by Phil Rickman
‘Ah.’ Lloyd put his hands on his hips. ‘I know who you are. You’re that bloke Alison Kinnersley left for James.’
Lol nodded. The pint-sized cuckold.
Lloyd’s expression was blank.
Pint-sized cuckold. With no bottle. Just phrases he’d overheard in the shop when they were laughing quietly, Lloyd and another bloke.
Lloyd examined him for a moment then seemed to lose interest. ‘Go away, little man,’ he said. ‘I’m busy.’
He turned his back on Lol, taking some keys out of his pocket.
‘No,’ Lol said. ‘I won’t, if you don’t mind.’
‘What was that?’ Lloyd didn’t turn round. Lol saw that his dashing white truck was parked a few yards away with its tailgate open. In the back was a dead sheep and something not much bigger wrapped in bin sacks.
‘Got it all loaded then, Lloyd?’
Lloyd still didn’t turn.
‘Give you a hand, maybe?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lloyd said. ‘Don’t reckon you’d have the strength. Bugger off. Go’n look at your owls, your badgers, whatever you little fellers do at night.’
The pink moon shone surrealistically down on a pastoral dreamscape. Lol wasn’t quite sure if he was actually here. He glimpsed the past few days in a series of frozen incidents fanned out like playing cards – the vicarage days, his own mirror image bizarrely in a dog collar, Alison unmasked, the glow of firelight on Merrily’s eyelids – and then the fan was closed and he was standing back where it all began, in Blackberry Lane, in front of the invaded cottage, the torn-up pages of Traherne like petals on the lawn, Karl Windling in the window.
‘I thought as I was passing,’ Lol heard himself saying, as though from some distance, ‘that I would take Jane home.’
Lloyd turned slowly back from the door.
‘Come yere a minute.’
Lol heard Karl Windling say, Now you fucking stay there. You understand? You go anywhere, I’ll find you. You don’t move the rest of the night. I’m coming over.
He walked up to the door and stood there.
‘Right, then,’ Lloyd said.
The pink moon bulged as Lloyd half turned and hit him in the mouth. As he fell back, Lloyd hit him in the stomach. As he doubled up and his face came down, Lloyd’s fist was waiting to meet it, crunching his glasses into his eyes.
As he rolled over on the gravel, Lloyd kicked him in the head.
‘Tell me the truth,’ the vicar said as they came up to the junction of Old Barn Lane and the new road. Terrible stupid junction, this was, Gomer reckoned, right on a bad bend. ‘You don’t actually think Lol’s going to find her lying drunk in the orchard. Do you?’
‘Oh, Vicar ...’ Gomer slowed down, not wanting to come up to the junction right behind Rod, pretending that concentrating on his driving was the reason he hadn’t finished the sentence.
‘You think she’s in the cider house, don’t you?’
‘En’t my place to think nonsense like that,’ Gomer said gruffly.
‘What happens in the cider house?’
‘They makes cider. Used to.’
They passed into a tunnel of trees, blocking the moonlight.
‘I dreamt about it once.’ Her voice was very low. ‘I’ve never been in one, but I dreamt about it. It was Dermot Child in there.’
Gomer thought that Dermot Child, nasty little bugger though he was, wasn’t in the same evil league as the Powells, so inbred, deep-down evil they didn’t even know they was evil. He turned out on to the new road and had to brake sharply on account of Rod Powell’s Escort was dead in front of him, having slowed for a big lorry rumbling round the bend.
‘Strewth, you don’t expect heavy goods traffic this time o’ night.’
It was a low loader with a big stack of crates on the back. The driver cranked the gears and the lorry built up to a steady speed as they approached the spot where poor ole Lucy bought it, just before you hit the straight, Powells’ farm turning about half a mile off.
Too late. Before Rod, too, changed gear and speeded up, Gomer saw him look in his mirror to see who’d come up behind him. Not many folk in this village drove a US Army Jeep with a cigarette glowing in their gobs.
‘Bugger.’
He’d have seen the vicar, too. He’d know they were following him. He wouldn’t like that.
Gomer eased up, left some space between him and Rod. His view of it was that Rod was heading home fast to check everything was in order, mabbe throw some disinfectant around then figure out how he was going to play it. He wouldn’t want no company tonight.
But whatever he did to clean up the cider house, there wasn’t a thing he could do about the orchard. About this Patricia Young, who Gomer was convinced lay under the Apple Tree Man. He weren’t that old. Thirty years was a good age for an untended apple tree.
Bugger. Rod giving it some clog now, getting up behind the lorry so he could get past when they hit the straight. Gomer put his foot down.
What happened next happened so quick that he’d hardly registered it before the Jeep was up the bank and not-so-clean through the hedge.
‘Where are you? Where are you? Where you gone?’ Moving about in the bilious fluorescence, throwing hay around, old bin sacks. ‘Don’t mess me about, you bitch, you little scrubber. You come out now and mabbe I won’t give you to Father for his pleasure, mabbe I’ll just finish it quick, quick as a chicken, see, humane ... You want humane, you come out now. Father, he en’t humane, n’more. You come out now, you hear. I know you can’t’ve got out, had my eye on you the whole time I’m removin’ your friend, efficient, we are, you don’t get round the back of us ... Don’t mess me about, Jane, you listen to me, I en’t got time ... When I find you I’m gonner hurt you, gonner hurt you very bad, you hear me, Jane, you hear me, you little slut? You can’t’ve gone, you can’t’ve gone, you cannot’ve gone, Jane. Jane. Jane. JANE!’
He comes out, boiling with bewilderment.
‘Where is she?’
Advancing on Lol, tottering away from the truck, half blind, body burning.
‘Think I’m daft enough to leave the keys in, is it? Think you can drive off? Think I’m daft?’
Big, tough hands, farmer’s hands, bass player’s hands, picking him up and slamming him back against some wall.
And he can feel the freshly washed hair of a girl called Tracy Cooke in his eyes and mouth in a dingy hotel bedroom and he can see Karl Windling’s yellow grin as he pushes Tracy over onto Lol’s arm and goes down on her.
I’m gonner hurt you, gonner hurt you real bad, you hear me, Jane ...
Jane?
‘Where is she?’ Lloyd’s screaming, his hard face up close. ‘What you done with her? I’m gonner tear your other eye out, mister!’
Lol’s hand comes up with the bottle in it. The empty bottle he found rolling around in the back of the truck. The bottle coming up and striking Lloyd on the point of the chin with a small click.
Lloyd stumbling and spitting a little blood.
‘Right then.’ Rubbing his jaw once. ‘You done it now, boy.’
Lol swaying, hearing the words of Thomas Traherne.
...to love all persons in all ages, all angels, all worlds, is divine and heavenly ...To love all ...
Lloyd comes for Lol.
Karl Windling says, And you ... you’re just ... I mean, who’d notice? Who’d give a shit? Who’d put flowers on your grave.
Lol, with both hands smashing the bottle into the side of Lloyd’s head, whispers, ‘Jane?’
There is no reply. Lloyd is on his knees. The bottle falling to the gravel and rolling over, its label lit by the moon.
The Wine of Angels.
Tears are the wine of angels. Traherne sighs. The best to quench the devil’s fires.
You’d’ve thought it would be all over the road, but it was very neat. From the bank, Gomer was looking down on it, the moon so warm and bright you could see everything. Very neat indeed, the car looking like it ha
d taken a bite out of the bed of the lorry, like the car roof was its upper lip, clamped down.
‘No, you don’t,’ Gomer said, putting out an arm to bar the vicar’s path. ‘Call me sexist, Vicar, but this is gonner be no sight for you. You stay in this yere field. I’ll go down and check this out first, see.’
He slithered down to the mangled wire fence, stepped over it and through the gap the Jeep had torn out of the hedge. Lit himself a ciggy then went to look under the deck of the lorry, where the bonnet of the Escort was barely visible. The end of the deck had gone through the wind-screen like a wide-bladed stone chisel.
Gomer bent his head, sniffed, then straightened up and wiped his hands on his trousers.
The lorry driver was down from his cab. He’d thrown up in the road. He wore a baseball cap and a big earring.
‘Well, well,’ Gomer said. ‘Jeremy Selby.’
‘Gomer?’
‘Bit late for a consignment o’ cider.’
‘Going down Southampton way. Bit of a rock festival’
‘Ar,’ Gomer said. ‘Best place for it. All be too stoned to taste the ole muck.’
‘It was so bloody quick, Gomer. Couldn’t believe it. He was right on my arse, then it just come running out the hedge, I didn’t know what it was at first, just slammed on, you know, instinctively, it was a really big one, all white.’
‘Hang on, get a hold, boy.’ Gomer extracted the ciggy. ‘What did? What exactly come runnin’ out the hedge?’
‘Bloody great sheep. White as a bloody polar bear.’
‘Ar.’ Gomer walked round to the front of the lorry. No sign of a sheep. Naturally. Gomer nodded, ambled back. ‘Where’d it go, then, Jeremy?’
‘Fuck knows. It was here one second, gone the next. I swear to God, Gomer, it—’
‘All right, boy.’ Gomer patted him on the shoulder. ‘If the coppers asks, I’ll say I seen it too. You rung ’em?’
‘On my mobile.’
They both stepped into the road. It was dead quiet.
‘Poor bugger,’ Jeremy said. ‘I suppose there really is no ...’
‘What, with half of him in the front, half in the back and his head—’
‘All right! Christ, I’m still shaking. Don’t suppose you recognize the car?’
‘Oh aye. Rod Powell, that is. Was.’
‘You what?’ Jeremy Selby snatched off his baseball cap in horror. ‘I just killed Councillor Powell?’
‘Ar.’ Gomer’s beam was a bright gash in the night as he stuck out his hand. ‘Put it there, pal.’
It was a cawing sound, like a nightbird, sporadic but coming closer.
‘... ane ...? ane ...’
Merrily stood in the pink ploughed field exactly where Gomer had left her, not looking where he’d told her not to look. It was as though all her muscles had seized up. She felt raw and frozen and unable to think clearly. She saw a large hole in her cashmere sweater, just below the elbow. She could throw it away now.
Something was standing about fifteen yards up the field. It cawed again.
‘J ... ane?’
Merrily looked up. ‘Lol? Is it Lol?’
‘...’errily? Sorry, I can’t ... glasses gone.’
He stumbled down a furrow. Before he fell into her arms she saw his face was full of blood and his mouth was up on one side. One eye was closed.
They crushed each other and Merrily began to cry. ‘Oh, Lol, what have they done to you?’ She felt his blood on her face. He looked like his cat had. She remembered waking up by the fire, seeing him looking down at her, closing her eyes again, content. She closed her eyes now and the night swirled around her, not pink but deep blue. She couldn’t understand that when everything told her it should be black, streaked with red.
‘Lol, boy!’
Merrily blinked. Gomer stood a few feet away.
‘Take it easy,’ Gomer said. ‘Everybody take it easy.’
The night became real and hard-edged. Memories battered Merrily. A flame of fear enveloped her. She stared into Gomer’s terrifying face, with the white spikes of hair and the core of fire in his teeth.
‘Bloody useless, you are, Lol, boy,’ Gomer said. ‘Wouldn’t find an elephant in your own backyard. ‘Er just comes walkin’ out the orchard, cool as you like, through the ole gate.’
Merrily swam upwards through the blue.
‘Flower?’
Next to tough, wiry old Gomer, she was looking very small and young and fragile. Her face was as white as bread. Her eyes were on the move, still travelling back.
‘Oh, Christ,’ Lol said.
Breaking away from Merrily to let Jane in, he looked up.
Through a single, watering, blood-blurred, short-sighted eye, he saw a curious cloud formation above the moon, a dark cloud hanging there making a curving V-shape. So that the moon, for a long, undying moment, was like a big, red apple.
He heard Jane saying,
‘Mum ... where have you been since yesterday?’
H.L. McCready and Partners,
Solicitors,
Apex House,
King Street,
Hereford
3 June
The Revd M. Watkins,
The Vicarage,
Ledwardine,
Herefordshire
Dear Mrs Watkins,
I shall be writing to you more formally about this matter in due course but felt I should give you informal advance warning of something which, until now, has been subject to a degree of secrecy. I am sure that, were she alive, the police would be more than interested to talk to Miss Devenish in the light of recent events! In the circumstances, one can only mutter about there being more things in heaven and earth ...
First, may I say how pleased I have been to learn that you and your daughter are fully recovered from what must have been a most disturbing night. I doubt if Ledwardine has weathered a more eventful period in its lengthy history.
But to business. Many people, no doubt, will be wondering who is to receive the bulk of Miss Devenish’s legacy, which will amount principally to the proceeds of the sale of her house and shop, both highly desirable properties in a much sought-after village. In January this year, Miss Devenish placed before me a proposal which I confess I greeted with some dismay. It was her intention that all the money should be left in trust to the Diocese of Hereford for the purchase of the orchard immediately adjacent to the Parish Church whenever it might come on the market, the land to remain as an orchard in perpetuity.
As the aforementioned orchard had, for several centuries, been in the ownership of the Powell family and there seemed little prospect of its being relinquished, I was at pains to discourage Miss Devenish from this course of action, but, as you know, she was a most determined person and was insistent that her wishes be adhered to.
Following the death, in the early hours of Monday morning, of Mr Garrod Powell, the property passed into the ownership of his son, Mr Lloyd Powell. However, with the death in hospital yesterday of Mr Lloyd Powell (which I am informed is unlikely, under the circumstances, to give rise to any criminal proceedings against his assailant) it seems not improbable that the orchard will indeed shortly become available for purchase.
Attempts are being made to contact Mrs Jennifer Powell, from whom, it may surprise you to learn, Mr Garrod Powell has never been legally separated and to whom it appears the Powell Orchard may now belong. In view of her long estrangement from Mr Powell, it seems likely that Mrs Powell will wish to dispense with the property, especially in view of the gruesome discoveries there over the past few days.
Be assured that I shall keep you fully informed of any future developments; meanwhile, please accept my very best wishes for your Installation Service next Friday.
Yours sincerely,
Harold L. McCready
CLOSING CREDITS
THE RESEARCH FOR this novel meant bothering various vicars and historians, principally The Revs. Richard Birt (the great Traherne expert), Philip Clarke (Priest-in-Charge) a
nd John Guy, Bob Jenkins and Ron Shoesmith. None of whom should be blamed for any errors, distortions or complete lies.
Many thanks also to Penny Arnold, Wendy and Paul Gibbons, Lara Latcham, June and Doug Mason, Jeanine McMullen and the late, great Graham Nown.
The book was dissected and probed in depth over two gruelling weeks by my wife Carol, the finest plot doctor in the business.
Ella Leather’s classic The Folklore of Herefordshire is now available from Lapridge Publications, the full story of the amazing Hannah Snell is told in The Folklore of Hereford and Worcester by Roy Palmer, from Logaston Press, who also publish, with its author Elizabeth Taylor, King’s Caple in Archenfield, the outstanding, elegantly written and massively detailed history of a Herefordshire village which provided many little details about churches and cider. The tragic facts about Nick Drake (whose albums are seriously recommended) are revealed in Patrick Humphries’ biography, Nick Drake, published by Bloomsbury, Trevor Dann’s Darker than the Deepest Sea, and Penguin Classics do the Selected Poems and Prose of Thomas Traherne of whom I was reminded, just in time, by Sue Gee’s moving and atmospheric novel The Hours of the Night.
PHIL RICKMAN was born in Lancashire and lives on the Welsh border. He is the author of the Merrily Watkins series, and The Bones of Avalon. He has won awards for his TV and radio journalism and writes and presents the book programme Phil the Shelf for BBC Radio Wales.
ALSO BY PHIL RICKMAN
THE MERRILY WATKINS SERIES
Midwinter of the Spirit
A Crown of Lights
The Cure of Souls
The Lamp of the Wicked
The Prayer of the Night Shepherd
The Smile of A Ghost
The Remains of An Altar
The Fabric of Sin
To Dream of the Dead
Coming soon ...
The Secrets of Pain
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