The Five Horseshoes

by David McDine

  ‘So, has another of your customers passed away?’

  Horace chuckled down the line. ‘What, to the great public bar in the sky? No, no, vicar, though I suppose quite a few do seem to drop off their perches from time to time. But no, not this time. We need your help with another matter. Your blessing, like.’

  The vicar’s antennae were vibrating. He was frequently called upon for help, judging flower shows, declaring the village fete open and that sort of thing, but he had never been asked by a publican for a blessing before. He was intrigued, but could not help voicing a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘What could that be, the annual blessing of the barrels or presenting the darts’ cup?’

  Horace was amused. ‘Blessing the barrels? What a very good idea, vicar, but no, we want you to perform an exor-whatsit. You know, tell a ghost to bog off...’

  ‘A what!’ The vicar was completely dumbfounded.

  ‘A ghost, vicar. Well, what they call a malevolent spirit, that is. Come to think of it, two spirits...’

  There was a moment’s silence as the vicar digested this extraordinary piece of information. Then, gathering himself, he asked suspiciously, ‘Are you, how shall I put this, are you quite sober?’

  Horace guffawed. ‘Dear me, yes, vicar. Sober as a Methodist. I haven’t touched a drop so far today, beer or spirits!’

  The vicar allowed himself a nervous laugh. ‘Two spirits, you say?’

  ‘That’s right, vicar. One’s what they calls a polter-whatsit.’

  ‘Geist – a poltergeist?’

  ‘That’s it. Never learned Latin at school, myself.’

  The vicar corrected him. ‘It’s German, not Latin.’

  ‘Blimey, never guessed it was foreign. Must be left over from the war!’

  ‘How does this evil spirit manifest itself?’

  ‘Oh no, vicar,’ Horace assured him. ‘I don’t think it gets up to anything of a sexual nature.’

  Perplexed, the vicar was speechless for once.

  Horace filled the vacuum. ‘Although, now you come to mention it, vicar, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these polter-thingeys hung around the ladies’ loo. We’re always having to replace the Bronco in there. Uncanny how quickly it disappears. No sooner put a new roll in and there it is, gone...’

  The vicar was becoming a little testy. ‘No, no, by manifesting, I mean how does it make itself known?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean. Well, it throws stuff about in the bar, switches the lights on and off, makes beer disappear and suchlike. And it left the cellar hatches open one time. Malevolent thing to do, that was. Someone could have fallen in. The local bobby came round to look into it.’

  ‘The cellar?’

  ‘No, who left the flaps up. The other one’s upstairs, in the attic. But that’s just what you might call a normal ghost. English I should think.’

  ‘And how does that one manif..., er, appear?’

  ‘Oh no, vicar, it doesn’t appear as such. It’s more heard than seen. Clumps about at night. Keeps Gladys awake so she’s even more irritable than usual in the mornings.’

  ‘Hmm, could be demonic possession of some sort. So, you want me to perform an exorcism?’

  ‘That’s right vicar. Well, two if you would. We’d like to get rid of both.’

  The vicar was intrigued. An exorcism would make a change from the usual boring routine, but he was unsure of the correct procedure and racked his brains before answering. ‘Look, I’d have to do a bit of research, but I daresay I could pop along and say some prayers for protection and peace...’

  ‘And tell them to bog off?’ Horace asked expectantly.

  ‘Well, yes, although not quite in those terms. I think I’d need to tell it, er them, to depart in peace. That sort of thing.’

  Horace punched the air with the receiver. The fish had taken the bait.

  He put the phone to his ear again. ‘Many thanks, vicar. Good man! Shall we say this evening just after closing time? That’s when they do most of their manifesting...’

  * * *

  After putting down the phone, the vicar sank back into his favourite armchair, a pile of Wisden Cricketers’ Almanacks on the low table beside him. When his mind was troubled he tended to refer to Wisden rather than the Bible, drawing great inner strength from the statistics of long-ago matches and the sportsmanlike exploits of the gods of the greensward. Indeed, some knew it as ‘the Bible of cricket'.

  A bit of superficial research told him he would need to take not Wisden, but a proper Bible, crucifix and some holy water to sprinkle about, recite the Lord’s Prayer and so forth.

  He mused that he almost certainly needed to obtain the bishop’s approval to carry out an exorcism. But then, this was the most intriguing thing he had been called upon to do since he had married two sets of twins who had changed their minds at the altar and swapped partners, causing no end of paperwork.

  Yes, he should consult the bishop. But then his lordship was a dry old stick and what if he said no?

  So, telling himself that he could carry out the exorcism quietly, without anyone outside the village hearing about it, he resolved to go into bat that very night and score a boundary against the forces of Satan.

  And, meanwhile, he could look forward to watching more of the televised cricket after the lunch interval.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Schemes and Spirits

  As arranged, Crow returned to the Shoes as soon as the magistrates’ court adjourned for lunch. He could pick up the result of the poaching case he had been covering later. Normally he would not have bothered with it, but this one resulted from an alleged incursion by a gang of townies hunting pheasants on Lord Gorse’s land, and the reporter reckoned anything involving a toff was good for a story.

  Downing a pint, he went into a huddle with Horace and Glad, making preparations for the exorcism. There was muttered talk of fishing line and ghostly footsteps.

  This sparked a comment from the only other customer in the public bar, old Frank, sitting on his usual barstool nursing a pint of mild and bitter.

  ‘Ghosts? Plenty of ghosts round these parts, but I don’t recall any ones what go fishing.’

  Horace fixed the old poacher with a puzzled stare. ‘Oh yes, Frank, and what do you know about local ghosts?’

  The old-timer took a slurp of his fast-diminishing pint. ‘Well, I’ve got a bit of a dry throat like. Might ’elp if I was to get a refill...’

  Crow slapped two shillings on the bar. ‘Best oil the wheels, eh Horace?’

  As Horace worked the mild and bitter pumps, Frank refilled his pipe, sucked his teeth and launched into his spiel.

  ‘Local ghosts? Well, don’t know as there’s any really local ghosts. There’s the five-legged horse, of course, but I’ve never seen that meself...’

  ‘Never been drunk enough?’ Horace offered.

  ‘No, never seen that horse, drunk or sober. But what I do know is that there used to be a monastery, you know, over towards Upper Upton.’

  Glad confirmed. ‘Oh yes, those old ruins you can see from the road.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Frank nodded sagely. ‘Of course, that’s what they was before Henry the Heighth disillusioned the monks. Afore that it must have been quite nice to be a monk, just hanging about the monastery all day brewing beer and whatnot – like that Benedictine stuff what we used to drink at Christmas.’

  Crow asked, ‘So, are there any ghosts there?’

  Frank shrugged and ploughed on. ‘There was friars, too, in the olden days. But it can’t have been healthy eating a load of fried stuff. I seen that Friar Tuck in a Robin Hood film when I was a kid. He was really chubby. Probably ’cos of all them fry-ups. And the drink, of course.’

  ‘So, were there any ghostly friars?’

  ‘They said they had to drink beer and such ’cos the water wasn’t safe what with all the little bugs what you can’t hardly see swimming round in it. But I reckon they just made that up so’s they could get rat-arsed every d
ay. The local water’s never done me no harm. Course, me grandfather did die of typhoid but he must’ve caught that when he went up to London on the train one time. Never been on a train meself and ain’t never been up London either. No bounds what you might catch up there.’

  Crow was becoming ever so slightly exasperated. ‘Look Frank,’ he said as patiently as he could, ‘I’ve bought you a pint and you said you know about local ghosts, but you’re beginning to ramble...’

  But Frank was not to be hassled. ‘There was a lot of praying of course, if you was a monk or a friar, but I suppose that was one of the drawbacks of the job...’ He took a long draught of mild and bitter and relapsed into silence.

  Crow, Horace and Glad exchanged frustrated looks.

  The silence was broken by Horace. ‘I think we can forget about Frank and his local ghosts. Didn’t exactly help our cause, as they say...’

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Crow. ‘But we could use him tonight. There’s a role for him in the attic.’

  ‘What’s his price, d’you think?’

  ‘A couple of mild and bitters – and a Penguin for his dog.’

  ‘Well,’ the reporter warned, ‘you’d better make sure he’s well briefed. Don’t want him getting it wrong and rambling on when the vicar’s here.’

  They plotted and planned well into the afternoon, and, having set up everything for the evening’s performance, agreed that it would be a very good idea to have a police presence.

  Horace offered, ‘I could give Alf Midgley a ring.’

  ‘The village bobby?’ asked Crow.

  ‘That’s him. He likes a free pint and if he’s here when the vicar tells the ghosts to eff orf it would add a little...’

  ‘Credibility, just like that commuter bloke said!’ Crow enthused. ‘Perfect. Just the kind of thing we need to stand the story up...’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Exorcism

  There was tension in the air – a bit like the run-up to the gunfight at the OK Corral. Glad and Horace ushered out the evening’s drinkers, except for Frank, who was poured another pint of mild and bitter and told to sit tight.

  Alf Midgley, summoned by Horace, turned up on his Velocette motorbike and marched into the public bar carrying his helmet and goggles.

  ‘What’s afoot?’ he asked, casting an eye over the assembled company of Horace, Glad, the reporter Des Crow, old Frank and his terrier. ‘It’s past closing time, so I hope this here’s not an open-and-shut case of serving drinks after hours, because if it is I’ll have to do some serious nicking.’

  ‘Ah, well, Alf,’ Horace said hesitantly, ‘let’s call it a lock-in, a private party like, ’cos we’ve got a bit of a thing going on here tonight.’

  ‘If it’s a lock-in you’d better pour me a pint and tell me what it’s all about. Someone’s birthday, is it?’

  Horace worked the beer pump, placed the overflowing pint of bitter in front of the policeman, and said quietly, ‘No, it’s what you call an exorcism. You know, getting rid of evil spirits and whatnot?’

  Alf was nonplussed. ‘You what?’

  Crow interjected. ‘Look, the vicar’s due here in a minute and all will be explained. You’ve been asked here to kind of, well, verify, what’s going to happen.’

  Alf was about to protest when the public bar door swung open and the vicar appeared. Round his neck dangled a large crucifix and he was clutching a Bible and a phial of holy water. ‘Ah, PC Midgley,’ he exclaimed. ‘Good to see that the law’s here to ensure that everything’s above board.’

  The upholder of the law nodded to the man of the cloth. ‘Now, p’rhaps you can explain what’s going on vicar?’

  The vicar placed his Bible and holy water on the bar and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘I’ve been asked here to perform an exorcism, to persuade an evil spirit, that is, two evil spirits, to leave the pub in peace.’

  Alf snorted. ‘Spend a fair bit of me life making sure people leave pubs in peace at closing time, but I’ve never come across a spirit...’

  ‘Well, you’re about to tonight, Alf,’ Horace told him. ‘We’ve got a polter-thingy that throws things about, turns the lights out and such-like, and another sort of common-or-garden ghost that tramps about in the attic.’

  And, ignoring the constable’s disbelieving look, he turned to the vicar and asked, ‘How about a drink for you, vicar? On the house like. A glass of spirits p’rhaps?’

  The churchman frowned. ‘Very amusing I’m sure, but I prefer to keep a clear head, thank you all the same. Now, perhaps we can get on with the matter in hand?’

  Old Frank had got up and left the bar, but neither Alf nor the vicar appeared to have noticed. If they had it is more than likely they would have assumed that he had repaired to the open-roofed urinal adjoining the pub and popularly known as the Black Hole. The lack of a roof meant that philosophical drinkers could gaze up at the heavens and ponder the mysteries of the universe while relieving themselves.

  The old poacher’s terrier had not followed its master and was still in its usual place under the barstool licking a trace of chocolate from a Penguin bar wrapper.

  The vicar rapped on the bar with his fingers, bringing the gathering to order. He picked up his Bible and cleared his throat, a trifle nervously. ‘Now I should tell you that, despite what you might think, there is no specific order of service for this sort of thing, least of all in a public bar.’

  ‘Pity...’ Glad mouthed.

  ‘However,’ the vicar continued, ‘I propose to recite the Lord’s Prayer, call upon each spirit to reveal itself, douse it with holy water and ask it, in the name of Jesus, to depart peacefully, and not return...’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Crow offered.

  ‘And then I shall ask you to join me in some prayers for protection and peace...’

  It was at that very moment that the lights went out and Glad, although she knew exactly what was occurring, could not help but give a startled shriek.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Alf exclaimed. ‘A power cut!’

  ‘That was no power cut,’ warned Crow, dramatically. ‘That’s your poltergeist in action!’

  ‘That’s right,’ Horace agreed, striking a match and lighting a candle that just happened to be handy on the bar.

  The flickering light revealed a frozen look on the vicar’s face. ‘My, er, goodness,’ he spluttered and clutched his crucifix.

  ‘May the cross of the Son of God, which is mightier than all the hosts of Satan...’ he intoned, but, before he could get to the bit about it abiding with them in their going out and their coming in, a bottle came crashing down from the shelf behind the bar and this time both the vicar and Alf almost jumped out of their skins.

  ‘That’s torn it!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘You’ve really woken it up now, vicar.’

  And Crow urged, ‘Yes, best get on with exorcising it PDQ or it’ll wreck the place.’

  The vicar held up his Bible to shield himself and continued nervously, ‘...from the wrath of evildoers, from the assaults of evil spirits, from foes visible and invisible, from the snares of the devil, from all passions that beguile the soul and body, may it guard, protect and deliver us...’

  It was at that point that a clumping noise could be heard, emanating from somewhere above them.

  As one, they looked up at the nicotine-coated ceiling where the flickering candle was throwing strange, ever-changing little shadows.

  ‘Crikey,’ Horace whispered. ‘That must be the other ghost. The one that manifests itself in the attic.’

  The vicar’s face was as white as his vestments, but Alf Midgley was not one to stand around quivering for long. In the best traditions of the constabulary he pulled himself together, produced his truncheon from its resting place down his trousers, and made for the door.

  Flinging it open, he crossed the parlour and, closely followed by Horace carrying the candlestick, the vicar armed with crucifix and Bible, and Des Crow wielding a small flash camera, with Glad bri
nging up the rear, he started up the stairs.

  They could still hear the ghostly clumping when they reached the landing.

  Breathing hard, Alf shouted, ‘It’s coming from above!’

  Horace confirmed, ‘That’ll be the attic, like I said. That’s where it usually manifests itself. So if you just get on with your exorcism words vicar, I’m sure it’ll get the message... and stop clumping about!’

  His voice had risen to a shout as if delivering a message to whatever was above, but as the clumping came to a sudden stop there was a simultaneous cry of alarm emanating from the attic, the ghost’s booted foot appeared through the ceiling above their heads, Crow’s camera flashed, and a fine shower of plaster floated down on them.

  Alf cried out, ‘What the hell is that?’ And Horace observed, ‘About a size seven, I’d say.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Calling a Truce

  Down in the bar, with the lights back on, everything was back to normal.

  Horace was pulling a pint of mild and bitter for the dishevelled former ghost, who had resumed his seat at the corner of the bar.

  Crow had helped himself to a double scotch to calm his nerves and he was pouring a gin for Glad while she was busily clearing up the shards of broken glass. The fishing line that had enabled Horace to make the bottle appear to fly off the shelf, invisible by candlelight, was now clearly to be seen, as was the line to the main light switch.

  The vicar brushed plaster from his surplice and let his frosty expression dwell on each of the conspirators in turn, starting with Alf.

  ‘Really constable, I find it hard to believe that you, supposedly a guardian and upholder of the law, would allow yourself to become involved in such a travesty as this!’

  Alf was greatly offended. ‘Oh no, vicar. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m nothing to do with all this whatsoever. Tricked into coming here, I was, just like you.’

  The vicar could see that the plaster-covered constable was sincere – and innocent. So he turned his wrath on the others.

  He demanded, ‘Do you mean to tell me that this has all been a trick, a cheap stunt just to get some false publicity so you can sell more beer?’