The Darkening

Pritam said nothing, but watched his guests. Suzette broke the silence.

‘We think the murders are connected,’ she said.

Pritam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Which ones?’

‘All of them,’ replied Nicholas.

Pritam stopped moving in his chair.

‘Connected? Over a hundred and twenty years?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘Or more,’ he said. ‘Maybe a hundred and fifty years.’

‘We should go,’ said Suzette.

Nicholas shook his head at his sister.

Pritam frowned. The news about the murders was new to him, an unpleasant surprise. Since he’d arrived in Tallong, he’d found it a pretty, hospitable, slightly dull suburb. But now a suggestion that the murders were not a string of chance happenings, but linked. . Maybe a few days ago, he’d have laughed this off. But his aching skull and the dark mood he’d felt since his evening alone in the church had punched down his sense of humour.

‘Are you talking about. . Are you suggesting ritual killings?’ he asked.

Nicholas watched him carefully.

‘Kind of,’ he replied.

Pritam nodded, and stared at the floor, deep in thought. The ticking of the mantel clock seemed suddenly loud. ‘I urge you to be very careful answering this next question,’ he said. ‘Are you also suggesting a connection between all these murders and this church?’

He realised he was gripping the arms of his chair tightly. He looked up at his guests; they’d both noticed the same thing.

‘No,’ said Nicholas slowly. ‘To her.’ He nodded at the leftmost photograph. It showed Reverend de Witt smiling beside dour Eleanor Bretherton as she laid the church’s foundation stone.

Pritam felt his headache returning like a flash tide and he closed his eyes at the pain.

‘Pritam?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing. ‘This is all a bit fantastical for me this evening. Perhaps. .’ He indicated the door.

‘Jesus, hear us out,’ said Nicholas.

Pritam blanched at the blasphemy.

‘Let’s go,’ said Suzette firmly, taking her brother’s arm. ‘Maybe another time, Reverend.’

Nicholas shook her grip off.

‘Pritam, we know it’s all pretty airy-fairy, but if you just let us look through your records-’

Pritam found his voice rising, riding the unwelcome wave of the headache, and was powerless to stop it. ‘Nicholas, you are suggesting cult murders, you’re suggesting some cover-up. It is insulting to my congregation, it’s insulting to Reverend Hird, and it’s insulting to me.’

‘I don’t give a fart about him or your congregation,’ said Nicholas. He jabbed a finger at the photograph of Eleanor Bretherton. ‘It’s her!’

Suzette yanked Nicholas out of his chair and dragged him to the door.

‘We’re sorry,’ she said.

‘I’m not sorry,’ snapped Nicholas, eyes locked on Pritam. ‘Maybe there is some cover-up!’

Pritam saw the wildness in Nicholas’s eyes. Maybe I was wrong, he thought. Maybe he is on drugs.

Suzette threw open the door and dragged Nicholas out into the drizzle, hissing unheard words at her brother.

‘No, it’s a fucking joke,’ he snapped.

‘Good night,’ said Pritam, eyes hard.

‘Sorry,’ said Suzette, closing the door.

Nicholas seemed to think of something, and again slipped out of her grip and stuck his foot between the door and the jamb.

‘Please, Nicholas. .’ began Pritam, walking wearily to the door.

‘One last question and I’ll go.’

Pritam hesitated a moment, then waved his hand — fine.

‘How long has Hird been in Tallong?’ asked Nicholas.

Pritam took a breath, shook his head. ‘Thirty years or more.’

Nicholas nodded, eyes bright; Pritam could again see the pleasant young man who had looked so terrified at the sight of the Green Man.

‘Then get Hird to look at the photograph of Mrs Bretherton. Ask him if he remembers a seamstress named Mrs Quill. Quill, like feather. Will you do that?’

Pritam watched Nicholas for a long moment. He was a nice guy, he was sure, but looked on the edge of some very dark cliff.

‘You should consider getting some grief counselling, Nicholas.’

For some reason, Nicholas let out a bark of a laugh and withdrew his foot.

Pritam shut the door with a loud, solid click. Outside, retreating footsteps and the surf-like hush of rain. Already, his headache seemed to be withdrawing.

He went to the nearest window and eased aside the heavy tapestry curtains. Across the rain-shiny street, brother and sister hurried to their car. He heard their doors close, then the car start and take off. Soon, the only noise was his breathing, the tocking of the clock, the soft clicking of the bar heater element.

Pritam took a deep breath and walked over to the photograph of the Right Reverend de Witt and Eleanor Bretherton laying the foundation stone. The photograph had disturbed him since he first laid eyes on it. He’d always assumed it was because the church, now so solid and real, was in the photograph merely a slab; looking at the old photograph was like seeing an autopsy picture of a close acquaintance lying naked and too exposed. But now, fixing on the severe gaze that Eleanor Bretherton sent back through the glass and a hundred and thirty years, Pritam realised he might have been wrong. The reason the photograph was disturbing was her.

He berated himself. Nicholas Close had undergone trauma. I should have been more sympathetic, he thought. Tomorrow, clear of this awful headache, he’d call the man and apologise. But as for child murders. . there was no way he would upset the Right Reverend with talk of cult killings.

He switched off the outside light.

16

Suzette sat in a silent simmer the entire drive back from the church to Lambeth Street. Nicholas pulled up the hire car. Rain pattered on the roof.

‘You are your own worst enemy, you do know that,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Cate used to say that.’

Suzette blinked. He hadn’t said it for sympathy; it was true. Cate had often chastised him for acting before he thought things through. But the mention of Cate turned down Suzette’s thermostat just a little.

‘She was right. What did she ever see in a twit like you?’

He shrugged. It was a mystery he’d never be able to clarify.

Suzette opened her door. ‘Coming in to see Mum?’ she asked.

He begged off; his mother’s forced pleasantness so soon after the defensive hostility of Pritam Anand would give him the bends. He agreed to meet Suzette the next morning for a decent breakfast at the cafe near the railway station, and make a plan for visiting Plough amp; Vine Health Foods. He waved, watched her hurry across the front yard and through the form of Gavin Boye. The sight made his stomach tighten. He looked quickly away and drove off.

By the time he’d parked outside his flat on Bymar Street, the rain had dropped to a steady drizzle. He was