LITMIR.BIZ

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of wooden trestles stood a coffin.

      She set off towards it, trainers slapping against the granite floor. As she got nearer, she slowed. This was getting to be too much.

      The coffin lid was drawn back to reveal the face of the corpse within.

      It was a young face, pretty well de-sexed by death. She looked at the brass plate on the lid. It read William Knipp—in the seventeenth year of his age.

      Poor sod. He died young.

      She thought she heard a noise behind her and turned abruptly.

      Nothing.

      But there was the sound again. Her keen ear tracked it to the porch, or rather the store space beyond, beneath the tower. She walked back down the aisle and looked up at the open trap. The sky didn’t seem quite so dark now.

      She called, ‘Hello! Anyone there?’

      Though there was no reply, it felt like there was someone up there, listening.

      ‘Hi,’ she called. ‘Sorry to trouble you, but I could do with some help.’

      Still nothing. She was beginning to feel irritated. While she didn’t have much time for priests and such, wasn’t it part of their job description that they should be there for you when you needed them?

      ‘OK,’ she called. ‘If you’re too busy to come down, I’ll come up.’

      Setting the Guide on the floor, she grasped the rough wood of the old ladder and began to climb.

      She was a good climber, light, supple and nimble. Watching her rapid ascent of the big blue gum overshading the north side of the house at Vinada, her pa had said, ‘If I’d bought a monkey, I’d sell it.’

      It only took a few seconds to get to the top of the ladder, though it felt longer. The higher she got, the more rickety it felt. She glanced down and the floor seemed further away than she would have guessed. Thank God I don’t suffer from vertigo, she thought.

      Unless vertigo began with a sudden petrifying sense of being watched!

      The sooner she was off this ladder, the better. She reached her left hand up to get a grip on the floor of the tower.

      And next moment the trap came crashing down.

      She whipped her hand away, felt the frame graze her finger ends, lost her right hand’s grip on the topmost rung of the ladder, and suddenly the floor which had seemed so far away was getting closer far too quickly.

      As she fell she had a sense of a darker shadow against the cloudy grey square. Or rather, later she had a sense that she’d had a sense, but for the brief time being all she was registering was her fervent desire not to crash head first on to the unyielding granite slabs.

      She knew about falling. She’d always been good on the trampoline. In fact they’d persuaded her to try competitive gymnastics at school, but she’d left the team when it got too serious. Even then she’d known the medals she wanted from life weren’t to be got by bouncing. Now, however, all that twisting and turning looked like it might be useful.

      First off, she tried a backward somersault to straighten herself up, but all it did halfway through was bring her in violent collision with the back wall.

      This however turned out to be her salvation. Instead of sliding down it at great speed to make contact with the floor, she hit the stack of hassocks and hymn books piled there in anticipation of some future full house sell-out. The hands of angels might have done a better job at bearing her up, but maybe this kind of divine intercession was the best an Aussie atheist could look for.

      This was her last absurd thought before she hit the ground with sufficient force to drive all the breath out of her lungs but not to kill her. An avalanche of hassocks and hymn books swept down after her, filling the air with swirling dust. She twisted round to protect her face from the holy debris and cried out as it clattered and bounced against her back. Fear of heights she didn’t have, but most of her childhood nightmares had been associated with fear of being trapped in a constricted dark place.

      The downslide seemed to go on forever. She felt as if she were being buried alive under a mountain of dusty books and cushions. And even when they stopped crashing upon her, through the roar of terrified blood rushing along her veins she seemed still to hear noises: creaking wood, steps, doors opening and shutting.

      Till finally these too, whether imagined or real, died away, leaving her to something more frightening than any sound.

      The silence of the dark.

       4 the wolf-head cross

      Later Sam worked out she probably lay there only a matter of seconds, certainly less than a minute. Also that she could have dislodged the hymn books and hassocks simply by sitting up. But at the time it felt as if she lay there an age, fearful that the slightest movement would bring the whole weight of the tower crashing down upon her.

      And finally a voice.

      ‘Jesus Christ! Gerry, give me a hand. Miss Flood! Miss Flood! Are you all right?’

      Someone was pulling the books and hassocks from her body. Someone who knew her name. Maybe it was God. Though surely the All-knowing wouldn’t need to enquire after her health?

      She squinted sideways and saw a pair of knees. Would God wear blue denim? She didn’t care. She could see, not too clearly, but at least she was out of the dark.

      ‘What happened?’ she gasped.

      ‘You fell. Stay still. Gerry, don’t just stand there. Get some water.’

      Gerry? God’s second son, maybe. Jesus and Gerry. Now she was being silly. On the other hand this Gerry did seem able to conjure up rain which was now falling in very welcome cool drops on her exposed cheek.

      Her mouth felt dry as dust. She swallowed and realized that in fact her mouth was full of dust. She needed to get some of this delicious liquid down her throat. She struggled to turn her face upwards.

      ‘No! Don’t move till we get help.’

      Right, of course. She should lie still until experts had assessed the extent of damage and how best to proceed without causing more.

      But even as this eminently sensible response was struggling along the self-repairing synapses of her brain, she was twisting round from prone to supine and flexing everything that she felt ought to be flexible.

      ‘I’m OK,’ she gasped. ‘Water.’

      The source of the rain she now traced to a shallow silver platter from which Gerry the Son was flicking water with his finger. God the Bluejeaned was still kneeling by her. She used his shoulder to haul herself into the sitting position, grabbed the salver, and drained what little water it still contained. Then with the instinct of a thirsty animal in the outback, she pushed herself upright, tottered to the font and buried her face in its cool dark pool. When her mouth was washed clean of dust, she cupped her hands and threw the water against her face and gasped with pleasure as it trickled down her body.

      ‘This is good stuff,’ she said finally. ‘Does this mean I’ve been baptized? My pa will kill me.’

      The frivolity popped out as it often did at moments of high stress. Her rescuers didn’t seem to find it funny.

      God was a six-footer, broad-shouldered, barrelchested, though the barrel showed signs of rolling downhill into a beer gut. Way back he must have been a craggy good looker, but now he was definitely the ancient of days, in his sixties she guessed, his weathered face lined and crinkled. But his eyes still sparkled a bright blue and his thatch of silvery hair was still touched here and there with starts of gold.

      The other one, Gerry the rainmaker, was a bit younger, mid-fifties maybe, his hair still black with only a slight frosting at the edges. His

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