The Burning Girls

by C. J. Tudor

  “Thank you.”

  He looks back at Flo. “You were both very lucky. Hanging around an old building like this, it’s dangerous.”

  My hackles rise. “You’re trying to blame my daughter for being attacked?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just saying that this is not a place for kids to hang out…not that anyone is going to be coming up here for a while, not after what your daughter’s boyfriend found.”

  I wish he wouldn’t call Wrigley that.

  “So it’s real?” Flo asks.

  “Forensics believe so.” He smiles. “We might need to employ you and your young fellow. Two bodies unearthed in two days. Must be some kind of record.”

  “Bodies.” I stare at Derek. “What are you talking about?”

  “When your daughter’s boyfriend—”

  “Wrigley.”

  “When Wrigley fell down the well, he found something down there.”

  “What?”

  “A human skull…we’re retrieving the rest of the bones now.”

  * * *

  She waited. First sitting on the broken-down wall, then pacing. They had arranged to meet at eight. Sneak out, hop on a bus to Henfield and from there to Brighton. You could catch a train to anywhere from Brighton.

  She checked her watch. Almost quarter past. Clouds scudded across the darkening sky. Time hurrying by. Where was she?

  Finally, heart sinking, she realized.

  She wasn’t coming.

  Tears pricked at her eyes. She picked up her small rucksack and started to turn. An owl hooted, disguising the soft rustle of grass behind her.

  Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backward.

  I’m dreaming about girls. Always girls. Mutilated. Abused. Tortured. Killed. I see their faces; their sad, broken bodies. Why do we hate our girls so much that history echoes with their screams and the earth is pitted with their unmarked graves?

  I watch them advance through the wet grass of the graveyard: Ruby with her wide, scarlet smile; the burning girls, trailing flames, skin blackened to a crisp; and Merry and Joy, holding hands, silver necklaces glinting around their necks—M and J. Best friends forever.

  I’m standing outside the chapel and I’m trying to pray, to call for God’s mercy. But they don’t hear me, and I realize that they are not seeing a priest, just another devil. God has no meaning for them because he has deserted them. I turn and run inside, pulling the door closed on their grasping hands, sliding the bolt shut. But they’re still clamoring, clawing and thumping at the wood.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  I blearily blink my eyes open. They flop shut again.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  I try again, using my fingers to prop them open. The dream is fading, the girls’ faces disintegrating, floating away like ash on the breeze. I glance at the clock: 8:30 a.m. A human-ish hour. But only just. I yawn and clamber out of bed.

  “Coming,” I call, as I yank on some clothes and pad down the stairs.

  I reach the front door, unlock it and pull it open.

  Simon Harper stands on my doorstep. Red-faced, hair tousled, breath rank with stale alcohol. He jabs a calloused finger at me.

  “I hope you’re happy now!”

  “Well, when I’m actually awake I’ll let you know. Church hours are from 10 a.m.”

  I move to shut the door. He sticks one muddy boot in it.

  “Could you please remove your foot from my door, Mr. Harper?”

  “Not until you listen to what I have to say.”

  I fold my arms. “Go on.”

  “The police came around to my house last night.”

  “Really?”

  “Your daughter accused Rosie of assaulting her.”

  “Someone put a bag over my daughter’s head, tied her wrists and pushed her friend down a well.”

  “It wasn’t Rosie.”

  “Really? It seems she and her cousin have form.”

  “What?”

  “The other day, someone shot at Flo with an airgun. Tom owns an airgun, doesn’t he?”

  “My daughter was home all last night, like I told the police.”

  “I see lying really is a family tradition.”

  He leans in toward me. “Leave my family alone.”

  “With pleasure. Now get your foot out of my door before I call the police.”

  He takes a step back. “The chapel won’t be seeing any more donations from me. See how long you last without my family propping this place up.”

  “I’m sure the discovery of the vault will prompt renewed interest and investment. Everyone loves a good historical scandal, don’t they?”

  His face flames even redder and then he smiles nastily. “I know who your daughter was with last night. That twisted little freak Lucas Wrigley. Perhaps you should worry less about my daughter and more about him.”

  “If you have a point, could you lumber toward it?”

  “Lucas Wrigley was expelled from his last school.”

  “And?”

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

  It derails me. I try to keep my voice steady.

  “Why should I believe you?”

  He sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. He thrusts it at me.

  “What’s that?”

  “The number of Inez Harrington. The former head of the school. She’ll tell you.”

  I keep my arms folded.

  “Suit yourself.” He smirks and lets the paper flutter to the ground. “But if it was me, I’d want to know who my daughter was screwing.”

  He turns and strides back to his Range Rover. It takes all my self-control not to run after him, leap on his back and pound his head to a pulp with my fists. I watch as he revs his engine and pulls off down the road. Then I bend and pick up the piece of paper from the ground. My hands are shaking. I should really rip it up. Bin it. Burn it.

  But I don’t. I slip it into my pocket and go and fetch my rolling tin.

  * * *

  —

  I’m halfway down my second cigarette when Flo walks into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. She stares at me.

  “You’re smoking!”

  “Yep.”

  “In front of me.”

  “Yep.” I regard her from eyes baggy with sleep. “You were going to have sex last night…oh, and you almost got yourself killed.”

  She smiles over-brightly. “Coffee?”

  “Black.”

  I take a final drag of the cigarette and stub it out on the wall of the cottage. Then I close the door and walk back inside. The piece of paper rustles in my pocket. I sit down at the kitchen table as Flo boils the kettle.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” I ask.

  “Okay. It all feels like some kind of bad dream.”

  “Yeah.”

  “D’you think Wrigley’s okay?”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “I should text him.”

  “Maybe it might be wise to keep a little distance for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “You have to ask?”

  She gives me a hurt look and picks up her coffee. “Fine. I’ll be in my room.”

  She disappears upstairs and I flop back in my chair. I can feel the phone number burning a hole in my pocket. I’m itching to call Inez Harrington. To arrange a time to talk. But if she agrees to meet, I don’t want to leave Flo on her own. I hate to say I don’t trust my daughter but, especially after last night, I don’t trust my daughter. I take a sip of coffee. My mobile rings. Mike Sudduth.

  “Hello.”

  The phone crackles.

  “Hi. It…om.”

  “Hang on.”

  I take the ph
one upstairs, open the window and poke my head out.

  “Hi. Can you hear me?”

  “Much better—how are you?”

  “I’m okay. I’m sorry if I was rude the other day.”

  “It’s fine. I understand. It was a bad time.”

  “And not getting any better.”

  “Yeah.” He pauses. “I heard about what happened last night.”

  “Already? That was fast.”

  “We might have rubbish broadband, but the village grapevine is like lightning.”

  And he works at a newspaper.

  “Is Flo okay?” he asks.

  “She’s fine. I suppose you heard about the discovery in the well too?”

  “The skeletons. Yeah.”

  I freeze. “Skeletons, plural?”

  “Ah, you see, this is why I’m usually consigned to covering village fetes and hog roasts. Not exactly good at being discreet.”

  “So, they found more than one?”

  “Two.”

  “Do the police know who they are?”

  “They’re still testing, but you’d have to assume they’re the two girls who disappeared in the nineties. Merry and Joy.”

  “Right,” I say slowly. “You probably would assume that.”

  “And this is really going to blow up, if so. The case will be reopened. National press will be all over it.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Journalists swarming over the village, raking up the past.

  “Jack. Are you still there?” Mike asks.

  “Yes. Just thinking how awful it is.”

  “And even worse, if they were murdered, which looks likely, it means that someone here, in this village, knows what happened to them.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  It also means that more than one person here is lying. And I feel like I’m running out of time to get to the truth. I glance toward the stairs.

  “Mike, could you do me a favor?”

  “Of course. I still owe you for the tire.”

  “D’you have a couple of hours free?”

  I have arranged to meet Inez Harrington near her home in Lewes, at an artisan café on the high street.

  Everything in Lewes appears to be artisan, handmade or individually crafted. The place is awash with artistically ruffled women in flowered dresses and wellies, herding up children with names like Apollo, Benedictine and Amaretto.

  I order a black coffee and settle down at a table in the corner of the café, feeling conspicuous and scruffy. I debated about losing the clerical collar but then decided that it would give me more authority, especially as I’m meeting a teacher. Teachers always make me feel vulnerable. Like they are about to pick me up on not using the correct form of a verb. Or tell me to stop lying. Somewhat ironic, I know, considering my own profession.

  I googled Inez Harrington before I came, so I know who to look out for. Her picture showed a square-faced woman in her fifties with short grey hair and a wide smile. A face for which the term “no-nonsense” was invented. I scan the people coming and going from the coffee shop. I’m a few minutes early. And then I spot her, coming through the door. She looks a little older than the picture, and a little stouter. She walks over.

  “Reverend Brooks?”

  “Yes. Jack, please.”

  She holds out a hand. “Inez.”

  We shake. Her grip is firm and warm.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  She smiles and it immediately shaves years off her. “You’re welcome.”

  A waitress wanders over. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “A latte, please.”

  She turns back to me. Her gaze is direct. “You should know, I don’t normally discuss former pupils with anyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m making an exception because Simon Harper asked me to.”

  “He’s a friend?”

  “No. I used to provide extra English tutoring to his daughter, Rosie. His wife, Emma, is a friend.”

  “Right.”

  “I understand your daughter, Flo, is the same age as Rosie.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll know that the teenage years are tough.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “It’s a confusing time. They have all these raging hormones. I’m not sure if they even understand themselves why they do things sometimes.”

  The waitress brings over the latte and sets it down.

  “Thank you.”

  “I know what you mean. Teaching secondary must be a tough job.”

  “But rewarding too. I’ve seen teenagers who were total delinquents turn into the most kind and lovely adults. Similarly, I have seen perfect A-star students go off the rails completely. Our teenage selves do not define us.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I’m a completely different person from the teenager I used to be.”

  “Well, you understand then.”

  I do. I also sense there is a very big “but” coming.

  “But, once in a while, you encounter a teenager who confounds you.”

  “Lucas Wrigley?”

  She nods and, when she lifts the coffee cup, I notice a slight tremble.

  “Tell me about him?”

  “At first, I felt sorry for him. His parents died when he was quite young. He was adopted when he was nine. Not that that makes a difference. I’m just saying he didn’t have the easiest start. And then, of course, there’s the dystonia.”

  “Yes, some kind of neurological condition.”

  She nods. “Inevitably, it made him a target. Difference is a teenager’s greatest enemy. There was some name-calling, bullying.”

  I bristle slightly at the use of the word “inevitably.” I don’t think that cruelty is inevitable. It’s a choice, nurtured by parents and environment. But I let it slide.

  “The school did what it could to help him. I went out of my way to support him and talk to the bullies, but some children don’t help themselves.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It was almost like Lucas would invite other children to pick on him, provoke fights, deliberately put himself in the path of the bullies. He wanted conflict.”

  “I find it hard to believe any child wants to be bullied.”

  “So would I, normally.”

  “Tell me about the fire.”

  “Lucas became friends with a girl called Evie. She was a bit of a misfit too. Quiet, shy. They hung around together. I thought the relationship might be good for them both.”

  “And then?”

  “She dropped him—another group of girls took her under their wing. She didn’t want to know Lucas Wrigley any more. You know how girls are at that age.”

  I don’t really, because Flo has never been part of that girly type of clique. And she is loyal to her friends, fiercely so. I used to be the same.

  “Lucas was upset,” Inez continues. “His behavior became more erratic. He missed school. Got into trouble. Evie complained that he was following her home, hanging around outside her house.”

  “What has this got to do with the fire?”

  “Evie was the girl who almost died in the fire.”

  It stops me in my tracks.

  “It was a Wednesday. Evie had been tasked with putting away some equipment after PE—the last lesson. Someone shut her in the storeroom.”

  “Where was the teacher?”

  “The teacher didn’t realize she was in there. She thought that all the pupils had gone.”

  “Responsible.”

  “No. But we all make mistakes. Later, Lucas broke into the school and started a fire in the gym.”

  “And you know for a fact that it was Wrigley?”

  “Someone spotted him running away, beca
me suspicious and investigated. Fortunately, the fire hadn’t spread to the storeroom and they heard Evie shouting for help.”

  “What about physical evidence? Matches. Petrol on his clothes.”

  She sighs. “By the time he was questioned he had been home. He could have changed clothes, washed.”

  “So, in other words, no real evidence.”

  “Evie told me it was him. She said that a few days before, he had cornered her in the playground and told her she was going to burn.”

  “Kids say bad stuff sometimes.”

  “Yes. And some kids are just bad.”

  I stare at her, shocked. “What happened to ‘our teenage selves do not define us’?”

  “Most of the time, they don’t. But sometimes, you meet a child who isn’t just suffering the usual teenage angst. It isn’t their background, their upbringing. They’re simply put together wrong. You can’t fix it. To put it bluntly, Lucas Wrigley scared me. I worried about what he might do next.”

  “And that’s why he was expelled?”

  “He wasn’t expelled. After careful discussion with his mother and Evie’s parents, it was agreed it would be best if he moved to another school.”

  “And Evie?”

  “She stayed at the school, but her schoolwork went downhill. She became withdrawn, depressed. Her mother went to wake her up one morning and she wasn’t in her room. She’d hanged herself in a small copse at the bottom of their garden.”

  “Oh God.” I feel a shiver ripple through me. “How tragic.”

  “It was all kept very quiet. The family moved away soon afterward.”

  “Yet you told Emma Harper. Why?”

  “A few months later, I was visiting a friend in Henfield and I saw Rosie with a boy.”

  “Lucas Wrigley?”

  “Yes. And they looked…friendly.”

  I frown. Queen Bee Rosie hanging out with awkward, twitchy Wrigley? It didn’t make any sense. Didn’t she and Tom just throw him down a well?

  “When was this?”

  “It would have been just after he started at his new school.”

  “So, you were scared of what Wrigley might do to Rosie?”

  She laughs. “No.”

  “Sorry?”