This is a short sequel to my very long story 'Next'. I've begun posting at Christmas for obvious reasons although with my usual speed of production I'm likely to finish in the New Year. It will probably be around eight chapters so the plot is minimal. I didn't want to publish something too angst ridden over Christmas.
It wasn't midnight, a glance at his watch proclaimed the hour to be about quarter to eight, but the night sky was certainly clear and the air crisp with night time frost. As he walked the short distance along the path the carrying sound of his feet scrunching over the gravel was magnified in the quietness. A half moon riding in the sky created an eerie glow across the gravestones, leaning like drunken sentinels, silent watchers haphazardly bordering the path edge imparting an air of antiquity. Calm and still the world almost seemed on hold. Here time was measured out gradually by the slowly changing passage of the seasons, not through the breathless urgent minutes that characterised his existence.
He was a stranger here. He fought down an impulse to turn tail and run. Ridiculous, but would she even acknowledge him? He was dangerously aware that he was encroaching on her private territory, his hope of a welcome based solely on a half enigmatic poem written three centuries ago. He who'd faced down terrorists, politicians, and other assorted personages of dubious repute was actually nervous about the prospect of a public rejection by his ex wife. He wasn't even sure that it was wise to seek her out, he hadn't intended to but when, having completed his business at the University, he'd found himself passing nearby on his way back to London on an impulse he'd diverted his journey. At least that was what he was telling himself now as an excuse. The weighty contents of his pocket alone gave the lie to that tale, not to mention, which now he didn't think he would, the very personal request he'd wanted to make of her. Whatever the reason for his presence the current fact was that Sir Harry Pearce was now approaching the heavy wooden age darkened doorway that guarded the entrance into the ancient village church.
Previous experience with old fashioned church door handles had taught him that entering soundlessly was rarely possible. Only the regular faithful knew the exact knack of the twist and lift that would reduce the clanking sound of the old fashioned heavy latch to a mere click. Old spying habits of wanting to blend in seamlessly died hard, so it was with some relief that he noted a flickering ribbon of light bordering the outer edges of the door, an indication that it had been left slightly ajar to accommodate latecomers. Luck seemed to be with him for once. Just as he was metaphorically griding his loins to brave the curious stares of what he assumed would be a small, regular congregation suddenly confronted with a late arriving stranger in their midst, the organist, as if reading his mind, struck up the opening bars of 'It came upon a Midnight Clear'. He was about four hours too early but no matter, he'd come this far, he might as well see it through.
Easing the door open just far enough to accommodate his bulky personal frame he entered, hoping to avoid exposing those seated at the rear to the building to the chill of a frost laden draft. As he stepped forwards he only just prevented himself from stumbling down the two well worn steps leading to the stone flagged church floor at their base. Pushing the door to behind him, thankful that the hinges had been well tended with oil, he cast his trademark quick appraising glance over the assembled multitude. Instead of the sparse attendance he'd confidently anticipated from the appearance of the packed pews it would appear that most of the village had turned out. The interior lit by what seemed to be endless rows of candles, ones placed in circular cardboard holders, dripping wax and held somewhat unsteadily by those present, many attached to the pew ends, with all the spare surfaces, window ledges, edge of the pulpit likewise decorated with an eclectic variety of candlesticks and tealights. While it as an arrangement that any responsible fire service would undoubtedly have banned, had they been consulted,the overall effect of the flickering flames was both welcoming and slightly eerie. The light in the darkness, (some pieces of holy writ had stuck in his brain), casting shadows that moved with the congregation, most of whom swaying with the tune of the carol. Since the majority of the those present were also attempting to warble vigorously while simultaneously preoccupied with the juggling act required of anyone who sought to read the hymn sheet in the candlelight without setting it alight, his entrance had been relatively unobserved, just the way he liked it.
Having more or less arrived without creating an incident he caught the critical eye of a stern looking woman sitting bolt upright in the rearward pews. If ever there was an archetype of the typical Anglican lady she was it, well disciplined grey hair, no nonsense glasses, tweed suit and firm brogues. The almost total opposite of the woman he'd come in search of. Following the woman's eyeline, supported by a definite nod of acknowledgment, Harry located a small table set beside the back pew, laden with spare copies of the hymn sheets and orders of service. Wanting to maintain a degree of anonymity Harry's swift survey of his surroundings had also informed him that the church's seating arrangements were normal, consisting of three sets of highly uncomfortable wooden pews, the longer ones placed across the centre, giving a direct view of the chancel, with two lines of shorter pews set either side thereby creating a couple of aisles. Detecting that the organist was indulging in an ornate final flourish Harry grabbed the paperwork, he'd pass on the candle, and speedily slipped into the nearest unoccupied pew at the back, just in time to sit in synchronisation with the rest of the congregation.
For once in his life Harry was lacking a certain aplomb. Unsurprisingly, given that at his age, and particularly in his job, his main purpose in entering a church was to attend a funeral. Those were circumstances under which he knew the form, and his intentions, usually the paying of his public respects to the coffined remnants of one of his a slight constriction of the throat he recalled that this was the first time he'd set foot in a place of worship since Ruth's funeral. A thought that was followed by an immediate rush of guilt at his reason for being here. His personal reverie was disturbed as his ears picked up a slight rustling sound. An unobtrusive swivel of his eyes across the aisle noting the actions of the individual sitting opposite reminded him that if he wished to get his bearings it might be wise to consult the order of service. In the dim fluctuating lights afforded by the fluttering candles, he'd left his recent acquired and still unaccustomed reading glasses at home, he squinted at the words. From the information given he appeared to have strayed into the village version of the traditional Nine Lessons and Carols Service, embellished with a few extra musical items and a Nativity play. The latter treat explaining the full attendance. The incumbent was apparently something of wily operator when it came to shoehorning the reluctant across the church threshold. Only the most flinty hearted or preoccupied of parents ever missed the watching their offspring perform the Christmas story, a category that he'd fallen into with many a regret.
He smiled inwardly remembering the one play he'd managed to attend, Catherine as an angel – definitely not type casting – and an even worse antitype Graham as a wise man. 'I bring you frankin smelly'. One of the first and last occasions, until very recently, when he and Jane had been forced to sit side by side. Teeth gritted, smiling at the children, all the while steaming with a mutual acrimony that eighteen months of divorce had not damped down.
His journey down that less than happy lane of memory was interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice announcing the next lesson. Proclaiming the famous passage from Isaiah that began,
'For unto us a Child is born, Unto us a Son is given...'
Whether or not you believed the word was a matter of faith or lack of, but when well read the poetry, which he recognised as a salvage operation from historic and in his opinion infinitely more lyrical King James Bible, could hardly fail to move you. Apart from confirming his hunch that this was where she'd be, standing behind the eagle lectern, her articulation clear and strong with every word carrying bell like to the ears of those seated at the back of the church, she was, to him, a breathtaking sight. Even allowing for the flattering ambience of the candlelight she seemed infinitely more at ease than when he'd last seen her at the train station. The result of her being on her home turf? Relief that her divorce was proceeding and she was now on the verge of being rid of Robin? Technically of course Harry shouldn't have known that last, but as Jane had taken his advice and asked Harry's solicitor to act for her he'd been tipped a very discreet wink. If she had noticed him she'd given no indication whatsoever of having done so, no unexplained pause, or stumble, no special look of acknowledgement as she finished with the final sentence, "This is the word of the Lord'. Checking the obscuring factor of the crowd combined with the sightlines from where she stood to where he sat, he rather thought she'd missed him, rather hoped in fact. It was a preferable explanation, better than that of being wantonly ignored.
The next name of the programme was vaguely familiar. Dredging his memory Harry recalled the surname of the woman who'd claimed to be bosom buddies with the Chief Constable in the aftermath of the CIA incident a few short weeks ago. He also remembered that Jane loathed the woman for her arty pretentions. It seemed to be a genetic trait as the entire village were now being treated to the sound of Tara Winnick performing, a euphemism for murdering, 'Tomorrow Shall be my Dancing Day'. Sung in a strained soprano that was half a note under true pitch, and when finally, and thankfully concluded, was also about three beats behind the organ. For the duration this recital Harry's mind had ceased to be occupied by thoughts of Jane, he'd been full employed in schooling himself not to wince. The last time he'd experienced such an appalling aural assault was at the hands of Charles Grady, torturer extraordinaire. The reading that followed wasn't much of an improvement, delivered by Emma Winnick in strangled vowels of refinement that aimed at copying Jane's precise Oxford accent: and failed miserably. As Emma over enunciated the final 'Arrr Men' the organist, whose fancy finger work on the keys implied that he or she (from this distance Harry was unable to determine the gender) was of the view that the service was a music recital, punctuated by unfortunate pauses during which the philistines spoke, struck up the next tune.
The service wore on, carols, thankfully familiar, and readings, also well known. The traditional English carol service, annual comfort food for the soul with the addition of cute children. Harry, after a long tiring day gradually began to relax, anonymity was a rarely savoured luxury for him, and excluding the efforts of the deplorable Winnick family the contributors had been well chosen. Watching the Nativity play Harry realised that an excellent performance had been teased out of the children, and suspected he knew exactly who had descended from her Shakespearean Olympus to undertake the necessary coaching. With the final carol sung and the blessing pronounced the fresh faced vicar - Harry thought wryly that it was a sign of his age when the clergy, like the police, looked ever younger - beckoned the children forward to process up the aisle in front of him. Marching solemnly they came, Mary battling to hold Joseph's reluctant hand, the tea towelled shepherds, three cardboard crowned kings and a phalanx of tinsel clad angels. It was just as they were by passing the side of Harry's pew that the disaster happened. Relishing her starring role and beaming at the crowd while holding her candle the Virgin Mary forgot to pay attention to her surroundings and bumped into Joseph. With a sudden flare of bright light the edge of her flimsy veil caught the candle and flames started to lick around her ear.
While the woman in the pew opposite succumbed to hysterics and began to screech, Harry, with the reflexes borne of the need to save lives, swiftly snatched the covering from the child's head, threw it on the stone floor and ground it firmly beneath his foot, extinguishing all hint of spark. The whole emergency was over in approximately thirty seconds. The little girl, hair now ruffled, had halted to turn uncertain liquid blue eyes upon him, so reminiscent of another long mourned pair that he displayed a hesitation not in evidence a few seconds earlier. Hastening to return her tentative smile he was nonetheless relieved when one of the shepherds, bored with standing still, gave her a firm shove and the procession set off again circling around the rearward pews and then disappearing down the other side aisle into the sanctity of what would undoubtedly be an over crowded vestry. Standing alone in his pew, while the lingering acrid smell of singed cloth fumigated his nose, Harry was struggling to subdue unbidden memories that were undermining his resolve to stay. The woman whose screams could have easily competed with an express train had now subsided, subdued by irritated glares from the nearby congregation. The same people who were now also staring with interest at the stranger they had entertained unawares, the man whose prompt action had spared the village the ignominy of an incinerated Virgin Mary. So much Harry for remaining unobtrusive and under the village radar, he'd have attracted less attention if he'd arrived astride a farting reindeer while twirling a Santa hat.
Seated in his pew, awaiting the organist's final chord, he wondered once more whether he should just disappear, she hadn't noticed him, he could just drop the whole stupid idea and walk away, before either of them got hurt: again. He'd almost decided to do so and, having handed his carol and service sheets to a beaming child running around the church collecting them, was fumbling inelegantly for his wallet with a view to leaving a donation that did not consist solely of copper in the brass collection plate that some hopeful individual had strategically placed next to the entrance exit door. He'd just located a twenty pound note and was preparing to take an immediate leave when the elderly woman he'd noticed on entering the building came striding forward. Before he could beat a retreat his hand was seized in a finger crushing grip as she declaimed in the carrying unconsciously commanding voice that proclaimed her to be a scion of county stock.
"Jolly close shave that. Trust Tracey Blythe to go off like a steam engine, the child isn't even hers."
All the while she was continuing to grasp his hand so tightly that Harry was wondering if he'd recover feeling in his digits before the need to drive home. Eventually releasing him in time to restore circulation, Ms County finally thought to introduce herself formally. "I'm Lottie Biggs, churchwarden, so welcome Mr..."
Before Harry could decide whether to respond to this invitation by giving his real name, or alternatively skulk behind a legend, the decision was removed from his control when from behind him a soft all too familiar voice said,
"The name's Pearce, Harry Pearce."
Thanks for reading. If you have a moment at this busy time of year please review.