A Storm of Paper Starlings

18. Horror Smurfs & Faceless Saints

I follow Archer across the driveway, stopping on the bridge to watch the water. "It's like a moat."

"The Thames splits upstream, but the land kept flooding here, so they built protections. It still flows steadily, but it's not as much trouble as it used to be. There's an old watermill on the other side of the church."

"The church with no roof?"

"Yeah, just through the woods there."

"Can we go and look?"

"If you want."

He veers off to the left, and I follow. The ground is mulch, squelching beneath our boots, becoming more solid as we reach the cover of the trees. We trudge on, pushing bushes aside and keeping an eye out for wildlife. Archer trips on something I don't even see, swearing at the ground as he barely manages to stop himself from falling. The occasional bird chirps above us, but there's no sign of the things that keep me awake at night.

An uprooted tree lies across our path, its trunk creating a giant step. Archer clambers onto it and holds his hand out to help me. I pretend not to notice and climb up on my own. It wobbles slightly beneath our combined weight, and I jump to the ground on the other side.

A small stone bridge takes us back across the stream.

"This is its weakest point," says Archer.

"Weakest?"

"Narrowest. It's only about four metres across here."

The sun is properly up now, shining straight through the church, a sagging hulk of a building with tired bones on show like it's lived a thousand hungry winters.

Archer and I cross the churchyard, the multi-coloured light streaming through the stained-glass windows painting our faces red and blue. He can't stop laughing when I call him a horror Smurf.

A rotting gate hangs off rusty hinges, two mossy gateposts holding it in place. The remains of a wooden fence lie on the ground surrounded by a spiky hedge, neither doing much to keep out intruders. A cluster of dusty roses chokes beside an ancient tree, and the grass here is springy like moss, lighter and softer.

Despite having hardly any roof, most of the church's windows and doors are intact. Pitted statues guard the front door, legs strangled by weeds, faces eroded by time. The low sun casts our shadows across the door, a shaft of green light filling the gap where it's slightly open.

When Archer reaches for the door, I grab his arm and whisper, "Wait. What if someone's in there?"

"You want to wait out here with the faceless saints?"

I look at the creepy statues. "You make a good point."

He laughs. "There's nobody here."

"I can hear something."

"It's probably just a bird. Come on."

I hold my breath while he pushes the door open.

He checks behind the door. "It's fine."

The building is under siege by nature. There's more grass inside than out, knee-high, and full of stinging nettles, dandelions, and prickly bushes. Refracted light from the windows falls everywhere, leaving patches of colour on everything it touches. Clumps of greenery sprout halfway up the weather-worn walls and breach the top, creeping down into the interior.

Something rustles in the corner, and we spin around with startled eyes. It's making far too much noise to be a bird. I try to leave, but Archer grabs my hand.

"Over there," he whispers, nodding at a bushy corner.

"We need to leave," I whisper back.

"Don't be such a jellyfish."