Page 69 of On Circus Lane

His eyes cloud. “By who?” he asks fiercely, as if preparing to confront them.

“Sal, mainly.”

He snorts. “She’s quite scary, so I’m afraid you’re on your own, babe.” He blanches, looking as astonished as if he’s just sworn out loud.

“Babe?” I mouth.

He flushes bright red. “A common mistake. I meant to say …” His words trail off as he’s obviously unable to think of anything that rhymes with babe.

“Of course you did.” I wait a second. “You’re completely right, babe.”

This time, a laugh comes out, and our guide pauses. “Did you have a question, young man?”

I immediately try to duck behind Freddy, but Bee raises his hand with an eager expression. “Yes, I know yew trees are very prevalent in churchyards. I’ve heard that’s because they thrived on dead bodies and were a prime source of wood for medieval longbows. Maybe so, or it might be because they were a Celtic symbol of death and resurrection.” He pauses to take a breath.

I nudge him. “You forgot the question, babe.”

He gives a cute snort. “Sorry. What is the most common tree here?”

“I’ll come to that later,” the guide says gravely, as if there is no chance in the world that he won’t get his phone out in five minutes and find the answer on Google. He can mention my name for a good table.

Bee, however, just nods. “Thank you,” he says earnestly.

Repressing a smile, I place my hand on his back and steer him forward as the guide begins walking.

We come into the main part of the graveyard, and the excited chatter stops immediately. It’s a very creepy place. The snow has covered everything in a carpet of white that gleams eerily in the weak streetlights. The branches of the trees rustle in the wind, sounding horribly like skeletons trying to climb out of their tombs. The church is a dark, squat shape, and I avoid looking at the windows in case I see something peeping out. Bee has no such reservations and is looking around, no doubt happily thinking up new questions for our poor guide.

The cold is fierce and biting on our exposed faces, and I nestle into the folds of my parka and pull Bee’s Santa hat farther down over his hair. He offers me a warm grin of thanks, and I’m astonished when he slides his arm through mine.

“Is this okay?” he asks in a quiet voice. The guide is talking about a haunting that’s been seen in the spot where we’re standing.

“It’s more than okay,” I say, hoping my hoarse voice will be taken for the cold. But how could I be cold when his slim, lithe body is next to mine?

“The ground is uneven,” he says quickly.

I nod, repressing a smile. “It certainly is. We can’t have you falling, babe.”

We follow the group, hearing hushed whispers and a few tiny shrieks as the wind blows the trees about, making fantastic shapes on the church walls.

“Now gather around,” the guide calls. “Do you see that house there?” We look obediently at one of the many houses that surround the graveyard. Its windows are lit up in bright lozenges of colour. “The owners have lived there for twenty years, and even in daylight, the windows facing the graveyard have their blinds lowered. Apparently, they have seen moving lights in the graveyard in the dead of night and have heard screaming and thesounds of a violent argument. Can you imagine what could have caused that?”

Silence falls as everyone looks at him and then at the graveyard as if expecting a spook to come flying out at us.

Bee clears his throat, and I bite my lip because this is going to be good.

“Black mould,” he says succinctly.

“Gesundheit,” Freddy mutters. Bee grins at him.

“I beg your pardon?” the guide says.

Bee nods. “Black mould is prevalent in damp places. It is a well-documented fact that black mould can cause extreme hallucinations, brain fog, and depression.”

The group shifts, and the guide clears his throat, looking slightly panicked. “Well, which is more likely? Some rare flower?—"

“Mould.”

“—or lonely spirits doomed to roam the graveyard?”

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