Blood Harvest Part 14

And hide.

Everything was quiet. Cold. Wet. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was somewhere dark and damp. He was lying down, but had no idea whether he'd fallen or just run out of breath. He was panting as if he'd never get enough air in his lungs ever again. Something hard was digging into his ribs but he didn't dare move.

'Tom!'

His dad's voice. He was close by. Except ... was it? Was it him?

'Daddee.' A soft voice, low and teasing, like a kid playing hide and seek. A voice that sounded oh G.o.d exactly like ...

'Tom, where are you?' called his dad.

No, no, Dad, no. It's not me!

'Daddee ...'

'Really not funny, Tom. Come out now.'

'Gareth, have you found him?' His mother's voice, from further away. She sounded as if she was crying. Was it her? It sounded like her, but ...

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps close by. Too heavy to be ...

Tom was on his feet. He was in the graveyard and his dad was ten feet away. He'd seen him, was coming towards him. Then Tom was being carried across the graveyard and suddenly there was his mum and they were inside and that horrible moaning noise was so loud in his head. He could see his mother's face trying to talk to him but the noise was too loud. They were in the sitting room and his dad had put him down on one sofa and his mum was leaning over him, holding on to him and trying to say something, but he couldn't hear because the sounds in his head were just too loud. Then she started to cry and Tom could see tears running down her face, but he couldn't hear her crying because all he could hear, all he would ever hear again, was this horrible, horrible howling.

And then he realized who was howling.

'Tom, angel, please stop crying, please stop.'

He had stopped. His mum just didn't seem to have noticed. She was on the sofa too now and had pulled Tom on to her lap. He wasn't much smaller than she was and he never sat on her knee any more, but he was so glad to be there with her arms wrapped tight around him. Then there were footsteps at the bottom of the stairs and his dad appeared in the doorway.

'They're fine,' he said to Alice in a soft voice. 'Both still asleep.'

Gareth crossed the room and knelt down on the rug in front of Tom. Then he reached up to stroke his son's forehead.

'What happened, matey?' His dad asked, running his hand over Tom's head.

He told them, of course. Why wouldn't he? They were his parents, the people he trusted more than anyone else in the whole world. It hadn't occurred to him that there are some things parents can't bring themselves to believe.

32.

11 October 'All creatures of our G.o.d and King Lift up your voice and with us sing.'

THE CHURCH CHURCH WAS WAS CLOSE CLOSE TO TO FULL FULL AND AND THE THE PEOPLE PEOPLE OF OF Heptonclough weren't shy about using their voices. Harry scanned the congregation. Jenny Pickup was standing beside her husband, two rows from the front. Her face seemed composed. Heptonclough weren't shy about using their voices. Harry scanned the congregation. Jenny Pickup was standing beside her husband, two rows from the front. Her face seemed composed.

One or two men in the congregation, on the other hand, looked as though they might be nursing hangovers, and he wondered how many of them had been involved in the festivities of the previous evening. Ritual slaughter on Sat.u.r.day night; church the next morning. Ah well. He lived among farmers now.

He hadn't spotted the Fletchers yet. Alice had a.s.sured him they would be well away from Heptonclough the night before but, even so, their house was just too close to the barn d.i.c.k Grimes used as the town abattoir. When he'd arrived an hour earlier, Harry had spent five minutes walking up and down the road. The street outside gets how shall I put this? a little messy, The street outside gets how shall I put this? a little messy, Tobias had said. Either it had rained in the night or the clean-up operation had been thorough. There was no trace of what had taken place the night before. Tobias had said. Either it had rained in the night or the clean-up operation had been thorough. There was no trace of what had taken place the night before.

The hymn was drawing to an end. There was Gareth, halfway down on the left side of the aisle. Alice was by his side. One of her hands held a hymn book, the other was on Tom's shoulder. Her eldest son seemed to be staring at his feet. None of them were singing.

'I've been asked two questions rather frequently over the past three weeks,' said Harry. He was in the pulpit and most faces were looking his way; always a good sign. 'The first is: " 'Ow're you settlin' in, Vicar?" The second: "You're not a countryman, are you, lad?" '

A few quiet t.i.tters around the church.

'The answer to the first is: very well, thank you, everyone's been very kind. To the second: no, I'm not. I'm not a countryman. But I'm starting to get it.'

In the crowded church, only three people were sitting in the front left-hand pew: Sinclair, his father Tobias and his elder daughter, Christiana. In the old days this would have been the Renshaw family pew. To all intents and purposes, it still was.

'We can all get great comfort from the sense of living in an ordered universe,' continued Harry. 'Up here, among the hills, where the land plays such an important part in our lives and where the seasons govern so much of what we do, it's perhaps easier to feel a sense of harmony with the world than we might do in our towns and cities.'

In the soft light of the church, Christiana Renshaw's large, regular features looked almost beautiful, and very like those of her younger sister. She was looking not at Harry but at an apple in one of the window flower-arrangements. She was sitting several feet away from her grandfather.

'There is a reason,' said Harry, 'why the pa.s.sage I just read to you is so popular at harvest time, at christenings and weddings, even at funerals. At important times in our lives we like to be reminded that we are part of a great plan, that there is a purpose. And that everything has its place and its time. Our reading today, Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one to eight, conveys that better than just about any other biblical piece I can think of. '

Gillian was sitting eight rows back, immediately behind the Fletcher family. Even from a distance, Harry could see that her hair had been washed and that she was wearing make-up.

'So it's rather strange then,' he continued, 'that the rest of Ecclesiastes should be the least understood book of the entire Bible.'

The service was almost over. The congregation was singing the offertory hymn, d.i.c.k and Selby Grimes, the church's two sidesmen, were carrying round the collection plates and Harry was preparing for Holy Communion. He'd prepared everything the afternoon before, opening the wine and decanting it. All he needed to do now was pour the wine into the chalice. He took the stopper off the decanter, poured some wine into the cup and added water. He took the wafers of the host and placed them on the silver tray. He would carry them round and distribute them. Sinclair would follow him with the wine.

Harry raised the plate into the air. The priest is always the first to receive Holy Communion. Next would be Sinclair and the organist, then the rest of the congregation. Behind him he could hear the sidesmen marshalling people into place.

'The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for you, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life.' He took a wafer from the plate. 'Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on Him in your heart by faith with thanksgiving.'

Harry put the wafer into his mouth. The organist had finished playing and was crossing to take his place beside Sinclair. The church had fallen silent. Harry could hear the first row of communicants settling themselves at the chancel rail. He should phone Jenny and Mike later, make sure their first service hadn't been too difficult. He'd pop round if necessary. He lifted the chalice. Could he smell something strange?

'The blood of our lord Jesus Christ,' he said, 'preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ's blood was shed for you and be thankful.' Harry brought the chalice to his lips. The sun outside came streaming through the window above the altar. For a second the solid-silver chalice looked as crimson-red as its contents.

'The blood of Christ,' he whispered to himself. The cold of the silver met his lips.

Outside, rooks were flying around the roof. He could hear them calling to each other. Inside the church, all was still. The congregation was hushed, waiting for him to rise and begin the sacrament.

Slowly, very slowly, Harry put the cup back down on the altar.

There was a white linen napkin just within reach. He grasped it and clutched it to his mouth. He was going to gag, any second now. He picked up the cup again and walked as quickly as he could without spilling its contents to the vestry. He pushed the door open with his shoulder then kicked it shut behind him. He got to the sink just in time.

Red liquid splattered across white porcelain as Harry realized he was retching. And that the entire congregation could hear him. He turned on the cold tap and ran water over his hands. Then he raised them to his face.

'Vicar, what's wrong?'

Sinclair Renshaw had followed him into the vestry. Harry cupped his hands and allowed them to fill with water. He brought them up to his face and drank.

'Vicar, are you ill? What can I do?'

Harry turned, lifted the chalice and held it out to his churchwarden. 'Another tradition?' he asked. His hand was shaking. He put the cup down again.

Sinclair glanced at the cup, then turned and walked swiftly away. He closed the door of the vestry and walked back until he was standing close to Harry.

'Is this how it all ends?' asked Harry. 'You let the blood run freely on Sat.u.r.day night and then the next day you drink it?'

'What on earth's the matter?' asked Sinclair.

Harry was pointing at the cup. 'That isn't wine,' he said, his hand still shaking. 'It's blood. Not the symbolic kind the real thing.'

'Surely not?'

'Taste it yourself. I did.'

Sinclair took the cup and carried it to the light. He raised it to his face and took a deep breath through his nose. Then he dipped his forefinger into the liquid and examined it closely. Harry watched, unable to read the expression on the older man's face. After a second or two, Sinclair rinsed his hand under the tap and then turned back to face him.

'Have a drink of water,' he said. 'Take a moment to compose yourself.'

Then he turned again and crossed the room. On a shelf, he found a second chalice, an older, slightly tarnished one, and rinsed it out in the sink. Opening a cupboard door Sinclair clearly knew his way around the vestry he took out a new bottle of wine. Harry found a chair and watched as Sinclair found a corkscrew and opened the wine. He poured it into the chalice and sipped it.

'This is fine,' he said. 'Are you able to continue?'

Harry couldn't reply. The blood of Christ, shed for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you. Blood harvest. Blood harvest.

'Vicar!' Sinclair's voice was still low, but he wasn't standing for any nonsense. 'I can tell everyone you've been taken ill. Would you prefer me to do that?'

Harry was on his feet again, shaking his head. 'No. I'll be fine,' he said. 'Thank you.'

'Good man. Say the blessing here, just with me. It'll help calm you.'

He was right. Harry took a deep breath and said the familiar words. He raised the cup to his lips before he had time to think about what he was doing and drank. Still wine.

'Feeling better?' asked Sinclair.

'Yes, thank you. We should ...' He gestured towards the vestry door. He had no idea what everyone outside would be thinking by now.

'One moment.' Sinclair's hand was on his arm. 'After the service I'll take care of that.' He gestured towards the first cup, the one still filled with ... 'A stupid practical joke,' he went on. 'People had a lot to drink last night. Please accept my apologies.'

Harry nodded and the two men left the vestry. Harry picked up the plate of wafers and crossed the chancel to where the first communicant was still kneeling patiently.

'The body of Christ,' he said, placing a wafer on the outstretched hand before him. 'The body of Christ ... The body of Christ.' He continued down the line and behind him could hear Sinclair administering the wine. 'The blood of Christ,' he was saying, 'the blood of Christ.

Harry wondered if he'd ever be able to take pleasure in those words again.

33.

"WINE, HARRY? HARRY?'

'Thanks. Do you have any white?' Harry took off his coat and looked for somewhere to hang it.

Coat-hooks in the Fletcher house always seemed occupied.

'Give me a minute.' Gareth crouched down and opened the fridge.

'Something smells good, Alice,' said Harry, taking a large gla.s.s from Gareth. The kitchen table was set for Sunday lunch. Millie, in her high chair, nibbled on a breadstick. There was no sign of the boys.

The bowl of the gla.s.s felt very cold. The liquid inside was rea.s.suringly pale in colour. He sipped it. Definitely wine. Millie offered him her breadstick. When he shook his head, she dropped it on the floor.

'We're having Southern Baked Chicken,' replied Alice. 'Crispin' up nicely.'

'What was the problem during Communion?' asked Gareth, pouring a gla.s.s of the white wine for Alice and red for himself. 'We wondered where you'd gone.'

'Oh, the wine was corked,' said Harry, as he and Sinclair had agreed he would. What had happened was best kept between the two of them. He bent down to find Millie's breadstick. 'Seriously nasty, vinegary stuff,' he went on.

'It all went pretty well, though,' said Alice. 'You had a full house and n.o.body went to sleep.'

'And I'm sure they all found it a deeply fulfilling spiritual experience,' said Gareth. 'Ignore my wife. She's American.'

'Like you ever set foot in a church before you married me,' retorted Alice. 'Were you even baptized? Where's your breadstick, poppet? Oh, did the vicar steal it? Bad vicar.'

'I was dipped into Rawtenstall reservoir by my left ankle,' said Gareth. 'It made me invincible.'

Something was wrong here. Alice and Gareth were trying too hard. Something about the smiles and the banter felt forced. Come to think of it, neither looked like they'd had much sleep.

'Can I do anything, Alice?' Harry offered.

'You could find the boys. It usually takes about ten minutes to get them to the table, so be firm.'

Taking his gla.s.s with him, Harry began a search of the house. The downstairs rooms were empty of children so he headed upstairs. 'Boys,' he called when he reached the top step. 'Lunch is ready.'

There was no reply, so he walked towards two doors at the end of the landing. He knocked gently at the first and pushed it open. Joe sat in the middle of the carpet, surrounded by tiny toy soldiers.

'Hey, buddy,' said Harry. 'Mum says lunch is ready.'

Joe looked back down and moved several of his soldiers to new positions.

'I heard you being sick,' he said. 'In church. Everyone heard.'

Great, thought Harry. 'Well, I hope it won't put anyone off their lunch,' he said. 'Are you coming down?' He stepped back to the doorway. The room next door must be Tom's.

'They died, didn't they?'