The muscles in Harry’s arms were screaming at him and still he had no idea how much more of the chain there was to come up. Twenty more tugs and he’d have to rest. Wasn’t sure he’d make it to twenty. Ten more, seven more… no more needed. Clipped on to the end of the chain was a large canvas bag with a heavy, old-fashioned zip. Without stopping to think or rest, Harry pulled it up on to the stone floor of the hut, reached out and pulled open the zip.
Eye sockets – empty – were the first things he saw.
Tom blinked. Snow was blowing in his eyes and he really couldn’t see that well. He was definitely looking at the moon, shining through the stonework of the north-east bell tower. He risked turning his head around. The moon was over his shoulder. Two moons? Ebba was nearing the tower now. She scampered up to one side of it and looked back, waiting for him. What was she thinking of? The helicopter had passed overhead several times that day. The small roofs on the top of the bell towers would have stopped the helicopter crew seeing inside the towers themselves, but the choppers had heat-seeking equipment, they would have spotted a warm body. Ebba was beckoning him forward.
The church had been full of people. When the helicopter started its search, the police had brought everyone off the moors and they’d all gone into the church. Nearly two hundred people had been inside when the helicopter was searching. Two hundred warm bodies. Where do you hide a needle? In a haystack. Tom was close enough now to touch the bell tower, to put his hand through the stone pillars that sat at each corner. He reached out and saw the reflection of his hand coming towards him, saw his own face in the mirror-tiles that sat between the stone pillars of the tower, to create a small box on the roof of the church, just large enough to take…
‘Shall I tell you the worst thing, Evi? The worst thing he did to us?’
‘What?’ said Evi, thinking that she really, really didn’t want to know. When was the last time she’d heard Alice calling? Shouldn’t the police be here by now?
‘We have an old well up on the moor. There used to be a water mill there and some cottages for the workers. The buildings are all gone, but the well was never filled in for some reason. We built a stone hut around it to keep it safe. Safe from sheep and stray children. Not safe for us though, not Christiana and me, because he rigged up a harness and a rope, and if we were difficult, if we dared to say no or if we didn’t suck quite as hard as he wanted us to, he’d put us down the well. He’d fasten us in the harness and lower us down. Leave us there, in the dark, for hours. He did it to other children too. Until he left one down there too long and that little game had to come to an end.’
Jenny was too close, Evi had no choice but to step backwards, up the stairs. The minute she did so, Jenny followed her.
‘Jenny, you need help,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you? None of it was your fault, but you need help to come to terms with it. He’s damaged you. Christiana, too. I can find you someone who’ll work with you. It will take time, of course it will, but-’
Jenny leaned towards her. ‘Do you really think that sort of damage can be mended, Evi?’ she said. ‘By talking?’
She had a point. Evi just wished she wouldn’t insist on standing so close. ‘Not entirely, no,’ she answered. ‘Nothing can take away those memories. But the right therapist can help you come to terms with it. The important thing now, though, is that we find Joe. Harry and Gareth have gone up to that well. Is that where Joe is?’
Something shimmered across Jenny’s face. ‘They’ve gone to the cottage?’ she said. ‘Nobody’s been up there in fifteen years. We shut it up after…’
‘After what? What’s up there?’
‘Listen to me. Just listen to me.’
Gareth Fletcher wasn’t listening, he was screaming, banging his head against the stone wall of the hut, pounding it with both fists. Already, the skin on his forehead was scraped away, blood running down the side of his nose. Harry grabbed hold of one arm and tried to swing him round. Gareth’s loose fist came hurtling in Harry’s direction. Harry stepped back, dangerously close to the well.
‘It’s not Joe!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘It’s not Joe!’
Was he getting through? Gareth had stopped howling, was leaning against the wall of the hut, his head hidden in his hands.
‘Gareth, you have to listen to me,’ said Harry. ‘This child has been dead for years. Look at it. No, you have to look at it. It can’t be Joe, I promise you, just look.’
Gareth raised his head. His eyes looked unnaturally bright as he took a step towards Harry. Harry braced himself. He was the taller of the two, but the other man was probably stronger. He really didn’t want to get into any sort of physical struggle this close to the edge of a well. He took hold of Gareth by his shoulders and forced him down until both of them were kneeling on cold stone once more.
‘Look,’ he said, opening the sides of the canvas bag. His hands were shaking as he picked up the torch and shone it inside. ‘This child has been dead for years,’ he repeated. ‘Look, you have to look. The flesh has nearly all gone. It can’t be Joe, it just isn’t possible.’
Gareth looked as though he were struggling to breathe. Each breath he took was a great, gasping sob, but he was looking at the bag, at the child inside the bag.
‘Not Joe,’ said Harry again, wondering how many times he’d have to say it before the other man believed him. Whether it really was Gareth he was trying to convince by this time.
Gareth ran a hand over his face. ‘Jesus, Harry,’ he said. ‘What are we dealing with?’
‘Joe!’
Tom blinked the snow from his eyes. He was looking at his brother, curled like a snail in the north-eastern bell tower, trussed like a Christmas turkey with ropes around his wrists and his ankles. Joe, pale as a mushroom, cold as an icicle, but still alive. Joe, shaking like a jelly and staring up at him with eyes that had lost all their colour but were still the eyes he remembered. Joe – here – less than a hundred yards from their house, after all.
Ebba was leaning into the bell tower, tucking a filthy patchwork quilt higher up around his brother’s shoulders, trying to keep him warm.
‘Joe, it’s OK,’ whispered Tom. ‘It’s all right now. I’ll get you down.’
Joe didn’t respond, just stared up at Tom with his translucent eyes. His head was juddering, his limbs twitching. He wasn’t well, Tom could see that. Somehow Joe had survived a night and a day on the church roof; he wouldn’t last much longer. They had to get him down. Tom leaned into the tower, trying to get his hands under his brother’s shoulders. He could reach him, touch skin that felt too cold to be covering living flesh, but when he pulled, Joe stayed where he was.
Tom turned to look at Ebba. She was still crouched on the other side of the box, her over-large hands gripping the edge of the mirror-tiles, staring at him.
‘How do we get him out?’ Tom asked.
‘A child died, Evi,’ Jenny was saying. ‘A little gypsy girl Tobias found wandering around on her own when he’d gone to look at a horse near Halifax. He just left her there, up on the moor, hanging in the well.’
Where the hell were the police?
‘You’re nice to talk to, Evi. You listen. You don’t judge. I’m going to get Millie now.’ Jenny was actually pushing her way past Evi, gently but firmly, manoeuvring herself on to a higher step. Evi turned, kept a tight hold on the banister to stop herself falling.
‘No one would judge you, Jenny,’ she said. ‘You were a child. Did you never think that perhaps you could tell your father what was going on?’
Something glinted in Jenny’s eyes. ‘You think he didn’t know?’ she said.