by Phil Rickman
But Prof had already vanished, like a badger into its set. Lol went through to the kitchen and out through the stable door, trying to think what use a priest might be in this kind of situation.
Tendrils of fog were still ghosting the trees along the banks of the hidden River Frome, but the rooftops were clear. It was cold out here, colder than he’d expected. Presently, his own song came drifting out, as Prof tested the system. These Burt Bacharach kind of chords he couldn’t put names to, sounding better with distance.
Remember this one? The day is dwindling Down in Badger’s Wood, collecting kindling Smudgy eyes, moonrise… Golden.
Warm images. The toes curling by the electric fire.
The rather loathsome curling sensation in Moira’s gut. This bothered him. He’d heard too many shivery stories about Moira’s premonitions.
In fact, Lol shivered and was about to go back into the kitchen, out of the cold, when headlights lit the bushes along the track from the road.
The car came very slowly, mud sucking at its tyres, as the song went into its second short verse. At the end of it, streaked with cello, the chord change registered as bitter and paranoid in the dense air.
The camera lies She might vaporize…
The headlights splashed Lol’s eyes. The car stopped, the lights went down. He heard the driver’s door opening, feet on gravel, and then the door closing very lightly and carefully to make the most minimal of clinks. A visitor sensitive to studio hours.
Lol walked out and saw that it was young Eirion, on his own.
On the drive home, the fog was patchy. The road would be clear for up to a mile and then a sepia canopy would fall silently around the Volvo’s windows, muffling. Inside the car, a grey passenger was nestling beside Merrily all the way from Hereford to Ledwardine: anxiety.
Dead people. We’re talking about dead people.
For much of his life, Roddy Lodge seemed to have found solace in the dead, and now he was among them. Gone. Nobody could be damaged by him any more. Except, perhaps, his family.
And the community? Really?
On the way out, Sophie had regretfully handed her another e-mail, received by the Bishop’s office late this afternoon from the secretary of the Underhowle/Ariconium Development Committee asking for a meeting with Mrs Watkins. She could hardly say no.
But the anxiety came from something more amorphous. She was starting to feel spiritually darkened by the shadow thrown by Roddy Lodge and its merger with the even more monstrous shade of Fred West, a connection now strengthened by Huw Owen.
Skirting the square, slowing at the entrance to the churchyard, Merrily could see a light in the vicarage through the trees.
And then, to one side, another light – a tiny one, ruby splinters under the lych gate. A light she knew of old – its level above the ground, the speed it moved, like the landing light on a small boat: Gomer Parry following his ciggy to Minnie’s grave.
Merrily braked hard. Right.
Pulling the car half under the lych gate and sliding out. The cold was a shock, made her gasp. She left the car door hanging open and ran through the gate into the churchyard, spotting Gomer where the path forked by the first apple trees. He didn’t turn round. He knew who this was, was mumbling his response before she caught up with him.
‘… En’t your problem, vicar.’
How many times had he said that to her? She moved alongside him, walking on the wet and freezing grass. ‘Cold and nasty night, Gomer. Catch your death.’
‘That time o’ year, ennit.’
It was like she was interrupting some interior dialogue. The way Lol had described him on their night ride back from Underhowle. Like he wanted to catch his death.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m going home to cook something for Jane and me. It’ll be pretty basic, but we’ll be most insulted if you don’t join us.’
‘Vicar, this en’t an issue you can sort out.’ Gomer kept on walking, the give away ciggy cupped in his hand.
‘All right.’ She moved in front of him, crooked old gravestones, damp and shiny, on either side. ‘Who told you?’
‘Ar?’
‘About me conducting the funeral at Underhowle. For Roddy Lodge.’
She felt his attention hardening, as if he was only now becoming fully aware of her presence. It was almost as if she could see his glasses lighting up.
‘You’re plantin’ Lodge?’
The night air around them was unexpectedly pale, as though the village lights had soaked into the fog and been carried out here. Branches of the old apple trees poked out like arthritic hands.
Bugger. He hadn’t known, then.
‘You’re doing Lodge’s funeral?’
‘Must seem like a betrayal to you.’
Gomer laughed, without much humour. ‘Can’t none of us get away from it, can we?’
‘That’s how it seems.’
‘Like it was bloody well meant.’
Sorry?’
‘Ar,’ he said. ‘You and me both, vicar.’
She didn’t understand, pushed both hands far into the corners of the pockets of Jane’s duffel.
‘Think we got it all worked out, see,’ Gomer turned and started walking back between the graves towards the lych gate. ‘Feelings get the better of you, ennit? Go shootin’ your ole mouth off, ’fore you knows…’
Merrily followed him, saying nothing, new frost crackling under her shoes.
‘Had to fix up Nev’s funeral, see,’ Gomer said. ‘That’s why I en’t been around much.’
‘Is everything… OK?’
‘Rector of Presteigne’s got it in hand. We’ll likely have Nev’s… Nev back next week. Anyway, been talkin’ to other folk, while I was over there. Folk like Cliff Morgan.’
‘The police sergeant?’
‘Told me what I already knowed, vicar.’
‘They’ve finally linked him to the fire? Lodge?’
There was the sound of a woman’s laughter from the square: people entering the Black Swan. Gomer stopped under the lychgate.
‘Nev started the fire.’ He stared out towards the square. ‘Accident, like they thought. Found bits of an ole Primus stove. Boy was likely frying bloody sausages, pissed out of his head. Always used to say he didn’t like eating at home n’more. So that’s it. Lodge is in the clear – for what it’s worth to him now.’
‘When did you learn all this?’
Gomer looked down at the cobbles. ‘’Bout five seconds before the bugger went up the pylon, if you want the truth.’
‘What?’
He sighed. ‘En’t got much of an appetite these days, vicar, but I wouldn’t mind a cup o’ tea.’
Lol cleared a space in the clutter of the kitchen area and gave Eirion a cappuccino from Prof’s machine. Eirion was looking ‘upset – shoulders hunched, eyes downcast: the demeanour of the dumped.
‘I didn’t know where else to come. You know what she’s like – this… loose cannon.’ Gone eight p.m., and he was still wearing his school uniform.
‘You’ve got to drive back to Abergavenny tonight in this fog?’
‘It’s clearing. And they know where I am. You don’t mind, do you, Lol? I just—’
‘Eirion, look…’ Lol climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar, which was still made up mainly of old packing cases. ‘Look, maybe the main problem is that the last thing she ever wants to think is that she’s at all like her mum, you know?’
Eirion smiled faintly. ‘A religious maniac?’
‘Bad enough if your dad’s a vicar. But your mother? So… What’s she going to do by way of rebellion? Obvious. She’s going to be a practising pagan, secretly joining a women’s mystical group meeting over a health-food café in Hereford, Next thing, she’s out in the vicarage garden bonding with the full moon.’
Eirion smiled.
‘And then suddenly Merrily’s realizing – as if she didn’t really already know – that not all pagans are sacrificing animals and deflowering virgins on the altar. She’s eve
n made friends with a witch, for heaven’s sake. And so from Jane’s point of view, some of that essential inter-generational friction that you need, as a teenager, to grow up with a positive sense of yourself is not there any more. Her mum’s no longer shocked and appalled.’ Lol spread his hands, the way Prof would do. ‘Too easy, this stuff. I should’ve stuck with the psychology course.’
Eirion grinned.
‘So which way does she go next?’ Lol said. ‘Satanism?’
‘You’re right,’ Eirion said. ‘It’s denial, isn’t it? It’s not real atheism at all. It’s just spiritual denial.’
‘See? You don’t need me at all.’
Eirion gratefully drank some coffee.
‘What you’ve got,’ Lol said, ‘is a reluctant – and therefore unhappy – atheist. We’re oversimplifying here, because she’s still towing a lot of emotional luggage, including her dad, all of that. And, like you say, bad things happening to people close to her – like Gomer – giving her ammunition to use against Merrily’s faith. Lots of triggers.’
‘Including me, I expect.’ Eirion looked up, slightly red. ‘It’s pretty clear I’ve been a serious disappointment in… certain areas. Implying I’d been putting it about a lot, with the band and everything, the way you do. I’m probably totally crap in bed and she’s thinking, Christ, is this it?’
Lol tried not to smile. ‘Often it’s the ones who don’t think they’re crap that…’ There was history he could have gone into, but the boy needed to get home tonight.
‘And then there’s this Jenny Driscoll situation,’ Eirion said. ‘The woman behind the Vestalia stores? Jenny Driscoll’s discovering Christianity and she’s supposed to have seen an angel over Ledwardine Church. And Jane’s seriously contemptuous of her and all she stands for. Of course, she’d’ve given anything to have had that kind of experience herself… So a lot of resentment, lot of anger. Inflamed by all this about her mum not having a normal life – giving everything up for God. Who doesn’t exist anyway, and if he does he’s a complete shit. You know?’
Lol leaned on his elbows on the breakfast bar. ‘She was laying all this on you, day after day?’
‘I wouldn’t mind that if I thought there was anything I could do.’ Eirion looked at Lol, then looked away.
‘But you think there’s something I can do.’
‘Well, it’s just that Jane thinks you’re… I’m sorry, Lol… she thinks you and Moira…’ Eirion hesitated, biting his lower lip. ‘Are perhaps having sex,’ he said mournfully. ‘Together. Like musicians do. With the erotic charge of playing together.’
Lol sprang off the stool.
‘Not that she’s blaming you. She blames her mother, for neglecting the relationship. Putting God first, as usual, when God’s only going to stab her in the back, if He exists, because He’s a shit, right?’
‘She said any of this to Merrily?’
‘I don’t know. She was so happy about you and her mother finally getting together. She thought she’d brought you together. I mean, it’s obvious she really loves her mum, despite all the rows they have. Maybe the only person she does truly love. I mean I… I was thinking, isn’t it just maybe a lot more simple to think that maybe she’s found somebody else?’ Eirion shook his head. ‘Look at me – you’d think we were married or something, wouldn’t you? I mean, there’s bound to be someone else at some point, isn’t there? It’s what happens. Childhood sweethearts, twin souls – that’s pathetic, isn’t it?’
‘Eirion…’ Jesus, Jane thought Lol and Moira Cairns were having sex. ‘Would it be OK if I talked to Merrily about this?’
‘Well, I would hate it if she thought I was hoping she’d, you know, intercede on my behalf, but…’ Eirion sat there, wearing his school uniform, his puppy fat, his dismal expression. ‘It’s just that Jane… Suddenly all she sees is darkness, doom, nothing amazing out there any more. Mrs Watkins has been a bit busy lately. Maybe she hasn’t noticed how bad it’s been getting.’
‘Look, I’m helping Gomer again tomorrow,’ Lol said. ‘Maybe I can call in the vicarage.’
‘I’m really sorry.’ Eirion pushed fingers through his hair and stood up. ‘Lol… look, man, I might be overreacting, all right?’
Lol looked at him, shaking his head. ‘This is Jane, Eirion.’ ‘Yes,’ Eirion agreed miserably.
The man had said, ‘She can’t be long, I suppose. Do you want to come in and wait?’ And at first Jane had been completely wrong-footed; this was hardly the kind of issue she could raise in front of both of them together, especially if their marriage was more or less on the rocks. And then she’d thought, On the other hand…
And had felt suddenly clever and strong, in a thinking-on- your-feet kind of way. In a let’s use this situation kind of way.
‘Yeah, OK,’ Jane had said coolly. ‘I suppose I could hang on for a few minutes.’ Following him into the dark-panelled hall and then into… wow…
‘I feel quite embarrassed about bringing anyone in here,’ he’d murmured. ‘I’m afraid my wife’s tastes have become a little minimalist.’
Minimalist. At once, Jane had liked the way he didn’t talk down to her. Then she learned that this was how he was: serious, saying what he meant.
Just two areas of light: the smoky greenish night in leaded windows and the glowing, crumbly fire built on the hearth – just enough to bring out this oaky feeling of age and strength. No TV or stereo on view, or anything modern or new; and the room was heavy with the oldest aroma in Herefordshire, the rich, sweet scent of apple wood.
In fact, she ought to be in two minds about all this really because, although it felt like the old Ledwardine, this was actually the new Ledwardine. Most ordinary people didn’t have the money for this sympathetic, sparing kind of conservation; they just lived around the past, with exposed wires along the beams and a Parkray in the inglenook.
Still, Jane had felt immediately at home. Enclosed. He’d taken her fleece to hang up. ‘Sorry about the temperature, but my wife absolutely refuses to have central heating in here. It would damage what she calls the monastic purity.’
‘It’s fine. It’s quite warm.’
‘It’s not terribly fine when you have to keep the damn fire going all the time,’ Gareth Box had said, sounding tired at the very thought of it, but with this sort of attractive ashiness in his voice. ‘When I’m here, I tend to build it up and keep it in all night, which I suppose is wasteful nowadays.’
‘Maybe “nowadays” isn’t what this house is about,’ Jane said smoothly. ‘You have to give it what it needs.’
‘Really.’
‘I suppose you don’t get to spend as much time here as you’d like.’
‘I think I probably do,’ he said, ‘actually. This is my wife’s house. She chose it, restored it. With her instinctive taste.’
Yes, Jane thought now, observing him over her glass, she at least has taste. Nothing minimalist about you, Mr Box.
The two Tudor-looking chairs were facing one another, either side of the fire, and were actually more comfortable than they looked, and when you sat down you felt kind of transported back. Especially with a glass of wine in your hand – red, full- bodied, naturally.
And especially when you were served by Gareth Box because – call this corny but, with his collarless white shirt and black jeans, his longish hair and his heavy, wide moustache – there really was something of the cavalier about him. Sitting down opposite Jane, pouring himself a glass of this serious wine and standing the bottle on the fairly rudimentary oak table by the side of his chair, he looked far more suited to this house than the insubstantial Jenny Driscoll ever could.
A weary cavalier, though, perhaps depleted by civil war.
‘I’m sorry.’ He held an arm towards the fire to see his watch; there was no clock in the room. ‘She really should’ve been back by now. Seems to have very little awareness of the passage of time these days.’
Jane felt his gaze on her, like a touch.
‘Look… Ja
ne… There isn’t anything I can help you with, is there? I feel awful now, wasting your time.’
Wasting my time? Oh, I really don’t think so.
31
Good Worker
GOMER FINALLY TOOK off his cap and sat down at the refectory table. He seemed to have lost weight, the way he had just after Minnie died. His glasses were dulled.
Merrily glanced into the scullery, with Ethel floating around her shins. No sign of Jane anywhere. ‘Gone up to her apartment, I expect. Can I at least do you some toast?’
‘Tea’ll be fine, vicar.’
‘See how you feel afterwards.’ She moved around switching lamps on, then went to put the kettle on, quite glad that the kid wasn’t around. She didn’t want Gomer inhibited.
‘Oughter’ve told the cops straight away. But he was already mad as hell at me, that boy. And it was all confused, some folk near-hysterical. Bloody pandemonium.’
‘I can imagine.’
As soon as they’d left the church grounds, he’d emptied it all out for her, no flam, no excuses. He’d been mad as hell that night, see – likely with himself. Couldn’t hold himself back, even in public.
She remembered the location, under the pylon, could conjure the scene from what Lol had told her: the cops trying to conceal their panic at having lost a murderer. Local people all over the place, smudging the picture as Roddy Lodge went weaving between the flashlight beams, fast and lithe on his own territory, used to moving by night, covering a lot of ground very quickly. Easily avoiding the police, because they’d be watching all the possible exits, certainly not the pylon at the far end, fully enclosed and no way out but up.
Only Gomer, who was outside the action, having left Lol to do the spadework, had seen him go. Catching up with his enemy at the foot of the pylon. Seizing his chance, keeping his voice low.
You told ’em yet, boy?
You mad ole fuck! Gomer asking the vicar to pardon his French, but that was what Lodge had called him: Mad ole fuck.
At the time, he’d been edging Lodge back towards the giant girdery legs of the pylon, telling him, You’re goin’ down anyway. Why’n’t you just tell ’em the bloody truth ’bout what you done to my depot? What you done to Nev. Tell the truth, boy, just once in your nasty, lyin’, cheatin’ little bloody life.