‘Sorry. Jack Brooks. Reverend Brooks?’
His eyes widen slightly. The tiniest hint of colour touches his cheeks. I admit, my name causes confusion. I admit, I enjoy it.
‘Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry, It’s just –’
‘Not what you expected.’
‘No.’
‘Taller, slimmer, better looking?’
And then a voice shouts: ‘MUM!’
I turn. Flo stands in the doorway, white-faced and wide-eyed. My maternal alarm shrills.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a girl out here. She’s … I think she’s hurt. You need to come. Now.’
THREE
The girl can’t be more than ten. She wears a dress that might have once been white, her feet are bare … and she’s covered in blood.
It has turned her blonde hair a dirty russet, streaked her face with crimson and stained the dress a deep maroon. As she staggers up the path towards us, her feet leave small, bloody footprints.
I stare at her, frantically trying to work out what could have happened. Has she been hit by a car? I can’t see one on the lane. And there’s so much blood. How is she still standing?
I approach her carefully and crouch down.
‘Hi, sweetheart. Are you hurt?’
She raises her eyes to mine. Startling blue, shiny with shock. She shakes her head. Not hurt. Then where’s all the blood come from?
‘Okay. Can you tell me what happened?’
‘He killed her.’
Despite the heavy heat of the day, a chill snakes down my spine.
‘Who?’
‘Pippa.’
‘Flo,’ I say carefully. ‘Call the police.’
She takes out her phone and stares at it in disbelief. ‘No signal.’
Shit. Déjà vu comes over me so hard I feel sick. Blood. A little girl. Not again.
I turn to Jazz Vampire, who is hovering by the door. ‘I didn’t get your name?’
‘Aaron.’
‘Is there a landline inside, Aaron?’
‘Yes. In the office.’
‘Can you go and use it?’
He hesitates. ‘The girl – I know her. She’s from the Harper farm.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Poppy.’
‘Okay.’ I smile reassuringly at the girl. ‘Poppy, we’re going to get some help.’
Aaron still hasn’t moved. Maybe shock, maybe just indecision. Either way, it’s not helpful.
‘Phone!’ I bark at him.
He slinks back inside the church. I can hear the sound of a car engine accelerating. I glance up, just as a Range Rover tears around the corner and abruptly squeals to a halt outside the chapel gate, tyres screeching on gravel. The door flies open.
‘Poppy!’
A heavy-set man with sandy hair man jumps out and pounds up the path towards us.
‘Oh God, Poppy! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What were you thinking, running off like that?’
I straighten. ‘Is this your little girl?’
‘Yes. She’s my daughter. I’m Simon Harper –’ Said as if it should mean something. ‘Who the hell are you?’
I bite hard on my tongue. ‘I’m Reverend Brooks, the new vicar. Care to tell me what’s going on here? Your daughter is covered in blood.’
He scowls. He’s a few years older than me, I’d say. Broad, not fat. A bullish face. I get the impression he’s not used to being challenged, especially by a woman.
‘This is not how it looks.’
‘Really – ’cos it looks like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’ This from Flo.
Simon Harper flicks her an irritated glance then turns back to me. ‘I can assure you, Reverend, it’s all just a misunderstanding. Poppy, please come here –’ He holds out his hand. Poppy cowers behind me.
‘Your daughter said someone had been killed?’
‘What?’
‘Pippa.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Well, we can always let the police decide what’s ridiculous –’
‘It’s Peppa, not Pippa … and Peppa is a pig.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The blood is pig’s blood.’
I stare at him. Sweat tickles my back. A tractor chugs slowly along the road. Simon Harper sighs heavily.
‘Could we go inside – clean her up? I can’t take her back in the car like this.’
I glance over at the ramshackle cottage.
‘Walk this way.’
My first time inside our new home. Not quite the housewarming I expected. Flo brings in a couple of plastic chairs from the garden and we sit Poppy down. I locate a cleanish-looking cloth and half a bottle of liquid soap under the sink. I also spot a torch and a spider the size of my fist.
‘I’ll have a look in the car,’ Flo says. ‘I think there’re some wet wipes and a sweatshirt of mine that Poppy could wear.’
‘Good thinking.’
She trots back outside. She’s a good girl, I think, despite the attitude.
I run the cloth under the tap and crouch down next to Poppy. I wipe at the blood on her face.
Pig’s blood. How did a little girl get covered in pig’s blood?
‘I know this looks bad,’ Simon Harper says, in an attempt at a conciliatory tone.
‘I don’t judge. Rule number one of the job.’
Also, a lie. I clean blood from around Poppy’s forehead and ears. She begins to look more like a little girl and less like a refugee from a Stephen King novel.
‘You said you were going to explain?’
‘I own a farm. Harper’s Farm. It’s been in the family for years. We have our own slaughterhouse on site. I know some people struggle with that …’
I don’t rise. ‘Actually, I think it’s important to know where our food comes from. My last parish, most of the kids thought meat grew in buns from McDonald’s.’
‘Right … well, exactly. We’ve tried to bring both our children up to understand the farming process. Not to be sentimental about the animals. Rosie – that’s our older daughter – has always been fine with that, but Poppy is more … sensitive.’
I get the feeling that ‘sensitive’ is a euphemism for something else. I smooth back Poppy’s hair. She stares at me blankly with those brilliant blue eyes.
‘I told Emma … that’s my wife … she never should have let her name them.’
‘Who?’
‘The pigs. It made Poppy happy … but then, of course, she got attached, especially to one.’
‘Peppa?’
‘Yes.’
‘This morning we took the pigs to slaughter.’
‘Ah.’
‘Poppy wasn’t supposed to be home. Rosie was taking her to the playground … but something must have happened. They came back early and the next thing I know Poppy is standing there …’
He breaks off, looking bewildered. I imagine a child running into such a horrific scene.
‘I still don’t understand how she got covered in blood?’