by Phil Rickman
To chronicle his lifestyle in the Sunday Times Magazine’s ‘Life in the Day of …’ feature. (If I must.)
To be a subject for the radio programme In the Psychiatrist’s Chair. (Well, why not?)
And an inquiry from a company interested in marketing cute little Kelvyn Kites to hang in car windows. (No, no, no, a million times no … surely there’s quite enough carnage on the roads.)
Meanwhile questions were being asked in the serious papers about Kurt Campbell’s previous shows: how genuine were they? How many hypnotic subjects ‘randomly selected’ from the audience were, in fact, plants?
This disturbed Cindy a little. He didn’t want to ruin anybody’s image – and Kurt Campbell, in his brash way, had done a great deal to awaken public interest in serious paranormal research. Perhaps, instead of avoiding the press, as he had been on this issue, he should make a meaningful statement to the effect that he believed entirely in the power of hypnosis and in the extraordinary abilities of Mr Kurt Campbell.
As for Kurt, his only public comment had been to the effect that it was impossible to make people do, under hypnosis, something very much against their will.
Cindy knew this popular claim to be less than true.
It all needed some pondering. He left the mobile phone in the caravan and wandered out in the rain until he could see the sea sloshing the rocks forty feet below. Another hour and he would have to be off to London again, for the rehearsal and the Saturday evening Lottery Show. A tiring schedule – the driving part, at least. But the spirit of Pembrokeshire always restored him and, when he was back here on Sunday, perhaps he would stagger up to Carn Ingli, the holy peak of the Preseli Mountains, where compass needles changed direction and unexpected insights were gained.
At that moment, beyond the open door of the caravan, the mobile phone started up again, like a distant ice-cream van.
‘Grayle? Little Grayle? Little Grayle Underhill, with the eye of Horus earrings? Well, well, well…’
‘Cindy, hi … uh, I didn’t expect to get through so easy.’
‘Why, because I am a big television star? A glittering celebrity with no time for his friends?’
‘Uh, no, I just …’
‘Are you all right, Grayle?’
Of course she was not all right; the radio waves were fairly crackling with an unexpected tension.
‘Well … good to hear your voice, lovely,’ Cindy said lightly. ‘So direct. So focused. So devoid of the omnipresent hidden agenda. A rare virtue, almost unknown at the BBC, where the truth lies buried under a thousand unintelligible memos.’
‘You’re saying you don’t have much time and you want me to be direct and upfront, right?’
Cindy laughed. ‘Grayle, I am alone in my humble caravan, my mystic’s cave. Kelvyn is in his case, recharging his batteries of bile. Outside the glorious St Bride’s Bay is serene to the horizon. We have for ever. How is Marcus?’
‘Recovering from three weeks’ heavy flu. He sends his, uh …’
‘Germs?’ said Cindy.
Grayle laughed nervously. ‘It’s about Marcus I called. I called for some advice. I’m using my cellphone in the yard. I told Marcus I needed some air, so if I start calling you Charlie or something you’ll know he just showed up.’
‘One moment. I shall settle myself on my bed-settee. There we are. Now. Tell me.’
‘OK. This is about a spiritualist medium. If a medium came to you and said she was like too scared to go into trance any more, on account of every time she did she was faced with this like heavy-duty, dark entity that crowded out all the rest of the, uh, spirits … what would your reaction be to that?’
‘My.’ Cindy blinked. ‘You do come up with them, don’t you, Grayle? This would be an experienced medium? One not easily fooled by the Great Cosmic Joker?’
‘Fifteen years, plus.’
‘And what does it want, this … entity?’
‘She doesn’t know.’
‘Didn’t she ask it?’
‘It doesn’t speak. She says it’s real distinct, more solid than anything she ever saw before and therefore scary as hell. But it’s like … mute.’
‘Well,’ Cindy said, ‘I accept that not all presences are chatty in the accepted sense. But with a medium, a sensitive, there is virtually always some form of communication – else where’s the point?’
‘It just exudes stuff. Smells. Cold. A suggestion of hostility, violence. Maybe sexual.’
‘Like an incubus?’
‘Well, you know, it has a clearly human identity. Like, it’s wearing a suit. Oh, Jesus, why am I telling you this stuff when I don’t even know if I believe the half of it?’
‘Because it bothers you. Why does it bother you, Grayle? Who is this woman?’
‘She came on to Marcus. It messed her up, this experience. She thinks she needs Marcus as a kind of spiritual father-figure. Like, she first came into his life years ago, when she was just a kid and he was a teacher at her school and looking for something to believe in, and he believed in her.’
‘And you don’t.’
‘It’s Persephone Callard, Cindy.’
Cindy was silent.
He watched the sea through the window.
‘Well,’ he said at last.
‘Your paths ever cross?’
‘To date, no. I have read of her exploits in the papers, of course, over the years. Indeed, I’ve found myself sympathizing, on more than one occasion. Considering common ground – misfits, outsiders … albeit, in her case, a somewhat privileged outsider …’
‘Gets nearly as much space as you nowadays, huh?’
‘Ha ha. So, am I to understand that this is where the elusive Miss Persephone Callard may now be found?’
‘Castle Farm, in the parish of St Mary’s. You recall the dairy building where Bobby Maiden stayed? He’ll be here too, presently.’
‘Bobby also? A little reunion, then.’
‘Kind of.’ Little Grayle was suddenly sounding terribly down. ‘Cindy, I figured … maybe if you were … like, if your schedule allowed …’
‘But Marcus doesn’t know of this?’
‘I thought if you just kind of turned up, that Marcus would be …’
‘Furious,’ Cindy said.
‘But secretly grateful. Long term.’
Cindy smiled. ‘And the troubled Miss Callard?’
‘What I was hoping is you would probably be able to establish one way or the other. If this was the real thing. You know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, lovely, I think I sense the direction in which you are tentatively travelling. My problem is that I have, as you know, commitments in London …’
‘I’m sorry. I understand. It was stupid of me.’
‘… at least, until tomorrow evening. Would Sunday be soon enough? If I were just passing through, as it were. Staying at the Ram’s Head in St Mary’s, with my dear friend Amy Jenkins?’
‘Oh Cindy …’ almost a sob, this was ‘… I would be so grateful. See, I would hate for Marcus to have to deal with this on his own. He’s been sick, he isn’t as young as he used to be. And he’s getting kind of disillusioned about his own worth, you know?’
A wave of tenderness washed over Cindy. He remembered his first meeting with Grayle, a wan little figure in the bar of the Ram’s Head, searching for her missing sister in a strange place. Exceedingly strange, as it turned out.
‘Well, let me see,’ he said positively. ‘I usually arrive back here quite late on Saturday night, so if I drive up there early in the morning when we are all fresh?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you, Grayle. It will be an intriguing experience. I’m sure. I would relish the opportunity to meet the extraordinary Miss Callard. And to see you again, of course. And Bobby. And … Marcus. A little reunion of what we might call the St Mary’s Circle. Perhaps it is meant to be. Right. I shall see you on Sunday, then.’
‘Well, I might not be here,’ Grayle said, almost brusquely.
‘No?’ Oh. Getting to something. Cindy felt a considerable darkening. ‘And why not?’
‘I may have to go away. I don’t wanna talk about that. Marcus’ll tell you if … if I’m not here.’
‘Grayle …?’
‘I have to go. I see, uh … I see Marcus coming. Bye, Charlie. Thank you.’
Grayle stabbed the end button, stood under the smashed tower, shaking with the knowledge of her own doom. It had come on to rain – mean, squally stuff.
The ominous figure coming towards her wasn’t Marcus, it was Persephone Callard with the hood of her black sweatshirt pulled up. She looked dark and witchy under the jagged walls, and the whole scene sang with foreboding.
‘Grayle, you can’t stand out here like some fugitive.’
‘Fugitive from justice,’ Grayle said miserably. ‘Don’t I know it.’
‘Look,’ Callard said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’ She guided Grayle back to the shelter of the curtain wall. ‘It’s going to be a lot easier if I say it was me.’
‘What?’
‘If I say I did it. I hit the man, I cut him with the knife. I came down and found them and they attacked me and I grabbed the knife from the wall. I was in a state about it afterwards, obviously, and you brought me back here.’
Grayle blinked at her. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because you’re a foreigner and it could be more difficult for you. And I can afford a good lawyer.’ Callard pushed back her hood; her face was dry and calm. ‘Grayle, if you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t done what you did, I don’t know where I’d be now. I don’t know what would have happened to me.’
Grayle shook her head. ‘It’s a generous offer. But no. What if they find the other guy? He’s gonna know it wasn’t you, and then it’ll all be much worse.’
Though she didn’t see how it could be much worse. She felt cold rain on her face, glared bleakly up at the castle walls – this huge defensive stronghold once, but what did it keep out now? Not even the rain which spattered into her eyes. It was a good time to cry.
‘I killed a guy. I’m not gonna run away from that. What I’ll do is I’ll go back with Bobby. We’ll go to the cops in Stroud or someplace. I might get manslaughter, I even have a case for self-defence. Besides …’ She fought for a weak smile and almost got there. ‘I have an excuse. I’m a New Yorker. I was raised in a violent culture.’
XXI
ST MARY’S WAS THE LAST VILLAGE IN ENGLAND, SO CLOSE TO THE border that on some signs the name was given in Welsh, Llanfair-y-fynydd. St Mary’s in the Mountains: the Black Mountains, lumbar vertebrae in the spine of Wales.
Here the mountains
Here the Sky
Here the Earth
Meeting place
HEAR the Earth (THUMP)
Bobby Maiden’s heart began thumping like Cindy’s shamanic drum as Grayle’s Mini went chugging into the main street.
Under the overhanging wooden sign of the Ram’s Head, known as the Tup – domain of Amy Jenkins, glittery, garrulous divorcee from the South Wales valleys. Two cars and a Land-Rover outside the Tup, but no other vehicles on the move and no people about. A marmalade cat strolled along the wet pavement and hopped on to a wall.
That feeling of returning to a spiritual home. Or somebody’s spiritual home; whenever Maiden came back here, it always seemed to be related to death.
Out of the village into pink soil country, up to where the sign said, Capel-y-ffin: mountain road, unfit for heavy vehicles.
Under the tree branches locked across the narrow road like the antlers of fighting stags, the road dipping and the Black Mountains sinking out of sight because they were so close. But you would still feel them there, an underlying dark weight.
Or maybe that was the sombre weight of the crime-scene pictures in his head. The dispassionate police mind having photographed it from many different angles. A file of sickening images to flip through.
And one maverick factor preventing the drawing of conclusions.
When he finally drove between the wings of stone at the entrance to Castle Farm, Maiden allowed himself to start worrying seriously about Grayle and how it was no surprise at all to her that Justin Sharpe was lying dead in his own garage.
She came out alone to meet him, head bowed. A small, hesitant shadow in the darkening yard.
First, patting her Mini like it was a dog that came home, looking up at him from across the bonnet, big eyes behind those unruly tresses glistening with rain.
‘Hey. Bobby Maiden.’
‘Grayle Underhill.’
She straightened up, stood awkwardly, a couple of yards from Maiden.
‘Thanks for collecting the car.’
‘Pleasure. Well. Not all of it. Obviously.’
‘No.’ Grayle smiled wanly. ‘But, uh, thanks for bringing the car away without reporting whatever it was you oughta have reported.’
‘And that would be …?’
‘Uh huh.’ A shake of the head, spray flying from her hair. ‘This is interview-room stuff, right? Could we skip that part?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Right. OK.’
She had her small hands crossed in front of her, like ready for the handcuffs.
‘So, uh …’ She took a big breath. ‘Well, it was me, Bobby. I killed him. I killed Justin. There you go. That’s it.’
‘You killed Justin Sharpe.’
‘Yes, I did. OK … OK … I realize …’ pushing her hands up at him ‘… I realize there’s no way you can cover this up, with your job and all, but I’m grateful you brought the car out of there because obviously that would complicate matters on account of being a link between us … like, if they could prove I already knew Justin, then they’d be less likely to believe I just struck out at him with the chopper out of total fear – which was the truth of it, so help me – and they’d think there was some history to this, which is not true because the history between Justin and me goes back no further than … Wednesday, was it only Wednesday, Jesus, it’s like … What?’
‘Grayle, sorry … what did you kill him with?’
‘Uh, it was like …’ holding out her hands to demonstrate the length of it ‘… it was a hedging tool. Big, heavy knife? Like a butcher’s cleaver?’
Grayle shuddered.
‘And you chopped him … where?’
‘In the face.’ She swallowed. ‘Obviously. It was …’
‘Where was this?’
‘At Call … in a cottage about three miles from the garage. He ran out with his head pouring blood. See, I knew he was hurt bad, but I didn’t know—’
‘Grayle.’
‘See, I would’ve told you before you went there, Bobby, if Marcus hadn’t—’
‘Grayle.’ Maiden put up both hands to stop her. ‘The thing is Justin Sharpe was crushed to death underneath an old Volkswagen Beetle.’
‘Wh … huh?’
‘If anybody hit Justin with anything resembling a butcher’s cleaver, all I can say is he heals well. It was his chest that was crushed. His face was unmarked.’
Grayle stood there for a moment in the grey rain, blinking, gulping in air and rain.
Her face collapsing like a wet Kleenex, she fell, sobbing, into Bobby Maiden’s arms.
With Marcus – no matter how long since you’d last met – it was always like you’d just been out for fish and chips and returned without the mushy peas. You came to accept this.
However, he had more of an excuse than usual: he’d been unwell. But getting better, Grayle said, although this year’s flu was a mean and lingering virus.
‘This makes no bastard sense, Maiden.’ Marcus was pacing the low-beamed study like a rhino in a pigpen. ‘If Underhill didn’t … then who …?’
Grayle said, ‘Where did Callard go?’
‘Went to change into something dry.’ Marcus sat down heavily, snatched off his glasses, pushed his palms over his face and through his battleship-grey hair. ‘Maiden, I … Bloody sorry
to hear about Clutton. Didn’t really take it in on the phone this morning, too concerned with my own agenda. Owe the man my life. Thought I’d had it that day. Will you, ah … will you get whoever did it?’
Maiden shrugged.
Grayle said, ‘Did I meet this guy? I don’t recall.’
‘Don’t think you did, Underhill. Poor bastard lived a shadowy kind of life, I’d guess. Now the shadowy death. Seems to be this whole stratum of society functioning quite oblivious of the law. I always relished the idea of other levels of existence. Appreciated anarchy.’ Marcus watched the logs burning in the stove. ‘All rather frightening now. Getting bloody old is what it is. Feeling helpless.’
‘Bugger off, Marcus.’ Maiden sat on the sofa. ‘These are just toerags, as my dad would say. Can’t let yourself be intimidated by toerags.’
This was all wrong. He should be furious at being set up, being dropped into an alien crime scene, discovering a suspicious death he couldn’t report, driving away in what might have been evidence.
Feeling sorry for Marcus – this was unnatural.
‘Bobby …’ Grayle came to sit next to him. She was still looking limp with relief. ‘Where’s this leave you?’
‘That’s an interesting question.’
‘Hang on,’ Marcus said, ‘how do you know it wasn’t an accident? Dangerous places, vehicle workshops, especially when you’re on your own.’
‘Well, the original idea might’ve been to make it look like an accident.’
The top of Justin’s big, black moustache had been visible under the tail of the VW. His skin tinted green from a mossed and mouldy skylight. His eyes glazed into a forever kind of desperation. He’d lain face up, hair in the grease, squashed like a cockroach under the heavy ruins of a car with no tyres. Two-thirds of him under the car, ribs crushed, the spirit squeezed out of the body like toothpaste from a tube, the tube left flattened in the middle. Maiden could still smell, under the pervading oil, the stench of Justin letting everything go, into his overalls. Questions thumping down in his head, drab packages he didn’t want to open: how long had the body been here? Was it possible he was already dead when they dumped the car on him?
Or was he lying here, face up, screaming as it came down?