They were in the front pew—the old sexton and his wife.
‘What’s he like? The groom?’ asked the old sexton.
‘Don’t you know him?’
‘No. But they say he’s good looking, successful as well, and from a good family.’
‘Not like you then?’
‘I just hope there’s not too much confetti to tidy up. I’ve got old mother Watkins’ grave to fill in tomorrow. It was too muddy yesterday. Don’t want the old granny escaping do we?’
‘You’re a stupid old fool.’
‘It’s alright saying that, but they didn’t even screw the lid down properly. Another job for me.’
‘You’re always moaning.’
‘And what if she gets out?’
‘Oh, not that again. Bodies escaping from coffins, and you chasing them.’
‘You don’t know what goes on. I get very worried about these things. You know that.’
‘I know you’re round the twist. That’s what I know. You need to keep a grip on yourself. My mum always said you were half round the bend. I think you’re completely round the bend.’
‘Well, I’m not a young man any more. And I have to think of my ticker—‘
‘Shh! You fool! He’s here! Shh!’
The church fell silent. Every pew was filled with excited guests, dressed in their best clothes, waiting for the always exciting joy of celebrating a wedding. Everyone had been chattering—about the bride, about the groom, about how many guests there were—but as soon as the organ began blasting its mixed-up notes from its ancient, multi coloured, mixed-up pipes everyone turned away from their neighbour, faced forward, sat up straight, and waited.
It was an old church, at the centre of the village, with just enough room for about a hundred people, and then only as long as they squeezed up close to each other. Yellow and orange flowers had been set in bouquets at the end of each pew, and huge wreath-like bunches of greens and yellows and reds spread out in foaming sprays on either side of the central altar rail. Two carpet-covered steps led up to this, and beyond it a colourful stained glass depiction of a wild looking man on a horse, brandishing a spear, chasing a woman through a forest.
‘It’s as if it’s alive, I always think.’
‘Shh.’
‘I’m only saying. It just looks like it’s going to leap straight out and—‘
‘I’ll leap out and something if you don’t shut up! Shh!’
Everyone stood. There was a pause when there was only the tuneless sound of the organ and the heavy silence of the guests. Then, their concentrated quietness changed. It spread from the back of the church, a murmur that infected the quiet, muddy-ing, churning within the nothingness of it and stirring it into a soup of comment and question. And as it spread from pew to pew, it grew, so that when it reached the front row it was a humming buzz of inquisitive, chattering noise.
‘What’s she doing? She always has to be different!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘What’s the matter? You fool! It’s her! The bride! It’s Kathleen!’
‘So?’
‘Don’t you know anything? It’s the bride! It’s supposed to be the groom!’
‘Oh.’
Kathleen, holding the arm of her father, walked to the front of the church. They stopped just short of the altar rail. She stared ahead—right into the centre of the stained glass window. She held a bright bouquet of yellow and white flowers. Her father turned and looked at her a few times but she didn’t respond. The vicar walked from beneath the stained glass window and stood in front of them. He nodded.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a wedding.’
‘Don’t you know anything except how to dig graves, screw down coffin lids, and worry about glass pictures coming alive? You silly fool! The groom should be the one waiting at the altar. Not the bride!’
‘Of course! I knew that.’
‘Mmm. If only that was true.’
The sexton’s wife turned and looked back down the aisle towards the open door. Light flooded in from it. Others were craning their heads to look into the same light, waiting for the entrance of the groom, puzzled by the back-to-front-ness of the ceremony. She caught the eyes of some of the others. They all raised their eyebrows in sympathetic recognition of knowing something that they didn’t. Someone left their pew and went into the light beyond the door. More raised eyebrows met more raised eyebrows. Feet shuffled. Someone started muttering to the person next to them. Others followed. It was as if a strange, muffled conspiracy was being hatched—a conspiracy of unknowing.
A minute passed. The silhouette of the man who had gone into the light moved across the same light and came back into the church. He spoke to someone. The conspirators leaned towards him, with the ridiculous expectation that they would be able to hear what he said. No one heard what he said, but their raised eyebrows met each other with an added, backward movement of the head that said otherwise. Another minute passed. Then another. The bride’s father said something to the bride. She ignored him. More minutes passed. The vicar fiddled with his service book. Then he sneezed—loudly. Minutes passing became time passing. The vicar, who had sneezed several more times, and was now holding a handkerchief to his nose, leant forward and spoke to the bride’s father. The bride’s father turned to the bride and said something. Everyone in the congregation leant forward in the hope of hearing what had been said. They couldn’t hear anything, but each one met the gaze of all the others, tilted their heads back lazily with a strange, confirming certainty, and shared the secret of which they had no knowledge.
The sexton’s wife nodded slowly into the sea of raised eyebrows and slowly tipping heads. The mutual and silent understanding was enough to confirm the truth.
‘He’s not coming! He’s stood her up! At the altar! I knew it! I knew it!’
The old sexton sneezed.
‘I hope I haven’t caught what the vicar’s got.’
‘You silly fool! Didn’t you hear what I said? He’s left her at the altar!’
Agitation spread quickly through the congregation. No one was prepared to break free of their place in the pews, but there was a pent-up need to be free that had spread like an infection. They were captives, as if they’d been herded into cells to await their execution. Hands were thrust into pockets, hats were adjusted, people started speaking louder than before. It was as if they were all eager to stride out and get into the tumbrel. The bride’s father and the bride started to shuffle. The vicar turned to the organist and with a wave of his hand gave her an instruction. The organ was struck up. The church was filled with its confusingly joyous sounds. Someone near the door took the risk of stepping into the aisle; then another, then a few more. Then chatter, and more adjusting of hats. Then the guests flowed out of the pews like lava—hot with the need to share the experience of the secret to which they were all complicit, but of which, at the same time, they were all innocent. Like lava, they were just being expelled to run along gulleys that provided the least line of resistance to the gravity of unknowing.
But it couldn’t remain a secret. Suddenly Katherine pulled herself from her father’s arm. She glared back down between the pews, looking towards the light from the door that was now fractured and broken by the chattering shapes of the news-exchanging guests. Her eyes were wide. She clutched her bouquet. She opened her mouth wide and began screaming—a piercing, banshee like scream that froze everyone with terror and brought them to instant, petrified silence.
Confusion followed. Then a lot of shaking hands, and hands on forearms, and hands on shoulders. There was some kissing, much scowling, and no laughter. The church was filled with a mixture of physical contact and heavy sobriety. And all the time Katherine screamed. She stood where she had arrived at the altar and screamed. Guests went to her in turn, and held her, and kissed her, and spoke to her, and hugged her, and offered her chocolates, but she wouldn’t stop—or couldn’t stop. And her screaming didn’t fade in volume or intensity. Some people wanted to leave. They tried to get Katherine to leave as well, but she wouldn’t go—she stood where she was and screamed and refused to move. She was inconsolable and impossible to deal with. Some guests did leave, offering apologies and reasons of variable believability to justify their departure. This started a gradual drift, following an order headed by least close relatives and friends first, then cousins, then aunts and uncles, then friends, then her best friend, then her mother, then her sister, then the vicar who left with the organist, and finally, no matter how much he entreated her to stop screaming and leave, her father. Katherine stood alone in the church, red in the face, clutching her bouquet, exhausted and still screaming.
It got dark. Her father came back. Nothing had changed. He left after a while. In the end she found herself able to move. She lay down in front of the altar. Her screaming eased. She was breathless and shaking. Tears ran from her eyes. She clutched her bouquet of flowers. She listened to her breathing echoing around the empty pews of the old church. She started moaning. She dribbled—it ran over her lips, down her chin and onto her neck. She trembled and every now and again shook with a massive, involuntary jerk. Her mind was filled with darkness. She felt alone with her body, her misery and the blackness of her isolation. She began screaming again, but now it was not so loud.
She didn’t sleep and was still lying on the altar steps as the sun rose over the graveyard and sent its beams of bright light through the stained glass window. They flicked across her face. Her eyes were still wide open. Suddenly, as if realising that she still existed, and that the world that she was in still existed, she jumped up and started to run down the aisle. At the same time, the old sexton entered the church, ready to begin his tasks. All he could see was the flickering light from the stained glass window, flashing from the picture, merging the depiction of the girl with the horror-struck face of Katherine. The two were one. He saw the terrified figure running from the brandished spear of the wild looking man, and Katherine was the girl, and the girl was Katherine. And the figure in the glass was alive, and the terror of it all was in the world.
The old sexton stared for a moment—just long enough to feel the horror penetrating him. He saw the future running towards him. He saw the flickering lights. He heard the scream of terror. He collapsed in a contorted heap.
Katherine jumped over him and ran on. She ran across the churchyard, between the solemn gravestones, and into the village, waving her bouquet above her head, all the time screaming, shrieking, screeching. No one even tried to stop her—they could see she was beyond being controlled. They just watched her rampage—her terror. They clutched onto each other as she passed them. They watched her circle around the houses and then run back to the church. They heard her shrieks muffled as she fell headlong into the mud filled, still open grave of old mother Watkins. They stayed where they were as she tried to claw her way out. They held each other as they saw the old sexton running out of the church. They didn’t know that all he saw in his mind were the figures from the stained glass window. That all he saw as he watched Katherine’s hands reaching up over the edge of the grave, was an escaping corpse—a creature from the other world—and that all that was in his mind was the image from the stained glass window of the wild man and the terrified girl. And they watched in horror as they saw him grab his nearby spade and smash it down on Katherine’s head, splitting it in two and bringing her screaming and her terror to a sudden and final end.
