The Burning Girls
Page 32
“Yeah—mostly about how I’ll pay off the credit card.”
“You deserve this.”
“Thanks. But it’s only for a month. To check a few places out.”
Maybe.
“I meant to ask,” I say. “Did the police ever find the person who pulled me from the chapel?”
“No. I mean, nobody came forward.”
“Right.”
“And if they were injured—they’d have showed up at a hospital, right?”
“Right.” I smile quickly. “Maybe I imagined it.”
“It was a traumatic night.”
“Yes.”
But I didn’t imagine it. I know it was him. Jacob. My brother. He found me again. He saved me. And he’s still out there, somewhere.
“Here we go. Two Americanos.” Flo dumps two coffees on the table. “I got double shots, so that should see us through half the journey to Oz.”
“I should get going,” Mike says.
“Oh. Okay.”
We both stand, a little awkwardly.
“Thanks for the lift,” I say. “And, well, you know.”
“I know. Remember the stuffed koala.”
“Will do.”
“Okay then.”
Flo rolls her eyes. “Painful.”
Mike leans forward and embraces me in a quick, clumsy hug. “Take care, and look after yourselves.”
He straightens, smiles and then turns and ambles away.
“Such a loser,” Flo says, taking the lid off her coffee. “He’s perfect for you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Just not my type.”
“Holding out for Hugh Jackman?”
“I think he’s holding out for me.”
She smiles. “I love you, Mum.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand.
“And I love you.”
She suddenly frowns. “You’ve taken your collar off.”
“Oh, yes. Thought it might be more comfortable. For the flight.”
“Oh. Okay.”
We sip our coffees. Flo checks her phone. When we rise to leave, I let Flo walk ahead and I take the collar out of my pocket. After a moment’s hesitation, I stuff it into the empty coffee cup, pop the lid back on and leave it on the table.
What kind of woman am I?
Perhaps it’s time to find out.
The patient had come to them a few weeks ago. Found barely alive in a ditch, not far from Hastings. No ID. In a bad way. He’d obviously been there a while.
He had burns to a large area of his right side and cellulitis had spread from an injured ankle, up his leg. He’d been placed in an induced coma. He had battled back from sepsis. But the leg couldn’t be saved. It was amputated below the knee. Rehabilitation had been slow. He couldn’t or wouldn’t talk.
“But we’re making some progress,” Nurse Mitchell says as she leads the new doctor (all shiny hair and earnest enthusiasm) down the corridor, rubber-soled shoes squeaking. “He’s been engaging in art therapy recently and that seems to have helped.”
“Good.”
You might not say that when you see it, she thinks.
She pushes open the door to the therapy room. The doctor blinks. The tables at the side of the room display the patients’ work. Amid the woven baskets, papier mâché models and painted plates, pretty much every surface is covered in small twig dolls.
The doctor walks over and peers at them. “Interesting.”
One word for it.
“They’re all he makes,” Nurse Mitchell says. “Obsessively.”
The doctor picks up one of the dolls, stares at it, and then quickly puts it down again. “And has he said what they represent?”
“He’s only spoken two words since he’s been here.”
She glances back at the twig dolls, trying to contain a shudder.
“Burning Girls.”
For Neil, Betty and Doris. The tall, the cute and the furry.
I’m not a religious person—my only experience of churches is sitting through a few bum-numbing christenings and harvest festivals—so writing a book where the main character is a vicar was always going to be an interesting proposition.
Therefore, I owe a big thanks to Mark Townsend for his insight into small rural churches and the day-to-day life of a vicar—although obviously I’ve used some, ahem, creative license!
It seemed to take me an eternity to finish this, my fourth book. It really does get tougher each time! So, I’d like to give a shout out to my always supportive agent, Maddy, my ever-patient editors, Max and Anne, and to everyone at my publishers who has worked so hard, even over lockdown, to polish, promote and finally get the book out there.
It goes without saying—but he might sulk if I don’t—that my husband, Neil, is a constant source of love and tech support. And, of course, I have to thank my little girl, Betty, for filling my days with joy—and Lego.
I’d also like to thank everyone in the village where we now live for being so welcoming and supportive. I’ve made some lovely friends here, whose tales about the area’s history helped to inspire this story.
As always, thank you wonderful readers for picking this book up. I couldn’t do it without you. So—same time next year?
BY C. J. TUDOR
The Chalk Man
The Hiding Place
The Other People
The Burning Girls
C. J. Tudor is the author of The Other People, The Hiding Place, and The Chalk Man, which won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best First Novel and the Strand Magazine Award for Best Debut Novel. Over the years she has worked as a copywriter, television presenter, voice-over artist, and dog walker. She is now thrilled to be able to write full-time, and doesn’t miss chasing wet dogs through muddy fields all that much. She lives in England with her partner and daughter.
Facebook.com/CJTudorOfficial
Twitter: @cjtudor
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