Blood Harvest Part 13

30.

10 October 'TO EVERYTHING EVERYTHING THERE THERE IS IS A A SEASON, SEASON, A A TIME TIME FOR FOR EVERY EVERY purpose under the sun,' read Harry. His voice, rarely lowpitched, bounced around the empty church. 'A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up ...' purpose under the sun,' read Harry. His voice, rarely lowpitched, bounced around the empty church. 'A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up ...'

A scuffling noise behind him. He stopped. A quick glance over his shoulder told him he was still alone in the church. He'd said goodbye to Alice ten minutes ago, to Gillian three or four minutes after that. Both had been helping him put the finishing touches to the harvest decorations. He'd have seen anyone come in. You didn't miss much, standing in the pulpit.

'... a time to pluck up that which is planted,' he continued, his eyes scanning the rows of pews although he was sure the noise had come from behind him. 'A time to kill and a time ...' He stopped again, not liking the feeling he was getting between his shoulder blades, the feeling that any second now, someone behind him would reach out and ...

He glanced down at his notes again. Ecclesiastes, chapter three, always went down well at harvest time. People liked the simple beauty of the piece, its sense of balance, of completeness.

'Time to die,' said a small voice from just behind him.

Harry kept his eyes fixed on the gallery and waited. In the nave something creaked, but old wood does that. For a second he wondered if the Fletcher boys had crept into the church again, but it hadn't sounded like either of them. He allowed his eyes to fall down to his hands. They were clutching the wooden rail of the pulpit rather tighter than appeared manly. Without making a sound, he spun on the spot.

The chancel looked empty, but then he hadn't really expected anything else. Someone was having some fun with the vicar. He turned back to face the front of the church again.

'... and a time to heal ... a time to weep and a time to laugh,' he read out, in a voice that would be too loud, even tomorrow, when the church had people in it. In an empty church, it sounded a bit crazed.

'Time to kill,' whispered the voice.

Oh, for the love of...

Harry didn't bother with the steps, he swung his legs over the pulpit rail and dropped to the floor. The voice had been just feet away, he was sure of it. There was no time for anyone to disappear. Except they had. No one in the choir stalls, no one in the small s.p.a.ce behind the organ, no one hiding behind the altar, no one in the ... he stopped. Could someone be in the old crypt? Could sound be travelling upwards somehow?

'Everything all right, Vicar?'

Harry stopped and turned to face the new voice. Jenny Pickup, Sinclair's daughter, was standing halfway down the aisle watching him with a look of bemused interest on her face. Harry felt his own face glowing. For some reason, Jenny always seemed to find him a bit of a joke.

'Have you ever heard of a secret way into this building, Jenny?' he asked. 'Maybe into the cellar beneath us? That local kids might know about?'

She shook her head. 'Not to my knowledge,' she said. 'Why, has anything gone missing?'

'No, nothing like that,' said Harry quickly. 'It's just I was running through the sermon for tomorrow and I swear I heard someone repeating what I was saying.'

Jenny was wearing a pale-pink sweatshirt that suited her, and riding breeches tucked into black boots. 'This building echoes in odd ways,' she said after a moment. 'It's well known for it.'

'It really didn't sound like an echo,' Harry replied. 'It sounded like a child. In which case I need to find him before I lock up.'

Jenny had walked forward. Her eyes were moving slowly round the building. 'Let me lock up for you tonight, Vicar,' she said.

'You?'

'Yes,' she nodded, a small, slightly sad smile on her face. 'I came to have a quick word with you. And then I wanted to spend some time here on my own. Would that be OK, do you think? I promise to make sure there's not a soul here when I leave.'

'If you're sure,' he said.

'No problem. Let me walk outside with you. It's a beautiful evening.'

Harry collected his jacket and then the two of them walked into the vestry. Harry couldn't resist a last look back around the nave. Empty.

'Do you need to borrow my keys?' he offered.

'No, it's OK, thank you,' Jenny replied, as they walked outside. 'Dad lent me his. He'll probably pop back himself later, just to make sure I really did lock up and all the lights are out.'

A Land Rover pulling a long, low trailer had stopped outside d.i.c.k Grimes's shop, near the church entrance. The driver jumped out, followed by a black and white collie. He went to the back of the trailer and unfastened the rear door. The dog ran up the ramp and a dozen sheep stumbled out. Harry and Jenny watched the dog herd them around the vehicle and towards the barn behind the butcher's shop.

'You're not a countryman, are you, Vicar?' she said to him.

They watched the sheep disappear into the barn, then the driver and collie reappeared and jumped back into the cab. As the vehicle drove off around the corner, a woman had to step close to the wall to avoid being hit. It was Gillian.

'No,' said Harry, turning back to Jenny. 'But I'm learning fast.'

'It's all done humanely,' she said. 'And the animals don't suffer the stress of a long journey.'

'I don't doubt that for a second.' Harry glanced up the hill. Gillian was still there. 'Don't think I disapprove,' he went on. 'I just need to get used to it.'

'The men all come up to our house afterwards,' said Jenny. 'We do a supper and the pub usually provides a keg or two. It would be great if you could join us.' Jenny was twisting her car keys in her hands. Her fingers were long and slim but reddened and a little rough, maybe from riding horses in bad weather.

'Thank you,' said Harry, acutely conscious of Gillian just yards away but determined not to look at her again. 'That's very kind,' he went on. 'And next year I'd love to. But I have a big day tomorrow. I probably should get an early night.'

'Next year then.' Jenny had been working. Her short fingernails were dirty and there was straw on her sweatshirt.

'I wish Gillian would go home,' said Harry. 'It's getting cold and she never seems to wear a proper coat.' Evi's fingernails had been short too, but very clean and polished. Funny, the things you noticed.

Jenny glanced over Harry's shoulder. 'Gillian's been looking a lot better lately,' she said. 'We've been worried about her for some time. She really didn't seem to be coping.'

'She suffered a terrible loss,' said Harry.

Jenny took a deep breath. 'I lost a daughter too, Vicar. Did you know that?'

'I didn't,' he replied, turning away from Gillian to meet Jenny's hazel eyes. 'I'm so sorry. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?'

'In a way. It was ten years ago, so I've had more time, I suppose. But there's not a day goes by when the pain isn't there. When I don't think, what would she have been doing today? How would she look, now that she's eight, or nine, or ten?'

'I do understand,' Harry said, although he knew he didn't, not really. No one could appreciate that sort of pain unless they'd lived through it.

'Are you nervous about tomorrow?' Jenny was asking him.

'Of course,' he replied truthfully. 'I've led worship in my other two parishes and that went fine, but here's different somehow. Probably because the church has been closed for so long. I haven't managed to find out yet why that was.'

'That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we sit down for a second?'

Harry found himself following Jenny to the old shepherds' bench where he'd sat with Evi. She still hadn't called him back.

Jenny was twisting her car keys in her hand. 'It'll be fine tomorrow,' she said. 'I think you'll have a good turn-out. People are ready to start using the church again.'

'Why did they stop?' he asked, realizing she needed a direct question.

She wasn't looking at him. 'Out of respect,' she said. 'And also out of sadness. Lucy, my daughter, died in the church.'

And no one had thought to warn him? 'I'm so sorry,' he said.

'She fell from the gallery. It was my fault. We weren't even in the church, we were at Dad's house and I was talking to someone to Gillian and her mother, as it happened. They used to work for us. I didn't see Lucy wander off.'

'From the gallery?' said Harry. 'You mean like Millie Fletcher almost did the other week?'

Jenny nodded. 'You can understand now why we were all so upset by that. It just seemed the most dreadful, stupid joke. Those boys, I don't know what goes on in their heads ...'

'I'm so sorry,' said Harry. 'Please, tell me about Lucy. She just wandered away when you weren't looking?'

'We started searching, of course, but we looked in the house it's a big house and then the garden, then the lane outside. It never occurred to us that she might have made her way into the church. And up all those steps. By the time we found her, she was cold. And her skull, her little skull was just ...'

The blood was draining from Jenny's face. Her whole body was shaking.

'I'm so terribly sorry,' repeated Harry. 'I had no idea. All this ... opening up the church again, it must be very distressing for you.'

'No, it's fine, I'm ready.' Jenny was still pale, but the trembling seemed to be slowing down. 'I asked Dad not to mention what happened,' she was saying. 'I wanted to tell you myself.'

'That was very brave of you. Thank you.' It certainly explained a lot. He'd been told that ten years ago the parishioners had suddenly stopped using the church. When the inc.u.mbent vicar retired, the diocese had formally closed the building. Only when the parish had been united with two others had the decision been taken to reopen. He'd had no idea what had really lain behind it all.

At the top of the lane, Gillian was still hovering. Jenny saw his eyes flicker and turned her head to look up the hill.

'I was G.o.dmother to Gillian's daughter,' she said. 'A couple of months before the fire, I gave her all Lucy's old clothes, including some really precious ones that Christiana had made. It felt like a big step forward for me, like I was getting ready to move on. And then Hayley was dead too and all the clothes were burned. It was almost like I'd lost Lucy again.'

Harry couldn't think of anything to say.

'There was a little pyjama set. Christiana embroidered it herself with all the Beatrix Potter characters. It was so beautiful. I thought I was so brave giving it away.'

Again nothing to say. He was hopeless, in the presence of grief, completely hopeless.

'You're a good listener,' said Jenny, getting to her feet. 'I'm going back inside now. Good luck tomorrow.'

'Would you like me to come with you?' He stood up.

'No, thank you,' she said. 'I'll be fine. I've never been afraid of ghosts.' She smiled at him and turned to walk back towards the church.

31.

'OH G.o.d,LISTEN G.o.d,LISTEN TO TO IT, IT, GARETH, GARETH, IT IT'S STILL STILL GOING GOING ON. ON.'

The gentle, rocking motion that had lulled Tom to sleep and kept him there had stopped. His dad had parked the car and his mum was talking in that low voice she used when she didn't want him or Joe to hear what she was saying. Normally it was a signal to listen all the harder, but Tom really didn't want to be any more awake than he already was. He just wanted to sleep.

He heard movement and thought perhaps his dad had turned round in his seat to look at the children. 'They're flat out,' he said, whispering like their mother had done. 'We'll just carry them in. They won't know anything about it.'

'But listen to it. It's making me feel sick.'

Tom didn't want to hear anything. There was a dream somewhere, a good one, if he could only find his way back to it. But he was listening all the same. He couldn't help it. What was that noise? Like someone was moaning. No, not just one person, lots of people, crying in dull, low voices. Were they people, though? They didn't sound like people. Rooarrk, Rooarrk, they were saying, over and over again, they were saying, over and over again, Rooaark. Rooaark. Tom couldn't explain why, but it was making him feel guilty. Tom couldn't explain why, but it was making him feel guilty.

'We'll put them in bed and put some music on,' said his father. 'Come on, we won't be able to hear it as much inside.'

The car door opened and Tom could feel cold air on his face. And the noise became louder. Not just Rooarrk Rooarrk but other sounds too. but other sounds too. Naaaa! Naaaa! Naaaa! Naaaa! Somewhere close by, men were shouting, laughing, yelling instructions to each other. Tom really, really didn't want to listen to it but the din was seeping its way into his head, like water through a sponge. Then someone was reaching over him and he could smell his mother's lily-of-the-valley perfume. The soft wool of her sweater brushed his face and he thought perhaps he was reaching up a hand towards her, to pull her down closer. Then she moved away. Somewhere close by, men were shouting, laughing, yelling instructions to each other. Tom really, really didn't want to listen to it but the din was seeping its way into his head, like water through a sponge. Then someone was reaching over him and he could smell his mother's lily-of-the-valley perfume. The soft wool of her sweater brushed his face and he thought perhaps he was reaching up a hand towards her, to pull her down closer. Then she moved away.

'We can't leave Tom out here,' she said. 'How are we going to do this?'

Leave Tom?

'I'll lock the car door,' said his dad. 'We'll be thirty seconds. Come on, let's get on with it.'

The scent of Tom's mother faded. He heard the car door being closed softly, the beeping sound of the remote key and then the locks themselves clunking down. Tom opened his eyes. He was in the car, sitting by the window of the rear seat. Alone.

The car was parked in the driveway of their house. He could see lights in the downstairs rooms. The front door was open. His parents would be carrying Joe and Millie up to bed and then his dad would come back for him. The family often did this when they were out quite late, like tonight, when they'd been to Granny and Grandad Fletcher's house for dinner. Tom closed his eyes and prepared to drift off again.

But how could he sleep when something close by was miserable and frightened? Over and over again something was moaning. It had made his mother feel sick. It was making Tom want to cry. Then there was a scream. A loud, piercing scream and he was wide awake again.

Tom turned his head to look up the hill. Across the road, the buildings around the butcher's shop were brightly lit. He could see movement, men walking around, carrying large bundles on their shoulders.

His seatbelt was still tight around him and he reached down to unfasten it. The car was locked and there were child locks on the rear doors, but he knew he could climb over the seats and open the front door. He could be in the house in five seconds. Five seconds between leaving the locked car and getting inside the house.

The shouting and screaming seemed to be getting closer. Maybe it was just louder. Either way, five seconds seemed too long. His dad would be back soon. He shrunk down in his seat, wanting to close his eyes again but not quite daring. He really wanted his dad back. He raised his hands to press them against his ears.

Was there something just outside the car? Something sc.r.a.ping softly against the paintwork? Tom held his breath. There was. Something was moving around outside. He could hear it. He could almost feel the vehicle rocking. Without daring to move his head, he glanced at the door. Still locked. No one could open it without the key. Could they?

He had to scream for his dad. Yell his head off. Except the night was full of screams. No one would hear his. The horn! His dad would hear that. He just had to lean forward, he could reach it from the back seat. His dad would hear and come running. Tom sat upright and got ready to spring.

A small hand appeared at the window, not six inches from his face.

Tom knew he'd cried out. He also knew no one had heard him. He tried again and nothing came out. He couldn't move either. He just had to watch.

The hand was the wrong colour. Hands aren't that colour. They aren't red.

The hand began to move downwards, leaving a trail of something that looked like red slime. Tom could see the mark left behind by the base of the thumb and then five wavering lines as the thumb and fingers squeaked their way down the gla.s.s. He watched the arm and then the wrist disappear below the rim of the window. The palm had almost disappeared from view and then the fingers waggled at him, like a wave.

He was up, across the front seat, reaching for the horn. A face was staring in through the windscreen. Tom opened his mouth to yell but it was as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the car. He couldn't breathe, so he couldn't shout.

What was it? What the h.e.l.l was it? A girl, he thought, she had long hair. But her head was far too big. And her face was like the figures Joe sometimes made from plasticine. Her eyes were huge and her lips were full, red and damp. The worst thing, almost, was her skin. It was so pale. It hung loose on her bones as if it was too big for her and it really didn't look like skin at all. It was like the stuff you get when wax runs off candles and then hardens and goes all white and wrinkly. She looked like someone had dipped her in melted candle wax. But her skin wasn't the worst thing. The worst thing was the lump on her neck that pushed up against her face and pulled the neckline of her dress out of shape. As she stared at Tom through the windscreen, the lump almost seemed to be moving by itself and he had a sudden vision of the rest of her body below the neck of her dress: lumpy, putty-soft, and with veins standing out against wax-like skin.

He'd found the horn and was pressing with all his strength, terrifying himself with the sound but simply unable to take his hand off it. Then he was out of the car. He didn't know how he'd done that. He only knew he was outside. The drive was hard through his slippers, the night was filled with the sound of torment and the creature from a nightmare was between him and the front door.

He realized he was screaming. Then he was running. Then he was screaming in his mother's voice. And his dad's voice. He was yelling 'Tom, Tom, where are you?' and she was chasing him, she was coming after him and run, it was all he could do, run, run, run.