives just outside the village with his mum.”
“And?”
“Well, I didn’t give him a whole interrogation.”
“I’d still like to meet his mum.”
“We’re not dating.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s not like that.”
“Does he know that?”
“Yes. And what about you and that bloke, Mike?”
“Definitely not like that.”
“Have you told him?”
“Okay, enough, young lady.” I rise. “We’ll chat about this in the morning.”
She turns and reaches for her light, then pauses. “Mum, whose bodies do you think are in the vault?”
“I really don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see tomorrow. Get some rest. Do you think you’ll sleep?”
She yawns. “The burning girls only haunt the chapel, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Then I should be fine.”
“Night. Love you to the moon and back.”
A phrase we used to use when she was little.
“Love you to the whole universe and back.”
“Love you to infinity and back.”
“Love you to the Big Bang and back.”
I smile and pad across to the bathroom. I wash, brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I feel exhausted but also on edge, as though I am teetering on the cusp of something; something bad. The feeling washes over me like vertigo.
Something wicked this way comes.
I reach for the silver chain I wear around my neck. And then I walk into the bedroom and kneel beside the bed. But I don’t pray. I slide my hand beneath the mattress. My fingers fumble around, touching wooden slats. I frown. I lift the mattress and stare under it in disbelief.
The knife has gone.
Prayers should not be selfish. Something my old mentor, Blake, told me. God is not a concierge. He’s not here at your beck and call. By all means, ask for guidance, but if you need help, you must learn to help yourself.
I’ve always tried to follow his advice. Along with his other important biblical teaching: everything looks better after a good night’s sleep, a strong coffee and a cigarette.
I get dressed, go downstairs, make a very strong coffee and retrieve my tin of tobacco and papers. Then I take it all upstairs, open my bedroom window and sit on the windowsill. Smoking out of my bedroom window is neither safe nor hygienic, but I need to think, and I need to make some phone calls. Here is the only place I can do both.
I roll a cigarette, staring out at the fields across the road. The grass glints with dew. The sun is a silver disc in the misty blue sky. It’s beautiful, but it does little to lighten my mood.
The knife has gone. I checked again when I got up. Not beneath the mattress. Not in my wardrobe, not in the case. How can it be gone? Who can have taken it? Well, basically only two people were alone in the house last night: Flo and Wrigley.
Could Flo have found it? Did she take it in the same way that she hides my tobacco? Perhaps for my own safety? Because she was worried about me? But how would she even have found it? Why would she have been looking beneath the mattress?
My fir
st instinct was to confront her last night. But then I changed my mind. It was late. We were both tired. And if she hadn’t taken it, that would have just led us on to a more uncomfortable discussion. Why had I hidden a knife under my mattress? And who else had been in the house today, perhaps with opportunity to go sneaking around? Wrigley?
This move was supposed to be a chance to get away from our problems. To escape. To set things right. But all I am finding are more worries, questions without answers. I feel like I’ve stepped into a puddle only to find that it’s quicksand, and the more I try to drag myself out, the faster I’m hastening my descent into the quagmire.
The prison release letter still festers in my glovebox. The death of Reverend Bradley lurks at the back of my mind. Much as I keep trying to tell myself that the two are not connected, doubt lingers. And what of the mysterious items left for me here? Not to mention the newspaper clipping? Who left them? What message are they trying to deliver?
I drag harder on the cigarette and take out my phone. Okay. First item of business. Call the stonemason and ask them to find out exactly what is under the chapel, and why no one seems to have been aware of it. It’s just after eight thirty. They’re probably not open yet, but it’s worth a try. I press call, half expecting it to go to voicemail but, to my surprise, a bright female voice answers:
“Hello, TPK.”
“Oh, hello. This is Reverend Brooks at Chapel Croft.”
“Hi.”
“I was wondering if it might be possible for you to come and take a look at an area of damaged flooring in the chapel?”
“Yes. Of course. What sort of damage are we talking? Chipped, cracked?”
“More like a great big hole in the floor and a hidden vault underneath.”
“Wow—now that sounds interesting! I’ve actually had a job cancel this morning. I could be with you in about half an hour, if that’s convenient?”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“I’ll see you shortly.”
I put the phone down. One job done. Next, I cannot continue risking life and limb for three bars on my phone. I need to call BT and…
“Hello, up there!”
I jump, wobble on the windowsill and clutch at the frame.
“Jesus!”
I peer down. A bald man in what looks suspiciously like a BT uniform stands beneath the window. I was so preoccupied I hadn’t noticed the van pull up.
“I’m looking for a Reverend Brooks? Are you Mrs. Brooks?”
I smile. Thank you, God.
“Actually, I’m Reverend Jack Brooks.”
“Oh, right. I’m Frank, from BT.”
“And you, quite literally, are the answer to my prayers.”
* * *
—
While Frank the BT man fumbles around with connections and drills holes in the living-room wall, I shower and get dressed. I’m just heading downstairs when Flo pokes a disheveled head out of her bedroom.
“What’s that noise?”
“That is the sound of us rejoining civilization.”
“Internet?”
“Yep.”
“Hallelujah.”
I regard her for a moment. The knife.
“How’s your leg?”
“A bit sore, but okay.”
“Want a cup of tea or coffee?”
“Coffee would be good.”
“Okay. I’ll bring one up.”
She stares at me suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice?”
“Because I love you.”
“And?”
“Do I need another reason?” I smile, lovingly.
“You’re being weird,” she says, and retreats back into her room.
I walk downstairs and make her a milky coffee, one sugar. I pop my head into the living room and check on Frank.
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done in here, love. Then I just need to go and check the connection up the road.”
I smile politely and try to batten down my annoyance at being called “love.”
“Thanks. I can’t tell you how happy we’ll be to have internet again.”
“Funny. Never think of vicars using the internet.”
“Well, sending prayers to Sainsbury’s for the shopping doesn’t work so well.”
He stares at me and then laughs, awkwardly. “Oh, right. Good one.” He looks around. “Y’know, I remember the other bloke who was here.”
Of course. Small village. Even the BT man is local.
“Reverend Fletcher?”
“Yeah, decent fella. Shame what happened.”
“Yes. Very sad.”
“Thought that would be the end of it, to be honest.”
“End of what?”
“Here. The chapel.”
“Why?”
“Well, they had it up for sale at one point.”
This is news to me. “Really?”
“Yeah. After the old vicar—Marsh—retired, it was closed for well over a year. Then Reverend Rushton started a campaign to save it. They got this big donation and decided to keep it open.”
“Well, that was very fortunate. Who was the generous donor?”
“Local bloke. Simon Harper. Never had him down as the religious type, but I suppose it’s village history, innit?”
“I suppose,” I say.
“Right.” He stands. “I’ll just scoot up the road. Be back in a minute.”
“Okay.”
I take Flo’s coffee upstairs, mind ticking over. So, Simon Harper made a large donation to the church. Rushton had mentioned the family “doing a lot” for the church. He obviously meant bailing it out. But why, I wonder? To make himself look good? Or something else?
I knock on Flo’s door.
“Come in.”
I walk in. She’s sprawled on her bed, headphones on. I put the coffee down on her bedside table.
She mutters, “Thanks.”
I wait. She notices me hovering and takes her headphones off.
“Yes?”
The knife.
“I just wanted to ask you something, about last night?”
“O-kay?”
“When you were in the house, with Wrigley, were you together all the time?”
“Yes. Why?”
Too quick. She’s lying.
“So, he didn’t use the toilet or anything?”
“Maybe. Why are you asking?”
I shrug. “He didn’t put the seat down.”
“Is that a crime?”
“It is in this house.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why are you really asking?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to accuse Wrigley without proof, and I don’t want to start another argument. Fortunately, I’m saved by a knock on the front door. Frank.
“Better get that,” I say.
“Knock yourself out.” She puts her headphones back on.
I have my answer anyway. Looks like young Lucas Wrigley and I need to have another chat. I trot downstairs and open the door, expecting to see Frank’s bald head gleaming in the sun. Instead, a young woman with short hair and a skull tattoo poking out from the arm of her T-shirt stands on the doorstep. She looks familiar.
“Hello again,” she says.
And then it clicks. It’s the same young woman I met in the village hall. Kirsty?
“Oh, hi. Can I help you?”
“I’m hoping I can help you.” She holds up a large tool case with “TPK Stonemasons” written on the side.
She grins. “Something about a hidden vault?”
They don’t have children.
They do have a dog, a small brown-and-white terrier who alternates between sitting at the man’s feet, eyeing the bacon sandwich he is
eating, and pawing agitatedly at the adjoining door to the living room.
“Settle down,” he says, and chucks it a bit of bacon fat.
The dog looks at the door, whines and then trots over and eats the bacon.
Man’s best friend, he thinks. Yeah, right. The extent of a dog’s devotion begins and ends with food. Although, to be fair, the terrier probably doesn’t quite understand that his owners will not be taking him for walkies ever again.
He glances at the door. He didn’t mean to. But he had little choice. By the time he reached the farm his ankle was so painful he could barely hobble. Even if he could have managed to talk his way inside, there was no way he could overpower anyone. All he had was the element of surprise. He had found the axe embedded in some logs in a small shed outside. He could see the occupants through the patio doors. The doors hadn’t even been locked. Old folk. Too trusting. Oblivious to the horrors that could be lurking outside, even here, in the middle of nowhere.
It had been quick. Bloody, but quick. They had both been sitting, backs to him, watching TV. One swipe had taken the wife’s wispy grey head almost clean off. Her husband, equally grey and withered, had started to rise, but another swing had opened up his chest. The final blow had cleaved his skull almost in two. The terrier had yelped and yelped hysterically and then, when he turned toward it with the dripping axe, it had run and hidden in its crate.
He had stared at the bloody mess of bodies on the worn rug. Less than a couple of minutes for their lives to be snuffed out. But they were old, he reasoned. They had already lived their lives. He had probably only slashed them short by a few years. He didn’t feel so bad. It was necessary.
He had gone upstairs and ransacked the bathroom for painkillers. Another benefit of them being old was a medicine cabinet crammed with drugs. He had necked four codeine tablets and then gone back downstairs in search of alcohol. He found two bottles of sherry and one decent brandy in the kitchen cupboard. He had opened the brandy and downed several glugs. Finally, he had lain down on their large double bed and closed his eyes.
He dreamed. About a house a long time ago. About his big sister. About how she would curl up in bed next to him when he cried, wrap her arms around him and sing to him about tomorrow. Until the night she left him. And never came back.
* * *