Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night Page 7

  "It must mean something," Layla says, not quite believing it. For all she knows, it just happened to be on the back of the scrap Meraud chose to write his clue on. It would be in keeping with the controlled chaos that constitutes his life on earth. "Look, if we do the classes, at least we're there. We can search, we're doing something. And we don't have much—"

  "Time," Nat interrupts. He pulls the snowglobe out of the coat pocket it lives in. The leaves are building up in miniature, perfect piles. He shakes it in frustration, then looks up at Layla. "Fine. Classes. I hope you're looking forward to remaining madly in love with me for the foreseeable future."

  Layla tips her mug to him. "You are my moon and stars."

  At that point the kids barrel through from the other room, so St Thomas's is put on hold for urgent mediation over who gets to eat the last banana.

  She cuts it in half, King Suleiman incarnate. Nat busies himself with some paperwork – a child safeguarding policy, it says on the top – while the kids tell her about their days and goad each other into increasingly wild speculation about why Ms Lam the deputy headmistress didn't do assembly today even though it's Wednesday and she always does assembly on Wednesday.

  "But if she had a dog and if the dog had puppies and if the puppies learned to dance and if they were on Britain's Got Talent and if they were filming today, she'd still tell us, wouldn't she, Mum?" Amy asks. Her complete certainty that her mums can answer any question is a powerful balm today.

  Both girls are still fractious from the banana incident, so she has to answer carefully. While the phrase itself has been banned, the sentiment behind 'I told you so' is still the leading cause of hostilities in the Dixit-Doyle daughters.

  "She'd want to tell you," Layla says, "but she might have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Non-disclosure means she has to keep it a secret, so it can be a surprise when they show it on TV."

  Storm clouds gather on the girls' faces. To distract them from her failure of diplomacy, she asks them, "If Ms Lam did have dancing puppies, what do you think they would dance to?"

  The girls are unanimous. She thought they might be. Say what you like about that bloody song with the reindeers and the irresponsible elf, it's catchy.

  They make it through the first verse nearly in tune, at which point she realises that Nat has abandoned his paperwork to scowl at her.

  "What?" she mouths as the kids continue into the anatomically improbable bit with the snowmen. It's not great art, but the girls are smiling again, the banana finally behind them, and Katrina will be home soon enough.

  "Mum, you're not singing!"

  "Mu-um, you've got to do the chorus."

  She shrugs and gets back to the serious business of parenting. To her surprise and the kids' delight, Nat joins in when they get to theremin solo, adding some tuneful weee-oooo-aaaahs to the general musical disaster.

  Katrina – who once described this part of the song as sounding as if someone who'd only had extremely boring and unsatisfying sexual encounters but did quite like opera had tried to build a pleasure bot – will be sorry to have missed this.

  Katrina does get back by dinner. She insists on wrangling the kids – "It's not helping, it's being a parent" – and dramatically covers her eyes so she can't see anything Layla and Nat are working on. Somewhat disconcertingly, she appears to like Nat. Possibly she was expecting another Meraud, in which case Nat's cheerful willingness to (a) make small talk and (b) not look at you like he can see right into your soul, must count in his favour.

  Their next meeting with the vicar is in a couple of days, and Nat and Layla put together a vague plan of action while Katrina's putting the kids to bed. Nat is going to ask his Reddit friends about church architecture and try not to accidentally buy any Bitcoin in the process. Layla thinks that in their next meeting they should try to search the vicar's office, both for the token itself and anything that else might be helpful: blueprints, renovation plans, treasure maps with "X marks the spot". Who even knows.

  And they're both going to keep an eye on Meraud's currently unoccupied body. Layla's neither religious in general nor Christian in particular, but Jesus fucking Christ, this is both terrifying and bizarre.

  Nat shoots her a look, amused in a way she doesn't understand until he says, "While in no way meaning to denigrate our fine work, I do wish that squirrely weirdo had another half-dozen lovers hidden away."

  It's enough to surprise a laugh out of her. "Make it a dozen. We could storm the church, take it by force."

  "Sixty of us. Finding time for us all would be hell on his schedule, but we'd have that place searched quicker than you could say, ‘Wow, Meraud, you've been busy.'"

  She's taken with it. Sixty co-beloveds, all working together to save one ridiculous man from his own hubris. "Hell on his schedule?" she says, thinking of Meraud's penchant for being tied up. "Hell on his wrists."

  Nat's snort of laughter is deeply gratifying.

  Suddenly, Layla has a strong suspicion that ‘Aelthel' isn't a place or thing. They're a person.

  While she's dealing with that thought, something jangles tinnily outside the door. "It's me," Katrina calls through. "I'm wearing the Santa hat your parents left here last year – stop your conspiring whenever you hear the bells."

  "Your wife is a gift," Nat says. He's not wrong.

  ___

  Their next meeting with the Reverend Everyone-Calls-Me-Judy is as bad as the first. Worse, because this time they know it's not a smash-grab operation. With the whole damn place to search, they need to do this systematically. If that means sitting through this how-to-get-Christian-married lesson so they can casually ask for a tour of the church afterwards, so be it.

  "Remember," Judy says, good-natured reassurance dripping off her every word, "this isn't a test, it's just one way of exploring how you work as a couple."

  She said the same thing when she handed out the tests, too.

  "Now, Layla, what did you put for number one?"

  Number one is about their common vision for the future. Where do you see yourselves in five years' time?

  Layla has spent the last few minutes distractedly hoping the vicar might leave them here unattended for a moment – surely even such paragons of virtue must sometimes need to pee – and now she's on the spot. Layla channels every parent-teacher evening, every charity fun-run bake sale, every sponsored gardening event's worth of enthusiastic normalcy into her answer: "I think we're on the same page. Children eventually, but not yet – we want to travel, see the world. Have some fun. Really enjoy being together with nothing to tie us down."

  "But responsibly," Nat says, looking at her a little oddly. "We need to save for the future."

  "Interesting." Judy is smiling at both of them. "Is this something you've discussed before?"

  Nat is still watching Layla, not Judy. "All the time," he says. "We like to know what's coming. To plan ahead."

  And now Layla understands the expression on his face, because it matches exactly what she's thinking: Oh, so this is how he sees me. She didn't really mean it about the travel – if he wanted to travel, she supposes he would – but it had seemed to fit, more or less. Gadding about the place with Meraud, doing whatever they wanted whenever they wanted.

  Maybe if she'd been more willing to follow Meraud, he'd have told her where he was going.

  "Layla, you look concerned," Judy says. "Do you want to share what you're thinking?"

  Oh, nothing, Layla wants to say. Just obsessing over our missing lover. Do you think you might let us search the place if we ask really cisheterosexually?

  Instead, she opts for: "Just nervous. It's silly, I know, but—"

  "Yeah," Nat picks up where she tails off. "It's like we're suddenly seeing our relationship for the first time."

  This appeases Judy, who treats them to a five-minute monologue on the importance of honesty in relationships, and how beautiful it is when two souls can truly be together. The words "innermost thoughts" are used.

  In
spite of herself, Layla tries to catch Nat's eye. Their two souls might like each other better than they did last week, but they're not quite ready for what Judy insists on calling "a journey into mutual bliss". Nat is looking a little off to the side, frowning, so Layla has to keep her smirk to herself.

  "But you don't want to hear me witter on." Judy's laugh is so jolly it sounds like it's killed and eaten Santa Claus. "Let's get on to question two, pretty topical this time of year: How do you decide which family to spend Christmas with?"

  This is like playing poker with a deck composed entirely of blank cards and the stakes set at a mere best friend's life.

  Layla had thought she'd be taking the lead on all of these – she's the one with the years of being Just Like Everyone Else, after all – but Nat speaks first.

  "My mum's dead, and I don't speak to my biodad, so it's really not a problem for us." He shrugs in wry acknowledgement of the social contract he's broken by making it awkward. Layla feels a rush of something a little like anger on his behalf – maybe he's fine revealing this to one near-stranger and one co-beloved co-conspirator, but maybe he's not, and either way, he shouldn't have had to.

  "Oh, you poor young man," Judy says. Layla's looking for it, so she sees Nat carefully not-flinch at 'man'. Last week, she would have missed it. "That must have been really rough. How are you with Layla's family?"

  Judy reaches out to pat Nat comfortingly on his hand, but Layla gets there first, placing her hand right where Judy was aiming. "They love him," she says. "They're a bit overprotective of him, to be honest."

  She hasn't told her parents about Meraud's whole could-be-dead thing just yet. Katrina had some thoughts about that, too, but Layla couldn't face it, not with the uncertainty. She's only told them he's off doing magic stuff, which isn't exactly a lie.

  If they did meet Nat, if she did bring him home for some reason that didn't involve telling them she's in a polyamorous relationship with the boy they basically fostered for most of his childhood, they probably would love him. They love Katrina so much they took evening classes in Catalan cooking so Layla's dad could make Katrina her favourite dishes, while Layla's mum drank cremat and heckled. And Katrina, Layla can admit, is a harder sell than Nat. Not because of the same-sex thing, but because Layla's parents love the waifs and the strays and the lost souls, and Katrina is very much none of these things.

  She tunes back in to Judy telling them how wonderful it is to find family where you weren't expecting it. Layla and Nat share what can only really be called A Queer Look.

  "And what did you put for question three? This is always an interesting one."

  Question three: When it comes to religion, are there any points of contention?

  Right.

  "We're really just muddling through this together?" Layla says, putting a little uptick in her voice, a hint of Oh silly me I hope I got your question right that no one she's ever worked with would recognise. If Katrina and Meraud could see her right now, they'd share one of those rare but beautiful moments where they're both laughing at her too much to remember they don't like each other much. "It's been something nice to share?"

  "It's brought us together in new ways," Nat adds unhelpfully.

  Right, if he's having so much fun with this, he can have the field.

  "What was it you were saying the other day, cupcake?" Layla asks. "Something about how this reminded you—?"

  "Of our first date," Nat completes smoothly. "I was so nervous and you were so calm, and I just thought, huh, she can't give me what I'm missing, but maybe she can help me find it."

  That is not playing fair.

  And maybe Nat realises that after he's said it, because he continues, "I mean, it's a partnership, isn't it? A marriage of equals, hoping we can find something together we couldn't find on our own. Blundering together for a way to think about our spirituality – our religion – has only made us stronger."

  "That's so beautiful," Judy tells them. She appears, as with every other fucking thing she's said so far, to mean it. She's so nice, it's painful. If they told her what they were trying to do, she wouldn't be able to not help them – she'd leave the master keys to the church somewhere obvious, just happen to make a remark in their hearing about exactly where someone might hide some holly. And then the leaves would fall and the frost would come and Meraud would die, all because of this bloody fucking spell and its bloody fucking rules and shitdamnbloodymotherarsefucking magic.

  "Well, this has all been very helpful, very affirming," Nat says, when it's finally over. "Before we have to go…"

  'Have to' is a nice touch, Layla thinks. Like they haven't been desperate to leave for the past however-long.

  "Yes?" Judy says brightly.

  "Could we perhaps have a tour of the church, do you think?" Nat says, matching that brightness. "It would be nice, given it's going to be a part of our lives again…"

  Judy understands. Judy would be delighted to give them a tour of the church. She leads them along the lines of pews, pointing out various architectural features, the high beams, the cruciform conformation of the nave. They perambulate around like ducklings, dodging little old ladies who are here to decorate, and while Layla's mouth is saying things about how it is a beautiful building and no wonder so many people want to get married here, her heart is sinking first into her boots and then into the grim grey stones. The place would take weeks to search. Months.

  Nat seems to be feeling the same way. When the tour is finally over and they've both thanked Judy and assured her they'll be back soon, he gives her a wry, despairing look, and a nudge on the shoulder that's intended to be comforting.

  "I've got to head off somewhere," he says, low-voiced; the vicar's footsteps on the hard stones have only just faded away. "I'll text you."

  Layla nods, watching him go. She heads for the door with the vague idea that some fresh air will do her good and nearly walks into someone bustling industriously in the other direction.

  "Careful, dear," a voice says, and Layla mumbles something to one of the old ladies bustling around the pews. Now she's paying attention, she notices that all of them seem to be carrying random items, such as candles, matches, masking tape and plates of biscuits.

  "Decorating for Advent," says Layla's old lady, matter-of-fact. "We've left it a little late this year. Have you come to join us? What's your name?"

  "Layla," Layla says, on autopilot, which is all the impetus required for the old lady to start chatting away. Her name is Ethel, she explains, and she's really pleased to meet Layla, it's good to have young blood about the place, Layla is such a pretty name, is that spelled with an A, she wishes her name was spelled with an A.

  Layla, who was only thinking of how she might escape from this, suddenly pauses. "An A?" she asks. "Where?"

  It can't be "Ethal", can it? That sounds like a brand-name contraceptive.

  Then it hits her. "Aelthel," she says.

  "Yes," her new friend says, and pauses. Her eyes on Layla are serious, appraising. "I never liked 'Ethel', you understand. My mum named me after some batty great-aunt who gave her tuppence ha'penny one Christmas. And then I read this book – do you read, dear?"

  Layla reads the odd true crime book. It's only in the last few weeks she's had to read everything under the sun and Ezra Pevensey's opinions on same. (She doesn't know why she's reserved so much of her ire for Ezra Pevensey. For all she knows he was a good guy with a nice boyfriend and a litany of good works. Fuck him anyway.)

  "A little," she says. For all she thought Aelthel was a person and not a place or thing, this is not what she expected.

  "Well, this book was just marvellous," Ethel says. "It was about the daughter of Alfred the Great. The one who burnt the cakes, you know. I don't think he was up to much, poor man, but his daughter was a fine lady. A warrior queen, the book said, and her name was Aelthel. Aelthelflaed, actually. I wish my name was spelled like that."

  "You should spell your name like that," Layla says, meaning it. "You shoul
d start."

  "Meraud said that too," Ethel says. "I don't where he's got to, ridiculous child. Oh, but perhaps you don't know him?"

  "Nat and I are new here," Layla says, panicking. "But… ah, I knew a boy at school called Meraud."

  It's only after she's said it that she realises that all of that is actually true. She's relieved. She doesn't want to lie to Aelthelflaed the warrior queen.

  More than that, she doesn't think she could lie to Aelthelflaed the warrior queen. Ethel's eyes on her are still appraising.

  "He's a lovely boy, Meraud," Ethel says. "A lovely magician, too."

  She inclines her head, gesturing Layla to look down. Ethel isn't holding masking tape or matches or plates of biscuits. Her arms are full of holly, cut from the bushes in the churchyard.

  "He does the Advent wreaths for us every year, so the evergreen doesn't stop growing even after it's been cut," Ethel goes on. "The vicar doesn't like it."

  "Doesn't she?" Layla says. She's thinking about how no one can take the initiative to help them in their quest, but they can ask the right questions. They asked Guy the right questions. Nat asked Reddit questions, even if all he got back was a cabbage feud.

  Ethel lowers her voice conspiratorially, and Layla leans in. "She says it's paganistic. Well, if it is, so was Cecil Sharp and we let him write our carols. Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown."

  Layla goes for it. "Aelthel," she says, carefully enunciating, so Ethel can hear the A and extra L. "If you were going to hide something in this church, where would you put it? Something small. A.... token, you might call it."

  Ethel gives her another long, appraising look. "In the roof," she says after a moment. "There's nowhere else, really."

  "I thought—" Layla says, and stops. Careful, careful. "I thought you couldn't get up there."

  "Mmm," Ethel says. "Health and safety is what it is."

  Bizarrely, Layla wants to take issue with that, start complaining that if people paid more attention to health and safety they wouldn't end up in the mortuary. She holds still.