She huffs dramatically. ‘Okay. Fine. I’m done, anyway.’
She allows me to guide her out of the bathroom.
‘Why were you so long?’ she asks as we go downstairs.
‘Parish visits.’
‘Who were you visiting?’
‘Simon Harper.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be keeping your head down here?’
I feel a wince of guilt. ‘I am. Come on. I’ll make us a late lunch.’
‘You’ve been shopping?’
Crap. With everything else, it totally slipped my mind. I am a terrible mum.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot. Don’t suppose you fancy pizza, for a change?’
‘Works for me.’
We walk into the living room. It’s only two o’ clock, but the sky has clouded over and it feels gloomy and dark. Through the window I can just see the tips of headstones amidst the overgrown grass. We stand and stare out at the graveyard.
‘D’you think she could be one of the girls you told me about?’ Flo asks. ‘The ones who were killed for being martyrs.’
I’m reluctant to feed this fixation but, on the other hand, she saw something: ‘Some villagers believe the girls haunt the chapel – but that’s just folklore.’
‘But it’s possible?’
I sigh. ‘It’s possible.’
She loops an arm around my waist and leans her head against my shoulder. She’ll be too tall to do this soon, I think sadly. Dear God, I know she has to grow up, but does it have to be yet? Can’t I hold on to her, protect her, just a little bit longer?
‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it better or worse that we both now believe that a burning, headless and armless girl is haunting the graveyard?’
I squeeze her shoulders, trying to batten down my disquiet. ‘Let’s not dwell on that.’
I do dwell on it, of course. More so than Flo, who is now snoring away heavily in her room, lanky teenage limbs tangled in her Nightmare before Christmas duvet.
We cleaned up the makeshift darkroom. I told her I would investigate the cellar as an alternative tomorrow. The outhouse is no good, apparently. No electricity, not light-proof.
In the evening we microwave leftover pizza and potato wedges and watch old comedy DVDs. Black Books. Father Ted. I follow Flo up to bed at just gone midnight.
As always, before I settle down under the covers, I sit, cross-legged, and I pray. I’m not sure if God hears me. In a way, I hope he’s got better things to do than listen to my ramblings. But I get comfort from our nightly chats. They’re an outlet for my fears, my worries and my joys. They calm my soul and clear my mind. They remind me who I am and why I became a priest.
Tonight, I struggle. I can’t seem to find the words. My head feels muddy and disorganized. As if coming here has shaken loose all the bits that I normally keep carefully in place and I don’t know where anything is any more.
I mumble some perfunctory ‘thank you’s and praise then turn off my light and lie on my side. But, predictably, I can’t sleep. It’s too hot and stuffy in the small room. And I’ve never been a good sleeper. I don’t like the dark. I don’t like the silence. Mostly, I don’t like time alone with my thoughts. All the prayers in my repertoire cannot quite stop the things that prey upon my mind from crawling out of their dark corners, looking to feast.
I stare up at the lumpy ceiling, willing my eyelids to droop, for sleep to start to pull me down into oblivion, but my mind stubbornly resists.
She was on fire, and she had no head or arms.
If you see the burning girls, something bad will befall you.
Folklore, urban legend. Rubbish. But I still feel a wedge of discomfort sit heavily in my stomach.
Flo isn’t prone to flights of fancy. She is pragmatic, sensible, reasoned. She wouldn’t make something like this up. So, what’s the alternative? Some kind of apparition?
As a vicar, I believe in a continued existence after death. But ghosts? Physical entities that remain tied to this earth, seeking revenge or resolution? No. I’ve never seen anything that could convince me of that. More to the point, I don’t want to see anything to convince me of that. I would rather keep those that haunt me metaphorical, rather than physical.
I sit up, flick on the bedside light and swing my legs out of bed. The wooden floor feels cold and rough beneath my feet. Rugs, I think, mentally adding another expense to the list of ‘things to make the cottage vaguely comfortable’.
I shove my feet into my threadbare slippers and pad out on to the landing. I switch on the hall light and make my way downstairs.
In the kitchen, I yank open a drawer and fumble under the tea towel for my rolling tin and papers. My fingers scrabble around but come up empty. I curse under my breath. Flo.
Fortunately, I have a contingency plan. I duck into the living room. Most of my books are still in boxes, but I’ve taken a few out to stick on the battered bookcase, including a thick leather-bound Bible. It looks like a church relic, but I actually picked it up from a car-boot sale. Instead of containing the word of God, it’s hollow. A good hiding place for a flask, if you are so inclined or, in my case, a spare rolling tin, a packet of Rizlas and a lighter.
I walk back into the kitchen, roll a cigarette and open the door. The night air is heavy and thick with the familiar cloying smells of evening primrose, moonflower and jasmine. Night flowers. I remember the scent drifting through my bedroom window when I was a child.
I draw hard on the cigarette, banishing the memory, sucking in the nicotine, but it’s doing little to soften the sharp edges of my anxiety. I’m too aware of the quiet, the dark, my clamouring thoughts.
The dark here is different to the city. There, it’s softened by streetlights, the glow from shops, passing cars. This is true dark. The dark we lived with before fire and electricity. Hungry dark, full of hidden eyes. Here lies evil, I think, and then wonder where that came from. My brain is really going overboard tonight.
I raise the cigarette to my lips … and pause. There’s a light in the chapel.
What the –
It flickers from an upper window. Could it be a reflection of car headlights? No, this window faces the cottage, not the road. And there it is again. A small light bobbing about upstairs. A faulty bulb? Dodgy wiring? Or an intruder?
I stare at the light, torn. Then I stub out my cigarette, walk back into the cottage and open the cupboard under the sink. I remember seeing a torch in here yesterday. Chances are it’s out of batteries, but there’s no way I’m going out there in the pitch black with just my phone light. I switch on the torch. A sturdy beam of light shoots out.
I grab my keys and walk along the narrow path from the cottage to the chapel, torch trained in front of me. A small inner voice tuts that this is exactly the sort of thing people in horror films do. Stupid people who inevitably die in gruesome ways before the titles kick in. I try to ignore that voice.
I reach the door to the chapel. I locked it last night. I remember twisting the heavy key. It had stuck, and I’d had to lean on it with all my weight to get it to turn.
Now, the door is ajar.
I hesitate, then push it open further. I step inside. The torch illuminates a small triangular section of the church. Darkness presses in on either side. Where are the light switches? I swivel to my right and feel around. And now the darkness is behind me. Where are the bloody switches? My fingers brush plastic.