by C. J. Tudor
Flo keeps her head down as the pair sit on the swings nearby, but she can’t concentrate. She can feel them watching her. And, sure enough, the girl calls out:
“Hey! Vampirina.”
Flo ignores her. She hears the swings squeak as they get up and walk over. Beefy Boy sits down next to her, deliberately invading her space. He smells of cheap body spray and vaguely masked BO.
“You deaf?”
Great. So, they’re really going to do this.
She glances up at him and says politely, “My name isn’t Vampirina.”
“Should be. Goth.”
“I’m not a Goth.”
Blondie looks her up and down.
“What are you, then?”
“Minding my own business.”
Don’t rise. Don’t give them anything to work with and they usually get bored.
“You’re new here.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
Blondie regards her curiously. Then she clicks her manicured fingers. “Wait. Is your mum the new vicar?”
Flo feels her cheeks flush.
Blondie grins. “She is, isn’t she?”
“And?”
“That must suck?”
“Not really.”
“So, you’re some religious nut?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I am. A Goth religious nut.”
Beefy Boy gestures at her camera. “What’s that antique shit round your neck?”
She tenses. “A camera.”
“What’s wrong with your phone?”
“Nothing.”
“Give us a look, then.”
He reaches for it. Flo clutches the strap and jumps up. Immediately, she regrets it. She’s shown a weakness. Something that makes her vulnerable. She spots the gleam in Beefy’s eyes.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing. Why don’t you and Taylor Swift just get out of my face?”
He stands. “Let me have a look at your camera then.”
“No.”
It happens quickly. He lunges forward. Instinctively, Flo shoots out a hand. It smashes into his nose. He screams and clutches at his face. Blood spurts out between his fingers, staining his white T-shirt crimson.
“Mmm…whuu fuuuck.”
“Tom!” Blondie gasps. “You’ve broken his nose, you crazy bitch.”
Flo stares at them, frozen, hand still half outstretched.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I—”
The door to the village hall swings open. A dumpy dark-haired woman sticks her head out.
“What’s going on out here? Oh, my goodness, Tom—you’re bleeding.”
Flo opens her mouth to defend herself, but before she can say anything Blondie steps forward.
“Just a nosebleed, Mrs. C. Have you got any tissues?”
“Oh, of course, Rosie. Yes, yes. Come inside.”
Tom stumbles toward the village hall, still holding his spurting nose, shooting Flo an evil look as he goes.
Blondie turns to Flo and hisses, “Get the fuck out of here.”
“But—”
“I said”—she smiles poisonously—“run, Vampirina.”
Flo doesn’t wait to be told again. She runs. As fast as she can, one hand hanging on to her precious camera. She doesn’t stop till she’s almost back at the chapel. Then she slows, bends over and tries to catch her breath. What the hell has she done? What if he reports her for assault? Mum will freak. And then she remembers the look in Blondie’s eyes.
Run, Vampirina.
Flo knows that look. It’s the look a cat gets when it’s tormenting a mouse. Toying with its prey.
This isn’t over. This is just the start.
The supermarket is busy, probably because it’s the only one within about thirty miles. I hurry around as quickly as I can, but one of the disadvantages of a clerical collar is that you can’t be rude to people or barge them out of the way when they block you in with their trolley, ram you with a pushchair or jump the queue (although my visit does reconfirm my belief that self-service tills are the work of the devil).
It’s a forty-minute journey home, along more twisty country lanes. The Romans forgot their rulers when they came to Sussex. I can feel the photograph in my pocket. I shouldn’t have taken it. But something about it tugged at me. I round the bend, hearing the shopping topple and bottles crash. And then I hit the brakes.
“Crap!”
A battered MG is pulled up on the verge, rear end sticking out on to the narrow lane. A dark-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt is crouched alongside it, attempting, unsuccessfully, to get the car up on to a jack. I only just avoided hitting him.
I consider winding down the window and telling the man to move his car. He could cause an accident or get himself killed. On the other hand, he looks like he’s really struggling and…be Christian.
I sigh, pull my car up behind him and climb out.
“Need a hand?”
The man straightens. He looks hot, annoyed and vaguely familiar. Late forties, weathered face, dark hair peppered with grey. And then I remember. He was at the service yesterday.
He offers me a rueful smile. “Could you pray for me to get better at changing a tire?”
“Nope, but I could help you set that jack up properly.”
A small flash of surprise. “Oh. Okay. I mean, thanks. That would be great. I’m really rubbish at car stuff.”
I walk over. He steps back and I bend down and reposition the jack under the car. I pump it up.
“Tire iron?”
“Oh, yes.”
He picks up a rusty tire iron from the ground and promptly drops it on his foot.
“Ouch.” He clutches at his toes.
I bite back a smile. “You really are rubbish at this, aren’t you?”
“Thanks for the sympathy. Very Christian.”
“I’ll say a prayer for your big toe later. Are you okay?”
“My ballet-dancing days are over, but otherwise”—he puts his foot down gingerly—“fine.”
I pick up the tire iron, fit it on to the nuts and pop them off quickly, one by one. Then I ease off the tire. I lay it down on the grass and wipe my hands on my jeans.
“Spare?”
“What?”
“Spare tire?”
“Right.” He walks round to the back of the car. His face falls. “Crap.”
“What?”
“I forgot. I don’t have one.”
I stare at him. “You don’t have a spare.”
“Well, I did.” He glances at the tire I’ve just taken off. “That’s it.”
Christ.
“I don’t suppose you’re a member of the AA, RAC…any breakdown service?”
He looks even more sheepish.
“Okay. Well, you could call a garage and wait here…”
“I really need to get back home.”
“Where d’you live?”
“Just outside of Chapel Croft.”
“In that case, I can give you a lift.”
“Thank you. That’s really kind.”
He locks the MG and follows me over to my car.
“I don’t think I got your name?” I say.
“Oh, Mike. Mike Sudduth.”
He sticks out a hand. I shake it. “Jack Brooks.”
“I know. The new vicar.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Not much to talk about here.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” I glance back at his car, abandoned on the verge. “Will your car be okay?”
“Not like it’s going anywhere.”
“True, but what if someone hits it?”
“They’d be doing me a favor.”
&nbs
p; I eye the MG with its numerous dents and scrapes. “Also true.”
I climb into my car. Mike opens the passenger door. He frowns, staring at the upside-down cross scored into the paintwork.
“Do you know someone has vandalized your car?”
“Yep.”
He slides in and does up his seatbelt. “It doesn’t bother you?”
It bothers me, but I’m not about to admit it.
“Just kids. Thinking they’re being clever.”
“By carving Satanic graffiti?”
“I’m sure I did worse as a teenager.”
“Such as?”
I start the engine. “You really don’t want to know.”
* * *
—
It’s only about another fifteen minutes back to Chapel Croft. I stick some music on—The Killers.
“So, how are you finding things here?” Mike asks as Brandon laments that there is no motive for this crime and Jenny was a friend of his.
“Well, it’s only been a couple of days so—”
“Reserving judgment?”
“I suppose.”
“When do you officially start?”
“A couple of weeks. The diocese usually gives you some time to settle in first, to get to know the parish.”
“Well, if you want to get to know your parish, the Barley Mow is a good place to start. You’ll find most of them in there on a Sunday afternoon. They serve a passable roast and a very fine selection of wines and ales.” He flashes me a quick glance. “Or so I’m told.”
“Not a drinker?”
“Not anymore.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“I’ve only lived in Chapel Croft for a couple of years. I used to live over in Burford. I moved here after my wife and I split up.”
“Oh.”
“No, it’s fine. It is for the best. And I still see a lot of my son. You have children?”
“One daughter. Flo. She’s fifteen.”
“Ah, the teenage years. How does she feel about your job?”
“Like most teenagers, she thinks her mum is pathetic and embarrassing most of the time.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, Harry’s twelve, so he’s only just getting to that stage.”
“Well, you’re probably lucky. From what I gather, boys are easier. They simply retreat into their rooms. Girls, they’ll push all the boundaries whenever they can.”
I smile, but he doesn’t return it. In fact, his face stiffens, something I can’t quite read in it. I’m not sure whether to speak again when a smart red-brick house draws into view.
“Here we are,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Oh, and…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled card. “This is my number—if there’s anything you’d like to know about the village, then I can point you in the right direction.”
I look at the card. Michael Sudduth. Weldon Herald.
“You’re a reporter.”
“Well, if you can really call it that. Mostly cake bakes and flea markets, but occasionally we get a bit of excitement, when someone steals a mower.”
I feel myself tense. A reporter.
“Right. Well, thanks for the card.”
“And thanks for helping with the tire.”
He climbs out of the car, then turns back.
“You know, if you fancy doing an interview, about coming here, a female take on being the new vicar, I’d love to do a—”
“No.”
“Oh.”
I glare at him. “Is that why you came to the service yesterday? To sound me out?”
“Actually, I come to the chapel every Sunday.”
“Really?”
“Yes. For my daughter.”
“I thought you had a son.”
“I do. My daughter died. Two years ago. She’s buried in the graveyard at the chapel.”
My face flames. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
He gives me a dark look. “Thanks for the lift. But maybe work on that whole ‘reserving judgment’ thing.”
He slams the car door shut and walks up to the house without a backward glance.
Great. Well done on those people skills, Jack.
I sit in my car for a moment, wondering whether I should go after him and apologize. Then I decide it’s best to leave it for now. I’ll probably only make things worse.
I open the glovebox and chuck Mike’s card inside. As I do, a folded piece of paper falls out. I pick it up…and curse.
I’d forgotten this was in here. Or rather, I had tried really hard to forget this was in here.
As a priest, I talk a lot about honesty, but I’m a hypocrite. Honesty is an overrated virtue. The only real difference between a truth and a lie is how many times you repeat it.
I didn’t agree to this tenure just because of Durkin’s ultimatum. It wasn’t even Ruby or my own need to make amends. It was because of this.
Nottingham Prison Service. Notice of early release.
I shove the letter back in the glovebox and slam it shut.
He’s out.
And I can only pray that this is the last place he will look for me.
“This is how much I love you.” That’s what Mum would whisper. “Even when you have been so wicked.”
And then she would lower him into the hole. No food. No water. Staring desperately up at the small circle of sky, birds circling overhead.
The cries of the crows take him back. A murder, he thinks. A murder of crows. He looks up at the old building. It was an asylum back in Victorian times. A grand and ornate structure on the outskirts of Nottingham, surrounded by rolling green lawns. Then, in the 1920s, it was converted into a hospital. But at some point, the doors had closed for the final time, the big, arched windows were boarded up and the building and its grounds left to rot.
He knows this because it had been his home, for a while, after he ran away. He squatted with the other homeless. Druggies, alcoholics, people with mental health problems. Kind of ironic, really. He begged in the day, bringing in enough to buy a bit of food and water. The others were kind to him, for the most part, taking pity on a youngster.
Then another group moved in. Five young men and women with long hair and piercings. They wore baggy trousers and multicolored tops and sat around at night smoking funny-smelling cigarettes and talking about “politics” and the “fattest regime.”
Fascist regime, he had realized years later.
“They’re not like us,” one of the older drunks, Gaff, had told him.
“How?”
“Got homes. Folks. Just don’t want to live there.”
“Why?”
“Think they’re fucking rebels, don’t they?” Gaff had said witheringly, honking a great glob of blood-speckled spit on to the ground.
He had been shocked. That someone would choose this life, living among rubble and bird droppings, with no heat or light, when, at any time, they could just go home. To parents who cared for them. And then he had felt angry. Like the newcomers were somehow mocking him.
One of the group—a skinny dreadlocked man called Ziggy—he particularly disliked. Ziggy came and tried to talk to him sometimes. Sat too close. Offered the funny cigarettes. Once or twice, he tried them. He didn’t really like how they made him feel. Kind of out of it and even hungrier. Later, he got over this. Being “out of it” became a way of life.
“Why are you talking to me?” he had asked Ziggy.
“I’m just being nice.”
“What for?”
“My parents are rich, y’know. They send money.”
“So?”
“You need money.”
“Yeah.”
“So, if you’re nice to me, maybe I’ll give you m
oney.”
Ziggy had winked at him, grinning a yellow-toothed grin.
A few nights later, he had woken up to a strange noise. A weird moaning, groaning sound. He sat up. Ziggy stood over him, hands in his trousers, rubbing them viciously up and down.
“What are you doing?”
Ziggy had grinned. “Suck me off. I’ll give you a tenner.”
“What?”
Ziggy moved closer, shoving his trousers down, bringing out his erect penis, surrounded by curly ginger hairs.
“C’mon, man. Just a quick suck.”
“No.”
Ziggy’s face had changed. “Do it, you little shit.”
Blood roared in his ears. Red suffused his vision, blinding him. He rose up and shoved Ziggy away. Stoned, Ziggy stumbled and fell backward, crashing to the ground.
“Shit, man!”
He had looked around. Bits of rubble and broken bricks were strewn all over the place in the falling-down asylum. He grabbed a bit of brick, raised it and brought it down on Ziggy’s head. Again, and again, till Ziggy stopped moving.
He stepped back. The rage had receded, but he could still see red. All over the ground, the brick and Ziggy’s matted dreadlocks.
He could hear her voice:
What have you done?
“He wanted me to suck him,” he said dully. “I’m sorry.”
You can’t stay here. You have to leave. Tonight.
“What about him?”
He had looked at Ziggy. His head was all mushy and strangely lopsided, but he was breathing, faintly.
You can’t leave him like that.
He shook his head. “I can’t go to the police…”
No. I said you can’t leave him like that. He could identify you.
Ziggy had groaned; one blue eye stared helplessly through the blood.
He understood. She always knew what to do.
He had stepped toward Ziggy and raised the brick.
* * *
