by C. J. Tudor
The Burning Girls is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by C. J. Tudor
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Ballantine and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Originally published in the United Kingdom by Michael Joseph, Penguin Group UK, a Penguin Random House company.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tudor, C. J., author.
Title: The burning girls: a novel / C.J. Tudor.
Description: First edition. | New York: Ballantine Books, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020044387 (print) | LCCN 2020044388 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984825025 (Hardback) | ISBN 9781984825032 (Ebook)
Classification: LCC PR6120.U36 B87 2021 (print) | LCC PR6120.U36 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020044387
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020044388
Ebook ISBN 9781984825032
randomhousebooks.com
Title page art: iStock.com/MorePics
Book design by Alexis Capitini, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Elena Giavaldi
Cover images: Marzufello/Shutterstock (flames), courtesy of the author (church)
ep_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Burning Girls
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By C. J. Tudor
About the Author
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Twig dolls peculiar to the small Sussex village of Chapel Croft. The dolls are made to commemorate the Sussex Martyrs—eight villagers who were burned at the stake during Queen Mary’s purge of Protestants (1553–8). Two of the martyrs were young girls. The Burning Girls are set alight in a ceremony held every year on the anniversary of the purge.
What kind of man am I?
It was a question he had asked himself a lot lately.
I am a man of God. I am His servant. I do His will.
But was that enough?
He stared at the small whitewashed house. Thatched roof, bright purple clematis crawling up its walls, bathed in the fading glow of the late-summer sun. Birds chittered in the trees. Bees buzzed lazily among the bushes.
Here lies evil. Here, in the most innocuous of settings.
He walked slowly up the short path. Fear gripped his belly. It felt like a physical pain, a cramping in his gut. He raised his hand to the door, but it opened before he could knock.
“Oh, thank God. Thank the Lord you came.”
The mother sagged at the doorway. Lank brown hair stuck to her scalp. Her eyes were shot through with blood and her skin was grey and lined.
This is what it looks like when Satan enters your home.
He stepped inside. The house stank. Sour, unclean. How could it have come to this? He looked up the stairs. The darkness at the top seemed thick with malevolence. He rested his hand on the banister. His legs refused to move. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, breathing deeply.
“Father?”
I am a man of God.
“Show me.”
He started to ascend. At the top, there were just three doors. A boy, slack-faced, in a stained T-shirt and shorts, peered around one. As the black-clothed figure approached, the boy pulled the door shut.
He pushed open the door next to it. The heat and smell hit him like a physical entity. He placed a hand over his mouth and tried not to gag.
The bed was stained with blood and bodily fluids. Restraints had been tied to each bedpost, but they hung loose. In the middle of the mattress a large leather case lay open. Sturdy straps held the contents in place: a heavy crucifix, a Bible, holy water, muslin cloths.
Two items were missing. They lay on the floor. A scalpel and a long serrated knife. Both slick with blood. More blood pooled, like a dark, ruby cloak, around the body.
He swallowed, his mouth as dry as the summer fields. “Dear Lord—what has taken place here?”
“I told you. I told you that the devil—”
“Enough!”
He spotted something on the bedside table. He walked over to it. A small black box. He stared at it for a moment and then turned to the mother hovering in the doorway. She wrung her hands and stared at him pleadingly.
“What shall we do?”
; We. Because this was upon him too.
He looked back at the bloody, mutilated body on the floor.
What kind of man am I?
“Get cloths and bleach. Now.”
WELDON HERALD, Thursday, May 24, 1990
MISSING GIRLS
Police have appealed for help in the search for two missing Sussex teenagers: Merry Lane and Joy Harris. The pair, who are believed to have run away together, are both aged 15. Joy was last seen at a bus stop in Henfield on the evening of 12 May. Merry disappeared from her home in Chapel Croft a week later on 19 May, after leaving a note.
Police are not treating their disappearance as suspicious but are concerned about the girls’ welfare and are appealing for them to get in touch with their families.
“You won’t be in trouble. They’re worried. They just want to know you’re safe and you can always come home.”
Joy is described as slight, around 5 foot 5 inches tall, with long, light blonde hair and delicate features. She was last seen wearing a pink T-shirt, stone-washed jeans and Dunlop Green Flash trainers.
Merry is described as thin, 5 foot 7 inches tall, with short, dark hair, and was last seen wearing a baggy grey jumper, jeans and black plimsolls.
Anyone who sees them should report the sighting to Weldon Police on 01323 456723 or call Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111.
“It’s an unfortunate situation.”
Bishop John Durkin smiles, benevolently.
I’m pretty sure that Bishop John Durkin does everything benevolently, even taking a shit.
The youngest bishop to preside over the North Notts diocese, he’s a skilled orator, author of several acclaimed theological papers and, if he hadn’t at least tried to walk on water, I’d be amazed.
He’s also a wanker.
I know it. His colleagues know it. His staff know it. Secretly, I think, even he knows it.
Unfortunately, no one is going to call him on it. Certainly not me. Not today. Not while he holds my job, my home and my future in his smooth, manicured hands.
“Something like this can shake the faith of the community,” he continues.
“They’re not shaken. They’re angry and sad. But I won’t let this ruin everything we’ve achieved. I won’t leave people now when they need me the most.”
“But do they? Attendance is down. Classes canceled. I heard that the children’s groups may move to another church.”
“Crime scene tape and police officers will do that. This is not a community that has any love for the police.”
“I understand that—”
No, he doesn’t. The closest Durkin gets to the inner city is when his driver takes a wrong turn on the way to his private gym.
“I’m confident it’s only temporary. I can rebuild their trust.”
I don’t add that I need to. I made a mistake and I need to make amends.
“So now you can perform miracles?” Before I can answer or argue, Durkin continues smoothly. “Look, Jack, I know you did what you thought was best, but you got too close.”
I sit back stiffly in my seat, fighting the urge to fold my arms like a sulky teenager. “I thought that was our job. To build close ties with the community.”
“It is our job to uphold the reputation of the Church. These are testing times. Everywhere, churches are failing. Fewer and fewer people are attending. We have an uphill battle even without this negative publicity.”
And that is what Durkin really cares about. The newspapers. PR. The Church doesn’t get good press at the best of times and I’ve really screwed things up. By trying to save a little girl and, instead, condemning her.
“So, what? You want me to resign?”
“Not at all. It would be a shame for someone of your caliber to leave.” He steeples his hands together. He really does that. “And it would look bad. An admission of guilt. We have to give careful consideration to what we do next.”
I’m sure. Especially considering my appointment here was his idea. I’m his prize show-dog. And I had been performing well, turning the once-derelict inner-city church back into a hub of the community.
Until Ruby.
“So, what do you suggest?”
“A transfer. Somewhere less high profile for a while. A small church in Sussex has suddenly found itself without a priest. Chapel Croft. While they nominate a replacement, they need an interim vicar.”
I stare at him, feeling the earth shift beneath my feet.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. My daughter is taking her GCSEs next year. I can’t just move her to the other end of the country.”
“I’ve already agreed to the transfer with Bishop Gordon at the Weldon diocese.”
“You’ve what? How? Has the post been advertised? Surely there must be a more suitable local candidate—”
He waves a hand dismissively. “We were chatting. Your name came up. He mentioned the vacancy. Serendipity.”
And Durkin can pull more strings than frigging Geppetto.
“Try and look on the bright side,” he says. “It’s a beautiful part of the country. Fresh air, fields. A small, safe community. It could be good for you and Flo.”
“I think I know what’s best for me and my daughter. The answer is no.”
“Then let me be blunt, Jack.” His eyes meet mine. “This is not a fucking request.”
There’s a reason why Durkin is the youngest bishop to preside over the diocese and it has nothing to do with his benevolence.
I clench my fists in my lap. “Understood.”
“Excellent. You start next week. Pack your wellies.”
“Christ!”
“Blaspheming again.”
“I know, but—” Flo shakes her head. “What a shithole.”
She’s not wrong. I pull the car to a halt and stare up at our new home. Well, our spiritual home. Our actual home is next door: a small cottage that would be quite pretty if not for its alarming off-kilter bearing, which makes it look like it’s trying to slope away, quietly, brick by brick.
The chapel itself is small, square and a dirty off-white. It doesn’t look much like a place of worship. There’s no high-pitched roof, cross or stained glass. Four plain windows face the front: two up, two down. Between the two upper windows is a clock. Florid writing around it proclaims:
“Redeem the Time, for the Days are Evil.”
Nice. Unfortunately, the “e” has worn off the end of “time,” so it actually reads, “Redeem the Tim,” whoever he is.
I climb out of the car. The muggy air immediately shrink-wraps my clothes to my skin. All around us, there’s nothing but fields. The village itself consists of about two dozen houses, a pub, general shop and village hall. The only sounds are birdsong and the occasional buzzing bee. It sets me on edge.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound positive, and not full of dread, like I feel. “Let’s go and take a look inside.”
“Aren’t we going to look at where we’re going to live?” Flo asks.
“First the house of God. Then the house of his children.”
She rolls her eyes. Communicating that I’m impossibly stupid and tiresome. Teenagers can communicate a lot with eye rolls. Which is just as well, seeing as oral communication hits something of a brick wall once they turn fifteen.
“Besides,” I say, “our furniture is still stuck in traffic on the M25. At least the chapel has pews.”
She slams the car door and slouches along grumpily behind me. I glance at her: dark hair, cropped into a ragged bob, nose ring (hard fought for and taken out for school), and a hefty Nikon camera slung almost permanently around her neck. I often think my daughter would be a dead ringer for Winona Ryder’s role in a remake of Beetlejuice.
A long path leads up to the chapel from the road. A battered metal mailbox stands just outside t
he gate. I’ve been told, if no one is here when we arrive, that this is where I will find the keys. I flip up the lid, stick my hand inside, and…bingo. I pull out two worn silver keys, which must be for the cottage, and a heavy iron thing that looks like it should open something from a Tolkien fantasy. I presume this is the key to the chapel.
“Well, at least we can get in,” I say.
“Yay,” Flo deadpans.
I ignore her and push open the gate. The path is steep and uneven. Either side, tilting headstones rise up from the overgrown grass. A taller monument stands to the left. A bleak grey obelisk. What look like bunches of dead flowers have been left at its base. On closer inspection, they’re not dead flowers. They’re tiny twig dolls.
“What are those?” Flo asks, peering at them and reaching for her camera.
Automatically, I reply, “Burning Girls.”
She crouches down to snap some shots with her Nikon.
“They’re something of a village tradition,” I say. “I read about it online. People make them to commemorate the Sussex Martyrs.”
“The who?”
“Villagers who were burned to death during Queen Mary’s purge of the Protestants. Two young girls were killed outside this chapel.”
