Frank was his father’s son.
The nave was empty. About halfway up the aisle, Frank stopped. The girl stopped beside him. His skin prickled. The sound of creaking wood and shifting stone. He imagined the church as a living organism born from deep within the earth; groomed, sculpted and adorned by men.
Frank sat the girl down on a pew. She was malleable and compliant. Understanding in her hooded, green eyes. He bent down to her eye level. Her face was pale and dirty.
“I’m going to take a look around,” Frank said, keeping his voice low, keeping the fear out of it. “I’ll see if anyone’s around. Are you okay to wait here? Don’t worry, I won’t go too far.”
She stared into his face. The corners of her mouth moved, like she wanted to talk.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.” He offered her a tired smile. She looked down at the floor between her dangling legs. She remained there like someone’s lost doll. Frank went to touch her on the shoulder but withdrew his hand at the last moment. He felt bad for leaving her.
Again, he gave her that same feeble half-smile; he wished he’d stop doing that. He felt foolish. What good would a smile do when her parents were dead?
“My name’s Frank,” he said, placing his hand on his chest.
She glanced slowly up at him. Blinked. Looked down again.
Frank searched the other pews. Nobody was hiding in the pulpit or the lectern. The rest of the nave was deserted. Effigies of the Virgin Mary, and St. George fighting the dragon. Cold blank stares from carved faces. He checked the chancel and around the altar. A monolithic organ melded to the wall. He stood before the linen-covered altar, intimidated by the grandeur of the holy paraphernalia: the alter crucifix; the tabernacle; the chalice used for communion; the rows of candles. He felt the weight of history and age inside this place. It was stifling and claustrophobic. There were two doors flanking the chancel.
His footsteps echoed and bounced off the stone walls, making it sound like he was being followed.
Everything was cold.
He kept looking back to make sure the girl was still where he had left her. She was still gazing at the floor.
He checked the north and south transepts flanking the chancel. In a dark corner where the east and north walls met, Frank found a fungal-like growth that stretched from the floor to about five feet high. Pulpy and ripe-smelling. He didn’t touch it. It was the colour of algae and stank like pond water.
Frank returned to the girl. She was lying on the pew, eyes shut. A prayer cushion under her head.
He took off his jacket and placed it over her.
Silence, apart from an occasional distant sound from outside. A scream or a cry penetrating the thick walls.
He wondered who had lit the candles and who had rang the bell earlier. Maybe whoever had done so had already moved on. Maybe they were dead. Maybe they were beyond one of the doors he had declined to investigate. It wasn’t important right now. All that mattered, for now, was that they had shelter for the night.
After blocking the main door with a bookcase full of hymn books, he took out his mobile. No signal. He sat down in the pew one up from the girl. She was wearing blue jeans with patterns of flowers and a white jumper under her pink jacket. White trainers. A green butterfly hair clip amongst her red hair. She reminded him so much of his daughter, and the mere thought of it almost brought him to tears.
He would keep the girl safe. He would watch over the girl all night. He would protect her. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
“I’ll look after you,” he whispered.
In the morning he would decide what to do next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Frank awoke to weak light washing into the church. He checked his watch. Almost six in the morning. He yawned, rubbed his eyes. Groaned sour breath from between furred teeth. Because he had slept sitting upright his spine felt like a rod of hot metal.
The girl was gone.
He got up, straightened himself out, and looked around. Maybe she was hiding.
“Little girl,” he said.
No reply. His jacket was on the floor. He picked it up and put it back on.
She wouldn’t be stupid enough to go outside, would she?
He searched the inside of the church. The main doors were shut. Sudden guilt stabbed him. Panic stirred his guts. He had promised to take care of her. Then he remembered the two doors in the chancel. Frank opened the door to the right and walked into a plainly-decorated, musty room. A light covering of dust on skirting boards. A broken cobweb hung from the ceiling. The room was the sacristy, if he remembered correctly. There was an old porcelain sink, cracked and stained. Vestments hung up in a wardrobe. Communion equipment. A pile of white linen.
The girl wasn’t there.
He took the door to the next room. He could smell alcohol.
There was a dead man at an antique oak desk, slumped back on his chair, his face raised to the ceiling. A half-full bottle of whiskey and some empty blister packs of painkillers. An empty glass.
Frank stepped towards the body.
A porcine-faced priest. His dog collar was yellowed and grimy. Grey whiskers sprouted from a double-chin. Bulging stomach touching the edge of the desk. His hands were dangling by his sides. His eyes were open and dull, cloudy with dust.
A bookshelf on the wall, lined with hardcovers. One was about campanology.
“Bell-ringing,” Frank said. “Solves that mystery then.”
Frank checked the priest’s pulse. Nothing. Still fairly warm. Couldn’t have been dead for long. Rigor hadn’t set in yet. Maybe he had died while Frank and the girl had been sleeping.
“Fucking hell,” Frank muttered. “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t swear,” a quiet voice said behind him.
Frank turned sharply. His heart leapt into his gullet.
The girl was huddled in the corner, where the walls met the floor, her arms folded over herself and her face tilted downwards. Small eyes regarded him over thin wrists. She had been crying, judging by the red around her eyes.
“I’ve been trying to find you,” said Frank. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure? You’re not hurt?”
“I’m okay.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“I was exploring. I found him.” She nodded at the priest. “Did he kill himself?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he sad?”
“Maybe.”
“How did he do it?”
Frank looked at the desktop. “He took a lot of tablets and drank a lot of whiskey. Then he went to sleep.”
“Will he still go to Heaven?”
“If he believed in it, then yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“He believed in Heaven, so that’s where he’ll go.”
“Do you believe in Heaven?”
“Of course I do,” he lied. “I’m sure he’s in Heaven… with the angels and all that jazz.”
“So why did the man kill himself?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because of the bad people?”
“Maybe.”
“Was he scared of the bad people?”
“Probably.”
“I’m scared,” she said.
“You don’t have to be scared,” Frank said. “Everything will be okay.”