Buried Fire (4 page)

Sarah sat in the half-darkness of the living room, gazing through the open windows out into the dusk. She had been still for so long that she no longer felt distinct from the grey-black patches of shape and shadow which surrounded her. Only her anxiety defined her and gave her form.

Beyond the windows, dusk was closing in upon the hidden perils of the Wirrim; the holes, the deep workings, the unmarked crags and crevices, the treacherous high pastures which led by easy steps to sudden cliffs or falling-places. It was from one of these that Sarah had once seen a sheep's corpse, its red-white tatters hanging limply on a distant ledge.

Never once had it occurred to her to doubt the intuition which had grown by imperceptible degrees throughout the afternoon. She remembered it too well; it was only ten months since the night when black ice on the moorland road had passed her brothers into her care, and two hundred miles away she had woken up crying.

The fear had been stronger then, sharper; this was a more insidious dread, hazy and indefinite, but focused without doubt on Michael.

Night was falling, Michael was missing and Tom still hadn't come.

Outside, a burst of laughter from the Monkey and Marvel echoed derisively round the hollow room. Instinctively, she shuddered.

Suddenly the light came on, making her blink and shake her head. Stephen had emerged from the kitchen where he had been making a sandwich.

"Don't worry, sis," he said. "He'll be all right. Honestly."

Sarah said nothing. Stephen planted himself nearby, and adopted another tack.

"You'd better watch out. Tom'll break his vows."

Sarah scowled. "What?"

"You look good." Stephen clarified himself from the depths of the sofa. It was true. Sarah's camisole and shorts were well-chosen and worn better. But she was not to be distracted.

"A lot you know," she said grimly, looking out of the window.

"It was a compliment! You've done well!" Stephen shrugged to himself. "He's often late, isn't he?" he added, as he picked up a magazine.

"Who? Oh, will you shut up about him? I'm more concerned about Michael. It'll be dark soon."

"Sarah, it's mid-summer. It won't be dark for hours. He's gone out for a long walk and he'll get back when it suits him. He's probably done the Wirrim Round or something. Quit your worrying. Anyway, it's probably for the best."

"And what does that mean?"

"Well, you know."

"I don't at all. What do you mean?"

Stephen shifted with the edgy feeling of one who has strayed the wrong way. "All I mean is that I may not get on with Tom sometimes, but Michael doesn't get on with him a lot more often than I do."

Sarah had stiffened at the window. "That's not true. Tom likes Michael."

"Oh rubbish. But anyhow, Michael doesn't like him. That's probably why he's late back. And you said you didn't care anyway."

The atmosphere deteriorated into an icy impasse, during which Stephen read the magazine unconcernedly and Sarah forced herself to make a drink. Ten minutes later, when the sky was a cold dark blue behind the black bulk of the Wirrim, the Reverend Tom Aubrey's car was heard approaching down the lanes.

"Sorry," said Tom, as Sarah wordlessly held open the door. "But I've got an excuse. Hello Stephen."

"Hi," said Stephen.

"How are you, Sarah?" Tom kissed a half-proffered cheek.

"Worried. Michael still hasn't come back."

"Ah, I was going to ask about that," said Tom, wishing he had. "How long's he been up there?"

"Days," said Stephen. "He went out last Tuesday with a weird haunted look and a loaded shotgun. And he had a noose around his neck too. Do you think Sarah's right to be concerned?"

"Since lunchtime," said Sarah. "And I'm not being stupid. He's missed two meals by now."

"Well, I'm sure you've no need to fret," said Tom, his own news frothing about impatiently inside him. "He's just exploring somewhere, or he's gone over to Little Chetton to the pictures. Bags of time before you need start worrying. It won't be really dark for ages."

"I'm with you on this one, Tom," said Stephen.

"But wherever he's gone," Tom went on, slipping into an easy chair, and pulling Sarah onto the armrest beside him, "he's missed the action. Fordrace church was the place to be today. You'll never guess why."

"I know why," said Sarah shortly. "Your friend Elizabeth told me about it. She sounded very out of breath."

"Oh." Tom felt the annoyance of an expected revelation spoiled. "Well I won't bore you with it then."

"You can bore me with it, if you like," Stephen suggested aimiably. "How old is it?"

"Celtic, we think."

"How old's that?"

"Well over a thousand."

"Not bad. That must be older than the church."

"Well, there's been a religious settlement here longer than the present church. And that's 11th century. I'm a bit hazy on the details, but Elizabeth is going down to research it a bit. I'll need to know, now that I'm a celebrity vicar."

Sarah rose from the armrest suddenly. "It's getting dark. I want you both to go looking for Michael."

"Oh, come on, Sarah!" cried Stephen, and Tom frowned.

"I've only just got here—" he began. Then he stopped. Footsteps had sounded on the gravel outside; slow footsteps, dragging in the dirt.

Sarah slammed the porch light on in the same motion as she wrenched open the door. Still halfway down the drive, a white face was bathed in yellow light.

"Hello Sarey. You couldn't put that light out, could you?"

Three pairs of eyes stared at Michael as he entered the porch. He was moving slowly, with his neck and shoulders slumped forwards, and his hands shook as he grasped the doorframe. Under the yellow porchlight, his face was bleached, and the rings of his eye sockets were a ghastly mottled red. Worst of all, his eyes were screwed up tight, but his mouth was smiling.

"Hello Sarey," he said again. "Are you alone, or is the Pope with you? Sorry if I don't kneel, but I don't quite trust myself just now." He stumbled into the house, feeling for the light switch as he did so. "It's a bit bright, but I feel great, really I do. Just sunstroke, like Stephen."

Wordlessly, Stephen took his brother by the arm, and guided him over to the sofa. Michael almost fell in it, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"That's better," he said. "Now all I need's a bath." He began laughing gently to himself. Sarah stifled a sob with her hand.

"Call a doctor, Sarah," said Tom, and his voice was hard.

Sarah didn't move. "Why's he laughing?" she said. "What for?"

"Look at his eyes." Tom was bending down close to Michael. "You should call a doctor, straight away."

"He says it's sunstroke," said Stephen, who didn't like the vicar's tone of voice. "He was up there too long. You know what a day it was. Shouldn't we cool him down?"

"He's not overheated." Tom straightened suddenly. "Sunstroke doesn't look like this. I'm not as unworldly as you think, Stephen."

"What do you mean, Tom—" Sarah began, but Stephen interrupted her.

"How the hell should you know what sunstroke looks like?" he shouted. "And whose house are you in to start making dirty insinuations?"

"It's my house," said Sarah. "Shut up, Stephen."

There was a high laugh from the sofa. A voice said, "This is all delightful, but please could someone run me a bath?"

A silence followed for a brief space; then Tom spat out his pent up breath.

"If you won't call the doctor," he said, "I will."

While Tom was dialling, Stephen grabbed Sarah by the arm in a grip which made her gasp, and bent his head close to her ear.

"He thinks Michael's been taking something," he hissed savagely. "Drugs or something. Did you hear it in his voice? Tell him he's wrong, Sarah."

His sister said nothing, but her shoulders began to shake. Stephen did not relax his hold.

"It's like him to make insinuations like that. Who does he think he is? He's got no say over what we do. Anyway, there's no way Michael would do anything like that. No way. You know it's wrong. Tell him so. Tell him he's wrong, Sarah, or I'll make him regret it."

"Oh God, what's the matter with him?" Sarah said. "Why won't he open his eyes?"

There was a flurry of movement from the sofa. Michael was propping himself up with one arm, with his chin resting on the back of the sofa, facing into the room. His face was still screwed up tight; his lips were pulled up, revealing his teeth.

"Because, Sarey, I don't quite trust myself. There's nothing wrong with me, but I've seen a few funny things, you see, and I don't want to startle myself again. But that's all it is – Stephen doesn't talk much sense, but he knows that much. There's no truth in anything the Pope might say. I tell you though, I'd love to see what he looks like. I'd tell you what he's like inside, just by looking at him."

Sarah was crying now, quietly, her shoulders shaking. Stephen tried to put his arm around her, in an uncomfortable gesture, but she shook it off as Tom came into the room.

"Doctor's coming," he said. "Oh Sarah, this'll sort out. Come here." He hugged her; she responded distractedly.

Stephen drew near his brother and looked closely at his clothes. For the first time, he noticed faint black marks all over his shorts and T-shirt. He frowned and sniffed, and the tang of smoke came faintly to his nostrils. Burning.

"Jesus, Mike," he whispered. "What the hell have you been up to?"

The prone figure extended a questing arm and touched the front of his t-shirt.

"Stephen," he whispered, "I swear to you, I did nothing today but sleep up on the Wirrim. I'll show you the place if you like. But something strange has . . . I'd tell you first of all of them, but I can hardly bear to share it . . ." His voice drifted off. Stephen bent closer and caught up his hand as it went limp.

"You can tell me, Mike. Quick, they've stepped onto the porch. What is it, Mike?"

For a moment the silence made him afraid. But then his brother's voice came back, stronger than ever.

"I was just thinking. I'd better look. I'll have to sometime. And it should be you, Stephen. There's no one else I'd rather try. It's been a good few hours, maybe it's gone."

"I'm sorry," said Stephen, "but I don't understand."

"You don't need to, not yet. Look, don't take this wrong; just back off a little from me. I don't want you too close when I open my eyes."

"I thought the light was too bright—"

"I can open them easily enough, Steve. I've been wanting to open them properly all the way down. They've been aching for it. You can't guess how much they itch. But I was too scared. I opened them just enough to feel my way. And – thank God – so far, everything's looked OK."

"So what's the problem?"

"No one was in shot. That's the crucial bit. Make or break. The rest of it only changes slightly. Right. I'll do it. Just look at me. That's all I want you to do."

Stephen stayed where he was, kneeling on the carpet two feet from his brother. Michael did not seem delirious exactly, but nothing he said made any kind of sense, although he was evidently in no doubt about his logic. Stephen had an uneasy feeling that this was what madness looked like, head on. Michael was shaking all over. His hand, resting on the sofa seat cushion, was gripping hard, locked white. His eyelids twitched, twice, and the flushed skin around them seemed to shudder. Stephen knew he was summoning the courage to look, and that for an instant, his courage was failing him. Instinctively, he reached out and squeezed his hand.

"It's all right, Mikey," he said. "You know it's me."

Then Michael opened his eyes, and although Stephen didn't know what he had been expecting, he found himself rigid with tension as he looked into the normal eyes of his brother; brown-irised, wide-pupilled, slightly redder than usual maybe, but ordinary eyes nonetheless.

This qualified as a relief. He breathed out, and smiled foolishly, and Michael, whose gaze had been locked into his face with an iron concentration, smiled too.

"It's OK," he said slowly. "Thank God."

Then he blinked, and to Stephen it almost seemed as if something had shifted, deep under the surface of his brother's eyes, as if for an instant a curtain had been drawn back, and he was looking at two glass marbles, with thin red swirls locked in their centre, rotating rapidly within.

It was a moment's image only.

Then Michael screamed.

The phone rang, scoring deeply into the surface of his dreams, but it had to ring many times before it clawed deep enough to reach him. His eyes were still clamped shut, fogged round with sleep, as his faltering hand brought the handpiece to his ear.

"Sarah?" he said, "What's he done now?"

"Sorry, Tom—" Another voice broke in, calm but urgent. "Sorry Tom, it's Elizabeth." Elizabeth Price? What time was it?

"I'm sorry to wake you. But it's important."

"What time is it?"

"Five thirty. Tom, you've got to come down to the church right away. The police are here."

"Police?" Tom struggled into a sitting position. The dawn light was already glowing round the edges of the curtains with its unearthly paleness.

"There's been a break-in. Someone's stoved the side-door in."

"What!" Tom was sitting on the edge of the bed now, rubbing the side of his face which itched with anxiety. "What have they taken?"

"Nothing, so far as I can see. But you'd better get down here."

"Right." It took him two minutes to get dressed, pulling on the same trousers he had removed only three hours before. What sort of swine would break in to a church? Nothing taken – that was a relief . . . but no, they'd have scrawled on the walls, or pissed on the altar or something. Bastards. The Reverend Tom slammed his door with a crash and ran wet-foot over the dew-sodden Rectory field to the church wall. This he vaulted, and thirty seconds later he was standing in the Norman side-arch, viewing the broken door.

Elizabeth was beside Constable Vernon, who was crouching next to the splintered wooden door and squinting at it with a professional eye.

"What's happened here, Joe? What's the damage?"

"If you're talking about the door, they must've hit it good and hard." The constable grunted dismissively and stood up. "They've snapped the bar straight in two, with a blow from the outside. You didn't get round to furnishing a lock, I see."

"Well, no I didn't, Joe." Tom fingered the long white splinters protruding from the bar. "It's done the job for centuries." Tom did not exaggerate. The beam had rested in metal clasps on the back of the door, sliding back and forth into the hollowed sockets of the stone arch, till it was smooth as marble and black as soot. And now it was split like matchwood.

"I can't find any damage in the church," Elizabeth said from close beside him. "My first thought was that they were after the cross, but of course it's just too heavy."

The cross. Tom went cold. The events at Sarah's had driven yesterday's elation clear from his mind. He had forgotten the cross. It could be no coincidence, no coincidence at all. She must have missed something. He ran down the nave and into the vestry, footfalls rebounding off the vaulted ceiling. There was the stone laid out on the trolley, but all around it the flagstones were laced with thin brown stains.

"Oh God," thought Tom. "What have they done?"

Then he saw the bucket, and the dirty water, and yesterday's sponge caked with clay, and he sighed at his foolishness.

Elizabeth was right behind him. "It's all right, Tom," she said, putting a hand upon his shoulder. "The cross is fine."

So it was. In the half-light of the church, the shape of the stone was muffled, its carvings a sworl of shadows, but it was definitely whole. Tom touched the shaft of the cross.

"So what did they want?" he said. "What's the point?"

Elizabeth considered him. "You looked wrecked," she said. "Didn't get much sleep?"

"As a matter of fact, no." It came out too sharply, and he saw the warden flinch.

"I'm sorry, Liz," he said quickly. "I had a terrible night. Sarah's little brother has been playing the fool up on the Wirrim. Came home high as a kite. Screaming, burbling nonsense, the usual stuff."

"Heavens, Tom, will he be all right?"

"Not if I had my way he won't be, the little idiot. Sarah's just not tough enough on them. Swears he's never done anything like it before. She's blind to their faults, I'm afraid."

"But is he all right?" Elizabeth's tone of voice forced Tom out of his absorption and he met her gaze.

"Sorry, yes. The doctor was a bit confused. Never seen symptoms quite like it, apparently. But it wasn't sunstroke, which is what the boy was claiming. Temperature was fine, pulse rate fine, all the usual things. Just very red and blistered around the eyes. No one's sure why, but he'd obviously been up to no good somehow. Still, he was safe in bed, and sleeping, by the time I left. Which was late."

Elizabeth nodded. "Go outside. You need some air. I'm going to phone the bishop; it's about time he heard about this."

A great weariness came over him as he stepped out, into the freshness of the day. A faint smell of smoke hung in the air, reminding him of the autumn to come. A host of birds were trilling with irreverent zest among the branches of the yew, and his eyes wandered to the giant hole cut in the graveyard soil, its edges wet with morning. Joe Vernon was sitting on another of Mr Purdew's trolleys, talking into a radio. Presently, he snapped it shut and walked over to Tom.

"Well," he said, "it must have been done sometime before half past four, since that was when Tony Hooper noticed it, on his way in to work. We may get more information; someone may have seen lights on in the church or something."

"Not that there's any evidence they went inside the church at all," he continued, as Tom offered no comment. "Perhaps it's just some stunt, though it seems a pretty crazy one to me. Are you all right, Reverend?"

Tom was staring out in front of him, looking at the hole in the earth. Slowly, Joe Vernon followed his gaze, across the mound of earth to the corner of the hole closest to the yew tree, where the branches spanned out over the diggings. The neat squared corner of Mr Purdew's trench was gone. Soil had been ripped away from the side of the hole and had fallen to the bottom where the cross had lain. It was as if a huge bite had been taken from the earth, exposing the tangled roots of the yew tree which jutted out like a chaos of ligaments or veins. PC Vernon walked across to the lip and looked down.

"Nothing there," he remarked.

"I bet there isn't," said Tom, so quietly that the policeman failed to hear. "I bet there isn't."

"There's been a lot of activity on this side of the trench," said PC Vernon. "Sure this wasn't done by Purdew's boys?"

Tom dumbly shook his head.

"In that case," the constable went on, "we'll have to add this to our list of mysteries. I wonder what they were after."

Tom felt sick.

Then Joe Vernon sniffed, and bent his head closer to the trench. "Another thing I can't understand," he said, "is why they should bother to burn it."

Wordlessly, Tom came to stand by his side. The roots of the tree which protruded from the ground had been scorched and twisted by an intense heat, and the soil exposed by the night's digging was blackened and blistered with the corruscating touch of fire.