by S J Bolton
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 scraping 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 glass. 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 hell 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.
And hide.
Everything was quiet. Cold. Wet. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was somewhere dark and damp. He was lying down, but had no idea whether he’d fallen or just run out of breath. He was panting as if he’d never get enough air in his lungs ever again. Something hard was digging into his ribs but he didn’t dare move.
‘Tom!’
His dad’s voice. He was close by. Except… was it? Was it him?
‘Daddee.’ A soft voice, low and teasing, like a kid playing hide and seek. A voice that sounded – oh God – exactly like…
‘Tom, where are you?’ called his dad.
No, no, Dad, no. It’s not me!
‘Daddee…’
‘Really not funny, Tom. Come out now.’
‘Gareth, have you found him?’ His mother’s voice, from further away. She sounded as if she was crying. Was it her? It sounded like her, but…
Footsteps. Heavy footsteps close by. Too heavy to be…
Tom was on his feet. He was in the graveyard and his dad was ten feet away. He’d seen him, was coming towards him. Then Tom was being carried across the graveyard and suddenly there was his mum and they were inside and that horrible moaning noise was so loud in his head. He could see his mother’s face trying to talk to him but the noise was too loud. They were in the sitting room and his dad had put him down on one sofa and his mum was leaning over him, holding on to him and trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear because the sounds in his head were just too loud. Then she started to cry and Tom could see tears running down her face, but he couldn’t hear her crying because all he could hear, all he would ever hear again, was this horrible, horrible howling.
And then he realized who was howling.
‘Tom, angel, please stop crying, please stop.’
He had stopped. His mum just didn’t seem to have noticed. She was on the sofa too now and had pulled Tom on to her lap. He wasn’t much smaller than she was and he never sat on her knee any more, but he was so glad to be there with her arms wrapped tight around him. Then there were footsteps at the bottom of the stairs and his dad appeared in the doorway.
‘They’re fine,’ he said to Alice in a soft voice. ‘Both still asleep.’
Gareth crossed the room and knelt down on the rug in front of Tom. Then he reached up to stroke his son’s forehead.
‘What happened, matey?’ His dad asked, running his hand over Tom’s head.
He told them, of course. Why wouldn’t he? They were his parents, the people he trusted more than anyone else in the whole world. It hadn’t occurred to him that there are some things parents can’t bring themselves to believe.
32
11 October
‘All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing.’
THE CHURCH WAS CLOSE TO FULL AND THE PEOPLE OF Heptonclough weren’t shy about using their voices. Harry scanned the congregation. Jenny Pickup was standing beside her husband, two rows from the front. Her face seemed composed.
One or two men in the congregation, on the other hand, looked as though they might be nursing hangovers, and he wondered how many of them had been involved in the festivities of the previous evening. Ritual slaughter on Saturday night; church the next morning. Ah well. He lived among farmers now.
He hadn’t spotted the Fletchers yet. Alice had assured him they would be well away from Heptonclough the night before but, even so, their house was just too close to the barn Dick Grimes used as the town abattoir. When he’d arrived an hour earlier, Harry had spent five minutes walking up and down the road. The street outside gets – how shall I put this? – a little messy, Tobias had said. Either it had rained in the night or the clean-up operation had been thorough. There was no trace of what had taken place the night before.
The hymn was drawing to an end. There was Gareth, halfway down on the left side of the aisle. Alice was by his side. One of her h
ands held a hymn book, the other was on Tom’s shoulder. Her eldest son seemed to be staring at his feet. None of them were singing.
‘I’ve been asked two questions rather frequently over the past three weeks,’ said Harry. He was in the pulpit and most faces were looking his way; always a good sign. ‘The first is: “ ’Ow’re you settlin’ in, Vicar?” The second: “You’re not a countryman, are you, lad?” ’
A few quiet titters around the church.
‘The answer to the first is: very well, thank you, everyone’s been very kind. To the second: no, I’m not. I’m not a countryman. But I’m starting to get it.’
In the crowded church, only three people were sitting in the front left-hand pew: Sinclair, his father Tobias and his elder daughter, Christiana. In the old days this would have been the Renshaw family pew. To all intents and purposes, it still was.
‘We can all get great comfort from the sense of living in an ordered universe,’ continued Harry. ‘Up here, among the hills, where the land plays such an important part in our lives and where the seasons govern so much of what we do, it’s perhaps easier to feel a sense of harmony with the world than we might do in our towns and cities.’
In the soft light of the church, Christiana Renshaw’s large, regular features looked almost beautiful, and very like those of her younger sister. She was looking not at Harry but at an apple in one of the window flower-arrangements. She was sitting several feet away from her grandfather.
‘There is a reason,’ said Harry, ‘why the passage I just read to you is so popular at harvest time, at christenings and weddings, even at funerals. At important times in our lives we like to be reminded that we are part of a great plan, that there is a purpose. And that everything has its place and its time. Our reading today, Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one to eight, conveys that better than just about any other biblical piece I can think of. ’
Gillian was sitting eight rows back, immediately behind the Fletcher family. Even from a distance, Harry could see that her hair had been washed and that she was wearing make-up.
‘So it’s rather strange then,’ he continued, ‘that the rest of Ecclesiastes should be the least understood book of the entire Bible.’
*
The service was almost over. The congregation was singing the offertory hymn, Dick and Selby Grimes, the church’s two sidesmen, were carrying round the collection plates and Harry was preparing for Holy Communion. He’d prepared everything the afternoon before, opening the wine and decanting it. All he needed to do now was pour the wine into the chalice. He took the stopper off the decanter, poured some wine into the cup and added water. He took the wafers of the host and placed them on the silver tray. He would carry them round and distribute them. Sinclair would follow him with the wine.
Harry raised the plate into the air. The priest is always the first to receive Holy Communion. Next would be Sinclair and the organist, then the rest of the congregation. Behind him he could hear the sidesmen marshalling people into place.
‘The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for you, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life.’ He took a wafer from the plate. ‘Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on Him in your heart by faith with thanksgiving.’
Harry put the wafer into his mouth. The organist had finished playing and was crossing to take his place beside Sinclair. The church had fallen silent. Harry could hear the first row of communicants settling themselves at the chancel rail. He should phone Jenny and Mike later, make sure their first service hadn’t been too difficult. He’d pop round if necessary. He lifted the chalice. Could he smell something strange?
‘The blood of our lord Jesus Christ,’ he said, ‘preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s blood was shed for you and be thankful.’ Harry brought the chalice to his lips. The sun outside came streaming through the window above the altar. For a second the solid-silver chalice looked as crimson-red as its contents.
‘The blood of Christ,’ he whispered to himself. The cold of the silver met his lips.
Outside, rooks were flying around the roof. He could hear them calling to each other. Inside the church, all was still. The congregation was hushed, waiting for him to rise and begin the sacrament.
Slowly, very slowly, Harry put the cup back down on the altar.
There was a white linen napkin just within reach. He grasped it and clutched it to his mouth. He was going to gag, any second now. He picked up the cup again and walked as quickly as he could without spilling its contents to the vestry. He pushed the door open with his shoulder then kicked it shut behind him. He got to the sink just in time.
Red liquid splattered across white porcelain as Harry realized he was retching. And that the entire congregation could hear him. He turned on the cold tap and ran water over his hands. Then he raised them to his face.
‘Vicar, what’s wrong?’
Sinclair Renshaw had followed him into the vestry. Harry cupped his hands and allowed them to fill with water. He brought them up to his face and drank.
‘Vicar, are you ill? What can I do?’
Harry turned, lifted the chalice and held it out to his churchwarden. ‘Another tradition?’ he asked. His hand was shaking. He put the cup down again.
Sinclair glanced at the cup, then turned and walked swiftly away. He closed the door of the vestry and walked back until he was standing close to Harry.
‘Is this how it all ends?’ asked Harry. ‘You let the blood run freely on Saturday night and then the next day you drink it?’
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Sinclair.
Harry was pointing at the cup. ‘That isn’t wine,’ he said, his hand still shaking. ‘It’s blood. Not the symbolic kind – the real thing.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Taste it yourself. I did.’
Sinclair took the cup and carried it to the light. He raised it to his face and took a deep breath through his nose. Then he dipped his forefinger into the liquid and examined it closely. Harry watched, unable to read the expression on the older man’s face. After a second or two, Sinclair rinsed his hand under the tap and then turned back to face him.
‘Have a drink of water,’ he said. ‘Take a moment to compose yourself.’
Then he turned again and crossed the room. On a shelf, he found a second chalice, an older, slightly tarnished one, and rinsed it out in the sink. Opening a cupboard door – Sinclair clearly knew his way around the vestry – he took out a new bottle of wine. Harry found a chair and watched as Sinclair found a corkscrew and opened the wine. He poured it into the chalice and sipped it.
‘This is fine,’ he said. ‘Are you able to continue?’
Harry couldn’t reply. The blood of Christ, shed for you. Blood harvest.
‘Vicar!’ Sinclair’s voice was still low, but he wasn’t standing for any nonsense. ‘I can tell everyone you’ve been taken ill. Would you prefer me to do that?’
Harry was on his feet again, shaking his head. ‘No. I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Good man. Say the blessing here, just with me. It’ll help calm you.’
He was right. Harry took a deep breath and said the familiar words. He raised the cup to his lips before he had time to think about what he was doing and drank. Still wine.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Sinclair.
‘Yes, thank you. We should…’ He gestured towards the vestry door. He had no idea what everyone outside would be thinking by now.
‘One moment.’ Sinclair’s hand was on his arm. ‘After the service I’ll take care of that.’ He gestured towards the first cup, the one still filled with… ‘A stupid practical joke,’ he went on. ‘People had a lot to drink last night. Please accept my apologies.’
Harry nodded and the two men left the vestry. Harry picked up the plate of wafers and crossed the chancel to where the first communicant was still kneeling patiently.
‘The
body of Christ,’ he said, placing a wafer on the outstretched hand before him. ‘The body of Christ… The body of Christ.’ He continued down the line and behind him could hear Sinclair administering the wine. ‘The blood of Christ,’ he was saying, ‘the blood of Christ.
Harry wondered if he’d ever be able to take pleasure in those words again.
33
“WINE, HARRY?’
‘Thanks. Do you have any white?’ Harry took off his coat and looked for somewhere to hang it.
Coat-hooks in the Fletcher house always seemed occupied.
‘Give me a minute.’ Gareth crouched down and opened the fridge.
‘Something smells good, Alice,’ said Harry, taking a large glass from Gareth. The kitchen table was set for Sunday lunch. Millie, in her high chair, nibbled on a breadstick. There was no sign of the boys.
The bowl of the glass felt very cold. The liquid inside was reassuringly pale in colour. He sipped it. Definitely wine. Millie offered him her breadstick. When he shook his head, she dropped it on the floor.
‘We’re having Southern Baked Chicken,’ replied Alice. ‘Crispin’ up nicely.’
‘What was the problem during Communion?’ asked Gareth, pouring a glass of the white wine for Alice and red for himself. ‘We wondered where you’d gone.’
‘Oh, the wine was corked,’ said Harry, as he and Sinclair had agreed he would. What had happened was best kept between the two of them. He bent down to find Millie’s breadstick. ‘Seriously nasty, vinegary stuff,’ he went on.
‘It all went pretty well, though,’ said Alice. ‘You had a full house and nobody went to sleep.’
‘And I’m sure they all found it a deeply fulfilling spiritual experience,’ said Gareth. ‘Ignore my wife. She’s American.’
‘Like you ever set foot in a church before you married me,’ retorted Alice. ‘Were you even baptized? Where’s your breadstick, poppet? Oh, did the vicar steal it? Bad vicar.’
‘I was dipped into Rawtenstall reservoir by my left ankle,’ said Gareth. ‘It made me invincible.’
