Free The Storm by Alexander Gordon Smith

Brick’s utter relief, spoke.
    ‘Hello?’ The voice sounded as old as the church. ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘Don’t come any closer,’ Brick said. ‘Just stay where you are.’
    ‘Excuse me?’ The shape stepped up to the altar, into a shaft of murky, multi-coloured light, revealing a vicar’s black suit and white collar. He was a plump, elderly man with a completely bald head and glasses, which he removed, wiped on his sleeve, then replaced.
    ‘I mean it,’ Brick said. ‘Stay there.’
    ‘I don’t know who you think you are, young man, but I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that.’ The vicar took a defiant step from the raised platform, and Brick hoisted Daisy against his chest.
    ‘Take one more step and I swear to God I’ll hurt her,’ he said, not sure what else to do. ‘Go on, test me, but it’ll be on you if anything happens.’
    He could hear the trembling desperation in his voice, and the vicar must have too because he held up his hands, retreating up the steps to the altar. There was a good twenty-five, thirty metres between them. So long as neither of them crossed the invisible line of the Fury, they should get on just fine.
    ‘Sit down,’ Brick said.
    The man wheezed as he lowered himself on to the top step. ‘Easier said than done for me these days,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘But it’s getting up that’s the real problem.’
    ‘Then don’t get up,’ Brick snapped. ‘Is there anyone else here?’
    ‘Just me,’ the vicar replied, shaking his head. ‘Margaret has Mondays off, she goes into Norwich to see our daughter and our grandchildren. And—’
    ‘Better not be lying to me,’ Brick said.
    ‘I’m not.’
    The back row of pews was right in front of him, and Brick laid Daisy down there. In here, surrounded by stone, she seemed even colder than before.
    ‘Sit there,’ he said to Adam, pointing to the space beside her. ‘Don’t say anything.’ The little boy obeyed, and Brick wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold in the shivers. If the old vicar was telling the truth then at least they were safe in here, for the moment anyway.
    ‘Is she okay?’ the man asked. ‘The girl? She looks sick. If you like, I could take a look at her. I was a medic, many years ago, before I found the faith. In the army.’
    He spoke this last sentence with what felt like a warning, but Brick ignored it. He paced back and forth behind the pews, trying to work out a plan. If Cal was dead, then it was up to him to work out what to do about Daisy and Adam, about Rilke and her brother, and about the man in the storm too. The thought of it all resting on his shoulders was enough to make his heart shrink to a raisin and plop into the stew of his stomach. He slapped his forehead with the heels of his palms.
    ‘Whatever the problem is,’ the vicar said. ‘Let me help you.’
    ‘Shut up,’ Brick said, pointing to the decorative curtain that hung behind the altar, rope tassels dangling from either side. ‘I need you to tie yourself up. Use them.’
    ‘Please, son—’
    ‘ Do it , before I lose my temper.’ The vicar started to rise, and Brick almost shrieked at him. ‘I didn’t say get up!’
    Calm down, for God’s sake, he’s an old man, he’s not going to hurt you . Unless he got too close, of course; then he’d be clawing at Brick with those wrinkled hands and gnawing at his throat with his dentures. Yes, he was being more of an arsehole than ever, but he couldn’t take any chances. He watched the vicar lean back and pull the ropes free, struggling to bind his wrists.
    ‘Wait,’ Brick said. ‘Tie the rope to the altar first. To the bannister there. Just one wrist will do, don’t worry about the other one.’
    The man did as he was told, looping the rope around the wooden pole of the bannister before knotting it tight around his left wrist. He gave it a tug, to show it was secure, then shrugged at Brick.
    ‘Knot it again.’
    ‘If you’re in trouble, there is