Blind to the Bones by Stephen Booth Page B

setting fire to himself or his clothes – an act that had provided enough evidence of his saintliness for those who decided these things. It was almost the only thing known about his history.
    The picture had been created from hundreds of tiny fragments of glass – some green, like fresh grass, or blue like the sky, or red like fire. In the morning, they glowed in the sun from the east. But Alton could see that the bottom half of St Asaph was darker than the rest of him. No light passed through the glass below the red glow of the burning coals held in a fold of his cloak. The saint looked as though he had been cut off at the waist. Alton knew that the effect was caused by the rampant ivy that covered the east wall and was now spreading over the windows. Its spring leaves were a virulent green where they lay against the stonework, and its tendrils were grasping and eager, seeking new holds in the lead that held the pieces of coloured glass together.
    When Alton looked closely at the saint’s waist area, he could see the triangular shapes of the young ivy leaves clearly. They were like little green tongues licking at St Asaph’s robes. They were growing day by day now, creeping towards the sun, slowly eating up the picture. Already, the saint’s legs had been swallowed by the relentless force of nature.
    If nothing was done to curb the ivy, the lead would crumble and the glass would be pulled apart, piece by piece. One day, it would take only one loud noise to shatter the entire window, and St Asaph would drop into the east aisle.
    â€˜Catching flies, Vicar?’
    Alton felt a guilty flush rising under his collar. A tall young man stood in the aisle near the west door. He was dressed in jeans and a blue sweater, and his blond hair had recently been cut and gelled.
    â€˜Oh, it’s you, Scott.’
    â€˜Thank goodness it’s only me, eh? It’s a good job I’m not the chuffin’ bishop. He’d whip your frock off and give your dog collar back to the dog before you could say “Heil Mary”.’
    â€˜Hail Mary,’ said Alton.
    â€˜Yeah, right.’
    He watched Scott Oxley move towards him up the narrow aisle, slapping his hand on each pew and rubbing his palm over the carved wooden ends.
    â€˜Did you want something, Scott?’
    â€˜No.’
    Scott let him wait for a minute, looking around the church with a smile.
    â€˜Have you heard from Neil today, Vicar?’ said Scott.
    â€˜No, I haven’t. And he said he’d be here to help me work on the churchyard.’
    â€˜Good old Neil.’
    Scott walked up to the oak pulpit and smoothed the pulpit cloth with his hand. Alton wished he wouldn’t touch anything, but he held his peace.
    â€˜I phoned Philip and he called at Neil’s house, but he’s not at home. Do you know where Neil is, Scott?’
    â€˜No idea.’
    Scott walked back down the aisle of the church, slapping the ends of the pews again as he went. Alton listened to Scott go out into the porch. He needed to make sure that the young man had left. He knew that the big oak outer door would close with a painfully loud slam, as it always did.
    A thud shook the church as Scott Oxley slammed the door. Layers of dust danced on the window ledges. But the stained-glass picture of St Asaph didn’t shatter. It wasn’t the time. Not yet.

5
    S arah Renshaw looked as though she hadn’t combed her hair that morning. She had a perm several weeks old, but it was springing out in all the wrong directions, like a burst mattress. Her plaid skirt was covered in dog hairs, and her shoes had dried mud clinging to the edges of the soles.
    Also, her eyes were bright and her face looked unnaturally flushed. In a younger person, Diane Fry would have suspected alcohol or substance abuse. With a woman of Mrs Renshaw’s age, her first thought was the menopause. Hot flushes and irrational behaviour – that’s what the menopause