by Phil Rickman
His local accent had been planed down to a light burr. He was probably in his late forties. He had strong, lank hair, deep lines tracking down his tanned face from eyes to jaw. A modest beer-belly overhung his jeans, but you had the feeling it was being gradually ironed out.
‘So why did you want to see my wife rather than me?’
‘We didn’t think you’d be here,’ Merrily said. ‘We thought you’d probably be out somewhere building something.’
‘With my bare hands.’
‘We all have our fantasies,’ she said, and then realized there were two ways he could take that. Sophie frowned at her. Sophie was sending out the message: Get out now, make some excuse, this is a mistake.
Allan Henry laughed. He laughed, Merrily was noticing, with a confidence that was almost self-conscious. Maybe he’d had a lot of costly work done on his teeth, was determined to get his money’s worth. Otherwise, she sensed around him a kind of conserved energy. She could imagine him in board meetings, relaxed and expressionless and then jumping on someone without preamble, like a jungle cat. Laughing, maybe.
‘Rare afternoon off,’ he said. ‘You were lucky to catch me. And my wife’s away, as it happens. The only parent here is me. A parent from my first marriage, that is. The youngsters live in France now, so I don’t see them very often.’
‘Perhaps we’ll come back when your wife’s at home.’ Sophie half rose. ‘It’s nothing terribly pressing.’
‘Unless it’s about Layla, of course,’ he said.
‘She’s with her mother?’ Merrily asked him.
‘I hardly think so. Her mother’s on a cruise around the Azores, with her sister, who was recently widowed, poor woman. Thing is, I don’t think of Layla as a child any more. And she’s my wife’s daughter, not mine. This is about Layla, yes?’
As he leaned forward, a medallion on a black leather thong swung out from his bare chest. It was clearly made of gold. Engraved on it was the symbol of a wheel.
‘Yes,’ Merrily said. ‘It’s about Layla.’
Sophie sank back in her seat, with a leathery creak that sounded like a cry of pain.
Jane said, ‘I remember Mrs Etchinson now. It was at one of the prize-givings. She was in a wheelchair. A guest of honour. Everybody was making a fuss over her and she was smiling so much that you thought it must be hurting her, all that smiling. And somebody said she used to be a teacher and she had MS, and I remember thinking, God, she’s so young.’
She flopped back into the soft leather and felt for Eirion’s hand and squeezed hard, as if to make sure she still could.
They were parked on the grass outside a farm shop overlooking the Ledwardine valley, the sunlit steeple of her mother’s church poking out of the surrounding orchards like a terracotta rocket.
‘Listen, Jane… that’s how they get these reputations,’ Eirion said. ‘They utter a curse and then something like that happens, and everybody conveniently forgets how many curses have been laid on people who go on to have completely trouble-free—’
‘It’s the fact that she could even do it!’ Jane could feel tears of anger coming on. ‘Wish illness and misfortune on someone.’
‘You never done that, in a fit of pique? Wish that someone would have a bad time?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t ever believe it’s gonna have any effect whatsoever, and then I take it back anyway in a couple of minutes. Or a couple of hours. Or before I go to sleep. Whereas Riddock, she believes, like, totally that she can do it… and then she does it. It doesn’t matter whether she gave Mrs Etchinson this awful degenerative disease with the grave-dirt in the envelope or whatever. The fact that she wanted to, that’s just as bad, isn’t it?’
‘It comes back on you, though, doesn’t it?’ Eirion said. ‘Karma.’
‘Allegedly. But not necessarily in this life.’
‘Sounds to me,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘like she needs this kid, Amy, as much as the kid needs her. You know what I mean? She lays a curse and somebody falls ill or dies or something, well… She isn’t really sure, is she? She might like to fantasize, but she knows that’s all it is. But when she sets up this spiritualism scam, then suddenly she’s getting what seem to be real messages from the Other Side.’
‘How?’
‘Trance? Automatic writing? Whatever it is, it’s proof to her that she’s got the power. She’s a medium, now, she’s a shaman. And maybe that’s never happened before, except with this young kid.’
‘Who’s so precious she drove her to attempt suicide?’ Jane said.
‘What do you want to do, then? It’s getting a bit late, if I’m going to get the car back before nightfall…’
‘You’ve got hours yet. But sure, by all means, drop me somewhere.’
‘To do what?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘There’s only one thing you can do. You can go home and lay the whole lot on your mum and leave it to her.’ Eirion nodded down at the valley. ‘Stop putting it off.’
‘She’ll probably be a bit gobsmacked to see us.’
‘Why do I doubt that?’ Eirion said.
What they told Allan Henry was that a teenage girl had tried to take her own life after being drawn into ouija-board experiments at school. The Deliverance service was trying to establish how widespread the craze was and whether other children were at risk or in distress. Merrily said finally that a number of kids had mentioned Layla Riddock as the girl presiding over psychic sittings at Moorfield High School.
Close as it was to the truth, the story sounded worryingly thin to Merrily, and foreboding arose just a second or so before Allan Henry got to work on it.
‘Well.’ He sat in a steel-framed swivel armchair, his left ankle resting on his right knee. ‘I didn’t know about this.’
‘It came out through the hospital where the child was taken.’ Sophie had evidently assumed responsibility for any necessary lying. ‘When a schoolchild takes a potentially lethal overdose, quite a lot of people start wanting to know why. In this case, as the parents are churchgoers—’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. What I didn’t know, Mrs Hill, was that the Anglican church had its own investigative branch.’
‘It’s not quite like that,’ Merrily said.
‘Because, you see, I find that very disturbing. Are the lay police also involved?’
‘Not yet,’ Sophie said.
‘Not yet. I see.’
He was silent for a short while, during which Merrily became aware of a gilt-framed painting on the wall, high in the alcove to the right of the great fireplace. In glowing colours, style of Gauguin, it showed an unsmiling black woman, robed and veiled, with either a crown or an ornate halo over the headdress.
‘OK, let me get this entirely correct,’ Allan Henry said slowly. Neither the tone nor the pitch of his voice had altered, only the sense of laughter had gone. ‘On behalf of the Church of England, you are accusing my stepdaughter of psychologically abusing young children.’
The absolute accuracy of this left Merrily’s mind momentarily blank. She couldn’t meet his eyes and went on staring at the picture of the Black Virgin.
‘We don’t accuse people, Mr Henry,’ Sophie was saying. ‘We try to help them where we can.’
‘Mrs Hill… is it the Reverend Mrs Hill?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You have to excuse me for feeling threatened, Mrs Hill. You two women arrive at my door like Jehovah’s Witnesses, with some assumed authority—’
‘Look,’ Merrily said, ‘it’s not about the individuals involved, it’s about the practice itself. And what it can release… psychologically, if you like. It might seem harmless, a game, though I don’t think it is. But this is certainly not a witch-hunt.’
As soon as the word was out she wanted to snatch it back, but it was too late. Allan Henry caught it in the air, like a fist closing over a fly.
‘Witch-hunt? Now that’s a very interesting term. The Church has a long history of persecutin
g minorities.’
‘I’m sorry… persecuting kids?’
‘Minorities, I said, not minors. If we look at the Romany culture, for instance, they’ve been subjected to the most appalling discrimination and persecution over the years, the world over, because of their customs, their lifestyle and, of course, their—’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘No, no, let me tell you about Layla. She’s a very serious young woman, very mature for her age, with a brilliant academic career ahead of her. And she has Romany blood. Which gives her a striking presence that some people find intimidating. And also certain abilities that some people can’t accept. Ignorance breeds prejudice. ’Twas ever thus, Mrs Watkins. Ever thus.’
Merrily was aghast. ‘You’re implying there’s something racial behind this?’
‘Again, your term.’
‘Mr Henry, all I’m concerned about’ – she wished she was the other side of the plate glass; she would run and run, all the way to Robin Hood’s Butts – ‘is kids dabbling with the dead. That kind of worries me. I can’t stop them. All I can do is advise them that they could be messing with something that can’t easily be controlled.’
‘In your culture. Can’t be controlled in your culture.’
‘Let’s say not easily.’
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you need to consider your position very carefully before you come here and accuse someone you don’t know of pressuring a child into suicide, like one of those mad Californian cult-leaders.’
‘Oh, you know that’s not—’
‘We should go, Merrily.’ Sophie stood up.
Allan Henry didn’t move. ‘I’m not pushing you out. I’m just warning you to be very, very sure of your ground. These are terribly serious allegations. Which could have repercussions.’
Merrily felt mauled. He hadn’t even raised his voice or moved his ankle from his knee. Persecution? she wanted to cry out. What about David Shelbone? But she knew the most that would get her would be a writ or an injunction by morning. He hadn’t got this far without being able to push people over with one finger, like dominoes.
She suspected there would indeed be repercussions from this. Everything she’d touched lately, there were repercussions.
‘OK. I’m sorry if…’
She stood up. Her face felt hot. As she rose, she became aware of a group of objects laid out on a ledge in a small cavity inside the fireplace: acorns, two dice, a magnet, something that might have been a rabbit’s foot.
‘Allan…?’
A woman had entered the room through a narrow archway at the furthest end. She had on a full-length black kimono, open over a tiny white bikini. She wore sunglasses. She carried a champagne glass, half-filled.
‘Allan,’ she said, ‘I didn’t leave my mobile—?’
Allan Henry stood up. ‘Layla,’ he said warmly, ‘we were just talking about you.’
Merrily could almost feel Sophie’s stomach contract.
Ethel met them on the driveway and Jane picked her up and carried her round to the back, where they found Gomer Parry, placidly weeding the path.
‘Welshies throw you out, is it?’ Gomer said.
‘They found my arms cache, and there was this car chase, but we made it over the border. Hullo, Gomer. Where’s Mum?’
‘Ah, well.’ Gomer laid his trowel on the gravel, straightened up, blinking a few times behind his bottle glasses. ‘The vicar en’t yere, see, Janey. Her’s been called away.’
‘How long’s she been gone?’
‘Oh… day and a half, mabbe.’
‘Huh?’ Jane clutched the cat to her chest. Mum spending a night away, without a word? This did not happen. This just did not—‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Gomer?’
‘Nothin’ exaccly wrong.’
‘So like… where is she?’
‘Out east,’ Gomer said. ‘How are you, Eirion boy?’
‘Not too bad, Gomer. You’re looking—’
‘East? What’s that mean? Norwich? Bangkok?’
‘Bromyard way, I believe,’ Gomer said.
‘Jesus, Gomer.’ Jane slumped in relief. ‘So it’s a job, right?’
‘Som’ing of that order. Her spent the night over there and mabbe a few more to come. I does the days yere, feeding the cat, doing what’s gotter be done. Give her a ring, I should. Her’ll likely explain.’
‘A few more? A few more nights? I don’t understand. Where’s she staying? Who’s she with?’
‘You can get her on the mobile. Her’s, er…’ Gomer scratched an ear. ‘Her’s staying with young Lol Robinson, ennit?’
‘Oh.’ Jane bent to put Ethel down and to conceal her expression. Bloody hell. ‘I… didn’t know Lol was living in Bromyard.’
‘Not livin’, exaccly. Just mindin’ a place. Like me.’ Gomer gestured at the back door. ‘You stoppin’ a bit, Janey? Only I gotter be off in a coupler minutes. Gotter help young Nev sink a new cesspit up by Pembridge.’
‘We’ll probably just get something to eat,’ Jane said.
Well, bloody hell. All those hints she’d been dropping, like for months. Heard anything from Lol lately? Lol still doing that stupid course, is he? Why’s he wasting his time on that crap when he’s so cool and talented? Somebody should take him on one side, somebody he really trusts and believes in and… Why don’t you invite Lol over sometime? You know he’s never going to invite himself. You ever think about the future, Mum – what it’s going to be like when I’ve gone?
Actually, Jane felt kind of resentful, if you wanted the truth. Mum going behind her back, giving it a little try at Lol’s love nest in Bromyard, to see if things worked out, and if they didn’t that would be it, and Jane would be none the wiser – if she called her on the mobile, she could pretend to be at home, anywhere. Bloody sneaky, really. Just when you thought you knew how certain people would react to a given situation, they did something to surprise you – shock you, even. In a way, it made Jane feel a lot better about not immediately telling Mum what had gone on in Steve’s shed.
‘She’s still fairly young,’ Eirion said when Gomer had gone and they were in the kitchen.
‘Yeah,’ Jane said airily. ‘Sure.’
‘It’s always hard to imagine your parents still feeling—’
‘Oh, come on, I know that. Don’t be patronizing, Irene.’
‘He’s a good bloke,’ Eirion said.
‘I know that, too. And interesting – an artist. And vulnerable. Women like guys who are vulnerable and a little… askew.’
‘Askew?’
‘You know.’
Eirion was sitting at the kitchen table with his chin in his hands. He eyed her sheepishly, eyebrows disappearing into his hair. ‘What would a guy have to do to appear… a little askew?’
‘Hmmm.’ Jane came to a decision. Little bloody Sioned and Lowri weren’t here. Gomer had gone to sink a cesspit. Mum was out east finding out if everything still worked after all these years. Even Ethel was a cat of the world.
‘Irene,’ Jane said. ‘Did I ever tell you about the Mondrian Walls?’
Eirion lifted his chin out of his hands. ‘This would be in your… apartment? On the—’
‘Top floor. Formerly attics.’
‘Where you painted the plaster squares between the timbers in different primary colours in the style of the great Dutch abstract painter?’
‘Correct.’
‘It sounded very… experimental.’
Jane nodded. ‘I thought maybe you could give me your expert critical assessment.’
‘Well…’ Eirion stood up. ‘I’m not an expert.’
‘Good,’ Jane said.
Jane wasn’t wrong. There was something forbidding about Layla Riddock.
A big girl with a mature, not to say ripe figure, a mass of dark brown curly hair still slick from the pool. She had smoky brown eyes under heavy brows. She was seventeen going on thirty-eight, and darkly radiant. And she was here.
She was here.
&
nbsp; As in, not in the Black Country with Amy Shelbone.
‘Layla, love,’ Allan Henry said. ‘Excuse me, but these ladies would like to know if you have much regular contact with the dead.’
Layla Riddock backed away, mock-startled, wrapping her kimono and her arms around her.
‘We talking about necrophilia?’ She cocked her head. ‘Necrophilia’s useless for women, isn’t it? I mean, rigor mortis doesn’t last, right?’
Allan Henry laughed again, for the first time in several minutes, as if a little light had come back into his life.
‘No, actually, Layla,’ he said, ‘this could be very serious. For somebody. This is Mrs Hill and Mrs Watkins. Mrs Watkins is a minister of the Church of England, and it seems one of her parishioners, a young girl from your school, has attempted to take her own life.’
Layla nodded casually. ‘Amy Shelbone.’
‘Oh…’ he said. ‘You know about this, do you?’
Merrily was watching him closely now. She saw nothing. No obvious reaction from Henry to the name Shelbone. And there really should have been, shouldn’t there?
‘Sad,’ Layla said. ‘But horribly predictable, I’m afraid. That’s one disturbed little girl.’
‘Really.’ Allan Henry looked at Merrily and Sophie in turn, triumph in his eyes, then back at his stepdaughter. ‘Layla, would you tell us about this?’
‘About what?’
‘About any previous dealings you might have had with this young child. Please?’
Layla shrugged. ‘Not much to tell. I’ve never made any secret about my bloodline, and so I’m always getting approached by kids who want their palms read, or their cards, or something. Anyway, one day – a few weeks ago, I suppose – up comes this rather solemn little girl, says would I help her contact her mother, for heaven’s sake. Her mother is, you know… dead.’
‘She approached you, did she, this little girl?’
‘Oh yeah. Very politely. I told her not to be silly. I told her that whatever she may have heard about the Rom, we have great respect for the dead but we don’t get involved with them on a personal level. I said – you know – like, run along.’
‘And that was the last you heard?’
Layla sighed, wrapped her kimono tighter in frustration. ‘Wish I could say it was. Next thing I hear that some other students – principally a girl called Kirsty Ryan – have taken Amy under their wing and they’re holding these kind of seance things, what d’you call them – where you lay out letters in a circle and have a glass upside down?