by Phil Rickman
The Filofax had contained about thirty loose-leaf pages of closely written notes, together with hand-drawn plans and maps. Powys had sat down at the table with the artist's materials on it, a rough-hewn item of rustic garden furniture. He'd copied everything out as carefully as he could, including the maps and plans, some of which made sense, some of which didn't.
He could have stolen the Filofax; that would have been simpler.
But he suspected that what he held here was something like what the old magicians called a grimoire, a book of magical secrets, a Book of Shadows. It belonged only to one person. To anyone else – if you believed in all this, which he was rather afraid he did – it could be as insidiously dangerous as a radioactive isotope.
So what you did, you copied it out.
He stopped copying at one stage, his wrist aching, a distant siren sounding in his head like the beginning of a migraine.
What the hell am I doing?
I mean, am I out of my mind?
He'd crossed again into the Old Golden Land, where everything answered to its own peculiar and archaic logic.
So, by candlelight, he'd gone on copying material from the Filofax into the blank pages of a slim blue book of his own with photographs of stones and mounds in it and maps of Britain networked with irregular thin black lines. Indented gold letters on the cover spelled out. The Ley-Hunter's Diary 1993. They sent him one every year; he carried it around, the way you did, but this was the first time he'd ever actually written in one.
It took him a long time.
And if Andy had come back, caught him at it?
So what? The bastard had more explaining to do than he did.
He was scared, though. You couldn't not be, in this environment. Not if you were inclined to believe it worked.
As he wrote, he started to understand. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to convince him that the original source of some of these notes was probably Dr John Dee, astrologer to Elizabeth I. That Dee, who lived along the valley, who was not psychic but studied people who were, had been the recipient of the visit from the man who came "at nyte in hys spyryte'.
And that the visitor was Michael Wort. High Sheriff of Radnorshire.
And you can prove that?
Of course not. What does that matter? I believe it.
But you're not rational, Powys. You're a certifiable crank.
He'd put the Filofax back into the bread-oven, wishing there was somewhere to wash his hands, and climbed out through the window again, walking away into the dusk, the wood gloomy, treacherous place now, spiked with fallen branches bramble tentacles.
The night coming on, and he didn't feel so certain of ability to deal with this, this…
diabolical sorcerie.
This phrase appeared several times in the text.
Standing, now, by the stone, feeling the tension like an impending thunderstorm, only denser. And the feeling that when the storm broke and the rain crashed down, the rain would be black and afterwards the earth would not be cleansed and purified but in some way poisoned.
Acid rain of the soul.
He moved a few feet away from the stone, stood behind a thick old oak tree bound with vines and creepers. The logic of the Old Golden Land told him that right next to the stone was not the place to be when the storm broke.
It also told him that the ringing of the curfew every night was some kind of climax and if he wanted to get a feel of what was going on, he ought to stay near that stone for… what?
He stretched his arm towards the sky to see his watch.
For less than half an hour.
He was frightened, though, and really wanted to creep back through the wood to the nearest lights.
So he thought about Henry Kettle and he thought about Rachel. And found himself thinking about Fay too.
She sped through the shadowed streets, Arnold on the passenger seat.
Not the other son – what was his name?… Warren – not him, surely.
She could hear her own voice-piece. The accident came only a week after Warren's brother, Jonathan, was tragically drowned in the swollen river near his home…
The usual reporter's moral conflict taking place in her head. Better for the Preece family if it was someone else. Better for the media if it was another Preece – Double Disaster for Tragic Farm Family.
Better for her, in truth, if she was away from Offa's Dyke Radio, which was clearly in the process of ditching her anyway. And away from Crybbe also, which went without saying.
Headlights on, she dropped into the lane beside the church. Nothing like other people's troubles to take your mind off your own.
Other, brighter headlights met hers just before the turning to Court Farm, and she swung into the verge as the ambulance rocketed out and its siren warbled into life.
Still alive, anyway. But that could mean anything.
Fay drove into the track. She'd never been to Court Farm before.
Firemen were standing around the yard, and there was a policeman, one of Wynford's three constables. Fay ignored him; she'd always found it easier to get information out of firemen.
'Didn't take you long,' one said, teeth flashing in the dusk. 'You wanner interview me' Which way's the camera?'
'No need to comb your hair,' Fay said. 'It's radio.'
'Oh, in that case you better talk to the chief officer. Ron!'
Firemen were always affable after it was over. 'Bugger of a job getting to him,' Ron said. 'Right up the top, this bloody field, and the ground was all churned up after all this rain. Still, we done it. Bloody mess, though. Knackered old thing it was, that tractor. Thirty-odd years old.'
'It just turned over?'
'Ah, it's not all that uncommon,' said Ron. 'I reckon we gets called to at least two tractor accidents every year. Usually young lads, not calculated the gradients. Never have imagined it happening to Jack Preece, though.'
'Jack Preece?'
'Hey, now, listen, don't go putting that out till the police confirms the name, will you? No, see, I can't figure how it could've happened, Jack muster been over there coupla thousand times. Just shows, dunnit. Dangerous job, farming.'
'How is he? Off the record.'
'He'll live,' Ron said, changing his boots. 'Gets everywhere this bloody mud. His left leg's badly smashed. I don't know… Still, they can work miracles these days, so I'm told.'
Fay got him to say some of it again, on tape. It was 9.40, nearly dark, because of all the cloud, as she pulled out of the farmyard.
She was halfway down the track when a figure appeared in the headlights urgently waving both arms, semaphoring her to stop.
Arnold sat up on the seat and growled.
Fay wound her window down.
'Give me a lift into town, will you?'
It was too dark to see his face under the cap, but she recognized his voice at once from meetings of the town council and the occasional 'Ow're you' in the street.
'Mr Preece!'
Oh, Christ.
'Get in the back, Arnold,' Fay hissed. As she pushed the dog into the back seat, something shocking wrenched at her mind, but she hadn't time to develop the thought before the passenger door was pulled open and the Mayor collapsed into the seat next to her, gasping.
'In a hurry. Hell of a hurry.'
The old man breathing heavily and apparently painfully as they crunched down the track. As she turned into the lane, Mr Preece said, 'Oh. It's you.' Most unhappy about this, she could tell, 'I didn't know it was you.'
'I'm terribly sorry,' Fay said, 'about Jack. It must be…'
'Aye…' Mr Preece broke off, turned his head, recoiled. 'Mighter known! You got that… damn thing in yere!'
'The dog?'
The shocking thought of a couple of minutes ago completed itself with an ugly click. As she was pushing Arnold into the back seat she'd felt the stump of his rear, left leg and heard Ron, the leading fireman, in her head, saying, left leg's badly smashed.
'Mr Preece,' Fay sai
d carefully, 'I'd like to come and see you. I know it's a bad time – a terrible time – but I have to know what all this is about.'
He said nothing.
Fay said, 'I have to know – not for the radio, for myself – why nobody keeps a dog in Crybbe.'
The Mayor just breathed his painful soggy breaths, never looked behind him at what crouched in the back seat, said not a word until they moved up alongside the churchyard and entered the square.
'I'll get out yere.'
'Mr Preece…'
The old man scrambled out. Started to walk stiffly away. Then turned and tried to shout, voice cracking up like old brown parchment.
'You leave it alone, see…' He started to cough. 'Leave it alone, you…'
Mr Preece hawked and spat into the gutter.
'… stupid bitch,' he said roughly, biting off the words as if he was trying to choke back more phlegm and a different emotion. And then, leaving the passenger door for her to close, he was off across the cobbles, limping and stumbling towards the church.
He's going to ring the curfew. Fay thought suddenly.
His son's just been mangled within an inch of his life in a terrible accident and all he can think about is ringing the curfew.
Jonathon had been saying for months – years even – that it was time they got rid of that old tractor.
Probably this wasn't what he'd had in mind, Warren thought, standing in Top Meadow, alone with the wreckage of the thing that had crippled his Old Man, all the coppers and the firemen gone now.
The Old Man had been working on that tractor all day, giving himself something to concentrate on, take his mind off Jonathon and his problem of having nobody to hand over the farm to when he was too old and clapped out. Then he'd mumbled something about testing the bugger and lumbered off in it, up the top field, silly old bastard.
Testing it. Bloody tested it all right.
Warren had to laugh.
With the last of the light, he could more or less see what had happened, the tractor climbing towards the highest point and not making it, sliding back in the mud, out of control and tipping over, the Old Man going down with it, disappearing underneath as the bloody old antique came apart.
But Warren still couldn't figure how he'd let it happen, all the times he'd been up here on that bloody old tractor. At least, he couldn't see rationally, like, how it had happened.
It was the unrational answer, the weird option, glittering in his head like cold stars, that wouldn't let him go home.
He followed the big tracks through the mud by the field gate, up the pitch to the point where the tractor had started rolling back prior to keeling over. He followed the tracks to the very top of the rise, to where the tractor had been headed, glancing behind him and seeing the trees moving on top of the old Tump half a mile away.
By the time he was on top of the pitch, he was near burning up with excitement. It hadn't seemed like the right part of the field at all, but that was because he'd come in by a different, gate, looking at it from a different angle.
Warren hesitated a moment and then dashed back down to the tractor. Somebody had left behind a shovel they'd been using to shift the mud so the firemen could get their cutting gear to the Old Man. He snatched up the shovel, carried it back up the pitch, prised away the top sod – knowing instinctively exactly where to dig – threw off a few shovelfuls of earth, and there it was, the old box.
The jagged thrill that went through him was like white-hot electric wire. 'Oh, fuck, oh fuck.' Blinded by his power. 'I done it. Me.'
His fingers were rigid with excitement as he opened the box, just to make sure, and he almost cried out with the euphoria of the moment.
He couldn't see proper, but it was like the hand of bones, the Hand of Glory in the box had bent over and become a fist.
It was curled around the Stanley knife, gripping it, and the blade was out.
Warren shivered violently in horror and pleasure – the combination making him feel so alive it was like he was a knife himself, sharp and savage, steely and invulnerable.
The only indestructible Preece.
CHAPTER XI
At first, the figure was dressed in dark clothes so that when it filtered through the twilit trees only the soft footsteps and the rustlings told Powys anyone was coming.
He moved behind his oak tree, sure it was going to be Andy. Holding himself still, packing away the anger and the grief – an unstable mixture – because, for once, he intended to have the advantage.
What he had to do was break this guy's habitual cool. To raise the vibration rate until the bass-cello voice distorted and the lotus position collapsed in a muscular spasm.
He'd never seen Andy anything but laid-back. This, he realized, was the most impenetrable of all screens. Laid-back people were not evil. Laid-back people were wise. Evil people ranted like Hitler.
They weren't people you'd known half your life. And they were never called Andy.
But then, Powys thought, watching the figure enter the clearing and move towards the stone, the stench from a rotten egg was only apparent when the perfectly rounded, smooth, white shell was cracked.
The stone gleamed pearly grey, collecting what light remained, a ghostly obelisk. Powys watched and tried to slow his breathing. Not yet time; to get a stake into Dracula, you had to wait for daylight.
Or, in this case, until the curfew was over. The curfew was central to the Crybbe experience. The curfew was pivotal. Whatever had been building up – tension, fear, excitement – climaxed and then died with the curfew.
He'd experienced it twice, in radically different ways. The first night with Rachel, when they'd wound up in bed at the Cock so fast they hadn't even been aware of the chemical interacting until the chemicals had fully interacted. And then by the river, when he'd found the shotgun in his hands and come within a twitch of blowing Jonathon Preece in half.
He lifted the sleeve of his sweatshirt to expose his watch; it was too dark to be certain, but he was sure it must be ten o'clock.
Ten o'clock and no curfew?
Staggering into the church, Jimmy Preece was faced with its silent, solitary occupant, a wooden arrow pointing at the altar rails.
He stood gasping in the doorway, and there was Jonathon's smooth, mahogany coffin shining like a taunt, a pale gleam of polish in the dimness.
Mr Preece couldn't find his breath, his legs felt like wet straw, and the urge to pray had never been as strong.
Please, God, protect us, he wanted to cry out until the words leapt into every corner of the rafters and came back at him with the illusion of strength.
And illusion was all it would be. He remembered the trouble there'd been when the old vicar was ill and the diocese had sent a replacement who'd turned out to be one of these Charismatics, some new movement in the church, this chap spouting about something he called Dynamic Prayer, shouting and quivering and making them all sing like darkies and hug each other.
No end of disturbance, until a phone call to the bishop had got rid of him. Not the border way, they told him. Not the Crybbe way.
Oh, Jonathon, Jonathon… Mr Preece felt his chest quake in agony, and he turned away, groping for the narrow, wooden door to the belfry.
The old routine, making his painful way to the steps. But, for the first time, the routine resisted him and his foot failed to find the bottom step. Twenty-seven years he'd done it, without a break, until Jack started to take over, and now Jimmy Preece had come back and he couldn't find the blessed step.
Mr Preece squeezed his eyes shut, dug his nails into his cheeks, raised his other foot and felt the step's worn edge slide under his shoe.
What time was it? Was he late?
His chest pumping weakly like these old brass fire-bellows his wife still kept, although the leather was holed and withered. His foot slipped on the edge of the second step.
Come on, come on, you hopeless old bugger.
He set off up the narrow stone steps, some no more than two
foot wide.
Used to be… when he was ringing the old bell every night… that… these steps was… never a problem…even when he'd been working… solid on the lambing or the haymaking and was… bone tired… because…
Mr Preece paused to catch a breath, six steps up.
Because sometimes, in the old days, he'd just, like, floated to the top, like as if there were hands in the small of his back rushing him up the steps, and then the same hands would join his on the rope, because it was meant.
But tonight there were different hands, pressing down from above, pressing into his chest: go back, you poor, tired old bugger, you don't wanner do this no more.
A son in the hospital. A grandson in his coffin.
What if you dies on the steps?
One Preece in the hospital. One in his coffin. One in a heap on the flagstones. And Warren.
Best not to think about Warren.
And a silence in the belfry.
No!
In a rage, Mr Preece snatched out his dentures, thrust them down into a pocket of his old tweed jacket, forced some air into his broken bellows of a chest and made it up two more steps.
He'd do it. He'd be late but he'd do it. Never been so important that he should do it.
He saw the light above him and the ropes. Never more important, now the wall around the Tump had been breached and something was in the Court.
As had been shown by the death of that woman.
But it had never been in the church. It couldn't get into church.
No, it couldn't.
But it wasn't Andy Boulton-Trow, waiting by the stone.
It was a woman. Well, a girl.
And naked now.
She stood with her back to the stone, as if sculpted from it, her eyes closed and her mouth open, and the night sang around her.
Jesus God, Powys whispered, the voyeur behind the oak tree, stunned into immobility.
The pupil!
It was one of those nights when the thoughts were so deep you couldn't remember getting home or putting the car away. Some small thing brought you back into your body – like the tiny grind of metal in metal as your Yale key penetrated the front-door lock.