The Ghost of Briarwych Church Page 3

  “You are a good man,” I tell him.

  “I do my best.”

  “No, you are a truly good man,” I continue, keen to make him understand. “I watch you work sometimes, Father, and I am constantly amazed by the way you dedicate yourself to this church.” I pause for a moment, watching his expression as he stares down at his cup. “It's especially impressive,” I add cautiously, “in light of the fact that you are unmarried. I would have thought that a man in your position would be quite keen to take a wife. To have somebody who can support you and help you. Guide you. Look after you.”

  “You might have a point,” he says, sounding distracted. “I'm always too busy to go courting. I've never really got into all that.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “And who should I marry?” he asks, before shaking his head. “I'm fine, Judith. Really. I get by.”

  “Love comes in many forms,” I tell him. “Perhaps it could be right under your nose and you have only to -”

  “I should get on with things,” he says suddenly, getting to his feet and drinking the rest of his tea, before setting the cup down. “Thank you so much for that, Judith, you've been a great help. If anybody comes to see me, perhaps in search of guidance after this terrible tragedy, be sure to show them through, won't you?”

  “Of course,” I say, as I realize that – for now – the moment has passed and there shall be no more talk of marriage. Perhaps I should have waited to bring it up, but I have waited so long already. Father Perkins is a wise man, but in this one particular aspect he has a blind-spot; he does not see that the answer to all his problems is sitting here in the room with him.

  As I stand, I try to think of something else I might say, something that could offer a little comfort to Father Perkins at this difficult time. Finally, however, I tell myself that he must be left to work in peace.

  Once I am out of the office, I head to the kitchen and get on with some light work. In my mind's eye, I keep replaying the moment earlier when the sheet blew away from the stretcher, when I saw Violet Durridge's burned body. People are saying that she hopefully died without waking, but the body I saw seemed twisted into the most horrendous scream and I am afraid I cannot lie to myself. I believe she woke as she burned, I believe she knew exactly what was happening to her. I believe her death must have been truly horrific.

  I cannot prevent a faint smile from curling on my lips.

  Chapter Five

  “How was school today, Elizabeth?”

  I watch her face for any hint of trouble, but this time she does not even look at me. Her cutlery bumps against the plate for a moment as she continues to eat her dinner, and it is as if she is having to think of the right answer.

  “It was fine, Mother,” she says eventually.

  “Was there any more trouble?”

  “There was no trouble.”

  “That's good.” I pause, finding this story a little difficult to believe. After all, I have seen those cackling schoolgirls on many occasions before, and they do not seem to be the type of people who would simply withdraw their claws without prompting. “And the difficulties of yesterday are truly resolved?”

  “They are.”

  “Did you speak to the headmaster, Elizabeth?”

  “No.”

  “Then -”

  “It's just fine,” she says, interrupting me. “There's nothing to discuss, Mother. I should rather eat and then go through to do my homework.” Finally she glances at me, but only briefly, before looking back down at her food. I can tell that she is hesitant. “There is nothing to discuss.”

  “I see,” I reply.

  She's lying.

  I know my daughter and I know when she's lying. She must have been bullied again today at school, most likely by those same girls who have been tormenting her of late. She is simply too good-hearted and too kind to let me know. She wants me to not worry, yet here I sit in a state of great distress. I really must cycle over to the school some time and have a word with that idle headmaster who seems not to notice what goes on in his own classrooms.

  “She didn't go to school today,” a female voice whispers suddenly.

  I freeze.

  It is the same voice that I heard yesterday in the church, the same voice that spoke about Violet Durridge. I had just about convinced myself that the voice was a brief, imagined thing, but now it is here again. Am I losing my mind?

  “She is making the same mistake that you once made,” the voice continues, as I watch Elizabeth eat. “The exact same mistake, as it happens. If you don't believe me, look in her school bag. You won't like what you find.”

  “I -”

  Catching myself just in time, I realize I cannot possibly answer the voice. If I start talking to myself out-loud, I shall certainly seem rather peculiar.

  Elizabeth glances at me.

  “Were you going to say something, Mother?”

  I swallow hard. Quite evidently, she did not herself hear the voice.

  “Are you alright?” she asks, furrowing her brow. “You look a little pale and worried.”

  “I'm fine,” I tell her. “Finish your peas.”

  She starts eating again, but I merely sit rigidly in my chair and wait in case the voice returns. As the minutes pass, however, I hear no such thing, and finally Elizabeth sets her knife and fork down once her plate is empty.

  “Will there be pudding?” she asks.

  “I... Yes,” I stammer, “I mean... I can heat up some of yesterday's apple pie.”

  “I'm not really very hungry,” she replies, looking rather nervous. “Might I be excused to go to my room and do some homework? We have a big test coming up, all about our times tables. I suppose I should do well if I want to attract a good husband some day.”

  “Of course, darling,” I tell her.

  She immediately gets to her feet and hurries to the sink, where she deposits her plate and cutlery before heading to the door.

  “I shall come back to wash up shortly,” she explains. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “It's quite alright,” I reply. “But Elizabeth, if -”

  Before I can finish, I hear her hurry up the stairs. I take a deep breath, telling myself that I could have handled that situation better, and then I glance into the hallway and see Elizabeth's school bag resting next to her shoes.

  I hesitate for a moment, and then I get to my feet and make my way over to the bag. I know there is nothing untoward going on here, but it would be as well to prove to myself that the voice was wrong. I glance up the stairs to make sure that Elizabeth is not about to come down, and then I kneel and unbuckle the bag. All I shall find inside, I am sure, is Elizabeth's school books and pencils, and I must admit that I feel rather wicked right now. A mother should not doubt her daughter,

  And then I spot the rose.

  Nestled in the bag, tucked to the side of the books, there rests a single red rose. The head is slightly crushed, presumably due to being bumped by the books, but as I carefully slip the rose out I see that it is of a very rich red color, with large, sharp thorns on the stem.

  “She met an older man in the forest,” the voice whispers. “He wants to do things to her, the same things an older man once did to you. The poor girl hasn't quite given in just yet, but she will. And who can blame her? Anything's better than going to school and being bullied by those three nasty girls.”

  I pause, before shaking my head.

  “You think she picked it herself?” the voice asks. “And put it in her own bag? That's possible, I suppose. Some girls might do that. But not Elizabeth. She is desperately unhappy, Judith. Most days, instead of going to school, she wanders alone in the forest. It was inevitable that eventually she'd bump into someone.”

  “No,” I say firmly.

  “He meets her often, he offers her flattery and roses.”

  “You're lying!”

  “What kind of decent man just hangs around in the forest and strikes up conversations with young girls that he m
eets. He's from a nearby farm. Elizabeth's just a young girl, Judith. He flatters her and he makes her feel as if she's more mature than her years. You know that sort of thing will work on her eventually. He's just opening her plump, naive little heart millimeter by millimeter with each touch. With each kiss. With each gesture. And then he's going to walk straight inside and do and take whatever he wants. By the time he's done, she'll still be thanking him. By the time she realizes what a mistake she's made, she'll already have been ruined.”

  With tears in my eyes, I shake my head again.

  “After all,” the voice says, “it once worked on you.”

  “That was different.”

  “Life is hard for a single mother. People talk, Judith. You know that better than anyone else in Briarwych.”

  “No,” I say firmly, as I slide the rose back into place. My hands are trembling, and at the last moment I prick one finger on a thorn. I wince, but a drop of blood has already fallen onto one of Elizabeth's school books.

  “Nothing has happened yet,” the voice says. “She has not suffered that moment of weakness that you once suffered. Oh, I know you are glad to have Elizabeth, but you can never quite wipe away the shame, can you? Two times you have been sorely tempted. The first time, with the rock and Prudence Williams, you just about held back. The second time, with that man, you gave in. Do you want Elizabeth to make the same mistake?”

  “She wouldn't,” I whisper.

  “She might. After all, she seems to take after you very much.”

  “She has a wise head on her shoulders,” I say as I close the bag. “She knows not to do such things.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Judith. Meanwhile, she will leave the house tomorrow morning, claiming she is going to school. But how do you know that tomorrow won't be the day when she makes her terrible mistake? Think how the locals would gossip, Judith, if the daughter followed the mother and ended up with a big, round belly?”

  “This isn't real,” I say as I get to my feet. “You're not real.”

  “I was right about Violet Durridge, wasn't I?” she asks. “Do you want the details of what I did to that woman, Judith? Do you want to know how she fell asleep in her bed, with a cigarette in her hand? Do you want to know how I slowly moved her hand down to the bed-sheets, and how I then held the woman down as the flames roared? I thought you'd be happy this evening. After all, you seem to like the local priest a great deal.”

  “No!” I gasp, before turning and hurrying back into the kitchen, where I go straight to the sink and start doing the washing. If I just keep working, I shall have no time to imagine these voices.

  “I can help you, Judith,” the voice says. “I would like to help you.”

  I start banging the pots as I wash, hoping to drown the voice out so that hopefully it will then cease entirely.

  “Oh Judith,” the voice sighs, “let me prove myself to you again. Elizabeth is not going to school tomorrow. She will claim that she is, and then she will go to meet her new friend at Cobbler's Bottom in the forest. If I'm wrong, or if I'm not real, then what harm is there in going there at about midday and seeing for yourself?”

  “No,” I say through gritted teeth, banging the pots more loudly. “No, I shall not.”

  The voice says something else, but I bump the saucepan several times against the side of the sink, drowning out the words. At first this does not work, and then after maybe half a minute I realize that the voice seems to have gone. I keep bumping the saucepan, however, as I wait in case the voice returns. If I hear that wretched thing again, I think I might very well explode with rage.

  “Mother?”

  Letting out a startled shriek, I turn and see that Elizabeth is standing in the doorway.

  “Are you alright?” she asks. “I could hear you making such a noise down here.”

  “I'm fine,” I say, although I am a little breathless. “Are you ready for school tomorrow?”

  “I shall be,” she replies, “after I have done a little more reading. I was going to ask, is it okay if I don't help with the washing this evening? I have so much to read and I'm worried it won't all sink in if it's rushed.”

  “Of course,” I reply, and I watch as she goes over and picks up her school bag. “And you are going to school tomorrow, aren't you?”

  “Yes, Mother,” she says, already heading up the stairs, “of course. Where else would I go?”

  Chapter Six

  I watch from the kitchen window as Elizabeth carries her school bag out into the lane, and then I watch as she walks away. It should take her about an hour to reach the school, and she certainly looks as if that's where she's going. She's wearing her uniform, and her bag looks heavy with books.

  Of course she's going to school. I would never dream of thinking otherwise.

  ***

  The clock strikes eleven as I continue to sweep dust from the floor. My knees rest uncomfortably on the church's cold stone, at the base of the steps that lead up to the altar, but this morning I am not troubled by such things. Indeed, all morning I have been noticing the time, as nine o'clock gave way to ten, and then to eleven. Now there is just one hour to go before noon, and I am struggling to remain calm.

  “Elizabeth is not going to school tomorrow,” the voice told me last night. “She will claim that she is, and then she will go to meet her new friend at Cobbler's Bottom in the forest. If I'm wrong, or if I'm not real, then what harm is there in going there at about midday and seeing for yourself?”

  It's all nonsense, of course. I know that, deep down. Yet the words linger in my mind, almost taunting me, and I feel that by midday I shall be in a terrible state. I keep imagining Elizabeth out there in the forest, alone or perhaps even with a man. I was once in a very similar situation myself, and I allowed myself a momentary slip.

  Finally, getting to my feet, I head through to the corridor and then I stop in the doorway and watch for a moment as Father Perkins continues with his work. He seems so calm, so peaceful, that I hesitate to disturb him. At the same time, he is the only person who can possibly help me right now.

  “Might I ask you something?” I say after a few seconds.

  “Hmm?” He continues to write. “What is it, Judith?”

  “I wanted to ask you about voices,” I continue. “A friend of mine, more of an acquaintance, has a sister who has heard voices. Rather, she has heard one voice, only a few times. But the voice tells her things. This friend wants some advice on what might be happening, and I was wondering what you thought?”

  “Hearing voices?” He turns to me. “I'm afraid to say that voices might be a sign of madness.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “I knew of a woman in Lancaster Gate once,” he continues, “who claimed to hear voices. It was a frightful matter for all concerned, especially for her poor family. On and on it all went, and she didn't respond to any treatments. Do you know what happened to the poor woman, Judith?”

  “What?”

  “She threw herself out of the window. She might have survived, but unfortunately she landed right in the path of a vehicle and, well, that was the end of that. Right before she jumped, she claimed that the voices were telling her she could fly. Can you imagine that? I think she genuinely believed she might flap her arms and fly up into the sky like a bird.” He sniffs. “Madness makes its mark in so many different ways.”

  “Alright,” I say cautiously, “but what if the voices are telling her very specific things?”

  “Such as that she can fly?”

  “More serious things,” I continue, trying not to let my impatience become apparent. “About the world around her.”

  “I'm not sure that I follow you, Judith.”

  “Secrets. Things that nobody should know, but which subsequently turn out to have been true.”

  “That seems highly improbable.”

  “Of course,” I say, forcing a smile in an attempt to seem unconcerned. “Yet this is what my friend's niece claims. And it seems that there
is some corroborating evidence.”

  “Niece? I thought you said it was her sister?”

  “Of course. Her sister. Her niece's mother.” I try again to smile, but I am afraid I am not doing a good job. “Is it possible that the Lord is speaking directly to her?”

  “The Lord?”

  “And maybe in a female voice?”

  “I'm not sure what you mean,” he replies. “Judith, it sounds to me as if your friend should be assessed by a doctor. Either that, or perhaps there is some kind of demonic activity.”

  He turns back to his papers.

  “Demonic?” I ask cautiously.

  “It's said that demons come to test us from time to time,” he says as he starts writing again. “I'm not sure I believe that such things happen in quite such a direct fashion. Your friend's sister should be seen by someone, though. It's best to nip these things in the bud.”

  “Of course, Father,” I say as I step back out into the corridor. “Thank you.”

  Stopping and leaning against the wall, I try to get my thoughts together. I know that I am not mad, and I am certain that the voice I heard was not a demon. That leaves only one possibility, which is that perhaps the Lord is trying to warn me about something. The whole business with Violet Durridge was a misunderstanding that I cannot quite sort out, but perhaps the Lord is trying to warn me about Elizabeth. In that case, it is my duty as a mother to go out to Cobbler's Bottom and see for myself.

  ***

  The leaves rustle beneath my feet as I make my way through the forest. I should have brought a coat but I did not, so I am shivering slightly as I hurry between the trees. All around me, fallen leaves are rotting slightly on the ground, and there is no possibility of sneaking through the forest today. My approach will surely be heard, yet – as I get closer and closer to the dip that leads down to Cobbler's Bottom – I am more certain than ever that I shall find nothing out here. Elizabeth is at this moment sitting at her desk at school, and I am about to prove to myself that the voice is just an aberration.