S Bolton: Blood Harvest

Somewhere around two years old. Legs still plump enough to toddle, lips just beginning to form words. Her eyes, when open, would have the trusting innocence of the freshly made person. She hadn’t learned yet that people could hurt.

A bubble of saliva formed in the gap between her tiny pink lips. It disappeared then formed itself again. The child sighed and the bubble broke on the air. And the sound seemed to travel through the still September morning.

Ah, da da da,’ muttered the girl, in her sleep.

She was just beautiful. Exactly like the others.

JOE JUMPED UP AND RAN. WITHOUT THINKING, TOM FOLLOWED and the two boys sped up the steps and through the open church door. Tom caught a glimpse of the fair-haired man ahead, getting closer to the altar, and then Joe dived behind the back pew. Tom did the same.

The flags on the floor were dusty. Beneath the pews Tom could see cobwebs, some complete and perfect, others torn up and festooned with the corpses of long-dead flies. The tapestry prayer-cushions were hanging neatly from hooks.

‘He’s saying his prayers,’ whispered Joe, who was peering over the top of the pew. Tom pushed himself up. The man in shorts was kneeling at the altar steps, his elbows resting on the rail, looking up at the large stained-glass window on the front wall of the church. He did look like he was praying.

A sudden noise outside made Tom look round. The church door was open and he caught a glimpse of a figure running past outside. Jake and his gang were still out there, waiting. A sudden tug pulled him down below the rim of the pew.

‘He’s heard something,’ whispered Joe.

The boys hadn’t made any noise that Tom had been aware of, but he felt a stab of alarm. If the man found them, he might order them outside, where Jake and the others were waiting. Joe had risked raising his head again. Tom did the same. Shorts Man hadn’t moved but he wasn’t praying any more, that much was clear. His head was upright and his body had stiffened. He was listening. Then he stood up and turned round. Joe and Tom ducked so quickly they banged their heads together. Now they were for it. They were in church without permission and, to all intents and purposes, they’d broken a window.

‘Who’s there?’ called the man, sounding puzzled but not cross. ‘Hello,’ he called. His voice carried easily to the back of the church.

Tom tried to stand up. ‘No!’ hissed his brother, clinging to him. ‘He doesn’t mean us.’

‘Of course he means us,’ Tom hissed back. ‘There’s no one else here.’

Joe didn’t answer, just gingerly lifted his head, like a soldier peering out over a parapet. He glanced down and nodded at Tom to do the same. Shorts Man was walking slowly towards a door to the right of the altar. He reached for the handle and pulled it open. Then he stood in the doorway, looking into the room.

‘I know you’re in there,’ he called, like a parent playing hide and seek. He was northern, but not from Lancashire, or Yorkshire just over the border. Further north, Tom guessed, maybe Newcastle.

Tom raised his hands and did his ‘What?’ face at Joe. There were three people in this church and they were two of them.

‘Are you going to come out and say hello?’ said the man, in a voice that Tom knew was supposed to sound as though he didn’t care one way or another but didn’t quite manage it. He was nervous. ‘I’m going to have to lock up in a minute,’ he went on, ‘and I really can’t do that while you’re hiding.’ Then he spun round on his heels to face the other side of the building. ‘Getting beyond a joke now, folks,’ he muttered, as he walked quickly to the other side of the church and disappeared behind the organ. This was the boys’ chance. Tom tugged on Joe’s arm. They stepped into the aisle just as Billy Aspin appeared at the main doorway, grinning at them. Tom grabbed Joe and dragged him back behind the pew again.

‘Hello,’ said a Geordie voice above their heads. Shorts Man was in the pew in front, looking down at them.

‘Hi,’ replied Joe. ‘Did you find her?’

Shorts Man frowned. ‘How did you two get from the vestry, to behind the organ, to back here without me seeing you?’ he asked.

‘We’ve been here all the time,’ said Tom.

‘We saw you saying your prayers,’ added Joe, in the sort of voice he might use if he’d seen someone having a wee behind the altar.

‘Did you now?’ asked Shorts Man. ‘Where do you two live?’

Tom wondered for a second whether there was any chance they’d get away with not telling him. The man was standing between the boys and the door, but if Tom dodged one way-

‘Next door,’ said Joe. ‘The new house,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t already made it clear.

The man was nodding. ‘I have to lock this building up,’ he said, stepping into the aisle. ‘Come on.’

‘How come you have a key?’ asked Joe, who’d moved too far away for Tom to prod him. ‘Only the vicar’s allowed to have a key. Did he give it to you?’

‘The archdeacon gave it to me. Right, before I lock up, are there any more of you in here?’

‘There can’t be,’ said Tom. ‘We came straight in behind you. We were, er, playing hide and seek with some boys outside. No one followed us in.’

Shorts Man nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Out we go.’

He waved his hand towards the door, meaning that Tom and Joe should go first. Tom set off. So far, so good. Jake and the others wouldn’t dare try anything if he and Joe appeared with an adult. And the man hadn’t noticed the broken-

‘Tom, your ball,’ called Joe as he darted off to one side. Tom closed his eyes and had his own private conversation with God about whether little brothers were strictly necessary.

When he opened his eyes again, Joe had retrieved the ball from among the broken glass and Shorts Man’s eyebrows had disappeared into his hair. He held out his hand for the ball. Tom opened his mouth and shut it again. What was the point?

‘Who’s the boy with the shaved head?’ asked Shorts Man. ‘The one who was standing on the wall as I drove up?’

‘Jake Knowles,’ said Joe. ‘He’s in Tom’s class. He keeps getting him into trouble. They were throwing stones at us with cater-bolts and then he nicked Tom’s bat.’

‘Did he now?’

‘They’re waiting for us outside.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘They’re going to duff us up when we go out. They’re knob-heads.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Shorts Man, and Tom didn’t even bother trying to signal to Joe that it really wasn’t a good-

‘Joe Fletcher,’ said Joe. ‘And he’s Tom. I’m six and he’s ten, and Millie’s two and my dad’s thirty-six and my mum’s-’

‘Steady on, pal.’ Shorts Man looked as though he found Joe highly amusing. He should try living with him. ‘Come on, let’s get locked up.’

EVI STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER ROOM, BREATHING deeply, waiting for the combination of paracetamol and ibuprofen to kick in. Her consulting room was three floors up and looked directly out over the hospital’s accident and emergency department. As she watched, an ambulance pulled up into the parking bay and a paramedic jumped out, followed by the ambulance driver. They opened the rear doors and began moving the wheelchair lifting gear into position.

Breathe in and out. The medication would work, it always did. It just seemed to take a little longer some days. Across the road from the hospital was a retail park. The supermarket car park was already busy. Friday morning. People were stocking up for the weekend. Evi closed her eyes for a second and then raised her head, looking out over rooftops, office blocks, away into the distance. The large northern town where she worked most days had been built along a wide valley. Moors stretched up on either side. A bird taking off from her window ledge could fly directly to the nearest peak, some four or five miles away. From there, it could look down on the moor, where Gillian Royle still spent the greater part of her days. Evi turned back to her desk. She had fifteen minutes before her next patient.