Free Blood Harvest by S. J. Bolton

was Dr Oliver, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Was she talking about me?’
    Harry looked back at the girl. No make-up. Clothes that weren’t too clean. So, had he missed the first few seconds of this conversation? The bit where she’d said who she was and that it was nice to meet the new vicar?
    ‘Well, she didn’t mention her name,’ he said after a moment. ‘But now you come to mention it, she did say she was a doctor. Hi, I’m Harry Laycock.’ He held out his hand, but the girl made no move to take it.
    ‘What did she say about me?’ she demanded to know.
    There was something going on here that he wasn’t keeping upwith. The woman on the horse had said it was her first visit to the town, hadn’t she? First and last.
    ‘Why are you smiling? What did she tell you?’
    He needed to focus for a second. This girl had an issue. It was as plain as the nose on her very unhealthy-looking face.
    ‘She didn’t talk about anyone,’ he said. ‘She’d fallen off her horse and she was in shock. But if she’s a doctor …’
    ‘She’s a psychiatrist.’
    ‘A what?’ Impossible to keep the surprise from his voice. That grumpy, edgy woman was a … blimey.
    ‘Well, she didn’t mention that,’ he said, ‘but if she is a psychiatrist, she wouldn’t be allowed to talk about her patients with anyone, it would be —’
    ‘I’m not a patient. I just see her sometimes.’
    ‘Right.’ Harry found himself nodding, as though he understood completely. Which he didn’t.
    ‘Are you the new vicar?’
    At last, familiar territory. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m Harry. Reverend Laycock if you want to be formal, which very few people ever are. I think it must be the shorts. And you are …?’
    ‘Did Alice tell you about me?’
    ‘Alice?’ Was it him? Had his brain just decided to take the day off?
    ‘Alice Fletcher. From the new house.’
    Light dawning. Are you Gillian?’ he asked.
    The girl nodded.
    ‘She did mention you. I’m so sorry about your loss.’
    The girl’s face contracted, grew smaller, her thin lips almost disappeared. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as her eyes left his face and drifted somewhere over his left shoulder.
    ‘How are you coping?’ asked Harry.
    Gillian took a deep breath and her eyes opened wider, momentarily losing their focus. Stupid question. She wasn’t coping. And she was going to ask him why God had taken her child. Out of all the children in the world, why hers? Any second now.
    ‘I was about to make tea,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve got a kettle in the vestry. Will you join me?’ Gillian stared at him for a second, as though tea was something out of her normal experience, then she nodded. He led her through the ruins of the abbey church and upthe flagstones towards St Barnabas’s, trying to remember what Alice had told him.
    Gillian – Rogers, Roberts, he couldn’t quite remember – had lost her daughter in a house fire three years previously. She spent her days walking the moors and wandering round the town’s old streets, almost like a living ghost. Alice had met her in the abbey ruins and invited her home for coffee. It was the sort of kind, impulsive and not terribly wise thing that Alice would do. Gillian had accepted and had stayed most of the morning, half-heartedly answering Alice’s attempts at conversation but mainly just watching the children playing.
    The church felt chill and damp after the autumn sunshine. ‘You’re cleaning this church by yourself?’ asked Gillian as she and Harry walked up the side aisle.
    ‘Thankfully, no,’ replied Harry. ‘The diocese arranged a team of industrial cleaners. They’ve just finished. I’m just sorting out cupboards, finding out where everything’s been stored, putting the building back to rights. Alice and the children have been helping me.’
    Harry pushed open the door to the vestry and allowed Gillian to precede him inside. He would have to get some chairs in here, maybe a small table. The kettle was still warm,