Blood Harvest

77

19 December
WHEN TOM WOKE UP, THE ROOM WAS DARK. THE CLOCK on his desk told him it was nearly three in the morning. He was alone in Joe’s bed.
He closed his eyes again. He remembered seeing a television programme about people having a sort of connection in their heads. Identical twins often had it, the programme had said, they could tell what the other was thinking without speaking out loud. He and Joe weren’t so very far apart in age. Quite often, he knew exactly what his brother was thinking. Maybe he and Joe had this connection. Maybe if he concentrated really hard, Joe could tell him where he was.
Softly, the church clock began to strike the hour. Bong, bong, bong.
The linen of the altar cloth was brushing against Harry’s face. He woke with an effort. He raised his hand to his face and pressed the luminous button on his watch. Ten past three. There was a cold breeze on his face. Someone had opened a door.
As quietly as he could, Harry rolled out from under the altar, got to his feet and crossed to the organ. The church looked empty. The square grille beneath his feet was still in place. No one had come up from the crypt.
He stood still, listening hard. The wind had fallen; the weather forecast earlier that evening had mentioned the possibility of snow.
After five minutes he made his way slowly down the aisle, checking the pews on each side as he went. At the back of the church he tried the door to the crypt. It was still locked and bolted. Upstairs, the gallery was empty. He crossed to the small wooden door that led to the bell tower. It was locked but not bolted. Had he drawn that bolt earlier? He couldn’t have done. But he was sure he had.
Nothing. If Joe was sending messages, Tom wasn’t receiving them. And it was suddenly impossible to lie still. Tom pushed back the duvet and climbed out of bed. He crossed the landing and opened the door to Millie’s room. She was fast asleep, her hair damp with sweat, her little arms clutching Simba to her chest.
What if Joe were outside right now? What if he’d come home and just couldn’t get in? He might be huddled on the doorstep, freezing cold. Tom ran lightly down the stairs and peered out through the glass of the front door. No tiny, cold boy on the doorstep.
He was just about to go back upstairs when a sound in the living room made him stop. Hardly daring to hope, he pushed open the door. His mum, still in the clothes she’d been wearing all day, lay on one of the sofas, a blanket around her hips. On the other sofa sat his dad. His head had fallen back and his eyes were shut. He was breathing heavily.
Tom crept into the room. On the third sofa there were cushions and a brightly coloured throw. He lay down and pulled the throw over himself.
Harry unlocked the door to the bell tower. Bloody hell, it was cold. The tower was empty, the bell hanging upside-down just as he’d left it hours earlier. There was no point going up there. No one could climb out through the tower.
No adult male could. A slim woman might manage it. And Ebba was the size of a child. Harry pushed himself up until he could see out properly. The tiled roof sloped away from him. At the opposite corner, at the front of the church, he could see one of the three fake bell towers. Unlike the one he was standing in, they were empty, built only to provide aesthetic balance to the church. He could see the night sky through the stone columns. There was no one on the roof – he couldn’t have drawn the bolt earlier. He climbed back down and left the gallery. Crossing the nave, he looked at his watch again. Twenty to four. Might as well go back to bed.