Pig Island by Mo Hayder Page A

rectangular tower ending in a small steeple and two stained-glass, Gothic-style windows, several panes replaced with clear glass. Over the years ivy had clung to it and been removed so you could see where the suckers had been painted over, leaving strange textures like tidewater along the walls. Standing in a patch of sunlight in the grass to the left of the doors was a life-sized crucifix—like the Celtic cross on the green, it was carved out of stone. An effigy of Christ, it had been clumsily made: Christ’s face was like the weird Filipino iconography I’d photographed in Manila, the skin drawn back from his teeth, like a howling animal in agony. His body was pocked with small darts and other marks. When I shaded my eyes and studied them I saw they were a series of numbers scratched into the skin.
    “The projected populations of every country in the world in the year twenty twenty,” said Blake. “Because of medical intervention in the natural cycle of life and death we believe that these numbers are branded in Christ’s flesh, that even now where He sits with His father, He feels the agony of the planet. Come in.” He held the door open for me. I saw cool flagged floors in the gloom, and caught a whiff of camphor, wood polish and red wine. “Walk past Him, Joe. He looks at you with only love. Only love and compassion. Walk past Him. Come inside.”
    I was a bit weirded out to go so close to the crucifix. It was almost my own height and so lifelike that going past its eyes was like being in the presence of the dead. I looked straight ahead and ducked into the gloomy vestibule to where Blake stood facing me in the semi-darkness.
    “I want you to see this, Joe.”
    I stood still until my eyes got used to the light. The two Gothic windows behind me dropped coloured light on to the flagstone floor, but the rest of the chapel was in shadow. It took me a moment to understand why. I turned and looked back at the doors and saw that the weatherboard steeple was only a fascia containing the small vestibule—the remainder of the chapel, which stretched out past Blake into the darkness, had been hewn deep into the cliff face. Everything, the altar, the pulpit, the vaulted ceiling, even the pews, was carved from grey-veined rock. It was one of the hottest days of the year, but the chapel was colder than a meat-locker.
    “We did this,” said Blake proudly, his voice echoing round the walls, “with hammers and chisels and our own sweat. Three years it took from start to finish. Fifteen of us working round the clock. Can you imagine the love, Joe, the love that goes into a project like this?”
    I fumbled out my camera, handing the bag to the girl, and fired off a few shots, resting the camera on a pew for stability because I didn’t want to use a flash. A wooden cross hung on the far wall and below it, painted in a gold-leaf arc that spread like sunrays across the walls, were the words: ‘Leave the world when the Lord calls you. Resist not his will. Accept his grace and feel it grow within.“ The altar was very large and probably, looking at the imagery, carved by the person responsible for the crucifix outside. ”What happens in here?“ I said, moving between the pews.
    “What happens in here?” Blake gave a nervous laugh showing his long teeth, like he couldn’t believe I’d ask such a dumb question. He glanced to the girl and back, sharing his disbelief with her. “What happens in most Christian chapels? We hold our prayer meetings and services.”
    “Prayer meetings?” I lowered the camera. “Services?”
    He studied me with his pale eyes. “That’s what I said. Have you ever been to a Christian service, Joe?”
    “Yes, Blake, I have. Will I be invited to one of yours?”
    “Oh, you will. All in good time.”
    I smiled at him then, holding his eyes. We were playing a game now, Blake and me, and we both knew it. “That lock.” I nodded back to the big main doors. “That’s kind of a serious lock.”