keening. The Irish called it the song for the dead.
43
‘IT’S OK, IT’S OK.’ HE’D PUSHED OPEN THE GATE, WAS stepping up the overgrown path. ‘Come on, love, let’s get you home.’ He walked through the space where the front door used to be. Gillian didn’t look up. She remained hunched over, clutching something to her chest. He crossed the uneven ground and bent down beside her. She looked up at him then and he fought a temptation to pull back. For a second the look in her eyes had scared him, had made him think that something essential inside her had slipped out the back way.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here. Come on, pet, you’re freezing.’ Gillian was only wearing a thin sweater and her wrist felt colder than stone. He put an arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet.
She continued to sob as he guided her out through the gate and half led, half dragged her along Wite Lane. The churchyard and street were deserted and his was the only car in the lane. He steered Gillian across the road and opened the passenger door. He never locked the car in Heptonclough and his keys were still in the vestry, with his clothes. He reached into the car, pulled out his coat and wrapped it round her shoulders.
‘Get in,’ he told her. ‘I need to grab my bag from the vestry, then I’ll drive you home.’
Shivering, he ran up the churchyard path, pulled the key out of his shorts pocket and opened the vestry door. His bag was where he’d left it. Grabbing a sweatshirt, he pulled it over his head. He was about to leave when something made him stop and turn.
Someone had been in here. The door to the nave was open. It hadn’t been when he’d left, he was sure of it. Harry took a step towards it. It would have been one of his churchwardens, Mike or Sinclair. They were the only other people who had keys now. And yet they’d formed a habit, over the last few weeks, of telling him when they were going to be in the building. He’d seen both of them less than an hour ago. Neither had mentioned plans to come back. Still, it could only be …
He stopped in the doorway, knowing that his heart was beating too fast and his breathing was too shallow, and telling himself it was the result of a fast run over hill country. Not his churchwardens then. Neither Mike nor Sinclair would have taken every single hassock from the pews and thrown them around the building. Harry stepped into the chancel. Dozens of cushions: on the carpet, caught between the organ pipes, on the choir stalls, everywhere but where they should be.
Harry walked forward, knowing that this wasn’t just about the hassocks, that there was more for him to find, and that it was only a matter of seconds before he did. He wasn’t breathing too fast any more, he was struggling to breathe at all.
Something was growing, fungus-like, in his throat, pressing against its sides, blocking the airway as he reached the centre of the chancel and turned to look down the aisle. He was ready to be shocked. Just not that shocked. He wasn’t prepared to see a small child, broken in pieces, beneath the gallery.
Millie Fletcher! He’d seen her wearing that sweater.
For a few seconds it was impossible to do anything but stare. No air at all was getting into his body now. His head would start to spin at any moment. He began to walk forward, clutching the ends of pews like a toddler unsure on its legs. As he reached the halfway point, he realized he was trembling in relief, not fear. And he was breathing again. Not Millie, thank God, thank God, it couldn’t be Millie – or any real child, for that matter – because no part of a child’s anatomy was made up of vegetables. Oh, thank God.
A turnip, still bearing the crude drawing of a child’s face, had smashed apart on the flagstones. The wicker construction of the figure was in pieces. It was the smallest of the bone men, brought inside and dressed up in Millie’s sweater. The shivering running through his body began to feel less about relief and more about outrage. The message couldn’t be clearer. This was intended to be Millie, to show Millie broken to pieces on the church floor, as she