The Cure of Souls mw-4

by Phil Rickman

  ‘In?’

  ‘When we do it. I don’t imagine Mr Stock would mind. I wouldn’t.’

  Merrily bit her lip. She hadn’t thought about that, she’d just said it. She thought about it now. The standard advice to Deliverance ministers was to have a few good Christians around at an exorcism, including a second minister, if possible. Back-up. What kind of Christian you could call Lol she had no idea, but he was actually living here, he actually knew Gerard Stock… and, however he felt about dogma and the clergy generally, she knew by now that she could trust him. All the way.

  The car bonnet was warm under her cassock. She looked at the fragmented cloud over the little church of Knight’s Frome and then back at Lol. He was coincidence. Charismatic Christians, like the infamous Nick Ellis, saw every small coincidence as a pointer from God.

  ‘Look, there are two ways of looking at an exorcism of place,’ she explained.’ It’s not waste disposal, pest control, Rentokil, whatever… it’s helping a dislocated essence… spirit… soul back on to the path. What I mean is, maybe we’re doing this less for Gerard Stock than for Stewart Ash.’

  ‘Whom neither of us knew.’

  ‘Every day, in crematoria all over the country,’ Merrily said sadly, ‘duty clergy conduct funerals for people they never knew, in front of grieving relatives they’ve only just met. Maybe we’ll meet him today.’

  Lol looked up, startled.

  ‘It’s been known for the subject of an exorcism to make one final appearance,’ she said. ‘And then… peace.’

  ‘Hi!’ Stephanie Stock sprang up from the old leather sofa. ‘It’s really, really nice to meet you at last.’

  A central ceiling light-bowl and two lamps were on in the living room at the kiln-house. It still didn’t get close to summer daylight. The walls had been painted white, but the furniture was old and dull. Unexpectedly, the brightest thing in the room was not the white-shirted Stock, but his wife. She squeezed Lol’s hand, lingering over it, smiling into his eyes.

  ‘I’ve kept on saying to Gerard, hey, bring him over! I had the first Hazey Jane album years ago, when I was at school, and I’m just dying to know what you’ve been up to since. It’s not as if… I mean, you’re looking good!’

  Lol blinked. Stephie Stock wore a short white summer dress, like a low-cut tennis frock. She was considerably younger, conspicuously more animated than her husband who, close up, was looking as worn and grey as you might expect after last night in the Hop Devil. She’s a mouse, Simon St John had said dismissively. What other kind of woman would Stock marry?

  ‘Steph, this is Merrily Watkins,’ Stock said. This was a different Stock, sober and withdrawn. He had raised no objections to Lol being here, expressed no particular surprise that Lol and Merrily were acquainted. The feeling Lol had was that Stock was just relieved it wasn’t Simon.

  Stephanie slowly let go of Lol’s hand, running her warm, slender fingers to the tips of his. She looked at Merrily and her wide mouth flexed into a one-sided grin. ‘You know, it’s still really strange to see a woman with the full—’

  ‘Steph was brought up a Catholic,’ Stock said quickly. ‘Convent girl.’

  ‘And, let me tell you, you don’t escape that easily,’ Stephanie said ruefully.

  Lol was studying her. He still couldn’t be sure. He remembered that his Lady of the Bines had had darkish hair, stringy. Or maybe just wet. Stephanie’s hair was golden brown, shorter, looked altogether healthier. As did the woman herself: smiling, confident, in essence not the keening banshee wreathed in dead bines. But then nor was this the Stephanie Stock he’d been told about.

  ‘Coffee?’ Stephie offered. ‘Beer? Wine?’

  Merrily shook her head. ‘Maybe afterwards.’

  ‘Afterwards! Wow. This is really going to happen, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is!’ Stock snapped. Then he straightened up, pulling his shoulders back.

  ‘Poor love,’ said Stephie. ‘He gets so spooked. One thing about Catholicism, it teaches you not to be too afraid of what goes bump, right? Look, Mary—’

  ‘Merrily.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. Look, am I… suitably dressed for this? I could go up and change.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Merrily said. ‘I was saying to Gerard earlier, I don’t like this kind of service to seem sinister, because it’s basically about liberation. We’re asking God to give you back your home and at the same time free Stewart’s spirit from this earth and let him go into the light. In fact, it could be that when we’ve finished, you’ll notice a difference here.’

  ‘What, lighter?’

  ‘Let’s just see what happens.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Stephie.

  She seemed very young to Lol. Although she had to be over thirty, she still had the confidence of inexperience – innocence, even. He couldn’t understand, seeing her now, why she’d kept such a low profile locally, why neither Prof nor Simon had ever met her. It couldn’t be that Stock had kept her penned up like some exotic pet; she didn’t seem the kind of person you could treat that way. And anyway, she was the one who went out to work while he stayed at home.

  ‘So, how much time have you got?’ Merrily asked her.

  ‘Well, I’m currently temping for this big car-dealer and it’s quite busy… but I guess I’ve got two hours. Is that enough? I mean, I can phone them…’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes. Erm… Stephanie, I’ve already asked Gerard, but is there anything else you think I ought to know?’

  ‘About Uncle Stewart?’

  ‘About anything.’

  ‘Well, not really, I’m just – I’m just glad you’re doing this for Gerard. I’m glad someone’s taking him seriously.’

  ‘But how do you feel about it?’

  ‘How do I feel?’

  ‘You don’t seem too scared.’

  ‘What’s to be scared about? He’s my uncle. My charming, camp old Uncle Stew.’

  Merrily smiled tentatively. Lol could see her dilemma. Trying to put them at their ease, saying she didn’t want it to be sinister. But this girl seemed more at ease than the exorcist.

  ‘OK, then,’ Merrily said. ‘Let’s make a start. I want to organize some things in the kiln area. What I’d like the two of you to do is sit quietly and think about… about what this is for. Think about Stewart. Think about helping Stewart. Maybe recall some happy memories of him?’

  Stock snorted mildly.

  ‘I can think of some,’ Stephie said.

  ‘Good.’ Merrily beckoned to Lol. ‘And, Gerard… maybe you can think in terms of reconciliation, like we talked about.’

  The airline bag was open at her feet. She brought from it one flask and placed it on the table.

  ‘This was once a hop-crib,’ Lol observed. ‘See the crosspieces? There’d be like a big canvas hammock thing hanging here.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Merrily said, ‘you know your way around hops, then.’

  ‘There’s a museum down the road. They’ve got several cribs.’ Lol sensed that Merrily was less sure about all this now, after meeting Mrs Stock. He wondered if he should tell her about the Lady of the Bines.

  He looked around the circular wall of old bricks, some of them actually blackened by the furnace. It was like being in a big chimney and nearly as dark. Apart from the stove and a tall, juddering fridge everything in here seemed to be still hop-related. Even the shelves on which crockery was piled looked old and stained.

  ‘OK,’ Merrily said quietly. She looked around the kitchen, then took down one of the coffee cups, put it in the centre of the table. She bent and took a small canister out of the airline bag, stepped back, closed her eyes.

  Lol moved away, looking down at his trainers. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing this. He felt privileged to be here, but that didn’t make him feel any closer to her. She was The Reverend Watkins.

  Merrily said softly, ‘We come to bless this place and pray that the presence of God may be known and felt in it. We pray that all which is evil and
unclean may be driven from it. As a sign of the pouring forth and cleansing of God’s Holy Spirit, which we desire for this place, we use this water. Water has been ordained by Christ for use in the sacrament of Baptism…’

  She poured water from the flask into the coffee cup, whispered to Lol, ‘We’re guarding against anything else that might be around.’

  He nodded. The fridge rattled.

  ‘Lord God Almighty, the Creator of life, bless this water. As we use it in faith, forgive us our sins, support us in sickness and protect us from the power of evil.’

  Merrily made the sign of the cross, opened her eyes and picked up the small canister. She took off the lid: salt. She blessed the salt, sprinkled some on the water. ‘Water for purification,’ she explained softly to Lol. ‘Salt representing the element of earth. A formidable combination. In any religion.’

  Merrily stepped back from the table. ‘You up for this, Lol?’

  Lol nodded.

  ‘Think calm.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Merrily put her right hand briefly over his. Her fingers were cooler than Stephie Stock’s. The light, at close to noon, glanced off her pectoral cross. Lol thought, unhappily, of vampires.

  ‘I think we can bring them in now,’ Merrily said.

  20

  The Metaphysics

  IT WAS PARTICULARLY during a Requiem Eucharist that images of the departed had been known to appear, sometimes standing next to the priest. They would usually look solid and entirely natural, an extra member of a select congregation.

  Sometimes, as the rite was concluding, they would smile.

  Gratitude. The received wisdom was that the hovering essence, presented with an overview and offered assistance, would usually recognize the pointlessness and the tedium of haunting. Nine out of ten cases, Huw Owen had told his students, they’re not going to resist you. They’ll not fight. Most times you’ll get a welcome like an AA van at a breakdown on the M4.

  And so sometimes they appeared. Smiling.

  Actually, this had never happened to Merrily – either that or she wasn’t sufficiently sensitive to have noticed. Always nervous enough, anyway, before it began. Who was she to go dancing on the great boundary wall?

  Never, never, never show nerves, Huw Owen would warn his students. All the same, don’t let them think it’s a bloody tea party.

  A balancing act, then, these dealings with the dead.

  Initially, Merrily had prepared for a Requiem for Stewart Ash. The dining table, the converted hop-crib, was to be her altar. On it, she’d set out wine in a small chalice she kept in the airline bag and communion wafers in a Tupperware container.

  And then – woman priest’s privilege? – she’d changed her mind.

  Question of sledgehammer and nuts, Huw had said more than once. You don’t even get out the nutcrackers if you can squeeze it open between finger and thumb.

  So she ended up telling the Stocks she didn’t think there were enough people here for a valid requiem – not enough committed Christians (she didn’t actually say that). She’d explained to them that she proposed, in this first instance, to offer a prayer commending the soul of Stewart Ash to God, and maybe a prayer of penitence for his killer, followed by a blessing of each room, a sprinkling of holy water.

  A Eucharist for Stewart would be the next step if all this proved ineffective.

  Gerard Stock had nodded: whatever the priest thought best.

  Stewart’s book on hop-growing still lay on the table. Merrily was unsure about this. Perhaps it should have been taken away; it represented his work, part of his attachment to the earth which it was now necessary to break. His other known attachment had been to young men; how strong was that now? The pull of earthly obsession: weakened, but not necessarily severed by death.

  In the otherwise-silence of the kiln, the growling refrigerator was an unstable presence; its noises varied and fluctuating, as if it were trying to tell her something.

  ‘Our Father…’

  It remained the most powerful prayer of all, an exorcism in itself. This was how they all should begin.

  How you took it from there… well, there was always an element of playing it by ear, by sensation, by perception – always remembering that, in the end, it wasn’t you doing this; you were only the monkey, you didn’t have any powers. You could only respond to signals.

  In the kiln-house kitchen, the sun shone through as best it could; the fridge still shivered. The timing seemed about right: nearly noon, the time of no shadows. Nothing sinister.

  Merrily offered the prayer conversationally, with only a little extra stress on the crucial line ‘… and deliver us from evil.’

  Us.

  Four of them in a semicircle in this half-lit brick funnel. Gerard Stock with shoulders back, eyes closed, lips invisible in the beard. But she knew now that those moist, rosebud lips were clamped tight on Gerard’s hidden agenda – oh, there was one, something raging inside him, like the fire in a brick furnace. Merrily was sensing anger and frustration made unbearable by fear. Even Fred Potter, the journalist, had picked up on that. But fear of what, exactly?

  ‘For ever and ever. Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’ An echo from Gerard Stock and Lol.

  ‘Sorry.’ Stephanie giggled. ‘Amen.’

  Convent girl, huh?

  There was – and face it, it could be relevant – almost certainly a problem in Stock’s marriage, no concealing that. Stephanie’s eyes were wide open, the twist of a smile on her lips – not taking this seriously and not caring who knew. There were perhaps twenty years between her and Gerard. Maybe he’d been slim and successful when they’d met – glamorous parties, cool contacts. Now he was looking florid and finished – career-wise, anyway.

  Stephanie was standing between the two men, but closer to Lol than to Stock, their shoulders sometimes even touching, and Stephanie’s was bare, her strap slipping, and Merrily felt a stirring of—

  Whatever the emotion was, she squashed it. She was the priest here.

  All right: the metaphysics.

  Had the transition of Stewart Ash simply been too sudden? Merrily caught a cold, shocking image of the spirit flung out, flailing and struggling, as the skull went crack, crack, crack, crack on the flags, an implosion of shattered bone and dying brain cells. Huw Owen again: Most hauntings are imprints, caused by the atmospheric shock of sudden death. Your imprint is no great problem – a tape loop, a magic-lantern show. It’s with the insomniacs and the sleepwalkers you need a bit of one-to-one.

  Or was there, as Gerard Stock had suggested, a powerful, residual sense of injustice because the nature of the crime had been misunderstood, the wrong people convicted?

  Merrily prayed silently to understand, to get a feeling of what was needed, and then intoned aloud: ‘O God, forasmuch as without You we are not able to please You, mercifully grant that Your Holy Spirit may, in all things, direct and rule our hearts, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen’ – Stock and Lol. Nothing from Stephanie – she looked hazy, suspended in the column of the midday sun. Next to her Stock seemed dense, leaden. Was Stephie already building another life for herself, away from here? And where would Stock be if she left him? This was, after all, her house.

  ‘At this point, we’ll have… a period of quiet,’ Merrily said. ‘If that’s OK.’

  ‘Sure.’ Stephanie’s voice was crisp, and Stock glared at her, like a disapproving father, but said nothing. Merrily turned her face away from a collision of light beams emanating from the tiny trinity of windows, and looked down at the flags where Stewart Ash had been taken down, and then closed her eyes.

  Greyness.

  Stewart…?

  Careful not to reach out for him or call him back. It was about being receptive. She kept her eyes shut, allowing any unfocused thoughts to drift away. There was a metallic shudder from the fridge, then comparative quiet.

  In her head: Stewart… don’t be afraid to let go. I know it’s very confusing
for you. You must have been utterly terrified – and outraged. You must have felt, along with the pain, a terrible sense of betrayal. Perhaps you’re still feeling that. But there’s no progression without forgiveness. Try to release your resentment, the sense of injustice. We’re with you. God’s with you. Let go. Please.

  She lifted her face towards the central window, now framing the full sun, an orange glow through her eyelids. Appealing now to Jesus Christ to come into this place, because it was always better to welcome in the light than simply drive out the darkness.

  ‘Jesus, we ask that Stewart might be free of all earthly bonds. Free to go into the light and the warmth and the sublime reality of Your eternal love.’

  She bent her head.

  The commendation came next: a call to the spirit, in the name of its creator, to leave this world. An appeal to God to send His angels to meet Stewart, guide him home. Something told her to omit the prayers of penitence for the killers. Keep the killers out of this, whoever they might be.

  Next: the cleansing.

  ‘Father, You have overcome the power of death, strengthen us now with Your spirit and make us worthy to perform correctly the blessing of this home. Let evil spirits be put to flight and may the angel of peace enter in. In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  Lol thought, This has to be a scam. But who’s using who?

  He watched the priest, his friend, through half-closed eyes – her hands together, the tips of her fingers parallel with the bridge of her nose, the pectoral cross catching the sun through the inverted V of her black-sheathed forearms.

  Doing her best for these people: no scam, no sham.

  Merrily. If there was only…

  Stephanie Stock’s bare arm slid up against his own, again. He tried not to think about it.

  Merrily opened her eyes to a light lancing through the central window, was momentarily blinded and felt an intense heat all around her, as though there was still a furnace in here and the doors had been flung open.