The Old Religion Read online

  And then she saw him on TV. On the screen in the pub. A photo of the boy.

  She turned to the other two she was sitting with. Kai and Noah.

  ‘Hey, that’s—’

  A look from Noah silenced her. Kai looked away from her.

  She kept watching. The sound was down low but she still managed to make things out. He had gone to Cornwall with his university friends for a small break before their exams. And hadn’t come back. Police wanted to question a young woman who was seen with him on the night –

  She stared at Noah once more.

  ‘Do they mean me?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said, eyes half lidded, face blank. ‘You’re attracting attention.’

  Lila did as she was told, but kept staring at the screen. Deliberately not looking at Noah, hoping he wouldn’t watch her, gauge her reactions, knowing he’d be doing exactly that. Kai looked anywhere but at her.

  A couple came on the screen, sitting at a table, flashlights going off all around them. The woman couldn’t stop herself from crying and the man had his arm around her, was doing everything he could just to hold her upright. He looked like he wasn’t far off joining her. Beyond the pain, they looked nice. That was the only word she could think of to describe them. Nice. Pleasant. A middle-aged, middle-class couple. The kind who were sure of their home and their life, their place in the world. And now their world had caved in, now they weren’t sure of anything any more.

  They were talking about their son, Kyle. How much they missed him, loved him. How they just wanted him to come home safe. The mother not keeping it together by this point, collapsed into a sack of grief. The father still going, pleading with the camera, looking directly at Lila.

  ‘If anyone knows where our son is, please . . . any . . . anything at all. Please get in touch. We just want to know he’s all right. We . . .’

  And then he collapsed too. The screen changed, went back to a reporter frowning at the camera. He gave some contact information, emails, phone numbers, drew out an ending to the report in clichéd prose poetry, then it was back to the studio.

  Lila didn’t say any more for the rest of the night in the pub. But she was aware of Noah staring at her the whole time. And of Kai not staring at her.

  That night she found herself lying awake, still thinking about the boy. But more importantly, about the boy’s parents. To have someone care about you, love you, the way they did for their son. To be heartbroken when that person is gone from their lives. It was so alien to her, like she was watching a documentary on a different culture, a different world. One she had never been part of. A sudden revelation came to her: That was the way it should be. That’s what’s supposed to happen in families.

  She lay awake the rest of the night.

  The next day she started asking questions. Quietly, subtly. Or so she thought.

  The first person she approached was Kai. But he was suddenly unavailable. Avoiding her, walking away when she came towards him, his friends surrounding him when she tried to get him alone. That hurt. He was the nearest thing to a boyfriend she had ever had. A saviour, even, considering how he had picked her up and brought her to the commune. And asked for nothing from her in return. Well, not much. Well, nothing she wasn’t happy to give in order to feel safe and wanted in return. And she had become quite fond of him. More than she would admit. But now he just blanked her. So, trying not to let the hurt show, she tried again with others.

  What had happened to the boy? Where was he now? And the answer was always the same. No one knew who he was, where he was, what she was talking about. Or if they did, they weren’t telling her. And then she became aware of Noah. Watching her, watching those she questioned. Saying nothing, but warning them against talking to her all the same. Judging her.

  A word kept cropping up. Slipped out when Noah wasn’t looking. She didn’t understand the meaning or significance but she knew it must be important.

  Crow.

  That night he approached her. ‘Lot of questions,’ he said.

  She didn’t know how to respond. He was right.

  ‘Why?’

  This one she knew she should answer. The way he’d said it told her there was a lot riding on the right answer. But she didn’t know what to say. What could she say?

  ‘Just . . . just thinking about that boy. That’s all. Hoping he’s all right.’

  Noah’s face was impassive, eyes hard. ‘Best that you forget you ever saw him.’

  She looked straight at him, questions tumbling through her mind, bubbling into form on her lips.

  He stopped her. ‘Just do it. For your own good. Right?’

  And that was that.

  But she couldn’t let it go. Another sleepless night followed. And by morning she had reached a decision.

  Before anyone else was up and without being seen, she left the commune and began walking. Down the steep, narrow lane towards the village of St Petroc. And its one working phone box. At least she hoped it was working. She had memorised the helpline number from the TV broadcast and she didn’t care what Kai would say, what Noah would do. She thought of those two parents, grieving for their lost son in a way her own parents never had and never would over her. Heart hammering, hands shaking, she stepped up to the phone box, ready to pull open the door.

  And Noah appeared from behind it.

  ‘You going to phone one of those numbers, are you? Tell the crying mummy and daddy where their precious little boy is?’

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t need to say anything. It was written all over her face.

  ‘Can’t have that, can we?’

  And he grabbed her by the hair, pulling her along behind him.

  She screamed for help, but Kai was there with his camper van within seconds and she was thrown in the back, speedily driven off.

  Back at the commune, Noah threw her into the yurt. Locked the door.

  That was when the storm hit.

  It raged all night. Smashing against the canvas walls, like it would tear it from its moorings. But despite its fierceness the yurt was in no danger of moving. It was why they’d put her in there. Well anchored to start with, the more rain that hit the canvas, the more rain it absorbed and the more its weight increased, pulling it further into the ground.

  She ran through a whole range of emotions. Anger, denial, more anger. Stomping about, kicking the walls, trying to tear through the heavy canvas, leaving her nails, her fingertips, in stripped, bleeding stumps. Screaming all the time, before collapsing, exhausted. But no one came. Then eventually, giving in to fear, scared about what they would do to her next, how long they would keep her here. Too scared to move.

  She knew it would be nothing good. She had heard stories of people who had challenged Noah, even just disagreed with him. They had disappeared. Suddenly. Left the camp, everyone said, their eyes darting round, seeing who was listening as they spoke. Didn’t want to be here any more. But she knew – they all knew – there was more to it than that.

  Because the bodies would show up eventually, washed ashore somewhere along the coast, bloated and chewed and smashed by the rocks. A surfing accident or a cliff walk gone horribly wrong. Unidentified at first, then someone would remember the commune. And come asking questions. And be met with shrugs, indifference. People come and go. Stay as long as they want, leave whenever they feel like it. Were they here? Probably. Do you know anything about this? No. Sad shake of the head from Noah and that would be that. Case closed. Accidental death, death by misadventure, whatever. But death all the same.

  And that, she knew – feared – was what would happen to her. It was Noah’s way of dealing with problems. And that’s what she had become.

  Knowing what she knew. There was only one way Noah would let her leave the camp.

  Anger and fear spasmed through her. No . . . no . . . no . . . not her. Not this way. Not now. She stood up, looked round once more, her eyes long accustomed
to the darkness.

  There must be a way out, must be . . .

  Nothing. They had cleared all the furniture from it except what she needed. A mattress on the ground. One of their home-made bio toilets in the corner with a bucket of sand next to it. And a strong lock on the wooden door. No light, not even a candle. She might use it to burn her way through the canvas.

  So she sat in the dark, listened to the storm.

  And that was when she felt it. Water. Dripping on her.

  She looked up. Daring to hope, hating herself for that emotion.

  She saw it. A chink of darkness against the lighter colour of the canvas. A possible way out.

  Lila looked round, tried to find something she could stand on to reach the hole. Found only the bio toilet. An old wooden armchair with a hole cut out of the seat and a tin bucket placed underneath. Another bucket next to it filled with sand, a scoop to put the sand in the bucket with. That would have to do. She pulled the toilet chair until it was underneath the hole, stood on the seat, tried to reach it. There was a length of rope hanging down, a binding for the canvas that had come loose during the storm. Lila jumped for it, caught it. Tugged. The rope held. Good. She gave a grim smile and, heart hammering, pulled herself up the rope.

  The hole was small and the more she pulled on the rope, the more she tightened it. But she managed to get her hands on the seams, her toes just about balancing on the back of the old armchair.

  Her fingers were almost shredded from trying to find a way out through the walls. Earlier wounds were reopened, earlier pain revisited as she pulled, riving it apart until the hole was big enough for her to fit through. Her stomach muscles and arms were cramped from stretching, but every time she felt like stopping she reminded herself what lay in store for her if she didn’t make it. That gave her the extra spurt of energy she needed.

  Eventually the canvas started to give. The hole became big enough. She just had to pull herself through it . . .

  That was the hardest part. Grasping the canvas with her bleeding fingers, pulling her cramping body up with her, the rain, wind and cold slicing against her exposed face.

  But she had no choice. Eventually she managed it. Lay on the roof of the yurt, gasping for breath, gulping down oxygen, hoping it would rid her body of the pain of getting there. For a few seconds she didn’t even feel the cold, the rain. The pain in her fingers.

  But she couldn’t lie there for ever. She sat up, looked around. Lights were burning inside the tents, camper vans and the old bus but no one was moving about, the storm having kept them all in.

  She slid down the roof, clambered down the side of the yurt. Looked around. She couldn’t go back to her tent for clothes or belongings. Too dangerous. So she would have to just go. Head into the town, see what she could find there. Set out on her own. Just get away from here.

  And that was how she had ended up in the battered old garage.

  She didn’t know where she was, or how long she had been running. All she knew was that she had to keep moving, that she couldn’t stay where she was for too long. She couldn’t think about Noah or the commune, or about how much Kai had hurt her. That was all for later. No matter how cold she was, how wet, she would have to move on eventually.

  So she opened the garage door, looked out. An old stone cottage was nearby. It looked empty. No lights on. Perhaps it was connected to the garage. Maybe a holiday let that no one would want out of season.

  Looking around once more, knowing they could be anywhere, watching her, she left the garage and made her way quickly towards the back of the cottage.

  It had to be warmer and drier than the garage.

  4

  The last of the Round Tablers – coming down to the bar for drinks after their meeting – eventually staggered off home and Tom and Pearl locked up the pub. Pearl called Tom stupid for venturing out along the cliffs when a storm was brewing and he had, reluctantly, agreed. She had insisted he couldn’t do it again, especially not at night when the weather and darkness combined to make the path even more treacherous and had first offered him to stay the night in one of the many unused beds in the hotel upstairs. After he had politely turned the offer down she had insisted on driving him. Grateful, he thanked her and said yes.

  She pulled up as near to the front of his cottage as she could. He was renting a place in Port Cain, just along the coast from St Petroc. When he first discovered it he had been surprised that somewhere so small actually had a name. A few stone cottages, mostly in bad repair, a shingle beach and cliffs on either side. Not even big enough to encourage tourists, developers or TV drama makers. But perfect for him.

  Pearl looked at him. He knew he was expected to say something.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I saved you from a soaking.’

  She was right. The rain had, if anything, intensified during the journey.

  ‘You going to be OK getting home?’ He asked out of politeness because no matter how much he enjoyed her company he just wanted to get inside, wrap himself up in solitude, and not have to make conversation he wasn’t being paid for.

  She must have read his mind. ‘I’d better be getting back.’

  He thanked her again for the lift and got out. If there was a slight awkwardness between them, boss and employee together outside working hours, he didn’t feel it. Or if he did, ignored it. As he approached the door he looked back at the car. She was still sitting there, watching him. He couldn’t gauge her expression. Told himself the rain stopped him from doing so.

  He waited until she had turned the car round and pulled away, then opened the door of his cottage. And stopped dead.

  He heard a noise. Noise meant movement. Which in turn meant someone was inside.

  He froze, the door key still in his hand. His first thought: they’ve found me.

  Standing as still as he could, he listened. Tried to pinpoint the location of the noise over the blare of the wind. The back of the house. The kitchen.

  As quietly as possible, without closing the front door in case he needed to get away quickly, and with the keys held firmly in his hand, the only weapon he could find close by, he stealthily made his way towards the kitchen.

  As he crept along the hallway, he could see a figure through the open kitchen door, silhouetted against the window on the far wall. The window had been broken; rain blew in through the shattered panes.

  He moved closer.

  The figure hadn’t heard him. He tried to force his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Then didn’t need to. A sudden light illuminated his invader. A girl, a teenager, he thought, bedraggled and shivering. Wearing too little clothing for the weather outside. And raiding his fridge.

  Conflicting emotions ran through him. Relief at it not being whom he had expected. Confusion, amusement even, at who it actually was. And further puzzlement over how he was going to deal with the situation.

  ‘Hey,’ he said softly, knowing that if he said anything more she might just run. And he wasn’t angry with her for breaking in. Curious, more than anything.

  She froze, the full rabbit in the headlights. Or rather fridge light. He saw that she was about to bolt, held up his hands to show he meant her no harm.

  ‘Hey,’ he said again, ‘It’s OK. It’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you.’ He slowly stretched over, put his keys down on the kitchen table. ‘It’s OK. It’s OK.’

  Sensing no immediate threat, the girl relaxed slightly but still stood her ground, ready for fight or flight if she had to, a lump of cheese in her hand as a weapon.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting by the table. ‘Not much in there, though. Been meaning to stock up. Unless you like bacon. D’you like bacon? I could do you a bacon sandwich. And a cup of tea. Fancy that?’

  The girl looked around, eyes darting to all corners of the room, sensing a trap.

  ‘There’s just me,’ he told her. ‘And I’m not going to hurt you. Put the light on instead of standing th
ere in the dark.’ He pointed to the wall where the switch was. She gingerly reached out and, eyes never leaving him, turned on the light. ‘There. That’s better.’

  She stared at him and he realised for the first time just what a state she was in. Her clothing was thin, ripped and torn and covered in mud. It looked like she had been running through thorns. Very large thorns. Her hair was likewise matted and tangled. But it was her fingers he noticed the most. Bleeding and sore-looking, like she had tried to claw her way out of something.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Please. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  She did so. And sat round the opposite side of the table, as far away from him as possible.

  He stood up carefully, not making any sudden movement, lifted the kettle and crossed to the sink, filled it. Switched it on. Turned back to her. ‘Bacon sandwich? Or bacon and eggs?’

  ‘I . . . either.’

  ‘How about bacon and eggs with toast?’ He looked at what she was still holding in her hand. ‘With cheese if you want.’

  She nodded. He set about making it.

  She sat in silence while he prepared the meal, occasionally eating from the lump of cheese until it had disappeared. She volunteered nothing about herself and he didn’t ask, not wanting to appear to be interrogating her, at least not until she had been fed. He glanced at her as he cooked, though. There was something familiar about her. He couldn’t immediately place her, but he knew he had seen her before. Probably something to ask her when she felt more confident about talking.

  So much for his solitude.

  Although he found the house warm after the cold outside, she was shivering. He took off his jacket, handed it to her. ‘Put that on for now. I’ll build a fire in a while. Get you warmed through.’

  He placed the bacon and eggs on the table, mug of tea next to it. ‘Knock yourself out.’