The Burning Girls

by C. J. Tudor

—

  The description “chocolate box” could have been invented for the Rushtons’ cottage. Warm red brick glows in the mid-morning sun. The roof is neatly thatched. Small leaded windows sparkle with light, and climbers trail flowers over the walls. It nestles up to Warblers Green village church on one side and, on the other, a small stream gurgles past the local pub—the Black Duck.

  I can see why Rushton loves this place. And why he might do anything to protect his comfortable life here.

  When he opens the door, his normally jolly face is somber, even his curls deflated. He doesn’t look surprised to see me.

  “Come through. Clara’s just gone out for a walk.”

  He leads me into a large, sun-dappled kitchen at the back of the house. French doors open out on to a sprawling garden, blooming with bright flowers. A cool breeze wafts through. providing welcome relief from the heat of the day.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He sits down at the table opposite me and offers a rueful smile. “Before you ask, I’ve already spoken to the police…and I owe you an apology.”

  “You knew about the vault?”

  “Yes. But as I told the police, I had absolutely no idea about the body. That was”—he shakes his head—“a terrible, terrible shock.”

  “How long have you known?”

  He sighs heavily. “Reverend Marsh told me when I started my tenure. He explained that they had uncovered the vault the previous year, when they were relaying some damaged flagstones. But they wouldn’t be making it public, because it would hurt the reputation of the Harper family.”

  “Because their ancestors weren’t martyrs?”

  He nods. “It might seem odd to you, but it means a lot in Chapel Croft. Even now, those with lineage to the martyrs are respected. Those without are seen as poor relations.”

  “Surely the truth is more important than one family’s ego?”

  “I may have said much the same. Reverend Marsh asked me who I thought had paid for the repairs to the chapel’s roof. Who sponsored the church fete? Who paid for the supplies and equipment for the children’s club?”

  “The Harpers.”

  He nods. “Every year they make a sizeable donation to the church. To preserve its history.”

  “So, you agreed to cover it up?”

  Another deep sigh. “I agreed to not uncover it.”

  But a lie by omission is still a lie. And then I wonder, who am I to judge?

  “Who else knows?” I ask.

  “Until recently, only me, Aaron and Simon Harper.” He pauses. “But then Reverend Fletcher started looking into the history of the chapel.”

  “He found a copy of the architectural plans?”

  “Yes. He was very excited about the possibility of a hidden vault. Aaron came into the chapel one morning to find he had taken up half the floor, uncovered the old entrance.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I tried to persuade him not to tell anyone. But he felt the vault and coffins were an important historical discovery. So, I asked Simon Harper to speak to him. Whatever he said, it seemed to make a difference. Fletcher agreed to keep quiet and, not long afterward, he handed in his resignation.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes. I arranged for a tiler I know to come and cover up the entrance. I thought that was the end of it.”

  “And then Fletcher killed himself?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Do you still think it was suicide?”

  “Yes. I do.” His tone is firm, verging on annoyed. “You can’t seriously think that someone killed him because of the vault?”

  “If they knew what was hidden inside, maybe. Maybe they were worried he was getting too close.”

  Rushton shakes his head. “I know this village. The people. No one here is capable of murder.”

  “The body in the vault would suggest otherwise.” Before he can retort, I ask: “Do you think Marsh knew the body was down there?”

  “The police asked the same thing, and I will tell you what I told them. Marsh was an honorable man. Deeply religious. Why would he cover up a murder?”

  Why indeed? I think about the timeline. Marsh must have discovered the vault around the same time Merry and Joy disappeared, and Grady (supposedly) left the village. At some point before it was paved over, Grady’s body was hidden inside. A narrow window. And if no one else knew about the vault outside of the church, a small number of suspects.

  “Joan told me about the disappearance of Merry and Joy,” I say. “Benjamin Grady allegedly left the village around the same time. Except now we know he didn’t. Could the two things be connected?”

  “I don’t see how. The girls ran away.”

  “But did they?”

  “Jack, please, stop.” His voice rises. His face is growing red. “This is exactly what happened with Matthew. Joan spinning her yarns. He became obsessed. And we both know how that ended up.”

  I stare at him, wondering if that is an oblique threat.

  He takes a breath, tries to offer a smile, but the jolly-reverend act isn’t cutting it any more. “I understand your interest. Naturally, you have questions. But we must leave the investigating to the police. At times like this, we must all stick together. For the good of the church and the village.”

  “And the good of the Harpers?”

  “Whether you like it or not, in a village like Chapel Croft we need families like the Harpers. Their business sustains a lot of jobs. They give to charities—”

  “I understand that. But in trying to appease one family, you covered up a crime.”

  Possibly more than one.

  Rushton levels a hard stare at me. “And have you never sought to bury some small truths, Jack, to make things easier on yourself or someone else?”

  “This isn’t about me.” I stand. “I should get going.”

  He moves to rise.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I can see myself out.”

  I walk out of the cottage, back into the hot, bright sunshine. I parked my car under a shady tree just down the lane from the Rushtons’. Even so, when I climb into the driver’s seat it’s like climbing into a microwave oven. I roll the windows down, feeling hot, angry and, worse, let down. I liked Rushton. I wanted to trust him. I was wrong.

  I’m just about to pull off when I see Clara walking down the road. She’s dressed in shorts and hiking boots. A large canvas tote bag is hooked over one shoulder. She stops just before the gate to the cottage. Her chest is hitching. Her eyes are red. She’s crying. Instinct tells me to go and comfort her. Something else tells me not to. She has stopped outside the cottage deliberately. She doesn’t want her husband to see her.

  Of course, there could be lots of reasons why she is so upset. But bearing in mind the recent discovery at the chapel, I can think of only one. Grady. And you don’t shed tears like that over someone who was just a friend.

  I watch as she wipes at her eyes, adjusts her snowy hair and pushes the gate open. As she does, the canvas bag slips off her shoulder, gaping open.

  Inside are bundles of twigs.

  Flo tacks cardboard up at the bathroom window. Her mum had gone out, so she decided she might as well develop the second canister of film while she has the cottage to herself.

  She thought it might take her mind off things, but it hasn’t really helped. Perhaps it isn’t surprising. She’s been terrorized by burning apparitions, almost killed herself falling through the chapel floor and then discovered a bunch of ancient skeletons and a murdered vicar in the vault. Just your average week in Salem, right?

  She climbs down carefully from the bath—her left leg is still a bit stiff—and arranges her developing trays on the loo seat and the floor. Part of her wishes they could just move the hell away from this place, back
to Nottingham, and some sanity. Another part is kind of relishing the weirdness. Stumbling over skeletons in a vault is certainly a step up from finding used needles on the church doorstep. And maybe, just maybe, there’s another reason she’d like to stay. A dark-haired, green-eyed reason. Wrigley.

  She likes him. And, although she’s certainly not some damsel in distress, he did rescue her last night. But can she really trust a boy who has confessed to trying to burn down his last school? That’s pretty hardcore. And what about the knife? She told Mum he definitely didn’t take it, but she can’t quite crush that tiny kernel of doubt. She finds herself worrying at it, like a hangnail. Maybe that’s why she got so mad at her mum. She didn’t want to admit that she could, possibly, be right.

  They had managed to maintain an uneasy truce over breakfast this morning. To be fair, her mum had looked worn out and Flo had felt a bit bad. Flo doesn’t like things being weird between them, but Mum is so uptight about Wrigley. Flo doesn’t understand why she can’t give him a chance. Perhaps she’d be the same with any boy Flo liked. But she senses there’s something more. Something about being here.

  Flo wishes she had someone she could talk to about it all. She’d thought about messaging Kayleigh, but then realized she didn’t know what to say. Everything going on here, it’s all so different from Nottingham. It’s like they’re in separate worlds.

  When she finally got around to messaging her friends on Snapchat in the café the other day, she found herself feeling oddly detached from all the stuff they were rattling on about. It had seemed inconsequential, uninteresting even. And she had got the feeling that they felt the same about the stuff she had told them about Chapel Croft. Leon hadn’t even pretended to be interested. He was too busy filling her in on gossip: a girl in Year 11 had got herself up the duff, their chemistry teacher had been spotted in a park smoking dope and two girls she barely knew were in a same-sex relationship. In the end, she wished she hadn’t bothered. Instead of feeling closer, it had made her feel more distant than ever.

  She sighs and sets her equipment out. And then she pauses. She thought she heard something. A banging. There it is again. Someone is knocking on the front door.

  Christ. What now?

  She steps over the tray, opens the door and walks downstairs. She tiptoes into the living room and peers between the curtains. A familiar skinny black-clad figure hovers outside, hopping from foot to foot. She debates with herself for a moment. Then she walks back into the hall and pulls open the door.

  “I’m starting to think if I look in a mirror and say your name three times you’ll appear.”

  Wrigley grins. “Funny.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just wanted to see how you are. And I thought you might want to borrow this.” He holds out an old iPhone. “It’s a spare. You just need to put your SIM card in.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “I wiped it last night.”

  “In case of anything incriminating?”

  “Actually, it’s my mum’s old one, so…”

  “She doesn’t mind me borrowing it?”

  “I might not have told her. But she won’t notice. It was only in a drawer.” He twitches, pushing his black hair out of his eyes. “So, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Right. Good.”

  She hesitates. Her mum wouldn’t be happy about her inviting Wrigley in when she’s out, but he’s brought her a phone, and it would be rude to leave him outside. And, well, her mum’s out.

  “D’you want to come in for a bit?”

  “Well, I can’t stay too long, but yeah, for a bit.”

  She stands aside and he walks into the small hall. They face each other awkwardly.

  “I’m just developing some photos,” she says.

  “Oh, right.”

  “D’you want to come and see?”

  “Yeah, that would be cool.”

  He follows her up the stairs. At the top, she pauses. “Just try not to touch anything, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She opens the door a crack and they slip inside. She shuts it again quickly and flicks on the safety light.

  “So, this is your darkroom?” Wrigley asks.

  “It’s only temporary,” she says. “Long term, I need to find a better solution.”

  “No, I mean, it’s great.” He stares around.

  She picks up the canister containing the roll of film and takes it out.

  “Don’t you have to do that in, like, total dark?”

  “No, it’s black-and-white film so it’s not sensitive to red light. If it was color, I’d need to take the film out in a block bag.”

  “I didn’t know people still did this stuff.”

  He comes over and stands closer as she unspools the film.

  “Not so many people do now. Kind of a dying art. Everyone wants everything instantly. Why spend time doing all this when you can just take a photo on a phone and stick a filter on it?”

  “So, why do you?”

  She snips the negatives. “I like not having the answers right away. There’s something in waiting, not knowing how things are going to turn out. Actually watching the images develop. It’s more satisfying than taking endless pictures on a phone and then leaving them sitting on a computer and never looking at them again.”

  She turns. Wrigley is right behind her. Almost too close.

  “You’re right,” he says. “Everything is kind of disposable these days. There’s no appreciation of things…no anticipation.”

  She looks at him. The red light throws his face into a strange kind of anime, the jet black of his hair, the green of his eyes more intense than ever. Crap, she thinks. Are we going to…and suddenly, they are. His lips are on hers and it feels good and weird and exciting all at once. He presses her back against the wall. Their hands entwine and he pushes them up above her head. She feels something catch around her wrist. Too late, she realizes it’s the light cord. She hears a click.

  “Shit!”

  Harsh fluorescent light floods the bathroom. No, no, no. She turns and grabs for the cord, tugging it back off again. Only a couple of seconds, but…

  “The negatives.”

  She pushes Wrigley away and darts over to the roll of film.

  “I’m sorry—” he stutters.

  She can already see that about half of the negatives are completely leached out. Shit.

  “Will they be okay?”

  “No. They’re ruined.”

  “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “It isn’t your fault. It doesn’t matter.”

  But it did matter. The negatives were screwed and the moment—whatever it was—has gone.

  “I should go.”

  “Okay.”

  He turns for the door.

  “Wait,” Flo says. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want…that I don’t like you.”

  “Right.” He shuffles and spasms. “Then let me make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “Meet me, tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “The house by the woods.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Why?”

  “What do I tell my mum?”

  “Tell her we’re going to the youth club.”

  She debates with herself. Wrigley’s phone buzzes. He takes it out of his pocket and glances at it.

  “It’s my mum. I have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, I’ll see you tonight?”

  “I guess.”

  “Seven p.m.”

  “Okay.”

  “You trust me, right?”

  “Ye-es. But if we get attacked by zombies—”

  He grins. “I’ll bring a sh
ovel.”

  * * *

  —

  She’s wrong about the photos. Only half are ruined. She can save the rest. She sets about slipping them under the enlarger, then dipping them into the developing fluids. In fact, the light might even give a cool effect to some of the photos. Sometimes a flaw can be what makes something beautiful.

  “Stay the hell away from Wrigley.”

  But she can’t. Sometimes, you don’t have any choice.

  Finally finished, she trots downstairs into the kitchen. She’s thirsty. She grabs a glass and goes to the sink. She turns on the cold tap and then yelps, jumping backward, heart pounding.

  There’s a man standing outside the kitchen window, staring in.

  Dishevelled, dirty-looking, baggy dark circles under his eyes. As soon as he sees her, he backs off, turns and starts to lope away.

  Without even thinking, Flo puts down the glass, sprints to the door, unlocks it and races outside. She looks around, squinting in the sunshine. She spots him, disappearing around the back of the cottage, into the graveyard.

  “Hey!”

  She follows, jogging around the corner. He’s halfway up the slope, limping between the headstones. He looks like he has an injured ankle and, she can’t be sure, but he also looks like he’s wearing a vicar’s tunic.

  She starts up the hill after him, and she’s gaining when she catches her foot on something poking up from the ground. She trips, her arms windmill, but she has too much forward momentum and she crashes to the ground. Her breath whoomps out of her. Pain shoots up her bad leg.

  “Owww. Shit.”

  She lies there for a moment, shaken, trying to catch her breath. Eventually, she pushes herself up, but the man has disappeared over the small stone wall and into the fields. She won’t catch him now. Even if she did, what exactly was she planning to do? She hasn’t even got her phone to call the police. Not her best-made plan. But something about him had angered her, staring in like that.

  She sits up on the dry grass and turns to see what tripped her. It’s the same bloody toppled headstone she almost fell over the other day. The one she was about to photograph when she was distracted by the headless, armless girl.

  She glares at the headstone, as if it has somehow booby-trapped her on purpose, and then spots something else, half hidden in the long grass. She reaches forward and picks it up. It’s a photo in a tarnished frame. A teenage girl and a young boy. Familiar, but she can’t quite place it. And then she remembers. It’s the same picture she stood on in the old, derelict house. She frowns. Did the homeless guy drop it? Did he steal it from the house? Perhaps that was what he was doing here—casing the cottage?