We walk to the table and perch on the benches. Stylish, but not very comfortable.
‘How has Poppy been?’ I say, steering the conversation back to the reason for my visit. ‘She seemed quite upset yesterday.’
‘Oh, well, yes. It was all very unfortunate.’
‘It must be difficult stopping the children getting attached to the animals.’
‘Yes. Simon showed Rosie the slaughterhouse when she was about Poppy’s age.’
‘He did?’
‘It’s part of their heritage. Our livelihood. Rosie wasn’t fazed. She’s not like Poppy.’
‘She was looking after Poppy yesterday?’
‘Yes, she’s very good with her. But Poppy can be difficult. Poor Rosie was in pieces.’
‘I’m still a little puzzled as to how Poppy got covered in blood.’
She smiles tightly. ‘There’s a lot of blood in a slaughterhouse.’
I get it. But it still doesn’t really answer my question. I glance out of the window and see that the trampoline has been deserted. The kitchen door swings open and Poppy walks in.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ Emma says.
Poppy spots me sitting at the table.
‘Hi, Poppy. D’you remember me, from yesterday?’
A nod.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m getting a hamster.’
My eyebrows rise.
‘Great.’
‘It was Simon’s idea,’ Emma says. ‘But remember you have to clean it, Pops. Mummy isn’t doing it.’
‘Nor Daddy,’ a deep voice booms from behind us.
I turn. Simon Harper stands in the doorway in a frayed jumper, stained jeans and heavy socks. He walks over to the kitchen, grabs a glass and fills it with cold water from the fridge. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, but then he’s probably spotted my car outside. The sticker on the back – ‘Vicars do it with reverence’ – is a bit of a giveaway. Not mine, I hasten to add. Like most things, I inherited the car from a predecessor.
‘Reverend Brooks. Nice to see you again.’
His tone suggests otherwise.
‘I hope you don’t mind me popping round – I just wanted to see how Poppy was.’
‘She’s fine, aren’t you, Pops?’
Poppy nods obediently. Her father’s presence seems to have switched her back to mute.
He looks at Emma. ‘You should have called to let me know we had a visitor.’
‘Sorry, I thought you were busy.’
‘I could have found time.’
‘Right, well, I didn’t think –’
‘No. You didn’t.’
The words hang in the air, sharp with accusation. I glance between them, and then I stand before I say something someone in my position shouldn’t.
‘Emma, thank you for the coffee. It was nice to meet you. Good to see you again, Poppy.’
‘I’ll see you out,’ Simon says.
‘There’s no need.’
‘I’d like to.’
We walk out into the hall. As soon as we’re out of earshot he says:
‘You didn’t need to come here, checking up on us.’
‘I wasn’t.’
He lowers his voice. ‘I know about you, Reverend Brooks.’
I tense. ‘Really?’
‘I know where you come from.’
I try to keep my face composed but I can feel sweat dampening my underarms. ‘I see.’
‘And I’m sure you mean well, but you’re not in Nottingham now. This is not some inner-city shithole where we go around abusing our kids. We’re not like those people.’
‘Those people?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No.’ I stare at him coldly. ‘Perhaps you’d like to elaborate?’
He scowls. ‘Just look after your flock and I’ll look after mine, okay?’
He holds the door open and I walk stiffly out. It slams behind me. What a twat.
I walk over to my car, the afternoon heat heavy on my back. And then I stop. Two deep, jagged lines have been scored along the paintwork on the passenger side, forming an upside-down Christian cross. I stare at the occult symbol, the sweat cooling on my body. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when I left this morning, although I didn’t check. I look around. The driveway is empty. But I feel like I’m being watched. I glance up, squinting against the sun. Rosie leans out of an upstairs bedroom window. She smiles and waggles her fingers in a mocking wave.
Be Christian. Be Christian.
I smile back. Then I give her the finger, climb into my car and pull off in a spray of dirt.
ELEVEN
The boy is around her own age. Thin, dressed in skinny jeans, a hoodie with a skull on the back and Docs. His hair is dyed black and long. It falls over his face as he lies on the ground, squirming.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I just come up here sometimes and –’
‘And what?’
‘I … like to look … and draw stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Just stuff.’ He pulls a battered sketchbook out of his back pocket with some difficulty and hands it to her, his arm jerking. Flo takes it and flicks through. The pictures are mostly charcoal, graves and the church, but intermingled with odd graphic monsters and strange ghostly figures.
‘These are really good.’
‘You think?’
‘Yes.’ She snaps the book shut and hands it back to him. ‘You still shouldn’t have been using our outhouse as a toilet.’
‘You live here now?’
‘My mum’s the new vicar.’
‘Look, I just really needed to, you know, go, and I don’t like to …’ He gestures towards the graves. His arm twitches and trembles even more violently. ‘It seems wrong to do it out here.’
Flo regards him for a moment more, weighing him up. He seems genuine and she actually feels a little sorry for him, what with the odd, involuntary spasms. She holds out her hand. He takes it and she heaves him up.
‘I’m Flo.’
‘W-Wrigley.’
Even as he says it, his whole body convulses.
‘Is that some kind of joke?’
‘N-no, it’s my surname. Lucas W-wrigley.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah. The irony, right? It’s like I’m doing half of the bullies’ work for them. “Look, it’s wriggly Wrigley.”’
‘That sucks.’
‘That’s bullies for you. None of them is going to win any points for imagination.’
‘True.’
‘It’s called dystonia, by the way. The twitching and stuff. The doctors say it’s neurological. Something wrong in my brain.’
‘They can’t do anything for it?’
‘Not really.’
‘That’s rough.’
‘Yep.’ He glances at the camera around her neck. ‘You’re a photographer?’
She shrugs. ‘I try. I was thinking of turning the outhouse into a darkroom.’
‘Cool.’
‘Yeah – that was before I realized it’s being used as a toilet.’