In the vicarage garage, we find a piece of plywood from the nativity, and a blunt saw.
‘But I thought she didn’t need me. I thought she was happy killing the little ones,’ says Henry, swinging the vicar’s prize cricket bat.
‘Oh she is – quite happy; she thinks their hearts will bring back the sun – but she’s not counting on the sun god turning up. Try to cut out a couple of circles, about the size of tea trays,’ I say. ‘I’ll look and see what else there is.’
The vicarage garage is fantastic. It’s like every play that ever went on in the church hall has finally died in here. There are bags of hats, swords, wings, pieces of furniture, giant cauldrons, golden geese, anything and everything. I search the hat bag, pull out a handful of ostrich feathers and plunge through all the bric-a-brac looking for anything appropriate.
On the piano, I find a box of multicoloured feather boas; behind it, a stuffed parrot nailed to a hat stand. Grabbing both, I fight my way past coat racks and parasols to the doorway, passing a huge length of rope which I stick inside my backpack, just in case.
Something that looks like an old-fashioned record player horn sticks out from under a broken leather chair. I don’t know whether I need it but it looks interesting. It turns out to be a megaphone, with a battery and button.
‘Yay!’ I shout. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘I’m nearly done,’ pants Henry. ‘Hard work, this saw.’
‘Here, take this,’ I say, throwing Henry the tinfoil from Mrs Mytych. ‘Wrap it all the way round both sides.’ I find a Roman-style brown tunic, a pile of paper masks and a long multicoloured sash on a clothes rail and run back to the doorway.
‘Right, time to dress you, Henry.’
With the tunic, a band of upholstery cord and the ostrich feathers, he just looks stupid. But when I tie the parrot around his waist with the sash, and poke the boas inside his collar so that they hang down, he starts to look weird. I wrap an army helmet in tinfoil and jam it on his head with the last of the ostrich feathers poking out of the top.
‘The sun?’ says Henry doubtfully. ‘This isn’t anything like the sun costume I was making for Ursula’s film.’
‘Well, this looks at least a little like the costumes they illustrated in the museum,’ I say, taping the silver discs to the back of his wrists with duct tape. ‘They’ve got this god – Huitza-something. He was the one that sprang out and killed his sister and his four hundred brothers. Have you seen a torch anywhere?’ Henry points at a large red torch standing by the door. ‘Thanks. There was a picture of Huitza-whatsit in the museum. He was a big cheese. And I think, according to the way she’s dressed in that wetsuit, that Miss Primrose thinks she’s a priest, dressed as Quetzalcoatl, in which case, she’s probably sacrificing the children to you.’
I take one of the paper masks and cover it thickly with tinfoil. The elastic just fits over the helmet and the feathers and the mask pings onto his face.
Henry nods; the parrot nods with him. Now it’s out of the garage, I can see how moth-eaten it is.
‘Can you walk?’ I ask.
He nods.
‘And talk?’
He shakes his head, and tries to speak. ‘Iths a bith closthe in th’here,’ he mumbles.
‘OK,’ I say, picking up the megaphone, ‘I’ll talk, you just look godly.’
‘What’th we goin’ the doo?’
‘What are we going to do? We’re going to fool her. You’re going to wave your arms, and I’m going to speak, and we’re going to hope that Maria gets back with enough mattresses in time.’
We struggle back to the church. Henry can’t see very well, so he blunders into the trees, and sheds feathers and scraps of tinfoil, but hopefully from Miss Primrose’s point of view on the roof it won’t matter. About a hundred metres from the tower is a gardener’s store. I pull out a stepladder and with difficulty Henry clambers onto the churchyard wall. It allows me to stand in a thick yew tree just underneath, with the megaphone and the torch.
Maria passes us, dragging a pile of camping mats, and two of Marcus’s friends follow with another double mattress. ‘We’re getting there,’ she says. ‘Rani’s turned up with a wheelbarrow of cushions – her little brother’s up there, and Will and his sister have brought their trampoline, but it’s not very big. And what you say about the coffee – I’ve spread the word.’
‘Brilliant, Maria. Ready?’ I call up to Henry.
‘Umph,’ he mumbles.
‘I have to take that as a yes, Henry; here we go.’
‘OH PRIEST OF MINE,’ my voice booms across the churchyard. All the crows roosting in the yew trees take off and shriek before landing again. ‘I AM HONOURED BY YOUR OFFERING.’
The crows take off and land again, and I listen, in case Miss Primrose answers.
The drumming stops.
‘Anything happen?’ I ask, shining the torch onto Henry’s tinfoil circles so that they glitter in the half-darkness. I have to say, he looks really impressive. He moves his arms slowly and in what I imagine is a godlike way.
‘A tedthy’s fafllen off t’the woof,’ says Henry, above me.
‘OH PRIEST OF MINE,’ I say. ‘THESE CHILDREN THAT YOU OFFER, THEY ARE TOO SMALL. THEY NEED TO GROW INTO BIGGER CHILDREN.’ I look up at the still dark sky. ‘I WILL ONLY COME BACK IF YOU CAN GIVE ME BIG CHILDREN. TAKE THESE SMALL CHILDREN FROM THE TEMPLE, AND GIVE ME THE HEARTS OF TEENAGERS.’ I peek out through the bushes, to see if Marcus and his mates are still there.
They are, although at least one of them’s backing off.
Silence. No drumming, no bird whistles.
‘Anything?’ I call up to Henry.
‘The’s thinkin’,’ he says.
‘Oh great Lord.’ It’s Miss Primrose’s voice. ‘Give me time to take these children down; I will bring back the larger children, just as soon as I can. Don’t disappear from the earth quite yet.’
There’s squealing and crying from the kids on the roof. ‘Is she moving them?’ I call up to Henry.
‘Yeth, annuver tedith’s faafllen off vough,’ he says.
‘I GIVE YOU FIVE OF YOUR MINUTES TO RETURN THEM SAFELY TO THE GROUND, OR I WILL TAKE THE YEAR OFF AND YOU CAN LIVE IN DARKNESS.’
‘Gooth one!’ says Henry, waving his arms majestically.
‘Stay there,’ I say, running for the tower, still with the megaphone in my hand. ‘Marcus,’ I shout.
‘Yeah – little bro – was that you?’ He gives me a high five.
‘Yes – but can you grab her the moment she comes down?’
Amos nods. ‘Yeah – call it done,’ he says, clicking the Derf gun. ‘We’ve called for reinforcements.’ As he says it, two of Marcus’s friends flatten one of the drummers and pin his arms behind his back.
We wait, and the first of the little kids runs out of the church, tear-stained and panicky. Maria scoops them up and cuddles them. Ursula just films them. ‘I gather it’s the coffee?’ she says from behind the camera.
‘Yes – I worked it out. Mrs Mytych is OK because she only drinks stuff from her shop. Everyone else must have bought coffee or chocolate in the cafe, or from the museum shop, and is drinking it at home – or at the rugby club or the Women’s Union.’
‘I thought as much,’ says Ursula. ‘I wondered how long it would take for you to work it out.’
I can’t be bothered to argue with her, and sink onto the nearest gravestone. I suddenly feel desperately tired and hungry. I’d no idea history was so bloodthirsty or violent. It’s exhausting; how did anyone survive?
‘Gnananananananahhhhhh.’ I turn, just in time to see Mr Dent launching a pitchfork at Marcus.
‘Marcus!’ I yell, but luckily Mr Dent’s aim is off and he hits a headstone instead.
Marcus turns and fires at Mr Dent, Amos too, and behind them I see Miss Primrose leaving the church, with a look of determination on her face.
‘Henry!’ I shout, pointing.
Behind me, there’s a crash, as Henry presumably doesn’t quite make it down the ladder. From the lychgate, half a dozen games box players emerge blinking into the half-light, and fire at Mr Dent and his fellow Romans. I duck between them, following Miss Primrose through the side gate and along the street. Henry joins me, shedding feathers and tinfoil down the road.
‘Wath are we thoing to tho?’ he asks.
‘Stop her,’ I answer, ‘so she can’t damage anyone.’