by Phil Rickman
‘This is nice.’ Merrily looked around. ‘You live here on your own?’
‘With my son. He’s nine. This is my parents’ holiday cottage, had it years and years. They said we could come down here, me and Robin, after my husband left us. Last year, that was, and I’m still feeling a bit, you know, impermanent. You coming in?’
The cottage was tiny, no more than three or four small rooms, Merrily guessed. The living room was furnished like a caravan – bed-settee with drawers underneath, a table that went flat to the wall, a Calor-gas stove in the fireplace. Hannah guided her to a compact easy chair with a yellow cushion and put herself on the edge of the bed-settee. The single window was wide open to a honeysuckle scent.
‘Luckily, you caught me on the right day. I’ve a part-time job at the tourist office in Ledbury. Three days a week. Keeps us going. Do you want tea or coffee or a cold drink?’
‘Could we maybe talk first?’
‘Yeh, ’course. I’m afraid I’ve not been to church since Robin was christened. Bad that, isn’t it? I might go if it was a bit smaller. But it’s horrible, our church. I mean, isn’t it? You don’t feel anything particularly holy in there, that’s for sure.’
‘It seems very … pleasant in here, though.’
‘Well, it’s very small. Had to put a lot of furniture in storage. But it … Oh, I see what you mean. No, there’s nothing wrong here. We used to come year after year and for weekends when I was a kid. I love it. It’s gorgeous round here, i’n’t it? No, there’s nothing like that here.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
‘I did feel really free again, biking to work down the hill to Ledbury. Bit hard going coming back, but it keeps you fit.’
‘Lot of long hills. Don’t think I could do it.’
‘Your leg muscles ache like anything at first, but it’s worth it. Listen, I’m sorry, I’ve never been in this sort of … I was going to look for your website on the computer at work, but there was always somebody there. I don’t want you to feel I’m wasting your time, that’s all. I don’t even know if there’s a charge.’
‘Er … no.’
‘Bit nervous now,’ Hannah said.
‘Actually,’ Merrily said, ‘I’ve never had a case of possession. Shameful thing for a so-called exorcist to say, but there we are. So … what’s it like?’
‘What’s it like?’ Hannah grinned. ‘You having me on? I don’t know what to say. I’m not a person that gets scared. I’d love a dog, mind, but I’d have to leave him in when I went to work and that wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Got the same problem, Hannah. Sorry, I don’t even know your last name.’
‘Bradley. That’s my married name. It’s a bit better than what I was called before – Catterall – so I thought at least the bugger can leave me that. Look – this is just between us, right?’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I think about it all the time, but it’s still hard finding the words,’ Hannah said.
‘It was next to me. That close. I’m not kidding.’
Spacing it out with her hands, looking at Merrily for signs of disbelief. Merrily just nodded. Hannah wet her lips with her tongue.
‘Mouth’s gone all dry now. Can I get a … ?’
Hannah brought a can of Diet Pepsi for each of them and sat herself down again, rolling the cold can between her hands.
‘It’s a long hill, and I’m not that brave yet that I can just let go. I’d be sod-all use in the Tour de France, I tell you.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know why I’m laughing, I was—’
‘Which side was it on?’
‘Towards the middle of the road. That side. I keep as close as I can to the verge ’cos some of these drivers are bloody maniacs.’
‘And it was … this was definitely another bike.’
‘What it’s like … it’s like when two of you are going along side by side and you turn your head to say something and … nothing! Soon as you turn your head … gone. First couple of times I was thinking it was me, how you do.’
‘This is the daytime?’
‘Morning … afternoon. I don’t take the bike out at night, I’m not stupid.’
‘What happens when you don’t turn your head?’
‘That’s what I was coming to. If you don’t look, you can see it. If you keep your eyes on the road ahead and you don’t—Sounds daft, I know. In fact, that’s wrong. You can’t see it, that’s not what I meant. You’re just fully aware of it. It absolutely completely exists. Two of you biking along side by side. And you can feel the wind coming at you along the hedge, but on the other side you’re shielded from it by … by this other cyclist. Really. Honest to God.’
‘And how do you feel when that’s happening?’
‘At first … just weird. Uncomfortable. So I’d keep turning and looking, just to get rid of it. And then … Oh God … I was so busy looking to the side I nearly went into the back of a tractor and trailer that’d just pulled in to the side. Another second I’d’ve been splat. Great big metal trailer. Go into that on a bike it’s broken bones at least, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Merrily.’
‘That’s nice. Merr-ily. Have you got to be psychic for your job?’
‘Not essential. Sometimes it can be counter-productive. What happened after the trailer incident?’
‘We’ve come to the bit I don’t like.’
‘I don’t think I’d like any of it.’
‘What happened … I thought about what’d become of Robin if I was in an orthopaedic bed for six months, so I decided that if I ever again got the feeling there was somebody cycling next to me I’d have to stop looking to one side.’
‘Did you … ever think what it might be?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘I didn’t think too hard. You’d go daft, wouldn’t you? What I was really afraid of, to be quite honest, was that it might be a brain tumour or something. When you’ve got a child, these things…’
‘I know.’
‘So it was almost a relief when it…’
‘What was the bit you didn’t like?’
‘Well, like I say, if you keep on and you don’t look, it just becomes more and more real. And close. I didn’t like that. It was a day like this, maybe not quite so hot, but I could smell his sweat. And yet it was cold. Very cold, suddenly.’
‘It was a man, then.’
‘Oh yeh. I could smell his sweat. There’s something about a man’s sweat, i’n’t there? And his tobacco. Tobacco breath. Not like cigarettes – I used to smoke till I had Robin – this was real strong tobacco breath. And after a while – I’m just concentrating on pedalling as fast I can, see, just gripping the handlebars and gritting my teeth, no way was I going to stop – I was feeling his thoughts. Just look at my arms, Merrily, I’ve got goose bumps thinking about it. Feeling his thoughts! Not – don’t get me wrong – not what he was thinking, exactly. It was more the colour of his thoughts. The texture. The feeling of his thoughts. I’m not putting this very well, am I?’
‘You’re putting it brilliantly well, actually. You must’ve been very scared by now.’
‘I was afterwards. When I got to work the first time they thought I must be ill. My colleague at the information centre, she wanted to send me home in a taxi, but I needed to work. Talk to people. Get over it. I did go home by taxi that night, mind. Had to go back next day on the bus to pick up the bike.’
‘Anything happen then?’
‘No. It never does when you’re afraid it might.’
‘When you say you weren’t scared till afterwards…’
‘Because you’re too much like … too much like a part of it to be scared. That’s what I meant by possessed. He was there. He was breathing all over me. I was wearing shorts – this was a week or so ago, this was another time. I was wearing shorts like these, only a bit tighter, and he – I swear to God, I felt his hand on my thigh, and I was angry, instinctively, you know? Gerroff! And he bloody chuckled. He chuckled.’
‘You heard him chuckle?’
‘I felt him chuckle. And that’s worse. You feel him chuckling inside your head. That’s what I meant by being possessed.’
‘How long did it last, usually?’
‘Probably no more than a few seconds, but a lot can happen in a few seconds when it’s something that’s never happened before.’
‘And how many times?’
‘Three. No, four. Until I realized what was happening and just … got off.’
‘When you got off the bike, it was all right?’
‘I realized then that it only happened when I was on the bike. As if I was actually generating it by pedalling.’
‘And there was nothing wrong with you physically. Unlike the others, though, you never actually saw anything.’
‘Never.’
‘When did it last happen?’
‘Earlier this week.’
‘Same man?’
‘Oh, yeh.’
‘What happened?’
‘Bugger-all, ’cos I jumped off quick this time and wheeled the bike along till I got on the main road.’
‘Just to get this right, this is the hill where you come out of this lane, at the church, and then go past the Rectory … down past there.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Could you just tell me … when you were feeling his thoughts, what were they like?’
‘Dark, usually,’ Hannah said. ‘Angry.’
‘Angry with you?’
‘No. He doesn’t know me. I’m sure he doesn’t. He just gets into my space. It’s like he just needs somebody’s space to get into, and it doesn’t matter who you are.’
‘So who was he angry at?’
‘Something bigger than me. Everything. God? I couldn’t say.’
‘And the time something touched your leg…’
‘You’re thinking it might’ve been a leaf or something, aren’t you? That’s what I thought. And I’m not going to insist it wasn’t. I just know what it felt like. Are you married, Merrily? You are allowed to, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, you are. And I used to be.’
‘Join the club. All I’m trying to say … when you’re in bed with a bloke, right? And you wake up and he’s still asleep … but his hand’s sliding up your nightie? Like that. Shall we have a cup of tea? Tea’s better on a hot day, sometimes.’
Merrily smiled. ‘Love one.’
Hannah stood up and opened the sliding door into a kitchen that must once have been part of the same room.
‘Blokes, eh?’ She looked over her shoulder at Merrily. ‘Hand up your nightie and dead to the world.’
9
Mutated
Walking out of Hannah’s gate into the warmth of the afternoon, Merrily felt mixed emotions circling her like bees: primarily, a certain wild excitement that was close to the edge of fear. You realized how much time you spent coasting the safe surf between the hard sandbank of scepticism and the unfathomable deep blue abyss.
She stepped down through the cutting, with the church on her left and the sun in her eyes and the phone chiming in her bag. Aware of the layers of Wychehill. The layers of experience.
‘The Royal Oak,’ Sophie said, as she reached the Volvo. ‘Some things you might want to know.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have some information from the Internet which I can send to you at home, if you aren’t coming back to Hereford. However, I ran into Inspector Bliss and took the liberty of mentioning it. He said he’d be most interested to talk to you.’
‘About the Royal Oak?’
‘Discreetly,’ Sophie said.
It was probably worth going back. Merrily had a christening in Ledwardine tomorrow afternoon; if she dealt with parish business in the morning she could probably come back here on Wednesday and talk to Tim Loste and Preston Devereaux before the public meeting.
Feeling tired now. Up before six a.m. and two trips to Wychehill, and she hadn’t eaten yet.
Still … She smoked half a cigarette, then turned the car around and drove down past Ledbury … Trumpet … Stoke Edith. Midsummer in a couple of days, the first hard little apples like green nuts on the twisty trees and the hops on the wires. A potent landscape of cider and beer.
She felt light-headed. It was humbling and slightly shocking when, amongst all the self-delusion and the wishful thinking and the mind games, you encountered someone as guilelessly direct as Hannah Bradley.
Sophie said, ‘My attempts to log on to the Royal Oak’s actual website were frustrated by the inadequacy of our software. Apparently, the Diocese has failed to provide us with something called Flash Seven.’
‘Anything to save a few quid.’
‘From what I’ve been reading about the Royal Oak elsewhere, I’m quite grateful we don’t have it. There you are. You may understand some of this.’
Merrily went round the desk to peer at the screen over Sophie’s shoulder.
HIP-HOP … RAGGA … GARAGE … HOUSE…
DRUM’N’BASS … BHANGRA…
… IN THE MALVERNS?
Believe it!!! A big old country pub – used to
be all darts matches and Rotary Club –
has mutated…
‘My first experience of nightclub websites, I confess.’ Sophie said.
‘You surprise me.’
‘To save you some time, this establishment is just across the boundary into Worcestershire – and out of the diocese. Another good reason not to get involved.’
Sophie scrolled up to uncover a picture of a bejewelled black man called DJ Xex. Instantly dismissing him with a contemptuous flick of the mouse.
‘It appears that the Royal Oak is now owned by a Mr Khan – apparently quite a well-known entrepreneur in the West Midlands?’
Sophie glanced at Merrily, who shook her head. Never heard of him.
‘Quite a number of local press reports about local people calling on the appropriate authority to have Mr Khan’s licence withdrawn. I’ve printed them out for you.’
‘But you didn’t print the picture of DJ Xex for the noticeboard?’
‘This would be less amusing to you, Merrily,’ Sophie said, ‘if you had to live with it.’
Possibly true. All the innocent fun of inner-city club-land in the romantic Malverns: punters swarming in every weekend from the teenage wastelands, cars screaming through the village at one a.m., windows open, boom, boom, boom. Kids stopping to throw up in front gardens, relieve themselves in the churchyard. Have sex on graves … allegedly. And now a fatal road accident of the kind that people always insisted had been waiting to happen.
‘Sounds as if the victims of Saturday’s crash had spent the evening at the Royal Oak.’ Merrily gathered up the on-line news stories Sophie had printed. ‘Colliding with the chairman of the parish council, returning from a wedding.’
Sophie winced.
The stories were mainly from the Malvern Gazette: petitions to Hereford and Worcester councils, letters to MPs. Counter-allegations of NIMBYism and racism by the leader of a youth project who thought the restyled Royal Oak was the best thing to happen in the Malverns this century.
‘What did Frannie Bliss say?’
‘We didn’t have much time to talk. He asked how you were, and I explained that you were looking into an alleged occurrence at the eastern end of the diocese and then simply asked if he knew anything about the Royal Oak.’
‘Or, as it’s now apparently called…’
‘Don’t.’
Merrily smiled at Sophie.
‘Inn Ya Face? That’s quite good, really.’
‘In Elgar’s hills.’ Sophie’s lower body trembled slightly as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted. ‘One day, Merrily, I think we may be pushed just slightly too far.’
‘I wonder…’ Merrily tapped her lower lip with a pen ‘… if that’s why Syd Spicer’s a little sceptical. I wonder if he thinks that the ghost of a traditional cyclist – an image symbolic of gentler times – i
s someone’s idea for stirring the pot.’
Sophie raised an eyebrow.
‘It happens. Just occasionally. But then Syd doesn’t seem to know about Hannah Bradley.’
‘You found that convincing?’
‘It’s about as convincing as it gets.’
‘The girl thinks she’s been sexually assaulted by … ?’
‘I wouldn’t put it that strongly, and neither does she. Quite a healthy attitude towards it, really. That’s one of the things that makes it so credible.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Collate all the reports. Try and find out if anybody’s ever been killed on that road on a bike. If I can tie it down to an individual, the obvious answer would be a straightforward Requiem Eucharist in the church, with as many of the witnesses as we could get. Plus the Rector, of course.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Sophie picked up a notepad. ‘The Rector.’
‘You checked him out.’
‘Ordained eight years ago.’ Sophie raised her glasses on their chain to read her shorthand notes. ‘Installed as Rector of Wychehill, with two other neighbouring parishes, in autumn 2003. Renowned, apparently, for his strenuous youth-work – previously, he ran a shop in Eign Street specializing in Outward Bound-type pursuits. Mountaineering, geology. And before that, his career, as you say, was with the Army. The file doesn’t mention which regiment, but then, if he served in Hereford, it hardly needs to.’
‘No.’
Merrily was thinking of Spicer’s distinctly unemotional response to the carnage at Wychehill, the minimalism of his kitchen, his total self-reliance. I’m very capable.
‘My experience of the Special Air Service, Merrily, is that they tend to dispense information on a need-to-know basis.’
‘If at all,’ Merrily said.
Remembering a story someone had told her about a Hereford dentist with a serving-SAS patient who’d dropped in for a heavy-duty root-canal filling and – by way of an exercise – had declined the anaesthetic.
Might have been apocryphal, probably not.
10
Firewall