Resurrectionists (40 page)

“I have no trouble believing that.”

Cathy sneezed violently, then took a moment to compose herself. “The village was a lot bigger back then. Around eighteen hundred people and quite a busy fishing town. That year they sent one hundred women to trial for witchcraft. Most were driven out of town with nothing but a warning. Twenty were hanged. And they lit up three women of a group of four who refused to testify.”

“What happened to the fourth?”

“She confessed under torture at the last moment. The transcripts are on microfilm at the library. She said the four of them had been trying to lift an ancient curse on the town.”

“What kind of curse?” Maisie’s tea was going cold in its cup.

“I copied a bit of this down, but it doesn’t make much sense.” Cathy turned a few pages and read:

“‘For the ground in this village is cursed, and all the folk within are blighted and must be driven out.’” She looked up. “Can you figure that out?”

“Nope. You?”

“No idea. You want to know what happened to her?”

“Who?”

“The fourth witch, the one who confessed under torture. They didn’t burn her with the others.”

Maisie shuddered. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“They buried her alive.”

“Yuk.”

“I agree,” Cathy said. “If we could get into the cemetery at some stage, we could probably find her grave.”

“You know that’s not possible. They’d have a SWAT

team on us before you could say ‘parochial idiots’.”

“That’s a shame. I love it when I can touch a piece of history.” She flicked back through her pages.

“Is there more?”

“A little. The new church was built in seventeen hundred and two on the site of the old abbey, which had been sacked and largely destroyed when Catholicism was driven out of England. That’s the church that’s still there – still on the ancient pagan site.”

“That seems paradoxical.”

“A lot of the Christian holy places on this small, wet island are actually old pagan sites. It made it easier to convert people.”

“So, it’s an Anglican church, right?”

“Wrong. It
was
Anglican right up until eighteen forty-eight. But then the local parish cut all ties with the Anglican church and called themselves an independent reform church. But as you can see, they still look and behave like Anglicans.”

“Does that mean they’re fundamentalists?”

“Now this is the bit I had trouble finding out. Nobody really knows except for the people who belong to the church. Definitely not associated officially with the Anglican church. Most people I spoke to said, yes, they’re fundamentalist

Christians. But one of the post-grads in archaeology said the church was closer to a graveyard cult, because they really are so obsessed with that cemetery. But, and this is the weird thing, hardly anybody who actually resided in Solgreve during their lives is buried there.”

“What? My grandmother’s buried there.”

“She’s one of the rare ones. They usually run their corpses into other towns nearby.”

“Are they trying to preserve the space?”

“Maybe. But why not just build another cemetery?

There’s plenty of room on the other side of the village. And they do occasionally inter people from out of town. Some people have requested graves near the sea, and the village charges the family a small fee to have them buried here.”

“But that’s so weird.”

“Don’t ask me what it means. But that’s why the suggestion that they might be a graveyard cult came up.”

“They’re so ordinary, Cathy. They’re such

ineffectual, small-minded people. I just can’t imagine it.” She picked up her tea, realised it was cold and took it to the microwave. “You want me to zap your tea?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Cathy handed Maisie her cup.

“Are you ready for more?”

“There’s more?”

“I guess this last bit isn’t too weird, but since the new church was built, in seventeen hundred and two, there have been five Reverend Fowlers.”

“Go on.”

Cathy read from her notes. “Reverend Tristran Fowler, died in seventeen sixty-eight aged ninety-two. Passed it on to his great-nephew Reverend Brodie Fowler, died in eighteen twenty-nine aged – wait for it –

one hundred and four. His son Charles was in charge until he died in nineteen hundred, followed by his son Philip, who is the current Reverend’s father. They all lived until ninety or beyond except for Philip, who died at seventy-four. Good genes, huh?”

“Might be something else.”

“Something else?”

“I’ll explain later. Any more to tell me?”

“That’s it. Does it clarify anything?”

The microwave pinged. Maisie pulled out their tea and settled down across from Cathy. “No. It only raises more questions. This place is full of secrets.”

“But what small town isn’t? I mean, it’s isolated, it’s tiny, probably half the locals are inbred. And so what if they’re superstitious about burial? It’s human nature to be worried about death and the soul’s progress. Perhaps they just express it more openly than most people.”

“I don’t think my grandmother died of natural causes.”

Cathy raised her eyebrows. “And you think the villagers had something to do with it?”

Maisie shook her head. “Not as such. But they might know the truth and be covering it up. They’re certainly delighted that she’s gone.”

“How do you think she died?”

“I think she was pursued to her death by evil forces.” Maisie smiled, embarrassed. “If that doesn’t sound too wild.”

Cathy watched her steadily, blue eyes round with anticipation. “Okay,” she said. “You’d better tell me everything.”

Sacha phoned at eleven o’clock.

“I’m coming home tomorrow.”

“How did it go with your father?”

“Is it okay if I pick my van up in the afternoon?”

“Sure. My friend Cathy’s here.” She glanced over at Cathy, who had her nose deep in a book about elemental spirits. Her friend had not reacted well to the suggestion that evil forces were afoot in Solgreve, and was desperately seeking evidence to prove that no such thing existed. “Perhaps you can stay for dinner.”

“Maybe.” A sigh. “I’m pretty tired.”

“Well, the offer’s there.” She was dying to ask him about Chris, but he seemed so distant, like he wasn’t even really listening to her. That closeness they had shared in London seemed to have evaporated.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Around five.”

“Okay, then –”

The phone clicked before she could say goodbye. The village hall on Cross Street was not the Reverend’s favourite venue. The cracks in the walls made a mockery of the heating, causing everybody to be wrapped up in scarves and overcoats. The room was illuminated by one flickering fluorescent light and one ordinary bulb which hung inside a dusty orange shade. The Reverend looked around him. A circle of concerned citizens – around seventy in all – sat in rickety stackable chairs, gossiping among themselves. He hated community meetings. Speaking publicly, defending his decisions, dealing with the egos – it was all too much for him. He’d rather be home in bed. He turned to Tony Blake, who sat next to him.

“Shall we begin?” he said.

“I think so.” Tony cleared his throat and said loudly, “Everybody, let’s start.” He waited for conversations to end and a few shushes to be passed around the circle. When it was quiet he said, “Elsa, you wanted this meeting called. Perhaps you should open.”

Elsa Smith stood. She held her index finger aloft and began to speak in sharp tones. “First, the girl’s been asking Doctor Honour, the Reverend, and Tony about how Sybill died. Second,” the second finger went up, “she turned up at my house the day before yesterday, asking me the same thing, being very aggressive and demanding. I was afraid for my safety.” Finger number three joined the other two.

“Third, she met a friend at the bus stop yesterday morning. The friend had a duffel bag and hasn’t left yet. And this afternoon I saw another friend walk up towards her place. Who knows how long these people will be staying or what they’ll get up to? We can’t have it, and I propose that Reverend Fowler,”

his name was spoken heavily and accusingly, “live up to his earlier promise and do something about getting rid of her.”

“Hear, hear,” the Kings echoed loudly.

The Reverend resisted the urge to shrink down in his seat, and for all the world he wished he was a parish priest in a sunny alcove in some other part of the world. The eyes of the group were upon him as they waited for him to speak. He read hostility on their faces, or perhaps desperation. For hundreds of years Solgreve had kept its little secret and thousands of people had benefited from it. Those here were afraid they might be the first generation to face an old age full of pain and suffering, the first generation to expect death any time from seventy onwards. And because of Sybill that possibility had veered so close. They were all still skittish from the shock of finding out how close, and they were projecting their fear onto the girl.

He waited for Elsa to sit down. Her eyes were beady – that was the word, wasn’t it? He supposed he should be thankful for such a concerned and involved parish. Other men of the cloth had to deal with indifference or the disavowal of responsibility. He straightened his back but did not stand, and tried to put as much power behind his voice as possible.

“I understand that you are concerned. But this girl is not her grandmother. She’s a young woman on a holiday and she’ll go home soon enough, and her friends will go home too. I think we should just wait it out.” Was he cutting his own throat? He, too, was afraid that the girl would find out Solgreve’s secret and ruin it all for them – and because he was so implicated, he dreaded to think what his fate would be in such a situation, should he even live through it. But he knew what they were going to ask him to do. They were almost baying for her blood, they would like to see her disposed of as Sybill had been disposed of.

“Wait it out?” Elsa again. “Are you mad?”

A general murmur of belligerence went around the circle. Even Tony lowered his eyebrows at the Reverend.

“Come on, Reverend. You made us a promise once before. You have to use your . . . influence,” the constable said. “The Wraiths should be all over that cottage. She’d be gone in a matter of days.”

Approval ran round the circle now. The Reverend considered telling them about the threatening phone call to her family, but that would only highlight his inadequacy. Because nothing had come of that phone call. He couldn’t sound threatening and he knew it. Perhaps he should have had Lester make the call. No, his fate was sealed. Tonight he would be walking down the cold staircase into the foundations of the abbey.

“Very well, I shall ask. And you know I can only ask.” He added this last to remind them that he was not superhuman. His power had always been derived power.

“We need other reassurances, though,” said

Margaret King.

“In case she doesn’t go,” her husband said to clarify.

“What other reassurances can I give you?”

“Give her until the end of the month. If she’s still here . . .” Margaret trailed off, almost as if voicing her idea out loud had made her realise its import. Her husband nudged her. Elsa Smith glared down upon her. Clearly these speaking parts had been worked out in advance. Reverend Fowler wondered what chance he had ever had against these people.

“If she’s still here after the thirty-first of January, she gets what Sybill got.”

“Now, wait,” said the Reverend, “that’s a bit extreme. Sybill had been involved in –”

“I suggest we put it to a vote,” Elsa Smith declared.

“Those in favour raise a hand.”

He didn’t need to count to see he was outvoted. What was he to do? This was the way decisions had been made in Solgreve for generations. He couldn’t warn the girl without incriminating himself. He had to hope that she would respond to the visits of the Wraiths.

“It’s decided,” Elsa Smith announced triumphantly.

“At the end of the month.”

“I’ll go to him tonight,” the Reverend said, his shoulders slumping forward. “If that’s what you want, I’ll go to him tonight.”

***

The Reverend stood on the cliff’s edge in the dark. All the villagers had gone home and now he was alone with this task. Somewhere to the north, past headstones and trees and houses, was Sybill’s cottage. He longed to take the cliff path up to the house, knock on the door, go inside where it was warm and explain everything. “You must leave,” he would say, “because you may very well die if you do not.” But this wasn’t possible. Not only would it be a betrayal of his calling, it would be an admission of his awful, awful guilt. No man should know what he knew and be able to withstand the pressure of self-condemnation. But then, he could be wrong, he could have misheard those old stories which had placed a chill in his stomach. He was putting off the inevitable.

He walked to the abbey, found his keys and let himself into the spire. Opened the hatch, down the stairs, one at a time. Cold, cold earth. A glimmer under a door at the end of a tunnel. He knocked loudly. The door moved a crack, crepey fingers, like pallid worms, holding it open. Darkness within but for a strange, phosphorescent glow.

“I have a favour to ask from the villagers,” he said, forcing his voice over the fear he felt, the fear he always felt no matter how often he came here.

“Come in, then.” A croak, an impossible voice.

“Thank you, Doctor Flood.”

What a relief not to have to think of spells and psychic dreams and the possibility of evil spirits. How comfortable just to sit by the fire with two friends and a bottle of spiced mead (Sacha’s contribution to the evening) and feel safe, warm and . . . well, perhaps a little bit drunk.

“That was a damn fine meal,” Sacha said, for the third time. Maisie wished she could take credit, but Cathy had cooked it. She was a committed vegetarian and had an amazing way with eggplant. Maisie had never cooked anything with eggplant in her life. Cathy sat cross-legged on the hearth, hands stretched out towards the fire. “Do you know, Sacha, that when I arrived all she had in the cupboards were instant noodles and canned soup?”