‘The blood of Christ,’ he whispered to himself. The cold of the silver met his lips.

Outside, rooks were flying around the roof. He could hear them calling to each other. Inside the church, all was still. The congregation was hushed, waiting for him to rise and begin the sacrament.

Slowly, very slowly, Harry put the cup back down on the altar.

There was a white linen napkin just within reach. He grasped it and clutched it to his mouth. He was going to gag, any second now. He picked up the cup again and walked as quickly as he could without spilling its contents to the vestry. He pushed the door open with his shoulder then kicked it shut behind him. He got to the sink just in time.

Red liquid splattered across white porcelain as Harry realized he was retching. And that the entire congregation could hear him. He turned on the cold tap and ran water over his hands. Then he raised them to his face.

‘Vicar, what’s wrong?’

Sinclair Renshaw had followed him into the vestry. Harry cupped his hands and allowed them to fill with water. He brought them up to his face and drank.

‘Vicar, are you ill? What can I do?’

Harry turned, lifted the chalice and held it out to his churchwarden. ‘Another tradition?’ he asked. His hand was shaking. He put the cup down again.

Sinclair glanced at the cup, then turned and walked swiftly away. He closed the door of the vestry and walked back until he was standing close to Harry.

‘Is this how it all ends?’ asked Harry. ‘You let the blood run freely on Saturday night and then the next day you drink it?’

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Sinclair.

Harry was pointing at the cup. ‘That isn’t wine,’ he said, his hand still shaking. ‘It’s blood. Not the symbolic kind – the real thing.’

‘Surely not?’

‘Taste it yourself. I did.’

Sinclair took the cup and carried it to the light. He raised it to his face and took a deep breath through his nose. Then he dipped his forefinger into the liquid and examined it closely. Harry watched, unable to read the expression on the older man’s face. After a second or two, Sinclair rinsed his hand under the tap and then turned back to face him.

‘Have a drink of water,’ he said. ‘Take a moment to compose yourself.’

Then he turned again and crossed the room. On a shelf, he found a second chalice, an older, slightly tarnished one, and rinsed it out in the sink. Opening a cupboard door – Sinclair clearly knew his way around the vestry – he took out a new bottle of wine. Harry found a chair and watched as Sinclair found a corkscrew and opened the wine. He poured it into the chalice and sipped it.

‘This is fine,’ he said. ‘Are you able to continue?’

Harry couldn’t reply. The blood of Christ, shed for you. Blood harvest.

‘Vicar!’ Sinclair’s voice was still low, but he wasn’t standing for any nonsense. ‘I can tell everyone you’ve been taken ill. Would you prefer me to do that?’

Harry was on his feet again, shaking his head. ‘No. I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Good man. Say the blessing here, just with me. It’ll help calm you.’

He was right. Harry took a deep breath and said the familiar words. He raised the cup to his lips before he had time to think about what he was doing and drank. Still wine.

‘Feeling better?’ asked Sinclair.

‘Yes, thank you. We should…’ He gestured towards the vestry door. He had no idea what everyone outside would be thinking by now.

‘One moment.’ Sinclair’s hand was on his arm. ‘After the service I’ll take care of that.’ He gestured towards the first cup, the one still filled with… ‘A stupid practical joke,’ he went on. ‘People had a lot to drink last night. Please accept my apologies.’

Harry nodded and the two men left the vestry. Harry picked up the plate of wafers and crossed the chancel to where the first communicant was still kneeling patiently.

‘The body of Christ,’ he said, placing a wafer on the outstretched hand before him. ‘The body of Christ… The body of Christ.’ He continued down the line and behind him could hear Sinclair administering the wine. ‘The blood of Christ,’ he was saying, ‘the blood of Christ.

Harry wondered if he’d ever be able to take pleasure in those words again.

“WINE, HARRY?’

‘Thanks. Do you have any white?’ Harry took off his coat and looked for somewhere to hang it.

Coat-hooks in the Fletcher house always seemed occupied.

‘Give me a minute.’ Gareth crouched down and opened the fridge.

‘Something smells good, Alice,’ said Harry, taking a large glass from Gareth. The kitchen table was set for Sunday lunch. Millie, in her high chair, nibbled on a breadstick. There was no sign of the boys.

The bowl of the glass felt very cold. The liquid inside was reassuringly pale in colour. He sipped it. Definitely wine. Millie offered him her breadstick. When he shook his head, she dropped it on the floor.

‘We’re having Southern Baked Chicken,’ replied Alice. ‘Crispin’ up nicely.’

‘What was the problem during Communion?’ asked Gareth, pouring a glass of the white wine for Alice and red for himself. ‘We wondered where you’d gone.’

‘Oh, the wine was corked,’ said Harry, as he and Sinclair had agreed he would. What had happened was best kept between the two of them. He bent down to find Millie’s breadstick. ‘Seriously nasty, vinegary stuff,’ he went on.

‘It all went pretty well, though,’ said Alice. ‘You had a full house and nobody went to sleep.’

‘And I’m sure they all found it a deeply fulfilling spiritual experience,’ said Gareth. ‘Ignore my wife. She’s American.’

‘Like you ever set foot in a church before you married me,’ retorted Alice. ‘Were you even baptized? Where’s your breadstick, poppet? Oh, did the vicar steal it? Bad vicar.’

‘I was dipped into Rawtenstall reservoir by my left ankle,’ said Gareth. ‘It made me invincible.’

Something was wrong here. Alice and Gareth were trying too hard. Something about the smiles and the banter felt forced. Come to think of it, neither looked like they’d had much sleep.

‘Can I do anything, Alice?’ Harry offered.

‘You could find the boys. It usually takes about ten minutes to get them to the table, so be firm.’

Taking his glass with him, Harry began a search of the house. The downstairs rooms were empty of children so he headed upstairs. ‘Boys,’ he called when he reached the top step. ‘Lunch is ready.’

There was no reply, so he walked towards two doors at the end of the landing. He knocked gently at the first and pushed it open. Joe sat in the middle of the carpet, surrounded by tiny toy soldiers.

‘Hey, buddy,’ said Harry. ‘Mum says lunch is ready.’

Joe looked back down and moved several of his soldiers to new positions.

‘I heard you being sick,’ he said. ‘In church. Everyone heard.’

Great, thought Harry. ‘Well, I hope it won’t put anyone off their lunch,’ he said. ‘Are you coming down?’ He stepped back to the doorway. The room next door must be Tom’s.

‘They died, didn’t they?’

Harry walked back into the room and crouched until his head was almost on a level with Joe’s. The child hadn’t taken his eyes off his game of soldiers. Time to die.

‘What do you mean, Joe?’ he asked. ‘Who died?’

Joe raised his head and looked back at Harry. There were dark shadows under his eyes.

‘Who died, Joe?’ he asked, keeping his voice as soft as he could.

‘The little girls in the church,’ replied Joe.

‘Joe, were you in church yesterday afternoon?’ asked Harry. ‘Did you hear me talking to Mrs Pickup?’

Joe shook his head. He didn’t look as though he was lying. In any case, Jenny had told him about her daughter when she and Harry had been outside.

‘Harry, boys, lunch,’ called Alice from the bottom of the stairs. Harry began to push himself to his feet.