S Bolton: Blood Harvest

She’d already written up notes on the consultation with Gillian before taking the painkillers. Every day, she tried to stretch the time in between taking them by another five minutes. Back at her desk, she Googled the website of the Lancashire Telegraph. It didn’t take long to find the article she was looking for.

The town of Heptonclough is in shock following the fire three nights ago at a cottage in Wite Lane. Local man Stanley Hargreaves said he’d never seen a fire burn as fiercely. ‘None of us could get near it,’ he told Telegraph reporters. ‘We’d have saved the young lass if we could have.’

The story explained that the attending fire-and-rescue team were still reviewing evidence but believed the blaze could have been caused by a ring left burning on the gas hob. Bottles of oil around the cooker would have acted as accelerants. The stone cottage, one of the older buildings in Heptonclough, was some distance from the main part of the community and no one had spotted the blaze until it was far too late to contain the fire. The Telegraph article concluded:

Barry Robinson, fourteen, who was babysitting for the family, is currently recovering in Burnley General Hospital after being found unconscious in the garden by firefighters. Although suffering from the effects of smoke-inhalation, doctors expect him to make a full recovery. His parents tell us he has no recollection of discovering the fire or leaving the house.

Evi’s phone was ringing. Her next patient had arrived.

‘WHERE HAVE YOU TWO BEEN? MILLIE AND I HAVE been shouting for you for ten minutes now.’

The woman on the doorstep wasn’t much taller than her eldest son and, even in a loose shirt and jeans, looked as though she didn’t weigh much more either. She had strawberry-blonde hair that curled to her shoulders, and large turquoise eyes. As the eyes travelled up from her sons to Harry, they opened a bit wider in surprise.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Lo,’ said the chubby little girl who was sitting on her mother’s hip, rubbing her eyes as though she’d not long woken from a nap. Her hair was the exact warm blonde shade as her mother’s, whereas the older boy, Tom, had very fair hair and his brother’s was a dark, glossy red. All four of them, though, had the same pale-skinned, freckled faces.

‘Hi,’ said Harry, giving the toddler a wink before turning back to the mother. ‘Good morning,’ he went on. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I found these two hiding in the church. They seem to have been having some trouble with a group of older boys. I thought I’d better see them safely home.’

The woman was frowning now, looking from one boy to the other. Are you both OK?’ she asked.

‘They were throwing stones at us with cater-bolts and then they ran away when they heard Harry. This is Harry,’ said Joe. ‘He was saying his prayers in the church. We saw him.’

‘Well, that’s what it’s for, I suppose,’ said the woman. ‘Pleased to meet you, Harry, and thank you. I’m Alice Fletcher, by the way. Would you… like a cup of coffee? I take it you’re not a psychopath? Because if you are, I should probably make you drink your coffee on the doorstep.’

‘I’m a vicar,’ said Harry, who could feel his face glowing, the way it usually did when faced with a pretty woman. ‘We tend not to be psychopaths,’ he added. ‘The archbishop doesn’t really encourage it.’

‘A vicar?’ said Alice. ‘Our vicar, you mean? The new one?’

‘That’s me.’

‘You can’t be a vicar,’ said Joe.

‘Why not?’

‘Vicars don’t wear shorts,’ Joe told him. ‘And they’re really old. Like grandads.’

Harry grinned. ‘Well, the shorts I can probably work on,’ he said. ‘The rest I’ll have to leave to time. Do vicars have to drink their coffee on the doorstep?’

Alice too had been staring at Harry, as though she couldn’t quite believe it either, but was a bit more polite than her younger son. Then she stepped back so Harry and the boys could come inside. She closed the door behind them as Joe and Tom led the way along the hallway, kicking off trainers as they went.

‘What’s a psychopath?’ Harry heard Joe whisper as the boys pushed open the door at the end of the hall.

‘Jake Knowles when he’s grown up,’ replied Tom, lifting his brother into the air.

Alice and Harry followed the boys into the kitchen and Millie started wriggling to be free. Once on her feet, she tottered over to the boys. Joe, in Tom’s arms, had his hands around a large biscuit tin.

‘Bic bic,’ said Millie, looking surprisingly sly for one so young.

Alice gestured to Harry that he should sit down at the table, before crossing to the kettle, giving it a little bounce to see if there was any water inside and switching it on. The table still carried the remains of breakfast whilst a stack of plates and cutlery was piled up beside the sink.

‘You’re not from these parts,’ she said, as she spooned coffee grains into the filter.

‘Look who’s talking,’ replied Harry. Her accent was making him think of mint juleps and fragrant air, of heat so intense it seemed solid. ‘Let me guess. Texas?’

Movement behind made him glance back at the children. Millie was chewing a ginger nut and eyeing up a chocolate finger in Joe’s hand.

‘You’re a few states out. I’m from Memphis, Tennessee,’ said Alice, gesturing at the sugar bowl. Harry shook his head. On his right, Joe had put one end of the chocolate finger between his lips before bending down and offering the rest of it to Millie. She fastened her teeth on it and started munching just as Joe did the same. They ended up kissing each other and bursting into giggles.

‘That’s enough now, you three. It’s not long till lunch,’ said Alice, without turning round. Harry saw the two boys exchange a glance before Joe stuffed three chocolate fingers and a ginger nut into his pocket and made a hasty retreat from the room. Millie, entrusted with a custard cream, stuffed it down the neck of her dress and toddled out as her eldest brother watched with a smile of pride on his face. Tom pushed a handful of biscuits into his own pockets, then realized Harry had been watching. His face turned a shade pinker as he looked from the visitor to his mother.

‘We’re just going into the lounge,’ he announced.

‘OK, but I’ll have those biscuits back first,’ said Alice, holding out one hand. Tom gave one last glance at Harry – who shrugged in sympathy – before handing over the booty and slinking out.

For a second all was quiet. The room seemed too empty without the children. Alice put mugs, sugar bowl, spoons and a milk bottle on the table.

‘Have you lived here long?’ Harry asked, knowing they couldn’t have. The house was unmistakably new.

‘Three months,’ said Alice. She turned from Harry and started putting dirty plates and bowls into the dishwasher.

‘Settling in well?’ Harry asked.

The dishwasher loaded, Alice bent to a cupboard under the sink and took out a cloth and some spray disinfectant. She rinsed the cloth under the tap and began wiping down the counter top. Harry wondered if his presence might be unwelcome, in spite of the offered coffee.

‘These things take time, I suppose,’ replied Alice after a moment, bringing the coffee to the table and sitting down. ‘Will you be living here in town?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No, the vicarage is a few miles down the hill. In Goodshaw Bridge,’ he said. ‘I have three parishes to take care of. This one is the smallest. And probably the most challenging, given that there’s been no organized worship here for several years. What do you think, will the natives be friendly?’

Another pause. Definitely awkward this time. Alice poured the coffee and pushed the milk in Harry’s direction.