S. J. Bolton

by Blood Harvest

  ‘What’s the matter?’ called Alice, spinning round.

  ‘There’s someone over there,’ said Tom. ‘In the trees. Someone watching us.’

  Alice frowned and screwed up her eyes. Then she looked quickly from right to left. ‘I can’t see anything,’ she said. ‘Just trees.’

  Tom moved closer to his mother. A tall, thin figure had been standing amongst the trees, watching. Once spotted, it had moved, fading back into the fog. Tom turned to glare at Joe, then stopped himself. It hadn’t really looked the right shape or height to be the girl.

  ‘Come on,’ said Alice. ‘We should get back. I don’t think this fog is going to lift. Quick as we can, everyone.’ Hoisting Millie on to her hip again, she set off towards the trees. Then she stopped. ‘There is someone there,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Hold on a sec, Joe.’

  Tom felt a lump forming in his chest. He couldn’t see anything, or at least … his mother was reaching into her pocket. She brought out her mobile and looked at the screen. Then she pressed some keys and held it to her ear.

  ‘Who are you phoning?’ said Tom.

  ‘Daddy,’ replied Alice, before shaking her head. ‘He must still be underground.’

  She looked behind them once more and then set off again, heading downhill. First Joe and then Tom followed. Neither of them spoke. Every few steps Alice slowed down and looked back. After a few seconds Tom found himself doing the same thing. Just grey cloud behind. Already the Tor had disappeared.

  After a few minutes, they reached the copse. The trees seemed to Tom to have grown taller since the family had last walked past them. He moved closer to his mother and realized Joe had done the same thing. No one seemed to want to speak. Even Millie was unusually silent. Alice hadn’t put her mobile away. She glanced at it again and Tom could see her thumb hovering over one of the keys. It looked as if his mother was getting ready to press 9.

  ‘Mummy, I’m scared,’ said Joe in a small voice.

  ‘There’s nothing to be scared of, sweetheart,’ replied his mother quickly, in a voice that seemed a bit shriller than normal. ‘We’ll be home in ten minutes.’

  She set off again, more slowly this time, one step in front of the other. When Tom looked up he could see her eyes darting from side to side. They were in the midst of the trees now. Everywhere they turned, dark shadows surrounded them.

  ‘Tom, poppet,’ said Alice, without looking at him. ‘If I were to tell you to, could you take Joe’s hand and run as fast as you possibly can down the hill and find Daddy?’

  ‘Why?’ said Tom.

  ‘He’s probably still in the church,’ said Alice. ‘Maybe at home. Could you find him and tell him where we are?’

  ‘What about you and Millie?’

  ‘I’ll look after Millie. I just know how fast you are. I know you and Joe could get home really quickly. Can you do that for me, angel?’

  Tom wasn’t sure. Run in the fog and leave his mother behind? They were almost through the trees now. The mist wasn’t quite so thick lower down the moor. The outlines of Heptonclough’s buildings were starting to appear. They could see further down the hill.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Alice, stopping and closing her eyes. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tom, you scared the life out of me.’

  Tom looked at his mother. She didn’t look cross, she looked hugely relieved. He turned his head down the hill to see a figure a hundred yards or so away from them.

  ‘It’s Gillian,’ she said. ‘Out for one of her walks. Fancy being scared of Gillian.’

  29

  8 October

  ‘EVI, IT’S STEVE. IS THIS A GOOD TIME?’

  Evi looked at her watch. She was on her way to a children’s home, to have her first meeting with a child who hadn’t spoken in the ten days since the police had used their special powers under the Children Act to remove him from his home. It was a ten-minute journey. Ten minutes either side of that to get herself in and out of the car. But her supervisor had rung on her mobile. She could talk on the move.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said, gathering up her notepad and several pencils from the desk. ‘I have a couple of minutes. Thanks for getting back.’

  ‘Well, sorry it took so long, but we’ve been away. I only got back to the office this morning.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’ Why did pencils permanently need sharpening? She leaned against the desk and fumbled in the drawer.

  ‘Antigua. And yes, it was very nice. Now, this email of yours.’

  ‘Any thoughts?’ She’d found the sharpener. But holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder was going to play havoc with her back.

  ‘You say the patient is making progress?’ She could hear Steve sipping his usual strong black coffee.

  ‘On the surface, yes,’ said Evi. Two pencils sharpened, that would have to be enough. ‘She’s managing to curtail the drinking, the medication I’ve prescribed is working well, she’s started to talk about the future.’ OK, writing stuff, phone – yes, she had that what the hell had she done with the car keys?

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I just can’t help feeling there’s something she’s not telling me,’ said Evi. Her car keys were in her coat pocket. They were always in her coat pocket. ‘She’s very reluctant to talk about her early life, the death of her father, the appearance of a stepfather. There are times when it’s as though a curtain comes down. Subject off limits.’

  ‘You’ve not been seeing her that long, have you?’

  ‘No, only a few weeks,’ said Evi, wondering if she could get her coat on without falling over. ‘And I know these things can take time. It’s just that the Megan Connor business struck me as being quite a coincidence. I can’t help thinking it would have had an impact.’

  ‘You’re probably right. But I’d wait for her to bring it up. Let her talk about what she’s happy to talk about. You’re still right at the start of treatment. There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘I know. I thought that myself. Just needed you to confirm it.’ The coat was on, just. Evi hung her bag from the bespoke hook on her wheelchair and checked that her stick was in its place along the back. She sank down, still gripping the phone between her shoulder and her ear.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Steve. ‘I tell you what, though, I remember the Megan case well.’

  ‘Oh?’ Evi’s office door had been hung to swing outwards when she pushed it with her foot.

  ‘Yeah, a colleague of mine took a very close interest. He was doing some work on the effects of disasters on small communities.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Evi, setting off along the corridor.

  ‘When a community suffers an out-of-the-ordinary loss, its impact can be felt for quite some time,’ said Steve. ‘The place gets a slightly grim reputation with the outside world and that can start to affect how people there think and behave. He wrote a paper on the subject, it looked at places like Hungerford, Dunblane, Lockerbie, Aberfan. I’ll try and dig it out for you.’

  Evi turned the corner and nearly ran into a group of three colleagues chatting in the corridor. They stepped aside and she nodded her thanks. ‘The BMJ did a piece on it too, not long ago,’ Steve was saying. ‘After a disaster, up to 50 per cent of the population can suffer from mental distress. The prevalence of mild or moderate disorders can double. Even severe disorders like psychosis increase.’

  ‘But you’re talking about major disasters, surely? Earthquakes, airplanes coming down, chemical plants exploding. Severe loss of life.’ Evi passed a woman and child in the corridor, then a porter.

  ‘True, and I’m not trying to suggest that a couple of dead children can compare in any real way. But the Megan case was very high-profile. You should still expect there to be an impact on the community’s mental health. On some level the people up there will feel responsible. They’ll feel tainted.’

  ‘So what happened previously could, albeit subconsciously, be affecting my patient’s recovery?’

  ‘I
wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised. You might want to find out more about what actually happened when your patient’s daughter died. Read some old newspapers, talk to the GP in question. It’ll give you a point of reference. You can compare what she’s telling you with what you know about the facts. See if there are any discrepancies. You mustn’t be confrontational, of course, but sometimes we learn more from what our patients don’t tell us than from what they do. Make any sort of sense?’

  Evi had reached the main door of the hospital. Some idiot had left a pile of packing crates at the top of the disabled ramp. ‘Yes, it does,’ she said, glaring at the crates. ‘Thanks, Steve. I’m going to have to go now. I have to give somebody a serious bollocking.’

  30

  10 October

  ‘TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON, A TIME FOR 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 …’

  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 space 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 Dick 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.

&nbs
p; ‘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 …’