The church was a good half an hour's walk away, in one of the old villages that had since been absorbed into the suburbia of the city. Most of the old cottages were long gone, replaced by the ugly terraced houses that had been built. But you could still see the village, mainly because of the roads, they went from dead straight to all twisty turn-y. Perfect for a game of hide and seek.
Blasted lampposts were ancient too, Nics mentally swore as the one just outside the church gate blinked out as she walked underneath it. Still, the lights were on inside.
It was a lovely church, dating back to the seventeenth century, with high old-fashioned stained glass windows. It was a pity, Nics thought, that they had to be protected from vandals by a thick wire mesh. The churchyard was a mass of old gravestones, all of them leaning at various angles of drunkenness in the knee-high grass.
Her toe caught a loose bit of gravel, sent it skimming into the long grass. She nearly jumped out of her skin when it prompted a loud and irate quack.
Inside, the church was all hard surfaces and echoes, with a wheezy old church organ. The only decorations were the plaques commemorating the dead of the parish on the walls, the wilting flowers from the previous Sunday's services, and the wonderfully intricate and ornate wrought ironwork of the knee height railing in front of the altar.
During the services, the place would be a little brighter, the candles would be lit and the altar cloths would reflect the light from their hand worked embroidered threads. The candles would be fresh, and people would mitigate the harsh echoing of footsteps on the cold floor tiles. But Nics preferred the church as it was then, colder and emptier, but infinitely more peaceful and serene.
She wasn't in any way religious, she just came for the music. For all the shabbiness of the church they had the best choir in the area.
She spent most of the church services reading the memorials on the walls. Especially when the sermons started repeating themselves....
When she first joined the church choir two weeks ago, she had noticed something very odd. Every time the choir got together for their regular practices on Thursday nights, a golden Labrador would be waiting outside the door of the church. As soon as the door was opened to let the choristers in, in he'd trot, right up to the very first pew of the church, and he'd sit, bolt upright on the left hand side of the central aisle.
He'd sit there for the entire choir practise, all one and a half hours of it, and wait very patiently until everyone had moved from the choir stalls out the door of the church. Then he'd quietly trot down the aisle again, the click of his nails sounding loud against the hard tile of the floor. The choir mistress, who was always the last person out, would hold the door open for him, and out he'd trot, to disappear down the rows of terraced houses that surrounded the church.
During the mid rehearsal break for tea and biscuits, again, he'd patiently wait until all the choir had gone down the back of the church to the tea room, and then he'd follow them. He'd take up a sitting position in the far left hand corner of the tearoom, next to one end of the old overstuffed paisley patterned sofa, and would watch the people as they chatted and drank tea.
He was an accepted member of the choir, every so often during the tea break, one or other of the choir members would go over to him and give him a pat. Nics did the same that evening, even going so far as to offer him a biscuit. He had sniffed it very politely, but had left it on the floor.
That evening, after her curiosity had got the better of her, she deliberately hung back with the choir mistress while the heavy door of the church was locked after practise. Out the dog trotted as usual, and Nics said to the choir mistress:
"Seems we've got a devoted fan there."
"Who?" she said, "Sam?"
"Is that his name? I never caught it before now."
"Oh, Sam's a sweetheart. He's no bother at all. And it is nice to have an audience, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes. How long has he been coming?"
"Well, it's a bit of a sad story really. You see, there was this elderly gentleman who lived in the parish, Mr Bradford his name was, and he was a very big member of the choir for many many years. But the poor man ended up with something going very wrong with his eyes, bless him, so he couldn't see the sheet music to sing anymore. That didn't stop him coming though, not a chance. As soon as he was mobile again, him and his guide dog, that'd be Sam, would be to every single choir practise. And he was amazing, he'd learn whole choral pieces simply by listening to them a couple of times. Of course, I'd help him out by making tapes for him to bring home and stuff.
"The dear man passed away about a year ago now. And Sam went to live with his daughter who lives a few blocks away. But he still comes to choir practise every week, bless him, and still as polite and well mannered as he always was. That's why he wouldn't take your biscuit, by the way, he doesn't eat while on duty unless he's given permission by his owner."
Nics was touched. She'd never admit it, but she was a big softie when it came to animals.
"Oh, that's so sweet, the poor dog! He must be missing his master terribly."
"Oh no, don't think that. Mr Bradford's daughter has two kids, both boys, and they worship Sam. He loves them to bits as well, you can tell. But sometimes they can get a bit, well rambunctious. And personally, I think he likes the choir practise as a chance to get away from them for a bit and relax. They're good kids, just a bit high-spirited, that's all. You know how kids can get."
Nics nodded assent, though the closest she'd even been to kids had been limited to the screaming brats shoved into shopping trolleys down the local supermarket.
They'd gotten to the end of the church drive now.
"See you on Sunday? Morning service starts at ten, but we've a bit more of a practise about half an hour beforehand," said the choir mistress.
"Ok, I'll be there," agreed Nics as she turned and began the walk home.
Sam was waiting for her at the gate.
"Hello boy, you going my way?"
He wagged his tail happily and fell into step beside her. Together they walked along her normal route, until Sam turned into a path that went under a stone bridge in between two terraces.
"Bye then," said Nics, and waved.
He stopped, and looked at her, tail wagging, then nodded his head down the path.
"What, you want me to come with you?"
He barked encouragingly.
"Oh, ok then."
It wasn't really so much of a path as it was a tunnel, about the same length as a terraced house was wide. It was quite dark, the glow of the streetlights at the other end quite eerie.
She walked through it quickly, Sam close by. Not only because she had no idea of what was lurking inside the tunnel. But also because inside the tunnel it was raining, and she didn't have a waterproof coat on.
The tunnel led into a little triangle of open ground, bordered on all sides by the most picturesque thatched cottages Nics had ever seen. None of them were more than a single storey high and all were hemmed in by the looming three storey townhouses that populated this particular region of the suburbs. Each cottage had its own tiny little kitchen garden out in front, with white picket fences and rambling roses climbing up the walls. In the centre of the triangle was a large oak tree, and next to it a single old fashioned lamppost.
Sam led her across the triangle, and toward the point opposite where the tunnel had come in. Across the point was an old black wrought iron gate that swung open on silent hinges when Sam nudged it.
He wagged his tail at her, and she walked through, to find herself just around the corner from her house, underneath another lamppost that cast a glow of sickly orange over the whole scene.
Sam escorted her to her door, but very politely refused to come in for a drink. She thanked him kindly regardless, and stood in the open door until he ambled around the corner and out of sight.
In the distance she could hear police sirens.
Amazingly enough, Spud was true to his word and had cleaned the kitchen. There was an empty pizza box in the bin, along with a crushed can of beer. That was the only sign of him though, he wasn't home, and there was no sound of Rasta music. Probably off down the pub to watch the match, she thought. There's no way he'd be asleep at that early hour.
She left her bag under the stairs and sheet music on the coffee table, and went up to bed.
Spud staggered in around midnight, very drunk. He made himself a fried egg sandwich with mango chutney and passed out with it half eaten on the couch. The egg yolk and chutney made a nice little multicoloured spot where it dripped on the carpet. Another half eaten pizza in a greasy box lay on the living room floor where he'd dropped it, along with his coat, keys, map of Amsterdam and a very battered traffic cone.
