The Priest Hole Page 5

  Before I can answer, another woman hurries past me and makes her way over to the bed.

  “Jessica,” the woman says, pressing the girl's chest to force her back down, “you must go to sleep. There's nothing to worry about.”

  “Who's the woman at the door?” the girl asks.

  “Woman? I don't know of any woman. There's a visitor, but your father is taking care of him.”

  “But who's the woman?”

  “There's no woman, Jessica. Now go to sleep and everything will be okay in the morning. Please don't trouble me with any other questions right now.”

  The woman kisses the girl on the side of the face before getting to her feet and hurrying past me, heading back out of the room. I turn and watch as she makes her way down the stairs, no doubt going to the kitchen. After pausing for a moment, I glance back at the bed, only to see that the little girl is once again sitting up. We stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, and I'm just about able to make out her eyes in the moonlight.

  “Who are you?” she asks finally.

  “I...” For a few seconds, I genuinely have no idea what to say. I figure I must have suffered some kind of traumatic brain injury; hell, at this very moment I could be bleeding to death on the kitchen floor, and this whole situation might be some kind of final, dying illusion caused by thousands of misfiring neurons. “I'm Laura,” I manage to stammer. “I'm... I... I'm Laura. This is my mother's house.”

  “This house belongs to my father,” the girl replies, “he -”

  She stops as we both hear voices drifting up from the kitchen.

  “This is my mother's house,” I say firmly, “and you... You're just some kind of freaky kid invented by my subconscious mind.” Reaching up, I run my hands over my head, searching for some sign of an injury, but there's nothing. I guess the only possibility is that I'm too deep in this hallucination to be able to make contact with my real body. “What if I'm dying?” I ask finally. “What if no-one finds me until the morning?”

  “Are you hurt?” the girl asks, climbing out of bed and taking a step toward me.

  “Keep back!” I shout, stepping out onto the landing.

  “What's wrong?” the girl continues, stepping closer. “You're perfectly safe here. Father takes in people from the road sometimes, so long as he's sure they can be trusted.” She pauses, staring at me for a moment. “Are you running from the king's men too?”

  “The who?”

  “The king's men. Are you a witch? Is that what's wrong?”

  “A witch?” I stare at her for a moment, shocked by the suggestion. “No, I'm not a witch! I'm a normal girl who fell over and bashed her head open! I mean, that has to be it, right? That's the only explanation!” Reaching up, I feel for a pulse around my neck, and after a moment I realize my heart is pounding. “Okay,” I mutter, “that's good. Unless I'm imagining it, in which case it might be bad. There's no way to tell.”

  “Are you going to hide here?” the girl asks.

  “Hide where?”

  “In the house,” she continues. “Sometimes Father has guests who have to hide. Other men come looking for them, but they never find them.”

  “I'm not hiding,” I mutter, turning and heading to the top of the stairs. “I've been living in the countryside for less than a day and I'm already losing my mind! I have to figure out a way to wake up!”

  “You are awake, silly,” the girl replies.

  “No,” I continue, “I'm dreaming, which means you're just a part of me, which means I'm talking to myself, which means...” Trying not to panic, I reach down and pinch my arm; it hurts, but I don't feel as if I'm about to wake up so I squeeze harder and harder, finally wincing until I feel the nail of my thumb slicing through my flesh. “How do I do it?” I stammer, letting go and turning to look at the girl. “How do I wake up out of this? How do I -”

  Hearing voices from downstairs, I look down at the hallway just in time to see Baxendale and his wife hurrying through, with the Darian Kinner guy right behind them. All three are carrying candles to light their way, but they stop at the foot of the stairs as if they're not sure which way to go next.

  “Jessica!” the woman calls up. “What are you doing awake? Go back to bed!”

  “But Mother -”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “The girl who came into my room,” she replies cautiously, glancing at me. “I didn't catch your name.”

  “There's no girl,” the woman snaps. “Jessica, go to bed and don't get up until I tell you it's okay!”

  Jessica stares at me for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why can't they see you?”

  “Go to your room!” the woman shouts.

  Turning, Jessica hurries back to her room, but she glances at me one more time before she goes in. “Are you a ghost?” she whispers.

  “Am I a ghost?” I ask, shocked as she disappears through the dark doorway. A moment later, I hear someone knocking on the front door downstairs. Turning, I see Darian Kinner being ushered through into another room, while Baxendale waits a few seconds before going to answer the door.

  “I'm sorry to disturb you so late,” says the man on the porch outside, holding his hat in his hands, “but a fugitive priest has been spotted in this area, and we're checking all the houses nearby to see if people heard anything unusual.”

  “I heard nothing,” Baxendale tells him. “I was just up with my daughter, she has been sleeping badly of late.”

  The man peers past him, as if he's a little suspicious, but he seems not to notice me up here at the top of the stairs.

  “You are welcome to search my land,” Baxendale continues, “but I doubt a fugitive of any sort would linger long. He's probably well on his way by now.”

  “I'm sure he is,” the man replies, “just... Captain Freeman himself is taking a very personal interest in this particular man. If anyone in the locality is thinking of hiding the priest, they'd be risking their lives and the lives of everyone around them.”

  “I understand the penalties for -”

  “This would not be the priest to hide,” the man adds firmly, as if he's trying to force home his point. “Seriously, Mr. Baxendale, I dare say Freeman will rip apart any house he even suspects of hiding this priest. Even if a man felt compelled to protect fleeing seminary priests in general, on this occasion I would strongly advise him to -”

  “I understand,” Baxendale replies, “but I can assure you, I'm not a man who hides priests. I wish you luck on your search, but every second you spend on my doorstep is a second wasted. Good night, Mr. Rowlings.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he pushes the door shut before turning and sighing. He stands for a moment, his pained and worried face lit by the candle's flickering glow, before taking a few steps forward. For a couple of seconds, I feel as if he might look up the stairs and see me, but finally he turns and heads through to the next room and I hear hushed voices talking with a degree of urgency. Figuring that I don't know what else to do, I start making my way down the stairs.

  “Father will hide the priest,” Jessica says suddenly.

  Turning, I find that she has silently come out of her room and is standing right behind me.

  “He will,” she continues, her eyes filled with a hint of fear that seems too old for her face. “He's done it before. Once some men came and searched the place from top to bottom. They found nothing, but the priest was hidden away in his hole and he left after the men had been here. I was scared, but Father told me it'd be okay and he was right.” She looks down to the hallway as voices continue to argue in one of the other rooms. “I'm scared, though,” she adds. “If they ever found a priest hiding in the house, I think they'd hurt Father.”

  I want to tell her not to worry, but this whole situation is so surreal, all I can think about is that I have to find a way to wake up. Without saying anything, I turn and hurry down the stairs and then through to the front room, where Baxendale and his wife are discussing the situation with
the priest.

  “I cannot put your family in danger,” Darian tells them. “Clearly they suspect you, and Freeman is not a man to be dared. He has killed whole families in the past simply because he has an inkling that they might have thought ill of him. The man is dangerous and out of control, but no-one dares stop him, not while he carries the authority of the king. I cannot do anything that risks luring him here, I shall move on and -”

  “Nonsense,” Baxendale says firmly. “Freeman's men are all over the countryside, you wouldn't get far. We can hide you here for a few days until the cry has died down. It's safer that way.”

  “They'll be back at your door first,” the priest replies.

  “Some of the locals have suspected me for years of being a Catholic sympathizer. They would never dare accuse me directly. Even Freeman isn't so brave.”

  “Freeman is cruel beyond measure,” Darian tells him, his eyes filled with fear. “He has always had a reputation for harshness, but lately they say he has become even more dangerous, as if no degree of pain or cruelty is enough for -” He stops suddenly, staring straight ahead, before starting to look around the room. “Do you feel that?” he whispers with a frown.

  “Feel what?” Baxendale asks.

  “A presence,” Darian continues, clearly concerned. “Tell me, are there said to be ghosts in your house?”

  “Ghosts?” Baxendale frowns. “There is nothing like that here. You are mistaken.”

  Darian turns and looks back toward the door, but for a moment I feel as if he's about to look me in the eye. He clearly senses that something is wrong.

  I turn to hide, but before I can take another step I feel a rush of hot blood in my nose and the world starts spinning. I grab hold of the door-frame, only to sink to my knees as a sudden, throbbing sense of dizziness bursts into my head. Finally, even though I hear voices shouting all around, I'm forced to settle onto the floor and roll to my side. For a few seconds, it's as if the air itself is shuddering and vibrating, shimmering against my skin as a wave of nausea crashes through my body, until I feel my thoughts slipping away, leaving nothing but darkness and silence.

  ***

  “She'll be fine,” Mum's voice says suddenly. “Look, she's already -”

  Sitting up suddenly, I feel a shudder pass through my body, like a kind of backward electric shock, and then I sit in silence for a moment before realizing I'm not breathing. It takes a moment before I can take a deep, snatched breath, and then I turn to see Mum and Suzie sitting nearby, staring at me. Slowly, the smell of Mum's potpourri comes back to me, replacing the lavender that seemed to fill the house during my dream.

  “See?” Mum says with a concerned smile, putting a hand on Suzie's shoulder. “I told you.”

  “What happened?” I ask, stumbling to my feet but immediately feeling a sharp pain in my ankle. Wincing, I grab the counter-top to steady myself, at which point I realize that the kitchen is back to normal. To my surprise morning has also arrived, with low, gray light streaming through the large window on the far side of the room. “Where are they?” I whisper, looking around. “Did you hear them?”

  “Hear who?” Mum replies. “Honey, how long have you been down here? Suzie got up this morning and found you on the floor. Did you hit your head?”

  Reaching up, I feel for a bruise but there's nothing. After a moment, I look down at the broken floorboard.

  “A hand,” I stammer. “There's a hand in there!”

  Before Mum can reply, I limp across the room and get down on my knees, ignoring my pained ankle as I lean down and peer through the broken board. This time, however, there's no sign of the skeletal hand, not even when I lean further and reach through, running my fingers through the brick-dust and dirt down in the hole. Sitting up, I pause for a moment, still trying to make sense of everything that happened as I stare at the wall right in front of my face. I've had vivid dreams before, of course, but never one that felt quite so sustained or detailed.

  Or real.

  It all felt so real. Even the smells.

  “Laura?” Mum says after a moment. “Are you okay? Maybe we should get you checked by a doctor, just in case.”

  “I'm fine,” I mutter, turning to her, “but... We need to take this wall down. I think there's a dead body behind it.”

  Chapter Six

  Daniel

  As soon as I reach Offingham, I'm struck by an overwhelming sense of fear in the air. The main street is almost deserted, with locals scurrying as quickly as they can manage from door to door, as if they hate to be seen outside. I pass the house of the local bondsman, its windows covered by thick metal bars, and then I spy a building that I initially take to be the jail, only to find as I get closer that it is in fact a public house, The Offingham Arms. Stopping next to the well at the crossroads, I find that the bucket is broken and that no-one has thought to get it repaired. The whole village seems to be dying.

  After a moment, I hear someone nearby. I turn just in time to see a woman stepping back into the doorway of her home, as if she doesn't want to be spotted.

  “I'm looking for Nykolas Freeman!” I call out, turning to see if anyone might be watching me from the windows. “I heard he's from this area! Tell me where I can find him and I'll be on my way. I mean no harm to any of you good people!”

  I wait, but the only sound is an occasional click from some of the doors, as one by one the locals turn their locks. Spotting movement nearby, I turn just in time to see someone pulling back from a dusty window, and a moment later a set of curtains is drawn. For the most part, the town is unbearably quiet, as if fear itself fills the air and has driven all the people from sight.

  They're terrified.

  Taking hold of the broken bucket, I attach it to the rope and then start lowering it down the well, thinking to at least get a few drops of water. A few seconds later, however, I feel and hear the bucket hitting the bottom of the shaft, scraping against its dry surface. I let go of the rope, filled with the sense that I was wrong a moment ago; this village isn't dying, it's dead already, and everything around me seems to be rotting. As if to confirm that feeling, when I turn and look over at one of the nearby houses, I spot a cat scurrying from one patch of shade to the next; when it sees me, the animal hisses as if it views me as a threat and then it runs from sight.

  High up on the roof of the public house, a crow is watching the scene.

  “He's not here!” a voice hisses suddenly.

  Turning, I see a man standing in one of the doorways a little further along. He seems tense and scared, and after a moment he glances along the street as if he's worried about being seen.

  “Sir,” I start to say, heading over to him, “if you -”

  “He's not here!” he says again, stepping back and pushing his door shut. “Keep walking, stranger!”

  “Wait!” I put my foot in the way just in time to keep the door open, and then I force my way into the hallway of the man's home. He tries to push me out, before stepping back with fear in his eyes as I look around. “Where can I find Nykolas Freeman?” I ask. “My business is with him, not with any of you good people, so just tell me where he is. What's wrong, does no-one here want to see that the man faces justice?”

  “He's not here!” he tells me, his voice filled with a sense of urgent fear. He glances back across the darkened room, to where a woman and a child are cowering in the corner. “It's okay,” he tells them. “It's just someone looking for Freeman. He'll be gone soon enough.”

  “This is his home village, is it not?” I ask.

  “Not any more!” the man replies, turning to me. “He has not called Offingham his home for a long time now. He never even comes here, I swear! It must be fully five years since he set foot on these streets.”

  “And still you fear him?”

  In the corner, the little girl has begun to cry, burying her face against her mother's belly.

  “There's nothing here to take his interest,” the man tells me. “We're very careful to ensure tha
t he never has reason to come here, the last time...” He pauses, glancing at the door as if he expects someone to burst through at any moment. “We're good people here. We don't tolerate Catholics or witches or anything like that, we support King James, we do everything we're supposed to do!” He turns back to me. “Please, if you have business with Freeman, take it elsewhere. Whatever you do, don't even remind him that this place exists.”

  “How can one man have struck such fear into the hearts of an entire village?” I ask, scarcely able to believe the way these people are acting. “He is just one man. How many of you are there? A hundred? Two? How can you let one man dominate your lives this way, especially when by your own word he hasn't been here for so long?”

  “But he could come,” the man stammers, his fear clearly building. “He could return at any moment.”

  “Don't listen,” the woman says in the corner, putting her hands over the child's ears. “It's not true. Freeman will never come here again.”

  “Not if he wants to live,” I mutter. “Don't worry, you'll soon hear word that his life is over, and then you can go back to -”

  Before I can finish the sentence, I hear a scream outside. Hurrying to the door, I look both ways along the street, but there's no sign of anyone, even as the scream continues. Stepping out and past the well, I realize that the scream is coming from one of the houses opposite, and it sounds as if a young boy is in desperate, enduring pain.

  Yet still no-one reacts.

  All the doors remain shut, and no-one comes to any of the windows. It's almost as if the people of this village are used to such a sound, as if even the agony of a fellow human being is not enough to stir them.

  “He's awake,” says the man to whom I was speaking a moment ago, as he comes to stand next to me. “I don't...” He pauses, before turning to me. “You seem like a good man. A kind man. You can't possibly hunt down Freeman, but before you leave, would you be willing to perform one small act of kindness?”

  “What is wrong with this place?” I ask, as the child's scream continues. “If a boy is in danger, why does no-one react?”