by Amy Cross
“Mr. and Mrs. Neill also want you to stay,” she continues. “I know it's going to be difficult, but I really have nowhere else to place you right now, Mark. If you can just stick it out for the rest of the one month trial, and then we can reassess the situation and make a decision. Do you think you'll be able to do that for me?”
I want to tell her that I can't stay, that I won't, but for a moment I feel as if I'll burst into tears if I speak. I wait, and then – by the time I feel like I can say something – I've started to realize that maybe I can stick it out after all. I don't want to look like I'm scared, and she's probably right when she suggests that I'd be running away. It's just that this house feels empty without Kerry around.
“I'll stay if you can do one thing,” I say finally. “Promise me that she didn't die because of what we did last night. Please, Mrs. Trevor. I'll stay, but only if you promise me that.”
“I promise,” she says, before placing a hand on my shoulder. “What happened to Kerry was a tragedy, but that's all it was. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the church. I mean, come on, let's be sensible for a moment. How could the church have done anything to her?”
Chapter Nine
Mark
“So you're staying with Brian and his missus, are you?”
I sort of half-smile as I set the milk and loaf on the counter. I only came out to the corner-shop to be helpful, and to get out of that pressure-cooker house for a few minutes, and I really didn't want to attract any attention. I just want people to leave me alone.
“I heard what happened,” the man continues as he scans the milk and puts it into a bag. “Terrible, just terrible. How old was she?”
“Fifteen.”
He winces.
“That's too young,” he says, and then he scans the bread. “What was it, her heart?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Must've been something like that,” he mutters. “Unless... There's no chance she was on drugs, is there?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“You never know these days,” he adds with a sigh, before ringing up the total. “That'll be two pounds and sixty-five of your finest pence, thank you.”
I start counting out the exact money from the change Mrs. Neill gave me.
“Do you mind if I give you some advice?” he asks suddenly.
I glance at him.
“Don't do anything,” he adds.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean don't do anything while you're here. Obviously you've got to do things, but don't do anything big or unusual. People don't like that in Briarwych. Just get on with your day-to-day, keep your head down, and don't do anything to attract attention. Are you old enough to go for a pint in the pub?”
I shake my head.
“Pity, that'd straighten you out.” He takes the coins and starts putting them into the till. “Just take my word for it, lad. Mind your own business, and others'll mind theirs.” He leans toward me. “And just so you know, Gary in the Hog and Bucket won't be averse to letting you have the odd beer, so long as you behave yourself. You should pop in one evening. That way, you'll learn what it's alright to talk about round these parts, and what's best left ignored.”
“Right,” I reply, not really understanding what he means. It's almost like he's warning me off something. “Cheers.”
Grabbing the bag, I head to the door.
“And I'm sorry about your friend,” he adds.
“She wasn't my friend,” I say, stopping and glancing back at him. “I didn't really know her very well at all.”
***
As I make my way along the darkening street, with the bag of groceries in my arms, I can't help glancing toward the treeline and – in particular – at the spire of the church as it rises high against the late afternoon sky. The air's so cold, I can see my breath, but I keep my eyes fixed on the church as I think back to how dark and cold it was inside.
I keep hearing my words going round and round in my head.
“She wasn't my friend. I didn't really know her very well at all.”
I mean, technically that's true, but for some reason I really feel like I miss her. It's stupid, of course, to miss someone you barely knew, but I just can't shake the feeling. And I can't help thinking back to that look on her face just as she was about to collapse. I could see something in her eyes, like fear maybe. I was watching her, and she furrowed her brow as if she was confused by something, and then her eyes widened in shock, and then she was gone.
She just slumped down, like somebody had flicked a switch, and that was the end of her. I know Caroline tried to revive her, and I totally get that, but now I reckon Kerry was gone before she even hit the floor. She just died right there on her feet, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Heading around the next corner, I suddenly hear laughing voices in the distance, and when I look ahead I see a warm, flickering light coming from one of the buildings. Even before I've taken another step, I realize that this must be the pub that the guy in the shop mentioned, and sure enough when I get to the window I look inside and see that there are loads of people inside, mostly gathered around the bar but also filling the booths and seats. A large fire is burning in the hearth, and for a moment I slow my pace so I can look inside. It's so loud in there, I reckon you wouldn't even be able to hear yourself think.
I definitely should not go in and try to order a pint.
***
“I hope you can handle this, son,” the barman says as he sets a pint of beer in front of me. “And you swear you're old enough, yeah?”
“I just left my I.D. at home,” I tell him. “Honest.”
“Sure you did,” he mutters. “In the extremely unlikely event that the old bill show up, make sure to duck down out of sight, alright? And behave yourself, or you'll never set foot in this establishment again.”
“Thank you,” I say, although my voice chooses that exact moment to squeak slightly, making me sound even younger than I am.
Rolling his eyes, the barman heads away to serve another customer.
I don't know why I came in here, except that the thought of going back to the cottage filled me with dread. It's like my thoughts haven't got anywhere else to go, so they're just filling my head more and more until it feels like my skull's swelling. I'm not even a drinker; I really wanted a Coke, but I thought I'd get laughed at so I ordered the weakest beer in the pub. As I lift the glass and prepare to take a sip, I can't help thinking that this was a waste of money, but at least it beats sitting alone in my room or slowly wandering the streets. And maybe some beer will get rid of this feeling that my head's about to explode.
“Fancy seeing you here,” a voice says suddenly.
Turning, I'm shocked to see Brian Neill smiling at me.
“Gotta go!” I blurt out, immediately heading toward the door, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back toward the bar.
“You're fine, lad,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Just don't tell my wife, or she'll kill us both. And you're only having one, and make sure you chew a mint before we go back for dinner, okay? Otherwise she'll smell it on your breath.”
“I'm sorry,” I stammer.
“For what?”
“I dunno. Being here?”
“Don't make a habit of it,” he continues, before taking a sip of his ale. “After everything that's happened today, I think we both deserve a little extra leeway. A house doesn't feel right just after someone's died in it.” He pauses. “Have you ever seen someone die before?”
“Not really,” I reply. “I mean, apparently I was with Mum when she died, but I was only six months old so I don't remember that.”
“I'm sorry,” he says.
I shrug. “Like I told you, I don't remember.”
“But you still experienced it. That's got to leave a mark.”
“I don't believe in stuff like that,” I tell him. “If I don't remember it, it doesn't affect me.”
“Maybe,” he mutters, before taking another
sip. “I just can't believe that the pair of you arrived yesterday, and now Kerry's gone. She seemed like a nice girl. A little rough around the edges, but that's hardly a crime. Did you know her well?”
“Not really,” I reply, as I glance along the bar and spot the lock-repair guy chatting to someone at the other end. “We were just in the same home for a while before we were sent here. To be honest, I always found Kerry pretty annoying. Wherever she went, there was always trouble around, you know?” I raise my glass to take my first sip, but then I pause for a moment. “I suppose I shouldn't say that, though. Not now that she's gone.”
“The truth's the truth,” he says. “There's no point hiding it. But people don't cause trouble for no reason. It's always good to consider why someone behaves the way they do.”
“You mean like making excuses for them?”
“I mean like recognizing when someone's hurt, and lost. If you ask me, your friend Kerry had a pretty big defense mechanism going on.”
“She wasn't my -”
I stop myself just in time.
“I saw a guy earlier,” I continue, hoping to change the subject a little, “putting a new lock on the church door.”
“That'll be Tim,” he replies, looking briefly along the bar at the guy I met this morning, before turning to me again. “He does the general upkeep work, that sort of thing. He's the only one that will.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why's the church shut?”
“It's a long story.”
“How many people live in Briarwych?”
“Why do you want to know, Mark?”
“Two hundred? Three?”
“Somewhere in the middle there.”
“And aren't some of them religious? Don't they want to go to church?”
“I'm sure they do, but -”
“Then why isn't the church open?” I continue. “It's not like religious organizations are short of money, is it? I bet there are smaller places that have a proper church.”
“That church hasn't been open in a long time,” he replies. “The last time it was open was back in the forties, during the war. I think it shut for good in 1942.”
“And it's just stood there ever since? For more than seventy years?”
“Do you like football?” he asks, and now he's the one who seems to be trying to change the subject. “Maybe we could watch a -”
“So why not knock it down, then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If it's not being used, why not knock the church down?”
“You can't knock a church down,” he replies. “That's just not right. They're historical buildings.”
“So why is it just sitting there, then?” I ask. I know I'm nagging a little, but I really want to understand what's going on here. “Are you telling me that the people in this village don't want a church at all?”
“Why are you so obsessed with that church?”
“I'm not obsessed, I just...”
My voice trails off as I realize that maybe I have been getting a little agitated. There's just something about that church that keeps nagging at me. I guess I still can't quite accept that going there last night didn't somehow cause what happened to Kerry.
“I just want to know what's going on, that's all,” I add finally. “I don't like not knowing why she died.”
“The autopsy results should be with us in a day or two. Then we'll know.”
“She was fine until we went into that church,” I remind him. “I swear, there was nothing wrong with her until then.”
Brian pauses, before downing the rest of his beer and then reaching over and taking mine from my hand. Without saying a word, he downs that too, before letting out a burp and wiping the foam from his mouth. He then reaches into his pocket and takes out a small white plastic box.
“Ignore the church,” he says cautiously. “Do like the rest of us, and just pretend it's not there. That's the best thing.” He drops some mints into his hand, and then he passes one to me. “And chew this. I mean what I said earlier. If she realizes we've been in here drinking, we'll be in so much bloody trouble.”
“I didn't even have any!” I point out. “I didn't touch a drop!”
***
Dinner is a silent affair. Sitting at the table, eating sausages and mash with gravy, the three of us pretend to be really interested in our food, and the only sounds come from cutlery banging against the plates and our mouths as we chew. And every few seconds, I glance at the empty chair where Kerry should be sitting.
There are a million things I want to say, of course. Or rather, there are a million questions I want to ask. I doubt I'd get any straight answers, though, and somehow I feel as if I don't quite have the right to break the silence. I guess everyone's lost in their own thoughts. Caroline seems to be just staring at her food the whole time, while Brian keeps letting out little sighs that never quite lead to him actually saying something.
And I glance at Kerry's chair again, as I start to wonder why – when I never really liked her – I'm starting to miss her.
Finally I finish my food, although as I set my cutlery down I see that I'm way ahead of the others. I really don't like sitting here, but I know I have to be polite so I simply sit up straight and decide to wait.
“It's alright,” Brian says, glancing at me, “you're excused, if you like.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, but then I get to my feet before he has a chance to change his mind. As I push the chair back, the legs scrape loudly against the wooden floor. “Thank you for the food. It was really nice.”
“My pleasure,” Caroline says, looking at me with a painfully sad smile. “I'm glad you liked it.”
I take my plate over to the sink and give it a rinse, before loading it into the dishwasher along with my cutlery. Then I head out to the hallway and make my way upstairs. As I reach the top, I realize I can hear Caroline and Brian talking now, and I stop for a moment to check whether I can hear what they're saying. I'm worried they might secretly think I'm to blame for not stopping Kerry when she wanted to go out to the church.
“I heard he got a call today,” Caroline is saying, “right after he fixed the lock.”
“From who?” Brian asks.
“Who do you think?”
“How did they find out?”
“I suppose some busybody in the village took it upon themselves to let them know. I'm certain Tim didn't initiate anything. You know how he feels about the situation. There's no way he'd ever have wanted them to -”
“Hang on,” Brian says, interrupting her, and a moment later I hear the kitchen door being pushed shut. I guess whatever they're talking about, they think I'm too young to know. Too much of a child.
It's like this whole village is hiding something.
Chapter Ten
Mark
I scream as loud as I can, screaming into the rushing wind as I pedal furiously along the runway with my shirt flapping all around me.
For a moment, nothing else matters. I even feel as if I'm leaving the world behind, as if I'm going so fast that all my thoughts of Kerry can't keep up. So long as I just keep pedaling, I can outrun everything that makes me feel bad and no-one can ever make me stop. I just want to be like this forever, because then I won't have to think ever again.
I pedal until I feel like my legs are about to fall off and I scream until all the air is out of my lungs and then I scream some more. And then, finally, I screech to a halt with just a few meters before the grass begins, and I put my left foot down to steady myself as I spin the bike around and look back the way I just came. I'm so out of breath, I have to lean down for a moment against the handlebars.
The runway stretches out ahead. From here, it looks as if it goes all the way to the horizon. And all around, for at least a couple of miles in every direction, the rough and featureless grassland reaches away from the concrete toward distant patches of forest. It's almost like being on a different world.
&
nbsp; I woke up early this morning and asked Caroline if I could borrow one of the bikes. Then I came out and explored the forest, just to get away from everything for a few hours. Eventually I came across a collapsed fence, and I discovered the old, abandoned airbase that I heard about. There are a few derelict old buildings nearby, but the coolest thing is this long, empty runway. I guess planes used to land and take off from this place back in the day, but now it looks like no-one has been out here for years. Which is just fine by me, because at least in a place like this no-one can hear me screaming my head off. It's my own private place, somewhere I can come to escape from everything.
Now that I've got my breath back and my heart has stopped racing, I'm ready for another go, so I set off and start pedaling as hard as I can. This time the wind is behind me, pushing me on, and I swear I'm going faster than ever as I once again start screaming.
Fuck the rest of the world.
***
“Cool,” I whisper as I lean closer and take a look at another of the photos that have been left behind on the wall.
This particular picture shows a load of men standing in uniform, outside somewhere. I reckon they must be from the Second World War, and they've got that kind of pose that makes it look like they're not used to having their photo taken. Behind them there's some kind of old plane, just a small one for one or two people, and I can't help feeling total respect for the fact that they were probably preparing to hop into their planes and go off to fight in the war. Beyond the plane, there's a small, squat building, and after a moment I realize that it looks like the same building I'm standing in right now.
At the bottom of the picture, there's some scribbly writing that I find quite hard to read.
“Something Bolton,” I whisper, “and the men of...”
There are some numbers, and then a load more names.
Looking over at another picture, I see that it shows one of the men from the first, standing with one hand raised in a salute. He looks really cool and confident, like he knows what he's doing and he believes with absolute conviction in the medals he's wearing on his chest. It must be nice to really believe in something like that. At the bottom, in neater writing, is that name again. Bolton.
