Gillian was nodding.
‘I’m going to see you every week for as long as it takes,’ said Evi. ‘When you’re starting to feel better in yourself, when you feel you have the pain under control, then we have to work on helping you adjust to your life as it is now.’
Gillian’s eyes had dulled. She raised her eyebrows.
‘Before all this happened,’ explained Evi, ‘you were a wife and mother. Now your situation is very different. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s a reality we have to face together. Hayley will always be a part of your life. But at the moment she – the loss of her – is your whole life. You need to rebuild your life and, at the same time, find a place for her.’
Silence. The tissues had fallen to the floor and Gillian’s arms were crossed tightly in front of her. It wasn’t quite the reaction Evi had been hoping for.
‘Gillian?’
‘You’re going to hate me for saying this,’ said Gillian, who was starting to shake her head. ‘But sometimes, I wish …’
‘What do you wish?’ asked Evi, realizing that for the first time since she’d met Gillian, she really didn’t know what the girl’s answer was going to be.
‘That she’d just leave me in peace.’
3
THE SLEEPING CHILD HAD SOFT PALE HAIR, THE COLOUR OF spun sugar. She lay in her buggy, fast asleep in the sunshine. A fine-mesh net was stretched tight across the buggy, from top to bottom, protecting her from insects and from anything else that might be scurrying about the garden. A damp curl clung to her plump cheek. Her fist was pressed against her mouth, the thumb sticking out at right angles, as though she’d fallen asleep sucking her thumb before a thought in a dream made her spit it out. Her tummy rose and fell, rose and fell.
Somewhere around two years old. Legs still plump enough to toddle, lips just beginning to form words. Her eyes, when open, would have the trusting innocence of the freshly made person. She hadn’t learned yet that people could hurt.
A bubble of saliva formed in the gap between her tiny pink lips. It disappeared then formed itself again. The child sighed and the bubble broke on the air. And the sound seemed to travel through the still September morning.
Ah, da da da,’ muttered the girl, in her sleep.
She was just beautiful. Exactly like the others.
4
JOE JUMPED UP AND RAN. WITHOUT THINKING, TOM FOLLOWED and the two boys sped up the steps and through the open church door. Tom caught a glimpse of the fair-haired man ahead, getting closer to the altar, and then Joe dived behind the back pew. Tom did the same.
The flags on the floor were dusty. Beneath the pews Tom could see cobwebs, some complete and perfect, others torn up and festooned with the corpses of long-dead flies. The tapestry prayer-cushions were hanging neatly from hooks.
‘He’s saying his prayers,’ whispered Joe, who was peering over the top of the pew. Tom pushed himself up. The man in shorts was kneeling at the altar steps, his elbows resting on the rail, looking up at the large stained-glass window on the front wall of the church. He did look like he was praying.
A sudden noise outside made Tom look round. The church door was open and he caught a glimpse of a figure running past outside. Jake and his gang were still out there, waiting. A sudden tug pulled him down below the rim of the pew.
‘He’s heard something,’ whispered Joe.
The boys hadn’t made any noise that Tom had been aware of, but he felt a stab of alarm. If the man found them, he might order them outside, where Jake and the others were waiting. Joe had risked raising his head again. Tom did the same. Shorts Man hadn’t moved but he wasn’t praying any more, that much was clear. His head was upright and his body had stiffened. He was listening. Then he stood up and turned round. Joe and Tom ducked so quickly they banged their heads together. Now they were for it. They were in church without permission and, to all intents and purposes, they’d broken a window.
‘Who’s there?’ called the man, sounding puzzled but not cross. ‘Hello,’ he called. His voice carried easily to the back of the church.
Tom tried to stand up. ‘No!’ hissed his brother, clinging to him. ‘He doesn’t mean us.’
‘Of course he means us,’ Tom hissed back. ‘There’s no one else here.’
Joe didn’t answer, just gingerly lifted his head, like a soldier peering out over a parapet. He glanced down and nodded at Tom to do the same. Shorts Man was walking slowly towards a door to the right of the altar. He reached for the handle and pulled it open. Then he stood in the doorway, looking into the room.
‘I know you’re in there,’ he called, like a parent playing hide and seek. He was northern, but not from Lancashire, or Yorkshire just over the border. Further north, Tom guessed, maybe Newcastle.
Tom raised his hands and did his ‘What?’ face at Joe. There were three people in this church and they were two of them.
‘Are you going to come out and say hello?’ said the man, in a voice that Tom knew was supposed to sound as though he didn’t care one way or another but didn’t quite manage it. He was nervous. ‘I’m going to have to lock up in a minute,’ he went on, ‘and I really can’t do that while you’re hiding.’ Then he spun round on his heels to face the other side of the building. ‘Getting beyond a joke now, folks,’ he muttered, as he walked quickly to the other side of the church and disappeared behind the organ. This was the boys’ chance. Tom tugged on Joe’s arm. They stepped into the aisle just as Billy Aspin appeared at the main doorway, grinning at them. Tom grabbed Joe and dragged him back behind the pew again.
‘Hello,’ said a Geordie voice above their heads. Shorts Man was in the pew in front, looking down at them.
‘Hi,’ replied Joe. ‘Did you find her?’
Shorts Man frowned. ‘How did you two get from the vestry, to behind the organ, to back here without me seeing you?’ he asked.
‘We’ve been here all the time,’ said Tom.
‘We saw you saying your prayers,’ added Joe, in the sort of voice he might use if he’d seen someone having a wee behind the altar.
‘Did you now?’ asked Shorts Man. ‘Where do you two live?’
Tom wondered for a second whether there was any chance they’d get away with not telling him. The man was standing between the boys and the door, but if Tom dodged one way—
‘Next door,’ said Joe. ‘The new house,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t already made it clear.
The man was nodding. ‘I have to lock this building up,’ he said, stepping into the aisle. ‘Come on.’
‘How come you have a key?’ asked Joe, who’d moved too far away for Tom to prod him. ‘Only the vicar’s allowed to have a key. Did he give it to you?’
‘The archdeacon gave it to me. Right, before I lock up, are there any more of you in here?’
‘There can’t be,’ said Tom. ‘We came straight in behind you. We were, er, playing hide and seek with some boys outside. No one followed us in.’
Shorts Man nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Out we go.’
He waved his hand towards the door, meaning that Tom and Joe should go first. Tom set off. So far, so good. Jake and the others wouldn’t dare try anything if he and Joe appeared with an adult. And the man hadn’t noticed the broken—
‘Tom, your ball,’ called Joe as he darted off to one side. Tom closed his eyes and had his own private conversation with God about whether little brothers were strictly necessary.
When he opened his eyes again, Joe had retrieved the ball from among the broken glass and Shorts Man’s eyebrows had disappeared into his hair. He held out his hand for the ball. Tom opened his mouth and shut it again. What was the point?
‘Who’s the boy with the shaved head?’ asked Shorts Man. ‘The one who was standing on the wall as I drove up?’
‘Jake Knowles,’ said Joe. ‘He’s in Tom’s class. He keeps getting him into trouble. They were throwing stones at us with cater-bolts and then he nicked Tom’s bat.’
‘Did he now?’
‘They’re waiting for us outside.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘They’re going to duff us up when we go out. They’re knob-heads.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Shorts Man, and Tom didn’t even bother trying to signal to Joe that it really wasn’t a good—
‘Joe Fletcher,’ said Joe. ‘And he’s Tom. I’m six and he’s ten, and Millie’s two and my dad’s thirty-six and my mum’s—’
‘Steady on, pal.’ Shorts Man looked as though he found Joe highly amusing. He should try living with him. ‘Come on, let’s get locked up.’
5
EVI STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER ROOM, BREATHING deeply, waiting for the combination of paracetamol and ibuprofen to kick in. Her consulting room was three floors up and looked directly out over the hospital’s accident and emergency department. As she watched, an ambulance pulled up into the parking bay and a paramedic jumped out, followed by the ambulance driver. They opened the rear doors and began moving the wheelchair lifting gear into position.
Breathe in and out. The medication would work, it always did. It just seemed to take a little longer some days. Across the road from the hospital was a retail park. The supermarket car park was already busy. Friday morning. People were stocking up for the weekend. Evi closed her eyes for a second and then raised her head, looking out over rooftops, office blocks, away into the distance. The large northern town where she worked most days had been built along a wide valley. Moors stretched up on either side. A bird taking off from her window ledge could fly directly to the nearest peak, some four or five miles away. From there, it could look down on the moor, where Gillian Royle still spent the greater part of her days. Evi turned back to her desk. She had fifteen minutes before her next patient.
She’d already written up notes on the consultation with Gillian before taking the painkillers. Every day, she tried to stretch the time in between taking them by another five minutes. Back at her desk, she Googled the website of the Lancashire Telegraph. It didn’t take long to find the article she was looking for.
The town of Heptonclough is in shock following the fire three nights ago at a cottage in Wite Lane. Local man Stanley Hargreaves said he’d never seen a fire burn as fiercely. ‘None of us could get near it,’ he told Telegraph reporters. ‘We’d have saved the young lass if we could have.’
The story explained that the attending fire-and-rescue team were still reviewing evidence but believed the blaze could have been caused by a ring left burning on the gas hob. Bottles of oil around the cooker would have acted as accelerants. The stone cottage, one of the older buildings in Heptonclough, was some distance from the main part of the community and no one had spotted the blaze until it was far too late to contain the fire. The Telegraph article concluded:
Barry Robinson, fourteen, who was babysitting for the family, is currently recovering in Burnley General Hospital after being found unconscious in the garden by firefighters. Although suffering from the effects of smoke-inhalation, doctors expect him to make a full recovery. His parents tell us he has no recollection of discovering the fire or leaving the house.
Evi’s phone was ringing. Her next patient had arrived.
6
‘WHERE HAVE YOU TWO BEEN? MILLIE AND I HAVE been shouting for you for ten minutes now.’
The woman on the doorstep wasn’t much taller than her eldest son and, even in a loose shirt and jeans, looked as though she didn’t weigh much more either. She had strawberry-blonde hair that curled to her shoulders, and large turquoise eyes. As the eyes travelled up from her sons to Harry, they opened a bit wider in surprise.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Lo,’ said the chubby little girl who was sitting on her mother’s hip, rubbing her eyes as though she’d not long woken from a nap. Her hair was the exact warm blonde shade as her mother’s, whereas the older boy, Tom, had very fair hair and his brother’s was a dark, glossy red. All four of them, though, had the same pale-skinned, freckled faces.
‘Hi,’ said Harry, giving the toddler a wink before turning back to the mother. ‘Good morning,’ he went on. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I found these two hiding in the church. They seem to have been having some trouble with a group of older boys. I thought I’d better see them safely home.’
The woman was frowning now, looking from one boy to the other. Are you both OK?’ she asked.
‘They were throwing stones at us with cater-bolts and then they ran away when they heard Harry. This is Harry,’ said Joe. ‘He was saying his prayers in the church. We saw him.’
‘Well, that’s what it’s for, I suppose,’ said the woman. ‘Pleased to meet you, Harry, and thank you. I’m Alice Fletcher, by the way. Would you … like a cup of coffee? I take it you’re not a psychopath? Because if you are, I should probably make you drink your coffee on the doorstep.’
‘I’m a vicar,’ said Harry, who could feel his face glowing, the way it usually did when faced with a pretty woman. ‘We tend not to be psychopaths,’ he added. ‘The archbishop doesn’t really encourage it.’
‘A vicar?’ said Alice. ‘Our vicar, you mean? The new one?’
‘That’s me.’
‘You can’t be a vicar,’ said Joe.
‘Why not?’
‘Vicars don’t wear shorts,’ Joe told him. ‘And they’re really old. Like grandads.’
Harry grinned. ‘Well, the shorts I can probably work on,’ he said. ‘The rest I’ll have to leave to time. Do vicars have to drink their coffee on the doorstep?’
Alice too had been staring at Harry, as though she couldn’t quite believe it either, but was a bit more polite than her younger son. Then she stepped back so Harry and the boys could come inside. She closed the door behind them as Joe and Tom led the way along the hallway, kicking off trainers as they went.
‘What’s a psychopath?’ Harry heard Joe whisper as the boys pushed open the door at the end of the hall.
‘Jake Knowles when he’s grown up,’ replied Tom, lifting his brother into the air.
Alice and Harry followed the boys into the kitchen and Millie started wriggling to be free. Once on her feet, she tottered over to the boys. Joe, in Tom’s arms, had his hands around a large biscuit tin.
‘Bic bic,’ said Millie, looking surprisingly sly for one so young.
Alice gestured to Harry that he should sit down at the table, before crossing to the kettle, giving it a little bounce to see if there was any water inside and switching it on. The table still carried the remains of breakfast whilst a stack of plates and cutlery was piled up beside the sink.
‘You’re not from these parts,’ she said, as she spooned coffee grains into the filter.
‘Look who’s talking,’ replied Harry. Her accent was making him think of mint juleps and fragrant air, of heat so intense it seemed solid. ‘Let me guess. Texas?’
Movement behind made him glance back at the children. Millie was chewing a ginger nut and eyeing up a chocolate finger in Joe’s hand.
‘You’re a few states out. I’m from Memphis, Tennessee,’ said Alice, gesturing at the sugar bowl. Harry shook his head. On his right, Joe had put one end of the chocolate finger between his lips before bending down and offering the rest of it to Millie. She fastened her teeth on it and started munching just as Joe did the same. They ended up kissing each other and bursting into giggles.
‘That’s enough now, you three. It’s not long till lunch,’ said Alice, without turning round. Harry saw the two boys exchange a glance before Joe stuffed three chocolate fingers and a ginger nut into his pocket and made a hasty retreat from the room. Millie, entrusted with a custard cream, stuffed it down the neck of her dress and toddled out as her eldest brother watched with a smile of pride on his face. Tom pushed a handful of biscuits into his own pockets, then realized Harry had been watching. His face turned a shade pinker as he looked from the visitor to his mother.
‘We’re just going into the lounge,’ he announced.
‘OK, but I’ll have those biscuits back
first,’ said Alice, holding out one hand. Tom gave one last glance at Harry – who shrugged in sympathy – before handing over the booty and slinking out.
For a second all was quiet. The room seemed too empty without the children. Alice put mugs, sugar bowl, spoons and a milk bottle on the table.
‘Have you lived here long?’ Harry asked, knowing they couldn’t have. The house was unmistakably new.
‘Three months,’ said Alice. She turned from Harry and started putting dirty plates and bowls into the dishwasher.
‘Settling in well?’ Harry asked.
The dishwasher loaded, Alice bent to a cupboard under the sink and took out a cloth and some spray disinfectant. She rinsed the cloth under the tap and began wiping down the counter top. Harry wondered if his presence might be unwelcome, in spite of the offered coffee.
‘These things take time, I suppose,’ replied Alice after a moment, bringing the coffee to the table and sitting down. ‘Will you be living here in town?’
Harry shook his head. ‘No, the vicarage is a few miles down the hill. In Goodshaw Bridge,’ he said. ‘I have three parishes to take care of. This one is the smallest. And probably the most challenging, given that there’s been no organized worship here for several years. What do you think, will the natives be friendly?’
Another pause. Definitely awkward this time. Alice poured the coffee and pushed the milk in Harry’s direction.
‘So the church is opening up again,’ she said, when he had helped himself. ‘That’ll be good for the town, I guess. We’re not great churchgoers, but I guess we should make the effort, what with living so close. When are you open for business?’
‘Couple of weeks yet,’ replied Harry. ‘I’m being officially installed into the benefice next Thursday down at St Mary’s in Goodshaw Bridge. It would be great to see you and the family.’
S. J. Bolton Page 3
