Crybbe aka Curfew

by Phil Rickman

  'Maybe you been talking to the wrong people,' said Mrs Preece.

  'And who, would you say, are the "wrong" people? By the way, I wouldn't waste that nice onion on me.'

  'I beg your pardon.'

  'Just don't tell me,' Jean said levelly, 'that the onion on the saucer is there to absorb paint smells or germs. You put it there to attract any unwelcome emanations from people you don't want in your house. And when they've gone you quietly dispose of the onion. Will you be getting rid of it when I leave, Mrs Preece?'

  Mrs Preece, face reddening, looked down at her clumpy brown shoes.

  'Or am I flattering myself?' Jean said.

  'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'Och, away with you, Mrs Preece. I'm no' one of your London innocents.'

  'You're none of you innocent,' Mrs Preece cried. 'You're all as guilty as, as…' Her voice dropped. 'As guilty as sin.'

  'Of what?' Jean asked gently.

  Mrs Preece shook her head. 'You're not getting me going, I'm not stupid. You must know as you're doing no good for this town.'

  'And why is that, Mrs Preece? Do you mind if I sit down?'

  And before Mrs Preece could argue, Jean had slipped into the Mayor's fireside chair.

  'Because it seems to me, you see, that all the new people love Crybbe just exactly the way it is, Mrs Preece. They would hate anything to happen to the local traditions. In fact that's why I'm here. I was hoping your husband could tell me a wee bit about the curfew.'

  Mrs Preece turned away.

  'I'm also compiling a small history of the town and its folklore,' Jean said.

  'Nothing to tell,' Mrs Preece said eventually. 'Nothing that's not written down already.'

  'I don't think so. I think there is a remarkable amount to tell which has never been written down.'

  Mrs Preece stood over Jean. She wore a large, striped apron, like a butcher's. Discernible anxiety in her eyes now.

  'Tell me about it, Mrs Preece. Tell me about the ritual which your husband's family has maintained so selflessly for so many centuries.'

  'Just a bequest,' the Mayor's wife said. 'That's all. A bequest of land a long time ago in the sixteenth century. Depending on the bell to be rung every night.'

  'This is codswallop,' Jean Wendle said. 'This is a smokescreen.'

  'Well, we 'ave the documents to prove it!' Mrs Preece was getting angry. 'That's how much it's codswallop!'

  'Oh, I'm sure you do. But the real reason for the curfew, is it not, is to protect the town from… well, let's call it the Black Dog.'

  Mrs Preece's face froze like a stopped clock.

  Into the silence came lazy footsteps on the path.

  'Be my husband back.' Very visibly relieved.

  Damnation, Jean almost said aloud. So close.

  But it wasn't the Mayor. A thin, streaky haired youth with an ear-ring shambled in without knocking.

  'All right, Gran? I come to tell you…'

  'You stay outside with them boots, Warren!'

  'Too late, Gran.' The youth was in the living-room now, giving Jean Wendle the once-over with his narrow eyes.

  Ah, she thought. The surviving grandson. Interesting.

  'Hello,' Jean said. 'So you're Warren.'

  "s right, yeah.' From his ear-ring hung a tiny silvery death's head.

  'I was very sorry to hear about your brother.'

  Warren blew out his mouth and nodded. 'Aye, well, one o' them things, isn't it. Anyway, Gran, message from the old… from Dad. All it is – they brought Jonathon back and 'e's in the church.'

  'I see,' said Mrs Preece quietly. 'Thank you, Warren.'

  'In 'is coffin,' said Warren.

  Jean observed that the boy was somewhat less than grief-stricken.

  'Lid's on, like,' Warren said.

  Jean thought he sounded disappointed.

  'But 'e's not screwed down, see, so if you wanna go'n 'ave a quick look at 'im, there's no problem.'

  'No, I don't think I shall,' his grandmother said, 'thank you, Warren.' Tiny tears were sparkling in her eyes.

  'If you're worried the ole lid might be a bit 'eavy for you, Gran,' Warren said considerately, 'I don't mind goin' along with you. I got half an hour or so to spare before I got to leave.' He turned to Jean. 'I got this band, see. We practises most Monday and Wednesday nights.'

  Mrs Preece said, her voice high and tight, 'No, thank you, Warren.'

  Warren watched his grandmother's reaction with his head on one side. This boy, Jean registered with considerable interest, is trying not to laugh.

  'See, it's no problem. Gran,' Warren said slowly and slyly. ' 'Cause I've already 'ad 'im off once, see, that ole lid.'

  He stood with his hands on narrow hips encased in tight, leather trousers, and his lips were just the merest twist away from a smirk.

  Jean had been listening to the tension in the air in the small, brown living-room, humming and then singing, dangerously off-key, sending out invisible wires that quickly tautened and then, finally, snapped.

  'Get out!' Mrs Preece's big face suddenly buckled. 'GET OUT!' She turned to Jean, breathing rapidly. 'And you as well, if you please.'

  Jean stood up and moved quietly to the door. 'I'm really very sorry, Mrs Preece.'

  'Things is not right,' Mrs Preece said, sniffing hard. 'Things is far from right. And no you're not. None of you's sorry.'

  They'd stopped for coffee but hadn't eaten, couldn't face it.

  Fay still felt a bit sick and more than a bit alone. She badly needed someone she could rely on and Joe Powys no longer seemed like the one. But while she felt slightly betrayed, she was also sorry for him. He looked even more lost than she felt.

  'All I can think of,' he said, driving listlessly back to Crybbe, 'is that the stone near the cottage is the actual one – the Bottle Stone.'

  'You mean he had it dug up under cover of darkness and…'

  'Sounds crazy, doesn't it?'

  'I'm afraid it does, Joe. Why would Boulton-Trow want to do that, anyway?'

  'Well, he knows that was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and…'

  'And he wanted to bring it all back by confronting you with the stone again? That would make him… well, you know… quite evil. I can't imagine…'

  'I'm sorry. I'm asking too much of you. Maybe I ought to stay out of your way for a while.'

  Fay looked at him hopelessly. 'Maybe we'll take some time and think about things. See what we can come up with.'

  She decided she'd go, after all, to Goff's press conference, in a private capacity, just to listen. See what questions other people raised and how they were answered.

  'I don't think we have much time,' Joe Powys said, 'I really don't.'

  'Why? I mean… before what?'

  'I don't know,' he said.

  He looked broken.

  Alone again, Mrs Preece shut herself in the living-room, fell into her husband's sunken old chair and began to cry bitterly, her white hair spooling free of its bun, strands getting glued by the tears to her mottled cheeks.

  When the telephone rang, she ignored it and it stopped.

  After some minutes Mrs Preece got up from the chair, went to the mirror and tried to piece together her bun without looking at her face.

  Out of the corner of her right eye she saw the onion in its saucer on top of the television set.

  Then Mrs Preece let out a scream so harsh and ragged it felt as though the skin was being scoured from the back of her throat.

  The onion, fresh this morning, was as black as burnt cork.

  CHAPTER VII

  Goff said, 'As you say, Gavin, it's been a hell of blow, obviously cast a pall over things here. Rachel'd been with me nearly four years. She was the best PA I ever had. But you ask if it's gonna dampen my enthusiasm for what we're doing here… I have to say no, of course it isn't. What we have here is too important for Crybbe… and for the human race.

  Gavin Ashpole, of Offa's Dyke Radio, nodded sympathetically.
<
br />   At the back, behind everybody. Fay groaned. Nobody noticed her, not even Guy.

  There were about a dozen reporters and two TV crews in the stable-block, everybody asking what Fay thought were excruciatingly banal questions.

  But, OK, what else could they ask? What did they have to build on? If it hadn't involved Max Goff, all this sad little episode would have been worth was a couple of paragraphs in the local paper and an Offa's Dyke one-day wonder. A small, insignificant, accidental death.

  OK, Goff didn't want the residue of anything negative hanging on him or the Crybbe project. But if Rachel had been here, she'd have talked him out of this mini-circus; it wasn't worth a press conference, which would only draw the wrong kind of attention.

  But then, if Rachel had been here… Fay fell the clutch of sorrow in her breast and something else less definable but close to anxiety.

  Joe had said, 'Got to sort this out. I'm going to find him.'

  'Boulton-Trow? Is that wise?'

  'I want to take a look at this place he's got, in the wood.'

  'I saw it. Yesterday, when I look the short-cut to church. It might be better inside, but it looks like a hovel.'

  'We'll find out.'

  'I didn't like it. I didn't like the feel of the place.'

  Joe had shrugged. She'd felt torn. On one hand, yes, he really ought to sort this thing out, even it meant facing up to his own delusions. On the other hand, well, OK, she was scared for him.

  'You go to your press conference,' he'd said, touched her arm hesitantly and then walked away, head down, across the square towards the churchyard.

  So here she was, sitting a few yards behind Guy's stocky, aggressive-looking cameraman, Guy standing next to him, occasionally whispering instructions. The chairs had been laid out in three rows in the middle tier of the stable-block, so that the assembled hacks were slightly higher than Goff.

  And yet, somehow, he appeared to be looking down on them.

  Goff was at his desk, his back to the window and the Tump, as if this was his personal power-source.

  'Max,' one of the hacks said, 'Barry Speake, Evening News. Can I ask you what kind of feedback you're getting from the local community here? I mean, what's the local response to your plans to introduce what must seem to a lot of ordinary people to be rather bizarre ideas, all this ley-lines and astrology and stuff?'

  Goff gave him both rows of teeth. 'Think it's bizarre, do you, Barry?'

  'I'm not saying I think it's bizarre. Max, but…'

  'But you think simple country folk are too unsophisticated to grasp the concept. Isn't that a little patronizing, Barry?'

  There was a little buzz of laughter.

  'No, but hold on.' Goff raised a hand. 'There's a serious point to be made here. We call this New Age, and, sure, it's new to us. But folks here in Crybbe have an instinctive understanding of what it's about because this place has important traditions, what you might call a direct line to the source… Something I'd ask the author, J. M. Powys, to elaborate on, if he were here… Yeah, lady at the back.'

  Fay stood up. 'Mr Goff, you're obviously spending a lot of money here in Crybbe…'

  'Yeah, just don't ask me for the figures.'

  Muted laughter.

  Fay said, 'As my colleague tried to suggest, it is what many people would consider a slightly bizarre idea, attempting to rebuild the town's prehistoric heritage, putting back all these stones, for instance. What I'd like to know is… why Crybbe?' Who told you about this place? Who told you about the stones? Who said it would be the right place for what you had in mind?'

  Goff's little eyes narrowed. He was wearing, unusually, a dark suit today. Out of respect for the dead Rachel? Or his image.

  'Who exactly are you?' he said. 'Which paper you from?'

  'Fay Morrison.' Adding, 'Freelance,' with a defiant glance at Ashpole.

  'Yeah, I thought so.'

  He'd never actually seen her before. He was certainly making up for that now, little eyes never wavering.

  'I'm not sure how relevant your question is today,' Goff said. 'But, yeah, on the issue of how we came to be doing what we're doing here, well, we've been kicking this idea around for a year or two. I've had advisers and people looking…'

  'What kind of advisers? Who exactly?' The questions were coming out without forethought, she was firing blind. In fact, what the hell was she doing? She hadn't planned to say a word, just sit there and listen.

  Goff looked pained. 'Ms Morrison, I don't see… Yeah, OK… I have many friends and associates in what's become known as the New Age movement – let me say, I don't like that term, it's been devalued, trivialized, right? But, yeah, it was suggested to me that if I was looking for a location which was not only geophysically and archaeologically suited to research into forgotten landscape patterns and configurations, but was also suited – shall we say atmospherically – to research into human spiritual potential, then Crybbe fitted the bill.'

  He produced a modest, philanthropic sort of smile. 'And it was also clearly a little down on its luck. In need of the economic boost our centre could give it. So I came along and looked around, and I… Well, that answer your question?'

  'Was it the late Henry Kettle? Did he suggest you came here?'

  'No, I sought advice from Henry Kettle, in a very small way, at a later stage. We were already committed to Crybbe by then. What are you getting at here?'

  Goff leaned back in his leather rock-and-swivel chair. He was alone at the desk, although Humble and a couple of people she didn't recognize were seated a few yards away. Fay didn't think Andy Boulton-Trow was among them.

  'Well,' she said, still on her feet, 'Henry Kettle was, of course, the first person to die in an accident here, wasn't he?'

  'Aw now, hey,' Goff said.

  Several reporters turned their heads to look at Fay. Maybe some of them hadn't heard about Henry. He was hardly a national figure, except in earth-mysteries circles. His death had been a minor local story; his connection with Goff had not been general knowledge, still wasn't, outside Crybbe.

  It occurred to her that what she'd inadvertently done here was set the more lurid papers up with a possible Curse of Crybbe story. She imagined Rachel Wade looking down on the scene from wherever she was, rolling her eyes and passing a hand across her brow in pained disbelief.

  Fay started to feel just a little foolish. Gavin Ashpole, sitting well away from her, was smirking discreetly into his lap.

  She knew Goff had to make a move here.

  He did. He gave the hacks a confidential smile.

  'Yeah, take a good look,' he said, extending a hand towards Fay. 'This is Ms Fay Morrison.'

  More heads turned. Guy's, not surprisingly, was one of the few which didn't.

  'Ms Morrison,' drawled Goff, 'is a small-time freelance reporter who earns a crust here in town by stirring up stories nobody else can quite see.'

  Some bastard laughed.

  'Unfair,' Fay said, starting to sweat, 'Henry Kettle…'

  'Henry Kettle' – Goff changed effortlessly to a higher gear – 'was a very elderly man who died when his car went out of control, probably due to a stroke or a heart attack. We'll no doubt find out what happened when the inquest is held. Meantime, I – and any right-thinking, rational person – would certainly take a dim view of any sensation-mongering attempt to make something out of the fact that my company had paid him a few pounds to do a few odd jobs. I think suggesting any link between the death of Henry Kettle in a car accident and Rachel Wade in a fall is in extremely poor taste, indicating a lamentable lack of professionalism – and a certain desperation perhaps – in any self-styled journalist who raised it.'

  Goff relaxed, knowing how good he was at this. Fay, who'd never been much of an orator, lapsed, red-faced, into a very lonely silence.

  'Now,' Goff said, not looking at her, 'if there are no further questions, I have ten minutes to do any TV and radio interviews outside.'

  The heads had turned away from Fay. She'd
lost it.

  'You don't do yourself any favours, do you. Fay?' Ashpole said drily, out of the side of his mouth, passing her on the way out, not even looking at her.

  'I suppose,' Guy Morrison said, 'you'd know about all the suicides around here, wouldn't you?'

  Seven p.m. The only other customer in the public bar at the Cock was this large man, the local police sergeant, Wynford somebody. He was leaning on the bar with a pint, obviously relieved at unloading the two Divisional CID men who'd spent the day in town in connection with this Rachel Wade business.

  Guy was feeling relieved, too. His heart had dropped when Max Goff had approached him immediately after the conclusion of the appalling press conference – Guy expecting to be held responsible for his wayward ex-wife and, at the very least, warned to keep her out of Goff's way in future.

  But all Goff wanted was for the crew to get some aerial pictures of Crybbe from his helicopter, so that was OK. Guy had sent Catrin Jones up with Larry and escaped to the pub. Sooner or later he'd be forced to have a discreet word with Goff and explain where things stood between him and Fay – i.e. that she was an insane bitch and he'd had a lucky escape.

  Meanwhile, there was this business of the suicide and the haunting. This was upsetting him. He wouldn't be able to concentrate fully until it was out of the way because Guy Morrison didn't like things he didn't understand.

  He waited for Wynford's reaction. He'd got into suicides by suggesting that perhaps Rachel Wade had killed herself. Would they ever really know?

  Guy Morrison was an expert at manipulating conversation, but Wynford didn't react at all.

  As if he hadn't noticed the silence, Guy said, 'Doesn't do a place's reputation any good, I suppose, being connected with a suicide. I was talking to that woman who runs The Gallery. It seems her house is allegedly haunted by a chap who topped himself.'

  Wynford didn't look up from his beer, but he spoke at last. 'You been misinformed, my friend.'

  'I don't mean anything recent,' Guy said. 'This probably goes back a good while. Talking about the same place, are we? Heavily renovated stone farmhouse, about half a mile out of town on the Hereford road?'