Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ groaned slightly as the sunlight hit the grey stone floor.

      ‘That’ll be enough books, Donald. I doubt if we’ll get very many.’ Mike shrugged. ‘Pity. But it is the holidays. Several of our regulars are away.’ He walked on up the aisle towards the vestry. The small room smelled of books and the old musty hassocks someone had stacked in a corner, rather than throw them away. Mike hesitated in the doorway, then he turned back and walked on towards the chancel. Kneeling on the top step before the altar he gazed up at the cross, composing himself, drawing his thoughts together and, finally, beginning to pray.

      Behind him Donald moved quietly between the pews to pick up some fallen rose petals from the carpet beneath the pulpit. He glanced round as a shadow darkened the doorway for a moment and recognising the figure raised a hand in greeting. Judith Sadler was Mike’s lay reader. A tall, dark-haired woman in her early forties, she was wearing a severely cut navy trouser suit and a pale-blue shirt with what looked suspiciously like a dog collar. Donald frowned as she headed up the aisle. It would probably not occur to her to leave the rector alone until he had finished praying. Sure enough, she was already speaking when she was several yards from him.

      ‘Good morning, Mike. What a glorious day!’ Her voice cut Mike’s prayers off in mid-flow. He opened his eyes and sent up a quick last petition. For patience. His predecessor seemed to have thought a great deal of Judith and had recommended her as lay reader very highly. He had not disclosed until later that he had not endorsed Judith’s powerful ambition to become a priest herself and that his lack of recommendation had contributed to the Director of Ordinands turning her down for selection, something which Judith was not going to forget or forgive.

      Mike rose to his feet and turned with a smile. ‘Good morning, Judith.’ Ushering her ahead of him towards the vestry so that they could robe in good time he saw out of the corner of his eye that a stranger had entered the church. That was a good sign. He was closely followed by two or three other figures momentarily silhouetted against the bright sunlight. Perhaps he had underestimated the size of the congregation after all.

      Several times during the service Mike found himself looking at the unknown man who had seated himself three-quarters of the way down the aisle on the left. He was alone. A youngish man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, he had short cropped hair and a long, lugubrious face. Although he listened intently to Mike’s sermon and stood or sat in the right places Mike noticed he took no active part in the service. He did not pray out loud, he did not appear to be singing the hymns and he did not come up to take communion.

      Perhaps he was a tourist, curious about the church? He did not have the appearance of an unhappy or troubled soul, but one couldn’t always tell. It was not entirely surprising when at the end of the service he saw the man hanging back, obviously hoping for a private word. After Mike had shaken hands with his last parishioners and seen them stroll out into the sunlight, he turned towards the man and they walked slowly together along the side aisle, out of earshot of Donald and Judith.

      ‘Mark Edmunds.’ The stranger held out his hand. ‘I’ve been staying up here for a few days. You may have noticed us. We’ve been filming in one of the shops at the end of the road here.’

      Mike shrugged. ‘Sorry, I must have missed you. What are you filming?’

      ‘A documentary. About ghosts.’

      ‘Ah.’ Mike scanned the other man’s face. ‘And you want a quote from the church?’

      ‘I wouldn’t turn one down if it was offered.’ Mark gave a fleeting smile. ‘But that’s not actually why I’m here.’ They had drifted to a standstill beside a memorial to men of the parish who had died in the First World War. ‘Presumably you believe in ghosts? That is part of your job, isn’t it?’ Mark slid his hands into his pockets.

      Mike nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. ‘I do believe in them. But I have to admit I have never seen one. And I have never been consulted professionally about one. Do you have a problem?’

      Mark shrugged. ‘It’s daft. We’re making a film, as I said, about the old Barker shop. I think the old boy who is trying to sell it is massaging the truth quite a bit, to be honest. But there are masses of stories about things that have happened there. We’ve filmed some interviews, misty evening scenes, shadows, atmosphere, several hours last night, you know the sort of thing.’ He paused, staring up at the neatly cut lettering on the wall plaque, name after name of young men slaughtered for their country.

      ‘And?’ Mike put in quietly. ‘Something has happened you didn’t foresee?’

      Mark gave a wry grin. ‘Exactly.’

      He had left the others in the pub shortly after nine, the night before, pleading a headache, and walked slowly back up the hill towards the bed and breakfast, relieved to be away from the noise and smoke of the public bar where they had found a small round table on which to balance their plates of steak and chips. The two late afternoon interviews had gone well. One had been with a woman who had been employed as a cleaner in the shop some twenty years ago. Her story had been recalled in a voice of calm certainty which had reassured and convinced them all. And her facts had more or less backed up Stan’s more lurid tale. She had heard the footsteps on several occasions. She had thought she had seen a figure lurking on the staircase and she had felt uncomfortable going into the shop early in the mornings, especially in the winter when she had had to unlock the door and turn on all the lights, conscious that she was the only person there. The flat had not been used, it appeared, since the flight of the cake-making lady in the fifties. In the end the cleaning lady had given in her notice and had not been back since. They had interviewed her against the backdrop of the river. The second interviewee had not minded doing his bit in the shop itself, but like Stan he declined to go upstairs. He had gone in as an electrician about five years before and had been forced to work most of the day in the upper room, putting in some new wiring. At one point he had turned round and found himself face to face with the man with the goatee beard. The apparition had only lasted seconds but it had been enough. Another electrician had had to be found to complete the job. The language with which he had described his feelings had been fruity to say the least. It had reduced Alice to helpless delighted giggles and made Joe wince. They would have to bleep much of the interview. And now they had left two cameras rolling on long play in the upstairs room.

      Mark had strolled on up the hill, feeling better in the fresh air; appreciating the cool soft breeze scented with salt and tar and mud which was blowing up off the river. He let himself into the house, a huge rambling Edwardian pile with masses of rooms for guests and, as they had discovered, the most wonderful full English breakfasts, and climbed the stairs to his room. A shower, an early night and hopefully tomorrow they would find something interesting on the silently rolling film.

      He fell asleep almost at once, one arm crooked under the pillow, the other across his face and within minutes he was dreaming. He was running along a narrow road in the dark, the mud squelching under his feet, and he could hear the sound of a horse galloping behind him. He ran faster, gasping for breath, sweat pouring off him. The hedges on either side of the lane were high and he couldn’t see where he was going. He blundered into a puddle and then another, desperately trying to keep his feet, aware that the horse was gaining on him fast. Dear God, it was going to catch him. He was searching frantically for a break in the hedge where he could get off the road and hide but the hedges were thorn – the branches were reaching towards him, tearing his clothes, interlaced into an impenetrable wall. He heard a shout behind him. Then another. The crowd were following the horse. He could hear them whistling, baying for his blood, his and that of the woman he was trying to save. He tried to force himself to run faster, but his strength was failing fast. Somehow he had to hide her. Somewhere. There must be somewhere. He could see her beside him now. She was running with him, her hair slipping out of her hood, her long skirts tangling between her legs. She had lost СКАЧАТЬ