by Peter Laws
Bowland dug into her jacket and pulled out a notepad and pen. ‘We’ll need his details.’
‘I know them,’ the old lady said, then she scrawled them out and handed it back. ‘Now can we keep praying, please? We don’t want to waste our visiting time talking about Malcolm, of all people.’
Bowland nodded, and a minute later, she and Matt were back down the corridor again.
‘So,’ Matt started fastening his jacket up, ‘how about we head to this Malcolm’s house, and check for the tapes?’
She smiled. ‘I’ll send someone over, and I’ll let you know when we get them.’
‘Ah, it’s no bother. It’s only late afternoon, and I haven’t got much—’
‘I think you need to go home and rest, don’t you?’ She blinked slowly. ‘It’s been a hectic few hours, the doctors have checked you over … You’ve seen a lot today, Matt. And I don’t just mean the runaway duck.’ She rummaged in her purse and handed him not one card, but two. ‘The top one’s me. Give me a call if you have any more thoughts on this, but either way, I’ll be back in touch about the tapes. Good call on that, by the way. I’ve never been in church since I was a little kid, so I forget some of them keep up with the times.’
‘Even if it is audio cassette,’ he smiled, and took the cards, turned them over.
‘The other one’s our staff counsellor. You can talk to him about what happened today. Or anything else, if you need it …’
‘Ah, I’ll be okay really, but I appreciate—’
‘Listen to me …’ She leant in closer. ‘Not many people see a kid hit by a train. Including me, okay? So I may well be calling this number one of these nights, do you get me? So don’t be an idiot and throw this card away.’
He looked at her, pictured her soothing her grandchildren to sleep. ‘Okay … and thank you.’ He pocketed them both and shook her hand. ‘Just call me when you hear those tapes. And if the ladies say anything interesting.’
‘I will.’ She headed back up the corridor where Miriam was already out of the room. She was sending the other two old ladies in for their tag team prayer session. Miriam caught his eye briefly, waved a quick goodbye, and turned away. He turned too and headed for the lifts, shoes squeaking along the floor.
Of course, everywhere he looked he saw teenage boys. They were flicking through their phones, winding the curl of their fringe, or staring out of windows. And only one out of every five reminded him of Micah. So, they were the only ones that made him look away. Just in case they shattered into glass in front of him.
A policeman had kindly driven his car over, from Chervil. He was told it was in Car Park B. Before he headed out to find it, he decided to replenish his sugar stocks. He grabbed a cookie-dough milkshake from a vending machine. The metal shelves slowly, and laboriously, shimmied out his drink, so he gazed at the TV while he waited. A news reporter was standing in a blue cagoule, trying hard to stay upright on the wind-battered coast of Clacton-on-Sea. Behind her, huge waves were launching up across the promenade. The rolling headline underneath said: MORE WILD WEATHER TO COME.
Finally, the milkshake thudded into the tray. He grabbed it and glugged half of it down in the lift. Pure liquid cake: bliss. He pushed through the front doors of the hospital and tried to guzzle the rest of it, but he almost gagged on it instead when a small crowd of people rushed up to him at the door. Two reporters got so close he almost lost his balance. With a pop, he pulled the bottle from his mouth, and used his sleeve to wipe the trickle from his chin. ‘Do you mind—’
‘Professor Hunter.’ A microphone almost smacked his front tooth out. ‘Why did Micah East try to decapitate his father?’
Another voice: ‘Was it devil worship? Are the rumours true?’
A TV camera surged at him like a bullet.
He put up a palm. ‘No comment.’
‘Is this part of a wider network, Mr Hunter? Might there be more attacks in churches? Is that why they called you?’
‘No comment.’
‘Would you class this as satanic terrorism? Do you have anything to tell us?’
‘Yes, I do …’ He pushed through the crowd. ‘I’d like to finish my milkshake, please.’
‘What did you see when the train hit, Professor?’
It was the only time he stopped. ‘I said “no comment”, and I said it very clearly. Now please …’
They must have realised it was useless because the news people slinked away from him, like zombies going after better brains. They gathered themselves back at the entrance, waiting for Bowland or East’s visitors, no doubt.
He started firing out the invisible beam from his key fob and found his car eventually. It was waiting like a sweet little shuttle, eager to chug him away from this craziness. Howzabout we get you back to normality, ey, Matt?
He nodded and slid behind the wheel. He quickly texted Wren.
Heading home for that takeaway! Then he hovered his thumb for a moment and added. Love you SO much.
He spotted a notification from Facebook.
Sean Ashton sent you a friend request
‘Who the heck is Sean Ash …’ he trailed off. ‘Oh …’
He clicked on the RE teacher’s face, and saw a killer profile pic. Sean looked like a model, with his white glasses and mega-quiff stuffing the screen with style and quirk. With an exaggerated wink, he was grinning open-mouthed into what must have been a very decent camera lens. This was like a magazine shoot, posed with bright teeth shining. On his head sat a pair of retro headphone cans, a curled black cord around his fingertip. To be fair it looked super staged, but still, it was really rather cool. Way more hip than the profile shot Matt Hunter had, of him sitting in a wheelbarrow with both of his thumbs up. Laughing like a mad goon.
He hovered his thumb across the phone again, wondering if it was really good practice to make friends with someone who might end up teaching his kids. Then he remembered the last time he saw Sean, sat in a Land Rover, being hollered at by his dad. It made him think of Micah, and David East, and how that all ended up.
‘Accept.’ He tapped him into the inner circle and flung the phone into the passenger seat. He turned the ignition, and his phone pinged again.
A message from Sean Ashton
‘Eager,’ he said. He’d read it later.
The journey back to Chesham was longer than he expected. The car was cold, and it took a long time to warm up, but at least the rain had eased off. So unlike Bowland’s car earlier, the view from these windows was clear and crisp. Which wasn’t great, actually. He almost wished the rain was back. The clear view gave him plenty of opportunity to see the ghoul of Micah East waving at him, and slowly bursting apart, on multiple street corners.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
So strange how quickly the mood of a day can change. As quick as the weather.
When Ever woke up this morning, they’d all skipped to the top of Comfort Hill. Literally skipped. They filled the chapel with songs and prayers and shuffling shoes. They danced and they cheered. Today was the key day, after all. The day their special symbol would restore the world. But now the songs were gone, and he sat banished in his tiny bedroom, instructed to kneel and pray for the kingdom ‘like never before’.
It was hard to concentrate with all those muffled groans and shouts from the grown-ups downstairs. He couldn’t make the words out, but there was a level of desperation in the house that he’d never heard before. It scared him so much that he kept switching from an ear to the door to an eye at his bedroom window. Just to make sure the Hollows weren’t walking across the fields in an all-out assault. They weren’t, but from the occasional word he could make out, the people downstairs were talking about the Hollows a lot.
It was only when he heard a rattling outside his door that Ever flung himself back to the floor. His prayer-hands slapped together but his door didn’t open. Instead he heard a sound he hadn’t heard in a long time. The unlocking of the padlock which hung from the attic door. Ever flicked a panicky eye o
pen. Why would they go up there? Then he started answering his own question.
Is that where we’ll hide? Was ‘the other path’ up there? Whatever that was.
Footsteps thudded above him, then he followed a low scraping sound that creaked across the ceiling. Frowning, he pressed an eye to the keyhole and heard boots slowly clanking down the attic ladder, then the keyhole flashed with the jeans of Prosper and Uncle Dust. Ever was terrified that the door would swing open and reveal his rebellion. But curiosity won. He held his breath and his jaw dropped open.
It was the TV.
Dust and Milton were lugging the TV to the top of the stairs.
Prosper whispered across the landing, ‘And don’t forget the box thing. The remote.’
‘Got it,’ Dust said.
Astonished, Ever watched a flash of dark grey plastic pass by his keyhole. It was the television set that he’d been told he must never, ever watch. Prosper had often preached that the world of television was ‘a land filled with eyes’. He knew that Prosper used it on extremely rare occasions. Just to keep up with what the Hollows were up to. Milton even ventured into town once and bought a special little box to make it work. But Ever had never, ever seen it switched on.
He sat on his bedroom floor for ten minutes, chewing his fingernails, half expecting to hit bone. Then another sound entered the house. It was a strange beat of music, the type of which he’d never heard before, and with it a loud, jolly voice talking. A loud, jolly, Hollow voice.
He threw himself back from the door and scurried to his prayer space, panting. He said it over and over again, ‘Lord, Lord good and true. Never let me stray from you.’
He’d said this prayer – one of his favourites – precisely nine times, until he heard the whispering at his window. His eyes peeled slowly, very slowly, open.
Ever … it said.
He looked at the window and the closed curtains.
Evvvvvver … it said.
The wind.
Evvvvvver … it said.
His mind?
Ever … it said. Go … go …
He stared at the door while something invisible prickled across his skin.
This is for you, Ever … go and look …
He sensed a hand slip into his. A cold hand.
‘Lord?’ he whispered. ‘Is that you?’
Yesssssssss. Now go, Ever. Go and loooooook.
He walked to the door, pushing it open a fraction. Holding his breath, he shocked himself by stepping out onto the landing, dreading that Prosper might climb the staircase and see him. Not shouting but speaking in that low disappointed tone he sometimes used. Saying ‘Did you look in that squirrel’s eyes? Little slug? Did you?’ But under it all he heard the wind from his window, and it seemed to speak with an authority even more compelling than Prosper’s.
It said, You’re meant to see this.
He reached the top bannister and peeked down the stairs. He could clearly see the lounge, through the archway, but it was filled with the backs of their heads in flickering silhouette. Nobody was looking his way. They were all cross-legged on the floor, gazing at a screen he couldn’t see.
Looooook. Try three steps down.
The voice, it turned out, was wise, because three steps was perfectly adequate. From there he saw the most amazingly bright window of light in the lounge, filled with colours and shapes. And across the screen he saw words, only they didn’t look like anything he’d seen in a book. These ones moved. They flew and danced like pure magic, while drums and other instruments he couldn’t place pounded out a scary, exciting melody.
Then it wasn’t exciting any more, because a Hollow appeared, staring out of the screen. Ever flicked his eyes away. He heard the others draw in a sharp breath too.
He dropped his eyes to the back of his mum’s head. She, along with all the others he could see, had put her hand across her eyes for protection, but every now and again she’d look up in very short bursts. Apparently, if you had a lot of faith you could hold their gaze for a few moments. The really pious, a whole ten minutes maybe. Though it was risky, Milton always said. The clever ones only need a few seconds to climb in. This last thought was petrifying because what if his family, in a moment of weakness, got caught up in the stare from that Hollow woman on screen? What if they sat there hypnotised and warped, until they all turned around on all fours, and crawled up the stairs, or up the walls, calling his name?
The screen shifted from the Hollow to another image entirely. A building with a point on it, which looked a little like their chapel. Only it was much, much bigger, and it looked all slanted and strange. This one wasn’t made out of tin sheets either. It looked like rock and stone. He’d been told about these places since he was young, but he’d never really seen one: a Hollow church.
Prosper and the others moaned with horror at something on the screen. A giant building, which he knew was a hospital. Someone had managed not to die, and some Hollows were calling it a miracle. All this talk of survival threw the others into a grim bout of scraping. Feet and fingernails dragged on wood. Lips were whispering desperate prayers, then he heard Milton say, ‘We’ll never find another in time. We have to take the other path.’
Until Mum shouted.
That was the strangest part of all. When she threw a word into the intense crazy jabbering. And it really wasn’t a word he expected to hear. Yet it made everybody stop what they were doing so they could stare at her.
She said, ‘Hallelujah.’
He saw the lower half of Prosper’s body and legs stomp towards her. ‘Verity? What the hell?’
Mum kept staring through her fingers at the TV screen, shaking her head and laughing.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Prosper said.
She said it again. ‘Hallelujah.’
‘Oh God.’ Milton was on his feet. ‘She looked in its eyes for too long. She’s turning—’
Mum clapped her hands together with such a snap that Ever flinched.
‘What is it?’ Uncle Dust put a hand on each of her shoulders. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘It’s a miracle,’ she pointed at the screen. ‘It’s a miracle.’
Dust looked at the others, and shrugged. ‘We don’t understand.’
When she spoke again she said it through tears, but there was a strength in her voice. A wonder. ‘That’s him …’ She pointed at the man on the screen. ‘Praise be, that’s the one.’
By now the others were on their feet, so he couldn’t see any of the screen now. It didn’t matter, because the wind in his room was back.
This, Ever … it said … this is for you … go … look …
With a trembling hand he started to walk down to them all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A huge, three-voiced, female roar exploded into the Hunters’ kitchen.
‘Pick it up!’ Lucy slapped a hand on her forehead. ‘Mum, quick! The four-second rule!’
Wren stared at the naan, face down on the floor. Then she shrugged. ‘I read that the four-second rule’s a myth. That the bacteria covers the food instantly.’
Amelia dropped to her knees and flung it onto her own plate. ‘Well, I read dirt is good for your immune system.’ Before anybody could stop her, she stuffed a hefty corner into her mouth. ‘Mmmmm,’ she said. ‘Healthy dirty.’
‘Table’s ready.’ Matt stood at their large circular dining room table, all set with mats, glasses and cutlery. He glugged red wine into two wine glasses that didn’t match. He and Wren were experts at smashing one out of every set they bought. ‘Ladies, let’s go all out …’ He waved his hands across the table. ‘I’m thinking mood music. I’m thinking candles, I’m thinking’ − drum roll on the table, and a pathetic attempt at a French accent − ‘… rest-a-raunnnn.’
He dimmed the lights with a single flick, lit a candle and tapped on some music he figured sounded civilised – the jazzy soundtrack to an old Charlie Brown cartoon. Eager hands shot over the food, cracking poppadums, tearing naan and fli
cking lids of cartons with thumbs. Until Amelia stood up and put a finger in the air. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Waiiiiiiit.’
They all hovered, bread flopping from their hands.
‘Hands together …’ she said, ‘… eyes closed.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘My korma’s getting cold, you toilet.’
Matt almost choked.
‘I’m serious,’ Amelia said. ‘Hands together, heads bowed. I’d like to pray. It’s my right.’
Wren and Matt frowned at each other because the Hunters didn’t do grace. They were a dive-in and chomp type of family. But Wren closed her eyes and bowed her head, and after a glare from Amelia, he did the same. The stance unlocked some old muscle memory. Reverend Matt Hunter at many a village fete, providing that absolutely vital local role – the sayer of grace at community buffets. Then another memory came, sweeter and much more painful. Him as a kid at his mum’s table, doing this at every single mealtime growing up. ‘Isn’t Jesus great’ on her lips.
Amelia cleared her throat. ‘We dedicate this wonderful meal of food, to those we have loved and lost.’
Matt opened one eye and looked at her. Snoopy-jazz slinked quietly out of the speakers. He thought of Micah East flying through the air.
‘For those who lost their lives today …’
He looked at Wren. She was biting her lip, awkwardly.
‘So, in short, God, we want to say thank you to Daphne the Duck, for all she did for us and for all the other fuzzy wuzzy ducky wucks in—’
Her attempt at a toast, a prayer, or whatever it was, turned into a high-pitched squeal when a piece of contaminated naan bounced off her forehead. She opened her eyes and laughed. ‘Now we can eat.’
They laughed and talked about the usual range of scattered subjects. Wren, an architect, had a series of big meetings this week. She was designing a brand-new preschool in a very posh part of Buckinghamshire. She said her joke about adding a ‘discreet cage system’ for the really naughty kids didn’t go down well. She’d be working on her presentation tonight. Lucy had a biology test on Thursday, which she said was mostly about airborne diseases. She punched the air in mock excitement at what she called ‘her glorious, thrilling life’. Amelia couldn’t stop talking about the news, and the country’s apocalyptic weather. A huge storm was coming, apparently, and as usual, people feared that Brits would not be ready for it. Matt mostly just listened and nodded at all this – soaking up the sounds of normality. He certainly didn’t talk about his adventures in Chervil today. Seeing a boy of Lucy’s age shatter into a flying wet mess was not dinner table fare. But the thought of it still flashed as he separated his rogan josh. He pushed it away.