Blood Harvest (18 page)

The gentle, rocking motion that had lulled Tom to sleep and kept him there had stopped. His dad had parked the car and his mum was talking in that low voice she used when she didn’t want him or Joe to hear what she was saying. Normally it was a signal to listen all the harder, but Tom really didn’t want to be any more awake than he already was. He just wanted to sleep.

He heard movement and thought perhaps his dad had turned round in his seat to look at the children. ‘They’re flat out,’ he said, whispering like their mother had done. ‘We’ll just carry them in. They won’t know anything about it.’

‘But listen to it. It’s making me feel sick.’

Tom didn’t want to hear anything. There was a dream somewhere, a good one, if he could only find his way back to it. But he was listening all the same. He couldn’t help it. What was that noise? Like someone was moaning. No, not just one person, lots of people, crying in dull, low voices. Were they people, though? They didn’t sound like people.
Rooarrk,
they were saying, over and over again,
Rooaark.
Tom couldn’t explain why, but it was making him feel guilty.

‘We’ll put them in bed and put some music on,’ said his father. ‘Come on, we won’t be able to hear it as much inside.’

The car door opened and Tom could feel cold air on his face. And
the noise became louder. Not just
Rooarrk
but other sounds too.
Naaaa! Naaaa!
Somewhere close by, men were shouting, laughing, yelling instructions to each other. Tom really, really didn’t want to listen to it but the din was seeping its way into his head, like water through a sponge. Then someone was reaching over him and he could smell his mother’s lily-of-the-valley perfume. The soft wool of her sweater brushed his face and he thought perhaps he was reaching up a hand towards her, to pull her down closer. Then she moved away.

‘We can’t leave Tom out here,’ she said. ‘How are we going to do this?’

Leave Tom?

‘I’ll lock the car door,’ said his dad. ‘We’ll be thirty seconds. Come on, let’s get on with it.’

The scent of Tom’s mother faded. He heard the car door being closed softly, the beeping sound of the remote key and then the locks themselves clunking down. Tom opened his eyes. He was in the car, sitting by the window of the rear seat. Alone.

The car was parked in the driveway of their house. He could see lights in the downstairs rooms. The front door was open. His parents would be carrying Joe and Millie up to bed and then his dad would come back for him. The family often did this when they were out quite late, like tonight, when they’d been to Granny and Grandad Fletcher’s house for dinner. Tom closed his eyes and prepared to drift off again.

But how could he sleep when something close by was miserable and frightened? Over and over again something was moaning. It had made his mother feel sick. It was making Tom want to cry. Then there was a scream. A loud, piercing scream and he was wide awake again.

Tom turned his head to look up the hill. Across the road, the buildings around the butcher’s shop were brightly lit. He could see movement, men walking around, carrying large bundles on their shoulders.

His seatbelt was still tight around him and he reached down to unfasten it. The car was locked and there were child locks on the rear doors, but he knew he could climb over the seats and open the front door. He could be in the house in five seconds. Five
seconds between leaving the locked car and getting inside the house.

The shouting and screaming seemed to be getting closer. Maybe it was just louder. Either way, five seconds seemed too long. His dad would be back soon. He shrunk down in his seat, wanting to close his eyes again but not quite daring. He really wanted his dad back. He raised his hands to press them against his ears.

Was there something just outside the car? Something scraping softly against the paintwork? Tom held his breath. There was. Something was moving around outside. He could hear it. He could almost feel the vehicle rocking. Without daring to move his head, he glanced at the door. Still locked. No one could open it without the key. Could they?

He had to scream for his dad. Yell his head off. Except the night was full of screams. No one would hear his. The horn! His dad would hear that. He just had to lean forward, he could reach it from the back seat. His dad would hear and come running. Tom sat upright and got ready to spring.

A small hand appeared at the window, not six inches from his face.

Tom knew he’d cried out. He also knew no one had heard him. He tried again and nothing came out. He couldn’t move either. He just had to watch.

The hand was the wrong colour. Hands aren’t that colour. They aren’t red.

The hand began to move downwards, leaving a trail of something that looked like red slime. Tom could see the mark left behind by the base of the thumb and then five wavering lines as the thumb and fingers squeaked their way down the glass. He watched the arm and then the wrist disappear below the rim of the window. The palm had almost disappeared from view and then the fingers waggled at him, like a wave.

He was up, across the front seat, reaching for the horn. A face was staring in through the windscreen. Tom opened his mouth to yell but it was as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the car. He couldn’t breathe, so he couldn’t shout.

What was it? What the hell was it? A girl, he thought, she had long hair. But her head was far too big. And her face was like the
figures Joe sometimes made from plasticine. Her eyes were huge and her lips were full, red and damp. The worst thing, almost, was her skin. It was so pale. It hung loose on her bones as if it was too big for her and it really didn’t look like skin at all. It was like the stuff you get when wax runs off candles and then hardens and goes all white and wrinkly. She looked like someone had dipped her in melted candle wax. But her skin wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the lump on her neck that pushed up against her face and pulled the neckline of her dress out of shape. As she stared at Tom through the windscreen, the lump almost seemed to be moving by itself and he had a sudden vision of the rest of her body below the neck of her dress: lumpy, putty-soft, and with veins standing out against wax-like skin.

He’d found the horn and was pressing with all his strength, terrifying himself with the sound but simply unable to take his hand off it. Then he was out of the car. He didn’t know how he’d done that. He only knew he was outside. The drive was hard through his slippers, the night was filled with the sound of torment and the creature from a nightmare was between him and the front door.

He realized he was screaming. Then he was running. Then he was screaming in his mother’s voice. And his dad’s voice. He was yelling ‘Tom, Tom, where are you?’ and she was chasing him, she was coming after him and run, it was all he could do, run, run, run.

And hide.

Everything was quiet. Cold. Wet. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was somewhere dark and damp. He was lying down, but had no idea whether he’d fallen or just run out of breath. He was panting as if he’d never get enough air in his lungs ever again. Something hard was digging into his ribs but he didn’t dare move.

‘Tom!’

His dad’s voice. He was close by. Except … was it? Was it him?

‘Daddee.’ A soft voice, low and teasing, like a kid playing hide and seek. A voice that sounded – oh God – exactly like …

‘Tom, where are you?’ called his dad.

No, no, Dad, no. It’s not me!

‘Daddee …’

‘Really not funny, Tom. Come out now.’

‘Gareth, have you found him?’ His mother’s voice, from further
away. She sounded as if she was crying. Was it her? It sounded like her, but …

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps close by. Too heavy to be …

Tom was on his feet. He was in the graveyard and his dad was ten feet away. He’d seen him, was coming towards him. Then Tom was being carried across the graveyard and suddenly there was his mum and they were inside and that horrible moaning noise was so loud in his head. He could see his mother’s face trying to talk to him but the noise was too loud. They were in the sitting room and his dad had put him down on one sofa and his mum was leaning over him, holding on to him and trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear because the sounds in his head were just too loud. Then she started to cry and Tom could see tears running down her face, but he couldn’t hear her crying because all he could hear, all he would ever hear again, was this horrible, horrible howling.

And then he realized who was howling.

‘Tom, angel, please stop crying, please stop.’

He had stopped. His mum just didn’t seem to have noticed. She was on the sofa too now and had pulled Tom on to her lap. He wasn’t much smaller than she was and he never sat on her knee any more, but he was so glad to be there with her arms wrapped tight around him. Then there were footsteps at the bottom of the stairs and his dad appeared in the doorway.

‘They’re fine,’ he said to Alice in a soft voice. ‘Both still asleep.’

Gareth crossed the room and knelt down on the rug in front of Tom. Then he reached up to stroke his son’s forehead.

‘What happened, matey?’ His dad asked, running his hand over Tom’s head.

He told them, of course. Why wouldn’t he? They were his parents, the people he trusted more than anyone else in the whole world. It hadn’t occurred to him that there are some things parents can’t bring themselves to believe.

11 October

‘All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing.’

T
HE
CHURCH
WAS
CLOSE
TO
FULL
AND
THE
PEOPLE
OF
Heptonclough weren’t shy about using their voices. Harry scanned the congregation. Jenny Pickup was standing beside her husband, two rows from the front. Her face seemed composed.

One or two men in the congregation, on the other hand, looked as though they might be nursing hangovers, and he wondered how many of them had been involved in the festivities of the previous evening. Ritual slaughter on Saturday night; church the next morning. Ah well. He lived among farmers now.

He hadn’t spotted the Fletchers yet. Alice had assured him they would be well away from Heptonclough the night before but, even so, their house was just too close to the barn Dick Grimes used as the town abattoir. When he’d arrived an hour earlier, Harry had spent five minutes walking up and down the road.
The street outside gets – how shall I put this? – a little messy,
Tobias had said. Either it had rained in the night or the clean-up operation had been thorough. There was no trace of what had taken place the night before.

The hymn was drawing to an end. There was Gareth, halfway down on the left side of the aisle. Alice was by his side. One of her hands
held a hymn book, the other was on Tom’s shoulder. Her eldest son seemed to be staring at his feet. None of them were singing.

‘I’ve been asked two questions rather frequently over the past three weeks,’ said Harry. He was in the pulpit and most faces were looking his way; always a good sign. ‘The first is: “ ’Ow’re you settlin’ in, Vicar?” The second: “You’re not a countryman, are you, lad?” ’

A few quiet titters around the church.

‘The answer to the first is: very well, thank you, everyone’s been very kind. To the second: no, I’m not. I’m not a countryman. But I’m starting to get it.’

In the crowded church, only three people were sitting in the front left-hand pew: Sinclair, his father Tobias and his elder daughter, Christiana. In the old days this would have been the Renshaw family pew. To all intents and purposes, it still was.

‘We can all get great comfort from the sense of living in an ordered universe,’ continued Harry. ‘Up here, among the hills, where the land plays such an important part in our lives and where the seasons govern so much of what we do, it’s perhaps easier to feel a sense of harmony with the world than we might do in our towns and cities.’

In the soft light of the church, Christiana Renshaw’s large, regular features looked almost beautiful, and very like those of her younger sister. She was looking not at Harry but at an apple in one of the window flower-arrangements. She was sitting several feet away from her grandfather.

‘There is a reason,’ said Harry, ‘why the passage I just read to you is so popular at harvest time, at christenings and weddings, even at funerals. At important times in our lives we like to be reminded that we are part of a great plan, that there is a purpose. And that everything has its place and its time. Our reading today, Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one to eight, conveys that better than just about any other biblical piece I can think of. ’

Gillian was sitting eight rows back, immediately behind the Fletcher family. Even from a distance, Harry could see that her hair had been washed and that she was wearing make-up.

‘So it’s rather strange then,’ he continued, ‘that the rest of Ecclesiastes should be the least understood book of the entire Bible.’

*

The service was almost over. The congregation was singing the offertory hymn, Dick and Selby Grimes, the church’s two sidesmen, were carrying round the collection plates and Harry was preparing for Holy Communion. He’d prepared everything the afternoon before, opening the wine and decanting it. All he needed to do now was pour the wine into the chalice. He took the stopper off the decanter, poured some wine into the cup and added water. He took the wafers of the host and placed them on the silver tray. He would carry them round and distribute them. Sinclair would follow him with the wine.

Harry raised the plate into the air. The priest is always the first to receive Holy Communion. Next would be Sinclair and the organist, then the rest of the congregation. Behind him he could hear the sidesmen marshalling people into place.

‘The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for you, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life.’ He took a wafer from the plate. ‘Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on Him in your heart by faith with thanksgiving.’