S Bolton - Blood Harvest

After several minutes, light flooded the landing at the top of the stairs. A dark figure could be seen descending. Evi’s chest started to feel tight. The figure reached the bottom of the stairs. The door opened and for a second the two women just stared at each other.

‘Hello, Gillian,’ said Evi.

Gillian seemed to sway backwards; her eyes couldn’t quite focus on Evi’s. ‘Dragged yourself away from him, have you?’ she said. She’d been drinking.

Evi’s ribcage seemed to have shrunk. She almost had to gulp in air. ‘After you saw me in the church, I came straight down here to find you,’ she said, knowing that Gillian would only listen to conversation that was focused on herself. ‘When I couldn’t, I went to see another psychiatrist,’ she went on. ‘We spent a lot of the evening talking about you. I’m worried about you, Gillian. Can I come in?’

‘No!’ Gillian’s hands shot to the doorframe, blocking the way in, as if words alone might not be enough to keep Evi out.

‘Gillian, there is no intimate relationship between me and Harry,’ said Evi, hearing her voice shake but forcing herself to look the other woman in the eye. ‘We don’t go out together, we don’t spend time at each other’s houses and we certainly don’t sleep together. But he’s been under a great deal of strain recently. So have I. What you saw this afternoon was a mistake.’

Evi stepped forward, tried to smile and failed. ‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ she said. ‘But Gillian, I’m afraid you have to accept that neither are you.’

‘Lying bitch!’

The fury on the woman’s face, more than her words, made Evi step backwards and almost stumble.

‘You’re the reason he changed,’ spat Gillian. ‘He liked me. We were close. He kissed me. Then suddenly he started avoiding me. You were spinning him lies about me, weren’t you? Telling him I’m nuts. You poisoned him because you wanted him for yourself.’

‘I don’t discuss you with…’ Evi stopped. She couldn’t even say that any more. She had talked to Harry about Gillian.

‘You’re pathetic, you know that?’ Gillian stepped out of the doorway, forcing Evi back towards the road. ‘I thought I was bad, but you’re just delusional. Well, listen to some plain speaking for once. He might fuck you if he gets really desperate, but that’s all he’s ever going to want from a cripple.’

‘Gillian, stop.’ She couldn’t deal with this, not now.

‘And he’ll only ever do it in the dark.’

Dancing in the… She was going to be sick. ‘I’ll come and see you in the morning,’ she managed.

‘Don’t bother.’

‘We’ll find you another doctor. I know our relationship has broken down and that’s my fault…’

Evi was talking to herself. Gillian had slammed the door.

19 December

WHEN TOM WOKE UP, THE ROOM WAS DARK. THE CLOCK on his desk told him it was nearly three in the morning. He was alone in Joe’s bed.

He closed his eyes again. He remembered seeing a television programme about people having a sort of connection in their heads. Identical twins often had it, the programme had said, they could tell what the other was thinking without speaking out loud. He and Joe weren’t so very far apart in age. Quite often, he knew exactly what his brother was thinking. Maybe he and Joe had this connection. Maybe if he concentrated really hard, Joe could tell him where he was.

Softly, the church clock began to strike the hour. Bong, bong, bong.

The linen of the altar cloth was brushing against Harry’s face. He woke with an effort. He raised his hand to his face and pressed the luminous button on his watch. Ten past three. There was a cold breeze on his face. Someone had opened a door.

As quietly as he could, Harry rolled out from under the altar, got to his feet and crossed to the organ. The church looked empty. The square grille beneath his feet was still in place. No one had come up from the crypt.

He stood still, listening hard. The wind had fallen; the weather forecast earlier that evening had mentioned the possibility of snow.

After five minutes he made his way slowly down the aisle, checking the pews on each side as he went. At the back of the church he tried the door to the crypt. It was still locked and bolted. Upstairs, the gallery was empty. He crossed to the small wooden door that led to the bell tower. It was locked but not bolted. Had he drawn that bolt earlier? He couldn’t have done. But he was sure he had.

Nothing. If Joe was sending messages, Tom wasn’t receiving them. And it was suddenly impossible to lie still. Tom pushed back the duvet and climbed out of bed. He crossed the landing and opened the door to Millie’s room. She was fast asleep, her hair damp with sweat, her little arms clutching Simba to her chest.

What if Joe were outside right now? What if he’d come home and just couldn’t get in? He might be huddled on the doorstep, freezing cold. Tom ran lightly down the stairs and peered out through the glass of the front door. No tiny, cold boy on the doorstep.

He was just about to go back upstairs when a sound in the living room made him stop. Hardly daring to hope, he pushed open the door. His mum, still in the clothes she’d been wearing all day, lay on one of the sofas, a blanket around her hips. On the other sofa sat his dad. His head had fallen back and his eyes were shut. He was breathing heavily.

Tom crept into the room. On the third sofa there were cushions and a brightly coloured throw. He lay down and pulled the throw over himself.

Harry unlocked the door to the bell tower. Bloody hell, it was cold. The tower was empty, the bell hanging upside-down just as he’d left it hours earlier. There was no point going up there. No one could climb out through the tower.

No adult male could. A slim woman might manage it. And Ebba was the size of a child. Harry pushed himself up until he could see out properly. The tiled roof sloped away from him. At the opposite corner, at the front of the church, he could see one of the three fake bell towers. Unlike the one he was standing in, they were empty, built only to provide aesthetic balance to the church. He could see the night sky through the stone columns. There was no one on the roof – he couldn’t have drawn the bolt earlier. He climbed back down and left the gallery. Crossing the nave, he looked at his watch again. Twenty to four. Might as well go back to bed.

AHARSH, GRATING SOUND. THEN A LOW-PITCHED CLANG AS something heavy was dropped on to stone. Harry rolled from his hiding place just in time to see a dark shape disappear into the floor.

‘Wait!’ he yelled instinctively. He heard the sound of something thudding to the ground beneath him. He reached under the altar, grabbed his torch and sped across the chancel floor. No point in stealth.

Harry dropped to the floor of the crypt and turned on the torch, allowing its beam to pick out every corner, to find any shadows that didn’t belong, any movement other than his. The first chamber seemed empty. He was just about to make his way to the second when he heard another sound. Iron clanging against iron, in the second chamber.

Harry ran towards the opening and stopped. No point rushing into darkness. Still in the doorway, he began to sweep the torch beam around, finding the scallop shell, the first of the alcoves, the second, the – the gate on the sixth and last one was open. The one he hadn’t been able to search earlier – someone was inside it now.

‘Ebba,’ he called. ‘Is that your name? Ebba, I only want to talk. I need you to help me find Joe.’

No answer. He was passing the third alcove, drawing closer.

‘All I want is Joe, Ebba. Can you tell me where he is?’