by S J Bolton
Tom and Joe looked at each other. If they’d split up, why were they still close enough for Tom to feel Joe’s breath on his face?
‘They’re knob-heads,’ said Joe.
Tom leaned out from behind the crypt. Three of the boys were walking along the wall towards Lucy Pickup’s grave. The other three were still staring in their direction.
‘What’s that noise?’ said Joe.
‘Wind?’ suggested Tom, without bothering to listen. It was a pretty safe guess.
‘It’s not wind. It’s music.’
Joe was right. Definitely music, low, with a steady rhythm, a man’s deep voice singing. The knob-heads had heard it too. One of them jumped down and ran towards the road. Then the rest followed. The music was getting louder and Tom could hear a car engine.
It was John Lee Hooker. His dad had several of his CDs and played them – very loud – when their mother was out. Someone was driving up the hill, playing John Lee Hooker on his car stereo, and this was the time to move. Tom stepped sideways, away from the shelter of the mausoleum.
Only Jake Knowles was still in sight. He looked round and saw Tom, who didn’t hide this time. Both boys knew the game was up. Except…
‘He’s got your baseball bat,’ said Joe, who’d followed Tom into the open. ‘What’s he doing?’
Jake had got Tom’s bat and his ball too, a large, very heavy red ball that Tom had been warned on pain of a prolonged and tortuous death (which was how his mum talked when she was serious) not to play with anywhere near buildings, especially buildings with windows and was she making herself clear? Tom and Joe had been practising catches earlier by the church. They’d left both bat and ball near the wall and now Knowles had them.
‘He’s nicking them,’ said Joe. ‘We can call the police.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tom, as Jake turned away and faced the church. Tom watched Jake toss the ball gently into the air. Then he swung the bat hard. The ball sailed into the air and through the huge stained-glass window at the side of the church. A blue pane shattered as the car engine switched off, the music died and Jake fled after his friends.
‘Why did he do that?’ said Joe. ‘He broke a window. He’ll get murdered.’
‘No, he won’t,’ said Tom. ‘We will.’
Joe stared at his brother for a second, then he got it. He may have been only six and annoying as hell, but he was no knob-head.
‘That’s not fair.’ Joe’s little face had screwed up in outrage. ‘We’ll tell.’
‘They won’t believe us,’ said Tom. Six weeks in his new school: three detentions, two trips to the headmaster’s office, any number of serious bollockings from his class teacher and no one ever believed him. Why would they, when Jake Knowles had half the class on his side, jumping up and down in their seats they were so eager to back him up. Even the ones who didn’t seem to be Jake’s mates were too scared of him and his gang to say anything. Six weeks of getting the blame for everything Jake Knowles started. Maybe he was the knob-head.
He took hold of Joe’s hand and the boys ran as fast as they could through the long grass. Tom climbed the wall, looked all round the churchyard, and then bent down to pull up Joe. Jake and the other boys were nowhere in sight but there were a hundred hiding places around the ruins of the old church.
An old sports car was parked just by the church gate, pale blue with lots of silver trim. The soft roof had been folded back over the boot. A man was leaning across the passenger seat and fumbling in the glove compartment. He found what he was looking for and straightened up. He looked about Tom’s dad’s age, around thirty-four or thirty-five, taller than Tom’s dad, but thinner.
Beckoning Joe to follow, Tom picked up the baseball bat (no point leaving evidence in plain sight) and ran until they could scramble into their favourite hiding place. They’d discovered it shortly after moving in: a huge rectangular stone table of a grave, supported on four stone pillars. The grass around it grew long, and once the boys had crawled underneath they were completely hidden from view.
The sports-car driver opened the car door and climbed out. As he turned towards the church, the boys could see that his hair was the same colour as their mother’s (strawberry blonde, not ginger), and curly like their mum’s, but his was cut short. He was wearing kneelength shorts, a white T-shirt and red Crocs. He walked across the road and into the churchyard. Once inside, he stopped on the path and looked behind him, then span slowly on the spot, taking in the cobbled streets, the terraced houses, both churches, the moors behind and beyond.
‘He’s not been here before,’ whispered Joe.
Tom nodded. The stranger walked past the boys and reached the main door of the church. He took a key from his pocket. A second later the door swung open and he walked inside. Just as Jake Knowles appeared at the entrance to the churchyard. Tom stood up and looked round. Billy Aspin was behind them. As they watched, the other members of the gang appeared from behind gravestones, clambering over the wall. The brothers were surrounded.
2
‘IT HAD BEEN BURNING FOR THREE HOURS BEFORE THEY managed to put it out. And they said the temperatures inside, at the point of – I can’t remember what they said…’
‘Origin?’ suggested Evi.
The girl sitting opposite nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘The point of origin. They said it would have been like a furnace. And her bedroom was right above it. They couldn’t get anywhere near the house, let alone upstairs, and then the ceiling collapsed. By the time they managed to get it cooled down enough, they couldn’t find her.’
‘No trace at all?’
Gillian shook her head. ‘No, nothing,’ she said. ‘She was so tiny, you see. Such tiny soft bones.’
Gillian’s breathing was speeding up again. ‘I read somewhere that it’s unusual, but not unheard of,’ she went on, ‘for people to… to disappear completely. The fire just burns them up.’ The girl was beginning to gulp at the air around her.
Evi pushed herself upright in her chair and the pain in her left leg responded immediately. ‘Gillian, it’s OK,’ she said. ‘Get your breath back. Just take it steady.’
Gillian put her hands on her knees and dropped her head as Evi concentrated on getting her own breathing under control, on focusing on something other than the pain in her leg. The wall clock told her they were fifteen minutes into the consultation.
Her new patient, Gillian Royle, was unemployed, divorced and alcoholic. She was just twenty-six. The GP’s referral letter had talked about ‘prolonged and abnormal grief’ following the death, three years earlier, of her twenty-seven-month-old daughter in a house fire. According to the GP, Gillian had severe depression, suicidal thoughts and a history of self-harm. He’d have referred her sooner, he’d explained, but had only just been made aware of her case by a local social worker. This was her first appointment with Evi.
Gillian’s hair trailed almost to the floor. It had been highlighted once, but now, above the old blond streaks, it was an unwashed mouse-brown. Gradually, the rise and fall of the girl’s shoulders began to slow down. After a moment she reached up to push her hair back. Her face reappeared. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, like a child who’d been caught misbehaving.
Evi shook her head. ‘You mustn’t be,’ she said. ‘What you’re feeling is very normal. Do you often have difficulty breathing?’
Gillian nodded.
‘It’s completely normal,’ Evi repeated. ‘People who are suffering immense grief often experience breathlessness. They suddenly start to feel anxious, even afraid, for no apparent reason and then they struggle to get their breath. Does that sound familiar at all?’
Gillian nodded again. She was still panting, as if she’d just run a race and had narrowly lost.
‘Do you have any mementoes of your daughter?’ asked Evi.
Gillian reached to the small table at her side and pulled another tissue from the box. She hadn’t cried yet but had been continually pressing them against her face and twi
sting them round in her scrawny fingers. Tiny twists of thin paper littered the carpet.
‘The firemen found a toy,’ she said. ‘A pink rabbit. It should have been in her cot but it had fallen down behind the sofa. I suppose I should be glad it did, but I can’t help thinking that she had to go through all that and she didn’t even have Pink Rabbit wi-’ Gillian’s head fell forward again and her body started to shudder. Both hands, still clasping flimsy peach-coloured paper, were pressed hard against her mouth.
‘Did it make it harder for you?’ asked Evi. ‘That they didn’t find Hayley’s body?’
Gillian raised her head and Evi could see a darker gleam in her eyes, a harder edge around the lines of her face. There was a lot of anger in there as well, struggling with grief to get the upper hand. ‘Pete said it was a good thing,’ she said, ‘that they couldn’t find her.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Evi.
‘I think it would have been better to have found her,’ Gillian shot back. ‘Because then I’d have known for sure. I would have had to accept it.’
‘Accept that it was real?’ asked Evi.
‘Yes,’ agreed Gillian. ‘Because I couldn’t. I just couldn’t take it in, couldn’t believe she was really dead. Do you know what I did?’
Evi allowed her head to shake gently from side to side. ‘No,’ she said, ‘tell me what you did.’
‘I went out looking for her, on the moors,’ replied Gillian. ‘I thought, because they hadn’t found her, that there must be some mistake. That she’d got out somehow. I thought maybe Barry, the babysitter, had managed to get her out and put her in the garden before the smoke got too much for him, and that she’d just wandered off.’
Gillian’s eyes were pleading with Evi, begging her to agree, to say yes, that was quite likely, perhaps she’s still out there, wandering around, living off berries, Gillian just had to keep looking.
‘She would have been terrified of the fire,’ Gillian was saying, ‘so she’d have tried to get away. She could have got out of the gate somehow and wandered up the lane. So we went out looking, Pete and me, and a couple of others too. We spent the night walking the moors, calling out to her. I was so sure, you see, that she couldn’t really be dead.’
‘That’s completely normal too,’ said Evi. ‘It’s called denial. When people suffer a great loss, they often can’t take it in at first. Some doctors believe it’s the body’s way of protecting us from too much pain. Even though people know, in their head, that their loved one is gone, their heart is telling them something different. It’s not uncommon for bereaved people to even see the one they’ve lost, to hear their voice.’
She paused for a second. Gillian had pushed herself upright in the chair again. ‘People do that?’ she asked, leaning towards Evi. ‘They see and hear the dead person?’
‘Yes,’ said Evi, ‘it’s very common. Has it happened to you? Did you – do you see Hayley?’
Slowly Gillian shook her head. ‘I never see her,’ she said. For a second she stared back at Evi. And then her face deflated, collapsing in on itself like the air slowly trickling out of a balloon. ‘I never see her,’ she repeated. She reached for the tissues again. The box fell to the floor but she’d managed to keep hold of a handful. She pressed them to her face. Still no tears. Maybe they were all used up.
‘Take your time,’ said Evi. ‘You need to cry. Take as much time as you like.’
Gillian didn’t cry, not really, but she held the handful of tissues to her face and allowed her dried-up body to sob. Evi watched the second hand make its way round the clock three times.
‘Gillian,’ she said, when she judged she’d given the girl enough time. ‘Dr Warrington tells me you still spend several hours a day walking the moors. Are you still looking for Hayley?’
Gillian shook her head without looking up. ‘I don’t know why I do it,’ she mumbled into the tissues. ‘I just get this feeling in my head and then I can’t stay indoors. I have to go out. I have to look.’ Gillian raised her head and her pale-grey eyes stared back at Evi. ‘Can you help me?’ she asked, suddenly looking so much younger than her twenty-six years.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Evi quickly. ‘I’m going to prescribe some medication for you. Some anti-depressants to make you feel better, and also something to help you sleep at night. These are a temporary measure, to help you break the cycle of feeling so bad. Do you understand?’
Gillian was staring back at her, like a child relieved that a grownup had finally taken charge.
‘You see, the pain you’ve been feeling has made your body sick,’ continued Evi. ‘For three years you’ve not been sleeping or eating properly. You’re drinking too much and you’re wearing yourself out on these long walks over the moors.’
Gillian blinked twice. Her eyes looked red and sore.
‘When you’re feeling a little better in the daytime and you’re sleeping properly at night, then you’ll be able to do something about the drinking,’ continued Evi. ‘I can refer you to a support group. They’ll help you get through the first few weeks. Does that sound like a good idea?’
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
T HE 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 pus
hed 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.
