I Was Born for This(72)

It’s vaguely comforting, I guess. I’d rather this than silence and my thoughts.

‘So your family lives here, right?’ she asks, after she’s flown through twenty different topics.

‘Just my grandad,’ I mumble.

‘Where do the rest of your family live?’ she asks.

I pause, but then say, ‘Not near here.’

She realises she’s touched on something she shouldn’t, so there’s a rare pause while she tries to come up with a different topic. It’s kind of funny, really. She seems to be terrified of angering me.

‘My family live in a big town, so seeing this sort of place is so nice—’

‘My grandma’s dead,’ I say.

She stops talking.

‘My mum and dad have always worked. They’re divorced and they’ve both got big business careers that take them all over the world, which is why I’ve lived with my grandparents since I was little. But because of that I’ve never been close to them. They don’t really care about me that much so I don’t speak to them very often.’

She doesn’t talk. Our shoes splash against the road.

‘My older sister goes to university in America. We don’t really talk. She doesn’t like people knowing that we’re related.’

‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ says Angel.

‘No,’ I say.

We walk past the village’s only bus stop – the one I used to wait at every morning before school. Feels like an alternate reality.

‘So you only have your grandad, really?’ she asks.

‘Yeah,’ I say.

That silences her for a full minute.

‘I’d … just like to take a detour, if that’s okay,’ I say, as we pass the village pub and turn a corner.

‘You’re not going to murder me, are you?’ she asks.

I look at her. She laughs, but also sort of looks like she’s genuinely asking.

‘No?’ I say.

‘Okay,’ she says, and laughs again.

‘Why did you come with me if you think I’m going to murder you?’ I ask.

‘I don’t actually think that,’ she scoffs.

I look at her. She glances at me, and laughs when she sees my expression.

‘I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think getting murdered would be that bad if you were the one killing me.’ She seems to realise how weird the statement is just after it leaves her mouth. ‘Er, I mean … I …’

‘Are you all like this?’

‘Who? And like what?’

‘Fangirls. Are you all, like … Would you just do whatever I said?’

She thinks about it.

‘No, I don’t think everyone would,’ she says, and leaves it at that. ‘Where did you want to detour to?’

‘Oh … I just wanted to go to the church.’ I point up ahead at a church partially hidden behind some willow trees. It’s a tiny tenth-century crumbling building, but it’s pretty much the only church I have left.

Angel seems to only just notice that it’s there. ‘Ah, yeah, sure. Cool.’

‘I won’t be long. You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.’

‘Nah, I’ll come in. No one will mind, will they?’

‘No.’

‘Cool. I’ve never been inside a church.’

‘Not even in school?’

‘Nah, my schools weren’t that religious.’

‘Do you go to … like … a mosque?’

She chuckles, making me realise what a dumb question that was. ‘Yeah, I go to a mosque sometimes.’

‘Well, I’ve never been inside a mosque.’

‘They’re pretty nice. Would recommend.’

‘Do you get to go very often?’

She stares at the road. ‘No, not very often. Only on special occasions, really. Do you get to go to church a lot?’

‘No.’

‘Ah.’

We fall into silence again, and she doesn’t try to fill it this time. We just walk and listen to the rain.

The church is just as I remember it. A huge wooden door opens into a cold stone building with wooden rafters and a single stained-glass window at the far end. If the schedule is the same as it was when I was little, there’s a service at 7 p.m., but that isn’t for another couple of hours, so it’s completely empty right now.

‘They don’t keep this place locked?’ Angel asks.

‘We don’t exactly have a crime problem around here.’

‘Hm.’ She loiters behind me, looking around. ‘Interesting.’

I watch her eyes move from the faded cushions stuffed behind the pews to the plaque of vicars dating back to the fourteenth century and the small statue of Jesus on the crucifix behind the altar.

‘It’s not really as grand as I expected,’ she says, eyebrows raised. ‘No offence.’

‘Catholic churches are more decorated than this. This is a Church of England church.’

‘Ah.’ She wanders past me, then turns and sits down on a pew, swivelling so she’s facing the front of the church. ‘This is nice. Bit creepy. But nice.’

‘Creepy?’