by Phil Rickman
'I'm sorry?'
'Don't allow no dogs in yere.'
Powys said mildly, 'Where does it say that?'
'You what, sir?'
'Where does it say, "no dogs"?'
'We never 'ad no sign, sir, because…'
'Because you never had no dogs before. Now, this is interesting.' Powys tried to catch his eye; impossible. 'We're the only customers. There's nobody else to serve. So perhaps you could spell out – in detail – what this town has against the canine species. Take your time. Give us a considered answer. We've got hours and hours.'
Powys sat back and contemplated the licensee, who looked away. The bar smelled of polish and the curdled essence of last night's beer.
'No hurry,' Powys said. 'We've got all night.'
Denzil turned to him at last and Powys thought. Yes he does… He really does look like a malignant troll.
'Mr Powys,' Denzil said slowly. 'You're a clever man…'
'And we…' said Fay, '… we don't like clever people round yere.' And collapsed helplessly into giggles.
Denzil's expression didn't change. 'No more drinks,' he said. 'Get out.'
It was getting so dark so early that Mrs Seagrove decided it would be as well to draw the curtains to block out that nasty old mound. Ugly as a slag-heap, Frank used to say it was.
The curtains were dark-blue Dralon. Behind curtains like this, you could pretend you were living somewhere nice.
'There,' she said. 'That's better, isn't it, Frank?'
Frank didn't reply, just nodded as usual. He'd never had much to say, hadn't Frank. Just sat there in his favourite easy-chair, his own arms stretched along the chair arms. Great capacity for stillness, Frank had.
'I feel so much safer with you here,' Mrs Seagrove said to her late husband.
CHAPTER II
Like an old castle, the church was, when the light was going, with the tower and the battlements all black.
Something to really break into. Not like a garage or a school or a newsagent's. Magic, this was, when you got in, standing there in the great echoey space, shouting out 'fuck'
and 'piss'.
When you broke into a church, there was like an edge to it.
Sacrilege. What did it mean? What did it really mean? Religion was about being bored. They used to make him come here when he was a kid. Just you sit there, Warren, and keep it shut until they gives you a hymn to sing… and don't sing so bloody loud next time, you tryin' to show us up?
So when he stood here and shouted 'fuck' and 'piss', who was he shouting it at? His family, or the short-tempered ole God they didn't like to disturb by singing too loud?
Tonight he didn't have to break in; nobody'd bothered to lock the place after he'd done the window in the vestry, when he'd been up the belfry and then doled out this plate of dog food on the altar.
Still couldn't figure why he'd done that. Tessa's idea, she'd given him the can. Next time she'd have to explain. He was taking no more orders, not from anybody.
Warren ground his teeth and brought his foot back and slammed it into the side door, wanting to kick it in, anyway. Because it was a rotten old door that'd needed replacing years ago. Because he wanted to hear the latch splintering off its screws.
Because he wanted Jonathon to know he was coming.
Me again, Jonathon. You don't get no peace, bro, till you're in the ground.
There was a real rage in him tonight that just went on growing and growing, the more he thought about that bastard Goff and the way he'd tricked him. Warren could see right through the layers of blubber to the core of this fat phoney. The real reason he'd had a nice letter sent back to Warren with the tape was he didn't know how Warren's grandad stood the question of Warren being a professional musician – for all Goff knew the old git could've been 'supportive', as they said. And the old git was the Mayor, and Goff couldn't afford to offend him.
Warren got out his Stanley knife, the Stanley knife, and swaggered up the aisle to the coffin, saw its whitish gleam from this window over the altar that used to be stained glass, only the bloody ole stained bits blew out, once, in a gale, on account the lead was mostly gone, and they filled it up with plain frosted glass like you got in the windows of public lavs – typical that, of the cheapo bastards who ran the Church.
Anyway, what was left of the white light shone down on reliable, steady, trustworthy ole Jonathon.
Saint Jonathon now.
He flicked out the blade, felt his lips curling back into tight snarl as he sucked in a hissing breath and dug the point into the polished lid, dagger-style, and then wrenched it back getting two hands to it, one over the other.
Sssccccreeeeagh!!!!!
Remember me, Jonathon?
I'm your brother. I was there when you died. Maybe you don't remember that. Wasn't a chance I could very well miss, though, was it? Not when that feller sets it up for me so nice, chucking the old gun in the drink – couldn't go back without that, could you bro'? Couldn't face the ole man… steady, reliable, ole Jonathon lost the bloody family heirloom shooter. Didn't see me, did you? Didn't see me lying under the hedge on the other side of the bank? Well, people don't, see. I'm good at that even if I don't know nothing about farming and I'm a crap guitarist.
Always been good at not being seen and watching and listening. And you gets better at that when you know they don't give a shit for you, not any of the buggers. You learn to watch out for yourself, see.
Anyway, so there you are, wading across the river, getting closer and closer to my side. Hey, listen… how many times did the ole man tell us when we were kids: never get tempted to cross the river, that ole river bed's not stable, see, full of these gullies.
See, you might not remember this next bit, being you were in a bit of trouble at the time, like, bit of a panic, churning up the water something cruel And, like, if you did see me, well, you might still be thinking I was trying to rescue you, brotherly love, all that shit.
Might've thought I was trying to hold your head above the water. Well, fair play, that's an easy mistake to make when you're floundering about doing your best not to get yourself drowned.
Anyway, you failed, Jonathon.
Gotter admit, it's not often a bloke gets the chance like that to drown his goodie-goodie, smart-arse, chairman of the Young Farmers' brother, is it?
Worth getting your ole trainers soaked for any day, you ask me.
Gotter laugh, though, Jonathan. Gotter laugh.
It was quite impressive inside. Late nineteenth century perhaps. High-ceilinged, white-walled. And a white elephant, now, Guy thought, with no proper council any more.
He was watching from the entrance at the back of the hall, while Larry Ember was doing a shot from the stage at the front. People were pointing at Larry, whispering, shuffling in their seats. Real fly-on-the-wall stuff this was going to be, with half the punters staring straight into the lens, looking hostile.
'Make it quick, Guy, will you,' Col Croston said behind a hand. 'I've been approached about six times already by people objecting to your presence.'
Catrin said, 'Do they know who he is?'
'Stay out of this, Catrin,' said Guy. 'Col, we'll have the camera out within a couple of minutes. But as it's a public meeting, I trust nobody will try to get me out.'
'I should sit at the back, all the same,' Col said without opening his mouth.
'Look!' Larry Ember suddenly bawled out at the audience, leaping up from his camera, standing on the makeshift wooden stage, exasperated, hands on his hips. 'Stop bleedin' looking at me! Stop pointing at me! You never seen a telly camera before? Stone me, it's worse than little kids screaming "Hello, Mum." Pretend I'm not here, can't yer?'
'Maybe you shouldn't be yere, then,' a man shouted back.
'Sorry about this,' Guy said to Col Croston. 'Larry's not terribly good at public relations.'
'Better get him out,' Col said. 'I'm sorry, Guy.'
'I suspect we're all going to be sorry before the night's out,'
Guy said, unknowingly blessed, for the first time in his life with the gift of prophecy.
A hush hit the hall, and Guy saw Larry swing his arms, and his camera, in a smooth arc as though he'd spotted trouble at the back of the room.
The hush came from the front left of the hall, occupied by members of the New Age community and – further back – other comparative newcomers to the town. The other side of the hall, where the Crybbe people sat, was already as quiet as a funeral.
The hush was a response to the arrival of Max Goff. Only the trumpet fanfare, Guy thought, was missing. Goff was accompanied. An entourage.
First came Hilary Ivory, wife of the tarotist, carrying her snowy hair wound up on top, like a blazing white torch. Her bony, nervy husband, Adam, was way back, behind Goff, even behind Graham Jarrett in his pale-green safari suit. There were some other people Guy recognized from last Friday's luncheon party, including the noted feminist astrologer with the ring through her nose and a willowy redhead specializing in dance therapy. There were also some accountant-looking men in John Major-style summerweight grey suits.
Max Goff, in the familiar white double-breasted and a velvet bow-tie, looked to Guy like a superior and faintly nasty teddy bear, the kind that wealthy American ladies kept on their bed; with a pistol inside.
Would you turn your town over to this man?
Guy watched Goff and his people filling the front two rows on the left, the chamber divided by its central aisle into two distinct factions. Old Crybbe and New Age, tweeds against talismans.
He felt almost sorry for Goff; this was going to be an historic fiasco. But he felt more sorry for himself because they weren't being allowed to film it.
Alex drained his cup in a hurry and bumped it back on its saucer, hand trembling slightly.
Exorcism. Oh God.
'Well, obviously, I was supposed to know about things like that. Been a practising clergyman for damn near three-quarters of my life. But… sometimes she was… in my bedroom. I'd wake up, she'd be sitting by the bed wearing this perfectly ghastly smile. Couple of seconds, that was all, then she'd be gone. Happened once, twice a week, I don't know. Fay came down to stay one weekend. I was in turmoil. Looked awful, felt awful. What did she want with me? Hadn't I done enough?'
Jean put on her knowing look.
'Yes,' Alex said, 'guilt again, you see. A most destructive emotion. Was she a product of my obsessive guilt – a lifetime of guilt, perhaps?'
Jean nodded.
'Poor old Fay. I think she thought I'd finally slipped into alcoholism. Anyway, she sent me to the doctor's, he sent me for tests and they discovered the artery problem. Everything explained. Poor old buffer's going off his nut. Can't be left alone. And that was how Fay and I got saddled with each other.'
'And do you feel you need her now?'
'Well, I… No, I'm not sure I do. Wendy, this… this Dr Chi business… Look, I don't mean to be offensive…'
'Of course not,' said Jean solemnly.
'But this renewed, er, sprightliness of mind… It's just that I don't honestly feel I'm the most worthy candidate for a miracle cure.'
Jean stood up, went over to the window and drew the curtains on the premature dusk, bent over to put on the lamp with the parchment shade, showing him her neat little gym- mistressy bum. Came back and sat down next to him on the settee, close enough for him to discover she was wearing perfume.
'There are no miracles, Alex, surely you know that by now.'
She didn't move an inch, but he felt her coming closer to him and smelled the intimacy of her perfume. He felt old stirrings he'd expected never to feel again. And yet it was somehow joyless.
'Dr Chi and I have done almost all we can for you, Alex. You've been here more than a day. Intensive treatment.'
'It seems longer.'
Jean nodded. 'You feel well now?'
Alex cleared his throat. 'Never better,' he said carefully.
'So why don't you go home?'
'Ah,' said Alex.
Jean looked steadily at him in the lamplight, unsmiling.
He said, 'What time is it?'
'Approaching eight. She'll be there soon, Alex.'
'Will she?'
'Only one way to find out,' Jean said gently, 'isn't there?'
'Oh now, Wendy, look…'
'Perhaps…' She stood up and went to lean against the mantelpiece, watching him. 'Perhaps it worries you that once you leave this house, your mind will begin to deteriorate again. And when you face her once more, the guilt will return.'
He squirmed a little.
'You might not be responsible for actually bringing her spirit back.' Her eyes narrowed, 'I think we can blame Crybbe for that. But you do seem to have made her rather more powerful in death than she was in life. You've projected upon her not only the portion of guilt to which she may or may not have been due, but all the guilt due to your wife and, no doubt, many other ladies and husbands and whatnot… and, bearing in mind your rather poor choice of profession, perhaps your God himself. Is that not so, Alex?'
'I…'
'You've been feeding her energy, Alex. The way I've been feeding you. A kind of psychic saline drip. So I'm afraid it's your responsibility to deal with her.'
Alex began to feel small and old and hollow.
'When you leave here…' Jean said regretfully. 'This house, I mean. When you do leave, there's a chance you'll lapse quite soon into the old confusion, and you'll have that to contend with, too. I'm sorry.'
Alex stared at her, feeling himself withering.
'No Dr Chi?'
Jean smiled sadly, 'I never did like scientific terms.'
'I'm on my own, then.'
'I'm afraid you let her get out of hand. Now she's become quite dangerous. She won't harm you – you're her source of energy, you feed her your guilt and she lights up. But…' Jean hesitated. 'She doesn't like Fay one bit, does she?'
'Stop it,' Alex said sharply.
'You've known that for quite a while, haven't you? You would even plead with Grace not to hurt her. It didn't work, Alex. She appeared last night to your daughter in a rather grisly fashion, and Fay fell and cut her head and almost put out an eye.'
Alex jerked as though electrocuted, opened his mouth, trying to shape a question with a quivering jaw.
'She's all right. No serious damage.' Jean came back and sat next to him again and put a hand on his shoulder. 'Don't worry, Alex, it's OK. You don't have to do anything. I won't
send you away.'
Alex began quietly to cry, shoulders shaking.
'Come on,' said Jean, taking her hand away. 'Let's go to bed. That's what you want, isn't it? Come along, Alex.'
Jean Wendle's expressionless face swam in his tears. She was offering him sex, the old refuge, when all he wanted was the cool hands.
But the cool hands were casually clasped in her lap and he knew he was never going to feel them again.
He came slowly to his feet. He backed away from her. She didn't move. He tried to hold her eyes; she looked down into her lap, where the cool hands lay.
Alex couldn't speak. Slowly he backed out of the lamplight and, with very little hope, into the darkness.
CHAPTER III
The Crybbe dusk settled around them like sediment on the bottom of an old medicine bottle.
'Thank you, Denzil,' Powys said to the closed door of the Cock. 'That was just what we needed. Of course it's not crap. Can't you feel it?'
He started to grin ruefully, thinking of New Age ladies in ankle-length, hand-dyed, cheesecloth dresses. Can't you feel that energy?
Not energy. Not life energy, anyway.
'Fay, where can we go? Quickly?'
He was aware of a picture forming in his head. Glowing oil colours on top of the drab turpentine strokes of rough sketching and underpainting. Everything starting to fit together. Coming together by design – someone else's design.
'Studio,' Fay said, opening her bag, searching for the keys.
'Rig
ht.'
He didn't need the gavel. Didn't need even to call for silence, in fact, he rather wished he could call for noise – few murmurs, coughs, bit of shifting about in seats.
Nothing. Not a shuffle, not even a passing 'Ow're you' between neighbours. Put him in mind of a remembrance service for the dead, the only difference being that when you cast an eye over this lot you could believe the dead themselves had been brought out for the occasion.
Been like this since Goff and his people had come in and the cameraman had left: bloody quiet. Sergeant Wynford Wiley, in uniform, on guard by the door as if he was expecting trouble.
No such luck, Col Croston thought. Not the Crybbe way. No wonder the cunning old devil had stuck this one on him.
Thanks a lot, Mr Mayor.
Gavin Ashpole's Uher tape recorder and its microphone lay at the front of the room, half under the chairman's table and a good sixty feet from where Gavin himself sat at the rear of the hall. The stupid, paranoid yokels had refused to accept that if he kept the machine at his feet he would not surreptitiously switch it on and record their meeting.
He saw a man from the Hereford Times and that snooty bastard Guy Morrison. Nobody else he recognized, and Gavin knew all the national paper reporters who covered this area.
There was no sign of Fay Morrison.
Bitch.
The Newsomes sat side by side, but there might have been a brick wall between them, with broken glass along the top.
Hereward had planned to come alone to the meeting, but Jocasta had got into the car with him without a word. The inference was that she did not want to remain alone in the house after this alleged experience (about which Hereward was more than slightly dubious). But he suspected the real reason she'd come was that she hoped to see her lover.
With this in mind, Hereward had subjected each man entering the hall to unobtrusive scrutiny and was also watching for reactions from his wife. The appalling thought occurred to him that he might be the only person in the hall who did not know the identity of the Other Man.
He could be a laughing stock. Or she a liar.