The Calling Of The Grave

Behind them, standing almost as tall as the house, was the inverted cone of the kiln. Its dilapidation was more evident now, crumbling bricks seemingly held up by the rusted scaffolding. A pile of unused poles lay nearby, overgrown with grass and weeds: whatever repairs were being carried out had obviously ground to a halt years before.

'That's my pride and joy,' Sophie said, as I opened the garden gate for her. 'It's a Victorian bottle kiln. There aren't many of them left.'

'Does it still work?'

'Sort of. Come on, I'll show you.'

'It's OK,' I said, not wanting her to tire herself.

But she was already following the path towards it. The rickety wooden door squealed as she pushed it open. 'You don't keep it locked?' I asked.

She smiled. 'You're not in the city now. Besides, I don't think thieves would be interested. There's not much of a black market for hand-thrown pots. Unfortunately.'

I followed her inside. There was a damp, dusty smell of old plaster. Light came from small windows set around the circular walls. In the building's centre was the original oven, a giant brick chimney stack that extended through the domed roof. It was scaffolded off, and parts of it were supported by a makeshift assembly of rusted props and timber joists.

'Is it safe?' I asked, looking at the sagging brickwork.

'Safe enough. It was like that when I bought it. It's a listed structure, so I can't knock it down even if I want to. Not that I would. The plan is to get the original oven working again eventually, but that'll have to wait till I get the money. Which won't be any time soon.'

Off to one side stood a smaller, modern electric kiln and a clay- spattered potter's wheel. Workbenches and shelves were arranged around it, stacked with a haphazard assortment of pots. Some were glazed, others just baked clay. Even to my unschooled eye they seemed striking: organic shapes that looked as artistic as they were functional. I carefully picked up a large jug whose curving form seemed to flow, as though it had grown naturally. It felt well balanced in my hands, its lines smooth and sensuous.

'I'd no idea you could do this,' I said, impressed.

'Oh, I'm full of hidden talents,' she said, absently running her hand over a large ball of dried clay. It stood on a table littered with half- finished and broken pots. She smiled self-consciously. 'As you'll have noticed, being tidy isn't one of them. Anyway, I hope you can keep a secret.'

Leaving me to wonder what she meant, she went to the kiln's curving wall. Sliding out a loose brick, she reached into the hole and took something out.

'Spare key,' she said, holding it up. 'Always comes in handy.'

Until then I'd not given much thought to the condition of the house, but the sight of the key jogged my memory. Oh, hell.

'Wait, Sophie,' I said, hurrying after her as she left the kiln, but by then she'd. already seen for herself. She stopped dead on the path.

'Oh, my God!'

When we'd arrived the porch had been shadowed by the dying sun, hiding the damage to the front door, and our attention had been on the kiln. Now we were close enough to see the splintered wood and the way the door hung loosely on its hinges.

I cursed myself. Idiot! You should have realized! The police had made a half-hearted attempt to wedge the door shut, but the hallway was wet where rain had blown in, and muddy footprints criss-crossed the rugs and polished floorboards. There was a rank smell, as if a fox or some other animal had been inside.

Sophie stared in dismay at the scattered contents of the open drawers and cupboards.

'It's not as bad as it looks,' I said feebly, cursing myself for not anticipating this. I should have come here instead of wasting my time at Wainwright's. 'I thought the police would have told you.'

There was no answer. I realized she was crying silently, tears running down her cheeks.

'Sophie. I'm really sorry-'

'It isn't your fault.' She wiped furiously at her eyes. 'Thanks for bringing me home, but I think you'd better go.'

'At least let me-'

'No! It's all right. Really. I – I just want to be on my own. Please.'

I could see she was only holding herself together by force of will. I hated to leave her like that, but I didn't know her well enough to do anything else.

'I'll call you tomorrow. If there's anything else you need.. .'

'I know. Thanks.'

Feeling helpless, I started back towards my car, feet scuffing through the dead leaves that lay on the path. Behind me I heard the door creak in protest as she forced it shut. I got as far as the gate before I stopped, one hand on the weathered wood. The sky was already beginning to darken, the first stars pricking through the cold, deep blue. The ploughed fields and woods were starting to lose their identity in the lengthening shadows. Apart from the sway and rustle of bare branches, there wasn't a sound: no bird or animal to break the solitude. It was a bleak and lonely spot.

I turned and went back to the house.

The door had been pushed to but wouldn't close properly on its sprained hinges. I pushed it open. Sophie was on the hallway floor. She was hugging her knees, head bowed as she shook with silent sobs.

Without saying anything I crouched next to her. She buried her face against me.

'Oh, G-God, I'm so scared. I'm s-so s-scared…'

'Shh, it's OK,' I told her.

I hoped I was right.

I repaired the front door as best I could, with tools Sophie provided. The lock was broken but I salvaged an ancient iron bolt from the pantry. It wasn't pretty, but it was big and solid, and would serve until a joiner could get here.

At my insistence, Sophie went for a bath while I cleaned up the rest of the mess. Most of the damage was superficial – her belongings had been scattered but there were few breakages. Once I'd cleaned up and opened the windows to clear the musky animal smell, there was little evidence of what had happened.

It was dark outside by the time Sophie came back down. She'd changed out of her sister's clothes into clean jeans and a baggy sweater. Her hair was still damp, brushed and pulled back from her face. Although her cheek was less swollen the skin was starting to deepen into purples and yellows as the bruising ran its course.

'I made some tea,' I said, as she came into the kitchen.

'Fine. Thank you.'

'I've cleared up as best I can but you might want to make sure nothing's missing. Any jewellery or valuables.' She nodded, but didn't seem very interested. 'How's the head?'

Sophie sat down at the scarred pine table, casually folding one long leg underneath her. 'Still aching, but not as much. I took some of the painkillers the hospital gave me.' She avoided looking at me as she reached for the teapot.

'One of yours?' I asked. It was an unusual shape, functional but with clean, elegant lines.

'Just a one-off I tried.' Silence descended. The only sound was the slow tinkling of the spoon as she stirred her tea. We both watched the spoon going round.

'You'll wear it out,' I said.

'Sorry.' She put the spoon down. 'Look, about earlier… I don't usually lose it like that.'

'Don't worry about it. You've been through a lot.'

'Even so, crying all over you like I did. I must have made a mess of your coat.'

'I'll send you the cleaning bill.'

'Yes, please do.'

I sighed. 'Sophie, I'm joking.'

She gave an embarrassed laugh. 'This is really awkward, isn't it?'

'A little,' I admitted. 'Look, you don't have to talk now if you don't want to. It's getting late and I ought to set off soon.'

'You're driving back tonight?' She looked startled. 'I can't let you do that. There's a spare room here.'