by Phil Rickman
Merrily stiffened. ‘A special person? She said that? A special person with a problem background? Where did that come from? Who told these women all this?’
‘Don’t know.’
Merrily breathed out slowly.
That night, Lol dreamed he awoke and went into the living room and stood at the window gazing down into Capuchin Lane, which was murky with pre-dawn mist, no lights anywhere.
He knew she was there, even before he saw her: grey and sorrowful, the dress meeting the mist in furls and furrows, her eyes as black as the eyes of the crumbling skulls she held, one in each hand.
I’d like to sleep now, Lol, she said. But the tone of it had changed; there was anguish.
He awoke, cold and numb, in Ethel’s chair. He didn’t remember going to sleep there.
39
One Sad Person
SHE SLEPT THROUGH, incredibly, until almost ten, without any circles of golden light. Without, come to think of it, any protective prayers, only mumbles of gratitude as she fell into bed.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘Because you were like mega-knackered,’ Jane said. ‘You obviously needed it.’
Merrily registered the toast crumbs. Jane had breakfasted alone. There was weak sunshine, through mist. It looked cold out there.
‘Nobody rang?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Not even Ted? Not Huw Owen?’ She’d called Huw four times last night, to keep herself in line for last-caller if he should try 1471.
‘Uh-huh.’ Jane shook her head. ‘You need a new dressinggown, by the way. You look like a bag-lady.’
‘Not Annie Howe either?’
‘The ice-maiden of West Mercia CID? You can’t be that desperate for friends.’
‘We commune occasionally.’
‘Jesus,’ said Jane, ‘it’ll be girls’ nights out at the police social club next. And guest spots on identity parades.’
‘Jane.’
‘What?’
Merrily pulled out a dining chair. ‘Sit down.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we need to talk.’
‘I can’t. I’m meeting Rowenna in town.’
‘When?’
‘For lunch at Slater’s, then we’re going Christmas shopping. But I wanted to get into town a couple of hours early because I haven’t got her anything yet, OK?’
‘You’re spending a lot of time with Rowenna, aren’t you?’
‘Meaning like more than with you.’
‘Or even boys,’ Merrily said lightly.
Jane’s eyes hardened. ‘That’s because we’re lesbians.’
‘You going to sit down, flower?’
‘I have to go.’
‘Sit down.’
Jane slumped sullenly into the chair. ‘Why do you hate Rowenna?’
‘I don’t know Rowenna. I’ve only met her once.’
‘She’s a significant person,’ Jane said.
‘In what way?’
‘In a way that I’d expect you to actually understand. Like she has a spiritual identity. She seeks wisdom. Most of the people at school, teachers included, think self-development is about A-levels and biceps.’
‘Rowenna’s a religious person?’
‘I think we’ve had this discussion before,’ Jane said loftily. ‘Religion implies organized religion.’
‘Anything else, therefore, must be disorganized religion.’
‘Ah’ – a fleeting faraway-ness in the kid’s eyes – ‘how wrong can you get?’
‘So tell me.’
Jane looked at her, unblinking. ‘Tell you what?’
‘Tell me how wrong I can get. Tell me why I’m wrong.’
‘Again?’ Jane raised her eyes. ‘It has to be a personal thing, right? You have to work at it. Make a commitment to yourself. I mean, going to church, singing a couple of hymns, listening to some trite sermon, that’s just like, Oh, if I do this every week, endure the tedium for a couple of hours, God’ll take care of me. Well, that’s got to be crap, hasn’t it? That’s the sheep mentality, and when you end up in the slaughterhouse you’re thinking: Hey, why didn’t I just get under the fence that time?’
Merrily felt shadows deepening. ‘So you’re under the fence, are you, flower?’
Jane shrugged.
‘Only I had this anonymous letter,’ Merrily said.
‘Was it sexy? Was it from one of those sad old guys who want to get into your cassock?’
‘I’ll show it to you.’ Merrily went over to the dresser, plucked the folded letter out of her bag, handed the letter to Jane. Glimpsing the words brazenly endangering her Soul, as the kid unfolded it.
‘ “Brazenly endangering her soul and yours,” ’ Jane said, ‘ “by mixing with the Spiritually Unclean.” Well, well. Unsigned, naturally. When exactly did this come?’
‘Few days ago.’
‘So you’ve been kind of sitting on it, right?’
‘I’ve had one or two other things to think about, as you well know.’
Jane held the letter between finger and thumb as though it might be infected. ‘Burn it, if you like,’ Merrily said.
‘Oh no.’ Jane carefully folded the paper. Her eyes glowed like a cat’s. ‘I don’t think so. I’m going to hunt down this scumbag, and when I find out—’
‘I think,’ Merrily said, more sharply than she intended, ‘that you’re missing the point. You went to this so-called psychic fair without even mentioning it.’
‘Why? Would you have wanted to come along?’
‘Maybe I would, actually.’
‘Yeah, like some kind of dawn raid by the soul police.’
‘I accept’ – Merrily kept her temper, which would have gone out of the window long ago if they’d been having this discussion last night – ‘that most of the self-styled New Age people at these events’ – selecting her words like picking apples from an iffy market stall and finding they were all rotten – ‘are perfectly nice, well-meaning…’
‘… deluded idiots!’
‘Jane—’
‘I can’t believe this!’ Jane leapt up. ‘Some shrivelled-up, pofaced old fart sends you a poison-pen letter and you secrete it away in your bag and save it up, probably sneaking the occasional peep to stoke up your holier-than-every-bastard-formiles-around righteous indignation—’
‘Sit down, flower.’
‘No! I thought you were behaving funny. You’re bloody terrified, aren’t you? It’s not, like: How dare this old fart point the finger at my daughter? Oh, no, you’re crapping yourself in case this gets back to Michael and you get, like, decommissioned from the soul police! Jesus, you are one sad person, Mother.’
‘Jane…’ Merrily steadied herself on the Aga rail. ‘Would you come back and sit down? Then we can talk about this like… adults?’
‘You mean like priest and sinner. I don’t think so, Merrily. I’m going upstairs to my apartment. I’m going to light some candles on my altar and probably offer a couple of meaningful prayers to my goddess. Then I’m going out. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘Light a couple of candles? I see.’
‘Maybe four. They say it’s always so much more effective,’ Jane said, ‘coming from a vicarage.’
‘Really?’
Jane turned away and opened the door to the hall.
‘That’s what they say at the Pod, is it?’ Merrily said.
* * *
The phone rang in the kitchen just then, and half a second later in the scullery-office. And it went on and on, and Merrily didn’t dare answer it because she knew Jane would be out of the room before she reached the receiver.
‘You’d better get that. It might be Annie Howe,’ Jane said, and Merrily could see she was trembling with rage. ‘She must… she must’ve already taught you everything she knows. About spying on people, undercover investigations… The soul police will never look back – you fucking nosy bitch.’
‘Right! That’s it!’ Merrily bounced off the
stove and into the middle of the room. ‘You think you’re incredibly cool and clever and in control of your own destiny, and all this crap. The truth is you’re either a complete hypocrite or you’re unbelievably naive, and has it never entered your head that the only reason this little… sect is interested in you is because of me and what I—’
‘Me! Me, me, me!’ Jane screeched. ‘You are so arrogant. You are soooo disgustingly ambitious that you can’t see the truth, which is that nobody gives a shit for your Church or the pygmies strutting around the Cathedral Close, not realizing what a total joke they are. Your congregations are like laughable. In twenty years you’ll all be preaching to each other. You don’t matter any more. You haven’t mattered for years. I’m just like embarrassed to tell anybody what you do, you know that? You embarrass me to death, so just get off my back!’
The phone stopped. ‘Get out,’ Merrily said.
‘Fair enough.’ Jane smiled. ‘I may be away some time.’
‘Whatever you like. In fact, maybe you could go and stay at Rowenna’s for a few days. I’m sure there are lots of spare bedrooms in Colonel Napier’s mansion.’
Jane paused in the doorway. ‘Meaning what?’
‘Only that you may not know as much about your very best friend as you thought you did.’
‘You’ve been investigating her too? You’ve been checking up on Rowenna?’
Tears spurted into Jane’s eyes, and Merrily took a step towards her. ‘Flower, please—’
‘You keep away from me. You keep away. You don’t care how low you sink, do you, to protect your piddling little reputation?’
‘Get a life, Jane.’
Jane’s smile was horribly twisted. ‘Oh, I will. I will certainly get a life.’ She was whispering now. ‘You see, there’s no way I could ever trust you again, and if you can’t trust somebody, what’s the point? I don’t have to stay at Rowenna’s. There are loads of places I can live. I know lots of people now – like really good people.’
‘That would be really stupid. You’re sixteen years old.’
‘That’s right, at least you can count.’
‘And these are not good people.’
‘What the fuck would you know, Merrily?’ Jane prodded a finger at the air between them. ‘I’ll tell you something. I’d rather sell my soul to the Devil than spend one more night in this mausoleum.’
‘All right,’ Merrily said. ‘Stop right there. I don’t care what you say about me, but don’t ever say that. Just don’t… ever… say it.’
Jane shrugged. ‘Like… come and get me, Satan?’
She tossed back her hair, which wasn’t really long enough to toss, and went out into the hall and Merrily heard her snatching her coat from the peg and then the creak and judder of the front door.
Merrily stood in the centre of the kitchen. After a while, she was aware of Ethel, the black cat, mewing pitifully at her feet. She picked up the cat, and saw that the mist outside was thickening.
The phone rang again.
She’d been hoping the first call would be from Huw. But now she hoped it was Lol. She needed to tell somebody.
‘Merrily? It’s Barry Ambrose.’
‘Oh… Hello, Barry.’ She sat down at her desk in the scullery-office, hoping, just at this moment, that he was calling to say he hadn’t found out a thing.
‘I found out about that girl, Merrily.’
‘Rowenna?’
‘I hope she’s not too close to you, that’s all,’ Barry said.
PART FOUR
SQUATTER
40
Dark Hand
THE FOG WAS worse in Leominster, which was why the bus was late, the driver explained. Fog, just when you thought you’d got rid of it!
Then again, if the bus hadn’t been late, Jane would have missed it – thanks to the Reverend Bloody Watkins.
She slumped down near the back and felt sick. That was it, wasn’t it? That was really it. There was no way she could go back there tonight. Outside the bus windows, the hills had disappeared, the view of fields extended about fifty yards, and then all you saw were a few tree-skeletons.
Why had she done this to herself? Why hadn’t she just sat it out, mumbled a few apologies about going to the psychic fair and… but that wouldn’t have worked, would it? Mum knew about the Pod. How the hell did she find that out? Was the Pod leaky? Had it been infiltrated by Christians?
This was just like so totally unfair. Jane felt sad and shabby in her old school duffel coat – hadn’t even had a chance to find something else. If you’re storming out, you had to do it, like, now! You couldn’t blow the whole effect by going up to your apartment to change into your tight black sweater and your nicer jeans, or collect your new fleece coat.
Ironic, really. This morning, doing her salute to the Eternal Spiritual Sun, she’d thought: What is this really achieving? And thinking of the women in the Pod, how basically sad most of them looked. And yet the fact that they were so sad completely discredited Mum’s crap about them only being interested in Jane because her mother was this big-time Church of England exorcist.
This was all so mega-stupid. If the bitch hadn’t been so totally offensive, the two of them could have sorted this out. That remark about Jane having no boyfriend, that was just, like, well out of order. Boyfriend like who? Dean Wall? Danny Gittoes? The really humiliating aspect of this was that Mum herself – not long out of leather pants and tops made out of heavy-duty pond-liner – had been pregnant at nineteen, so presumably had been putting it about for years by then.
Life was such a pile of shit.
When they crawled into the bus station behind Tesco, Jane didn’t want to get off. She had her money with her, but she didn’t feel like shopping. Especially while walking around with Rowenna in all her designer items, and Jane in her dark-blue school duffel. What was she going to buy Rowenna, anyway, that wouldn’t cause mutual embarrassment?
She made her way out of the bus station and across the car park, hoping there was nobody from school around – which was too much to hope for on a Saturday close to Christmas. Everybody came into Hereford on Saturday mornings – where else was there to go?
The fog was cold and she didn’t even have her scarf. Tonight it would probably be freezing fog. Suppose Rowenna couldn’t organize her a room, what would happen then? It was a lie, natch, that Jane knew loads of people; she didn’t know anyone in the Pod well enough to beg a bed. Worst-case scenario, some shop doorway in the Maylords Orchard precinct? Or did they have iron gates on that? And then at two a.m. some dopehead comes along and rapes you.
OK, if it came to it, she probably had enough money to get a room in a hotel. Not the Green Dragon obviously, maybe something between that and the pubs where the junkies went to score. Funny how homely old Hereford took on this new and dangerous aspect when you were alone, and destined to stay alone, possibly for ever.
She turned down where the car park dog-legged and the path led through evergreen bushes to the archway under the buildings and into Widemarsh Street… and then Rowenna laughed lightly and said, ‘Why don’t we do it here? We’d be hidden by the fog. That would be pretty cool.’
Huh?
Jane stopped. There were cars parked fairly tightly here, with thick laurel bushes just behind them.
You could tell there were two people in the bushes, standing up, locked together. Jane backed up to the edge of the main car park. Vehicles were coming up out of the tunnel from the underground part, and one of them hooted at her to get out of the way. So she moved to the edge of the undergrowth and flattened herself against the wall.
They probably would never spot her from the bushes, as she couldn’t see them properly either. She wouldn’t have known it was Rowenna but for the voice. She could see the guy better, because he was pretty tall, and from here it looked like most of his tongue was down Rowenna’s throat.
‘Don’t you think this has appalled me too?’ Dick Lyden was raking his thick, grey hair. ‘I can only offer you
my profoundest apologies and assure you that it won’t happen—’
‘It fucking has happened,’ Denny snarled, his back to the door of Lol’s flat, as if Dick might make a break for it. ‘It’s done. It exists. If I hadn’t been listening to the words – which I usually don’t – I’d be down as producing it!’
‘Denny, don’t do this to me,’ Dick pleaded.
‘Don’t do it to you?’
Lol was sitting on the window ledge. He had no meaningful contribution to make to this.
‘How old is your boy?’ Dick said to Denny.
‘Eleven – and a half.’
‘I’d like to think you didn’t have this to come, Denny, but at some stage in his adolescent years you’ll wonder what kind of monster you’ve foisted on the world – as well as trying to think what you did to become the object of his undying hatred.’
Sensing that Dick was actually close to tears, Lol said, ‘Did you find out how he came to write that song?’
‘Oh, well,’ Dick escaped gratefully into anger, ‘an artist… an artist gathers his inspiration wherever he may find it. Art is above pity. Art bows to no taboos. You know the kind of balls they spout at that age. I don’t… I don’t actually know what’s the matter with him lately. He’s become remote, he’s arrogant, he sneers, he does small spiteful things. A complete bastard, in fact.’
Lol said, ‘That’s your professional assessment then?’ and Denny finally smiled. ‘The point is,’ Lol continued, ‘that the song isn’t going to be heard any more, because Eirion Lewis says he’ll refuse to play it. He’s not a bad kid, it seems.’ He glanced apologetically at Dick. ‘A bit older than James, so perhaps he’s come through the bastard phase.’
‘In the final analysis,’ Dick said, ‘this is my fault. Ruth and I discuss cases, and quite often the boy’s pottering about with his Walkman on and one thinks he’s not interested. Little swine was probably making notes. It’s a… I suppose a diverting tale, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a family tragedy,’ Denny growled.