Mean Spirit

by Rickman, Phil

‘You could say that.’

  ‘I don’t think you can, mate,’ Lorna Crane said. ‘You got no powers to arrest anybody.’

  The Forcefield officer quite clearly believed otherwise. He had the frame of a bodybuilder and the considerable acne of a fifth-former. He carried a rubberized torch nearly two feet long.

  ‘This woman has stolen money and jewellery from a number of stalls,’ he said with a certainty the actual police were rarely permitted to exercise.

  ‘Oh.’ Cindy began to feel resentful. ‘Jewellery and money? And do you have the evidence?’

  But he knew he was trapped. The youth had at least one of his colleagues behind him. And behind him, probably a great many members of the Lottery-following public who would enjoy seeing a disgraced Cindy Mars-Lewis ignominiously led away into the gaily coloured night.

  ‘Get lost, sonny,’ Lorna said. ‘I’m paying silly money to occupy this tent and as long as I’m doing that you’re not welcome here. Go on. Push off.’

  ‘Please stay out of this, madam. It’s really not your concern.’

  Lorna erupted. ‘You got a flaming nerve! You clowns marching round like bloody storm-troopers – you’ve got less authority than traffic wardens! This is supposed to be a spiritual event. You know what that means? I doubt it. I tell you, a lot of things here don’t fit and you Gestapo bastards are one of them.’

  ‘I think you’ll find, madam, that this will go down on record as one of the least troublesome festivals of its kind ever staged. And that will be precisely because we don’t tolerate stealing or’, he sniffed, ‘drugs.’

  ‘Oh, do me a favour …’

  ‘We don’t do favours on drugs.’

  ‘No? Depends who’s selling them, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘What’s a lie? Go on, bugger off, you’re all bent.’

  The boy turned his back on Lorna. A leather-gloved hand went out to Cindy. ‘Come on. We don’t want a scene. I’m only obeying orders.’ Steering him towards the tent flap.

  Only obeying orders. God forbid. Cindy was suddenly quite afraid of this humourless boy and his masters, and of where it was going to end.

  ‘Bastards,’ Lorna said. ‘And you’ve got an aura the colour of shit.’

  Grayle felt a small tug on the handcuff as both Bobby and Ron Foxworth moved to the edge of their chairs. Both pairs of cuffs clinked, and Persephone Callard glanced across and saw the situation for the first time, and her whole body went taut.

  Grayle could almost see Bobby thinking that now would be the time for all three of them to rush Gary Seward, hold him in a chained circle … that this would be the last chance they’d get.

  And then, what would happen was that Seward would let off the gun.

  The sawn-off twelve gauge.

  As Grayle understood it, British hoods appeared to hold this weapon in some kind of black affection as part of their criminal heritage. The only time she’d seen one before was last year, with Marcus, when they visited a grisly crime museum in a small town near the Forest of Dean. There were also old police helmets, domestic artefacts from the Kray household and a skeleton in a cupboard. You tried to laugh.

  Close up, this gun, like Seward, was about as funny as cancer, as sentimental as Hitler’s smile. Close up, you could clearly understand the point of sawing off the barrels more than halfway down. If all three of them went for Seward, whatever was down there would come out like some kind of heavy metal custard pie, and if any of them survived it, it would not be a great life thereafter.

  Bobby half-turned and Grayle met his dark eyes and saw that he was arguably more scared than she was, maybe having seen at some stage of his career the carnage a weapon like this could leave. Foxworth stared straight in front of him, but his breathing was faster, and Grayle knew that because of Foxworth, most of all, and the weight of law he represented, there was no way any of them would be walking out of here as long as Seward was in the way with his arms full of death.

  Only Persephone Callard looked calmly into the two barrels.

  ‘The way I see it’, she said candidly to Seward, ‘you could probably also be an actor. Like that idiot upstairs with the whiskers stuck on. I mean, I have, as yet, no reason to think otherwise, yah? You understand what I’m saying?’

  The silence lasted long enough for Grayle to try and count, for the fifth time, the filaments in the feeble light bulb.

  Callard said, ‘You could put that ludicrous thing away, unlock those people, and we could all go upstairs and have a quiet drink and talk over what I can do to help you.’

  ‘That’s your proposal, is it?’

  Seward walked over to the wall, as though he was giving this serious consideration. He stood with his back to a photograph framed in black lacquered wood. It showed two men posing on either side of an antique microscope. Except it was probably a brand new, state-of-the-art microscope when the picture was taken and the men’s watch-chains and yard-brush moustaches were the height of fashion.

  ‘Know who these two are?’

  Callard shook her head.

  ‘That’s Crole, that’s Abblow. That picture was took right here where we’re standing. This was their research lab. This basement, where we are now.’

  ‘I guess that’s why you couldn’t bear to change the bulb,’ Grayle said.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Grayle. Do you feel their presence, Miss Callard?’

  ‘I really don’t believe’, Callard said, ‘that you’re stupid enough to think the atmosphere in here at the moment is conducive to any kind of psychic communication.’

  ‘No?’ Seward walked round the wall until he and his weapon were somewhere behind Grayle and the others, sending a cold tingle of apprehension through her neck. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, sweetheart, I got good reason to think this atmosphere is close to bleedin’ perfect.’

  Outside a small crowd had gathered, ten or fifteen people. Cindy recognized a number of them as stallholders and resident psychics. A murmur rippled through the group as Cindy was brought out.

  A young man stepped forward. He wore a motorcycle jacket. A golden ankh hung from one ear and his shaven head was green and red under the coloured lights. He stood in the path of the second and older Forcefield officer. His accent was deepest Lancashire.

  ‘You know who you’ve got there, man, don’t you?’

  ‘We’ve got a thief.’ One of the security guards gripped Cindy’s arm, bruisingly, above the elbow. ‘Out of the way, please.’

  ‘That is Cindy Mars-Lewis, man.’

  The Forcefield man snatched a look at Cindy; his eyes widening momentarily. ‘It doesn’t matter to me who it is. It’s what she … he … has nicked is what concerns us, so you just—’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Cindy said, ‘I could meet the person who is accusing me of theft. Or you could simply name the stall from which the items are alleged to have been removed.’

  ‘I think what you do is you let go of him, man,’ the young man in the leather jacket said. ‘You’re nowt but a bumped-up bouncer, anyroad.’

  At which the Forcefield men hardened visibly, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, like riot police.

  The older one said, with a formality which was indeed indicative of an earlier career in the police service, ‘Under the authority invested in me by the organizers of this event, I must ask you to step out of the way. And I must warn you that if you don’t—’

  The young man smiled. ‘And by the authority invested in me by the radiance of the unquenchable flame, I’m warning you that if you don’t let go of Mr Mars-Lewis right now, me and my enlightened brethren will take you and your mate over the field there and shove them bloody big torches where the eternal light never shines.’

  A cheer went up. Several other people moved forward. Including, Cindy observed, the mild little man who had carried the placard relating to the death of John Hodge. When the Forcefield officer let go of Cindy’s arm so that he might grip his long torch with both hands, the shaven-headed boy grinn
ed in satisfaction, thrust himself between the security men and Cindy and pushed out a hand.

  ‘Maurice Gooch, Federation of South Pennine Dowsers. Glad to meet you, Cindy, man.’

  Seward’s nasal voice was so close behind Grayle that she imagined she could smell his breath. ‘See, what you got in here is Clarence’s, as you might say, vibe. Clarence’s kind of atmosphere. Put the old love in a dark room wiv a few frightened people and an air of – as you might say – repressed violence, and poor old Clarence, he’d become very excited indeed. Isn’t that true, Ronald?’

  ‘You mean, was he sick?’ Foxworth said. ‘Yes, the man was very sick.’

  Callard pointed at a silver-framed photograph on one of the tables. ‘Is that him?’

  Holding her cool with difficulty now. She’d walked down here, presumably, of her own free will. Convinced that, whatever was going to happen, she would be in control. She was Persephone Callard, she was famous, she was unique; either she got to call the shots or she walked away.

  Here, in this half-lit dungeon, Gary Seward, with his sawn-off gun, was calling the shots. Callard’s outrage, Grayle guessed, had not yet quite been overtaken by fear.

  ‘Clarence was young then, Miss Callard.’ Seward motioned with his gun at the photo. ‘And the ladies was fond of him. Sad, really. He never could understand why, as he got older, they shied away.’

  ‘So not too smart either,’ Grayle said.

  ‘Grayle Underwood, you get the second warning,’ Seward said quietly. ‘Now, Miss Callard, you see that jacket on the hanger? Over the heaters?’

  Grayle saw that the jacket was black or dark grey. That all three buttons were fastened. Oh Jesus.

  ‘He had two suits like that,’ Seward said. ‘He was cremated in the other. That one over there is the actual jacket he was wearing when he died.’

  Callard made no comment. Grayle saw her glance at Bobby.

  ‘We did have it cleaned. That was probably a mistake. Too late now. Now this shotgun. This wasn’t actually Clarence’s – he was more of a hands-on craftsman, know wha’ mean? – but he was the geezer modified it. Sawed off the barrel for me, filed it down nice, so it didn’t rip the lining of your coat.’

  ‘This is the Clarence Museum,’ Bobby said.

  ‘A Clarence shrine, cock. Now, in my understanding, Miss Callard, and from what young Kurt’s figured out from studying the pioneering work of Anthony Abblow, I think I’m right in saying we could not have a better atmosphere into which to invite the spirit of my dear old friend.’

  ‘That’s simplistic,’ Callard said, but there was a faint sheen on her face.

  ‘Nor indeed a better person to facilitate the connection. You’re number one, ain’tcha? The most effective medium in this country, maybe the world?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think I’ve just had the most publicity.’

  ‘Nah. Don’t undersell yourself, sweetheart. See, even Kurt thinks you’d be the one Abblow hisself woulda picked for the job. On account of you got no religion.’

  Grayle remembered the heavy cross Callard had worn around her neck. It was not visible tonight; she wore no jewellery with the plain black dress.

  ‘Plus,’ Gary laughed his awful laugh, ‘Clarence was quite fond of coloured ladies. As I recall. And Ron recalls. Tell the people, Ronny.’

  Foxworth sighed bitterly.

  ‘Gary means he raped one once.’

  They guided Cindy, somewhat bemused, to a spacious tent jointly rented, apparently, by practitioners of t’ai chi and transcendental meditation. There were cushions and rugs and oriental lanterns, and the central space was swiftly filled by people reflecting that mixture of the quaint, the exotic and faintly menacing which had come to characterize such gatherings as this.

  ‘Why the disguise, Cindy?’ Lorna Crane asked him. ‘I don’t get it. You’re a legend. We were all having a laugh earlier on about the directors of Camelot jumping from the fourteenth floor.’

  Cindy was startled. ‘They haven’t?’

  “Course they haven’t. But I think everybody here agrees the National Lottery’s a force for the dissolution of society.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘What?’ Lorna snorted. ‘Millions of people living from ticket to ticket? Gotta be a millionaire by weekend or life’s not worth living? Buying more and more tickets, five times as many on a roll-over week, ’cause that’s big big money? And if they lose on Saturday, they’re spiritually comatose until Wednesday, existing day to day on a drip-feed of Lottery Instants. And if they win, everybody who ever knew them expects a piece and it’s never big enough, and you’ve got this dark fog of hatred and jealousy radiating all around them.’

  A small Indian gentleman in a white suit told Cindy, ‘Sir, you have helped enlighten the populace about this pulsing core of negativity thrusting its black tentacles into every household. You have become the vehicle for a necessary karmic force.’

  ‘Well, I’m not too sure about that,’ Cindy said. ‘Indeed, it was never my intention to become the vehicle for anything more than a mild irreverence, but…’

  ‘Don’t knock it, man,’ Maurice Gooch whispered in his ear. ‘You’re on a roll here.’ And then, raising his voice, ‘Well, it’s good to have Cindy wi’ us.’

  ‘It’s a sign!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Aye,’ said Maurice, ‘but let’s not forget the original purpose of this meeting, which was to elect delegates to express our general dissatisfaction to organizers with the exploitative way the festival’s being run. First up, Forcefield Security. We’ve just had an example of the way them buggers operate – law unto ’emselves, private army – and that’s not acceptable in a civilized society, least of all in what’s supposed to be a centre of enlightenment and human potential. Agreed?’

  ‘Forcefield must go,’ the Indian gentleman said firmly.

  ‘Point two – the fees. We all thought the basic charge for a pitch were a complete rip-off, but we thought it were worth coppering up for on account of it were such a prestigious event.’

  ‘Some of us always had our suspicions,’ Lorna muttered.

  ‘But what we didn’t reckon on were the extras – vegetarian meals at fancy restaurant prices wi’ no discount for stallholders. No water on site except for bottled at rip-off prices. And then the campsite fees – seventy quid a night for a bit of sodden grass, size of a hearthrug.’

  ‘Should be free,’ Lorna said.

  ‘Aye, it should. Question is, what do we do about it? We’ve got a proposal on t’table that we elect a delegation to go up t’castle first thing tomorrow wi’ a petition signed by everybody as objects to the way we’re being treated – with the stand-by threat that, if we get no satisfaction, we all pull out, leavin’ ’em completely shagged for the big weekend. Now that makes sense to me. Do we have an amendment?’

  Cindy coughed lightly.

  Maurice turned to him.

  ‘Far be it from me, Maurice, to intrude upon a private meeting …’

  ‘You’re a paid-up stallholder, man. Let’s have it.’

  ‘… but while energies are at this moment running high, a grey morning and a deserted site could well be less conducive to the firing of passions. Also, I wonder how many of you are aware that at this very moment, being formally entertained in the banqueting suite, is a small and elite gathering of dignitaries representing local government, national government, tourism, economic development …’

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Maurice. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘And while a petition may be taken away for consideration, thus delaying the consultative process by a day or more, it would be less easy for the organizers to brush it under the carpet were it to be presented in full view of the great and the good …’

  ‘Embarrassing the piss out of the buggers at t’same time! He’s right. Bugger the petition. We should ger up there now.’

  ‘What about the security guards?’ someone asked nervously.

  ‘They may well find themselves outnumbered o
n this occasion, don’t you think?’ the placid placard man pointed out.

  ‘Shit hot, man,’ said Maurice.

  * * *

  ‘It was how we last put him away,’ Foxworth said. ‘She was called Priscilla Hall. West Indian. Barmaid at Judge’s local, the Dragoon. She was in hospital for three weeks with internal injuries.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Grayle breathed.

  ‘But she deserved it, Ron,’ Seward said. ‘You forget that. What she would do, she’d lead customers on. Then, on the way back to her place, her brothers would step out the shadows and roll the poor sods, for wallets and watches.’

  ‘The same night’, Foxworth intoned, like he was giving evidence in court, ‘one Clayton Hall, aged nineteen, brother of the rape victim, was hospitalized with serious abdominal stab wounds.’

  ‘A very silly boy,’ Seward said.

  ‘He died three days later, from complications. We never managed to hang that one on Judge, as a murder.’

  Seward snorted. ‘That was not murder, Ron. That was waste disposal. Those youths was becoming an irritant.’

  Persephone Callard had started to back away towards the door. She had her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that Grayle thought she heard a knuckle crack.

  ‘Come back, Seffi,’ Seward said lightly. ‘You got away last time, just when we was so very close. That is not gonna happen again.’

  ‘Close?’ Callard screamed. ‘Close to what?’

  ‘Close, darlin’, to the manifestation. Come back. You know what I want. I want Clarence Judge here. I wanna see my dear old friend. In all his glory.’

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘Am I? That’s your opinion, is it?’

  ‘Think about it, Gary,’ Bobby said. ‘It doesn’t really make any sense.’

  But Grayle knew that it kind of did.

  And there were photos of the mother all around the walls, and her favourite things scattered about … clothes, handbags. And all the family – the husband, the twins, another sister – all of them there. And the room was dense with her before we started …

  Callard at Mysleton, talking about the most effective manifestation she ever scored.

  Bobby said, ‘You want Clarence to tell you who killed him? Because if that’s—’