through the shortcut without being seen were in my favour, what with me being invisible.
The iron gate whistled on its hinges like something out of a gothic horror. I had a good grin to myself about that, even whispered woo sarcastically under my breath as I set off down the path. I walked slowly at first, but after no more than two or three paces, I heard a heavy scraping noise behind me. That wiped the grin right off my face. I walked faster. When the noise got faster too, I stopped. The noise stopped. Hulking graves crouched all around. My heart was hammering by now and my forehead was drenched. I was an idiot. I’d cut through a graveyard in the mizzling dark, to gain, what, five minutes? Madness, bloody madness. I took three quick strides – heard three dragging scratches behind me. A whimper escaped me. I half walked, half ran. Sht sht sht came from behind, sht sht sht, faster and faster, in time with me. My breathing came shallow and fast. I had at least another fifty paces to get to the other side.
I stopped. The noise stopped. With all my courage, all my strength of will, I made myself turn around.
Nothing. No one.
‘Hello?’ I squinted down the dark path. The cemetery was as silent as, well, a graveyard. On the far side, the street was deserted. I peered into the gloom. ‘Who’s there?’ I called out. ‘If you think this is funny, well, it’s not.’
Nothing. The whisper of leaves. Night’s cut-out shapes. My throat thickened. I turned back. Took one step.
Sht.
‘Oh for God’s—’ I spun around on my heel, furious now, looked behind me, up, down. And then I saw it.
I glance up. Blue Eyes is on the edge of her seat.
‘It?’ she says.
‘There was a big twig,’ I say, ‘caught on the hem of my trousers, one end on the path. It had been dragging behind me.’
And for the first time in all these hours we’ve spent together, she laughs.
‘What did you do?’
I tell her I pulled the twig off, tutting and swearing, my heart not slowing, not yet, the sweat on my forehead going cold. I tell her I called myself names: bloody idiot woman, daft bat, loony tune.
It was funny, I knew that even then. Would be funny in a bit, anyway. It would be a story to tell Lisa. Lisa would do a whole routine on it, take the mickey until neither of us could breathe. But still, I was shaking and, for the second time that day, nearly crying. I ploughed on, a sick feeling in my stomach. Kept up a brisk pace. My mother had a plaque here; she’d been cremated. The plaque was on the far wall but I didn’t have time to visit it now. Not like she was there. She never bothered much with me when she was, to be honest, too wrapped up in my dad, as he was in her. My dad, now him I did need to visit. I hadn’t been to see him for a week or so.
The church loomed. In its shadow, the ground darkened. I could see the arch of the sandstone doorway up ahead, the recess of the porch black as all hell. I was walking silly fast by now, like one of those race walkers in the Commonwealth Games, all elbows and wiggling bottom. I told myself not to be so stupid. It wasn’t far now to the other side. There was no one here, no one at all. It was all in my mind. It had been a twig, just a twig, and now I was spooked, that was all. The chill on my legs got colder. I was about two or three metres from the church when I heard a grunting sound. I stopped. It was coming from the doorway. A noise I recognised and didn’t all at the same time, if you know what I mean. The grunting was regular, rhythmical. I knew exactly what it was but no part of me wanted to admit that that was what it could be. I screwed up my eyes and stared towards the doorway. A man’s back, shoulders hunched forward, head tipped down. His arm chugged back and forth in a rhythm that meant I could no longer deny what I was hearing, seeing.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ I whispered to myself. ‘In the doorway of the church, for Pete’s sake.’