Beneath the Tor

by Nina Milton

  I closed my eyes in despair. How could I have forgotten that Freaky rarely resisted the impulse to gossip? “Brice wants it all kept quiet.”

  “Lips sealed with superglue. It’s just … what happened to this Gerald chappy rang a bell. One of my residents was mugged round that time. Felt a bit similar.”

  “A resident? Of your hostel?”

  “Yes. Anthony Bale. He was on the Tor, solstice night. I’d invited him; thought he’d enjoy it. On the way back to the hostel, he was attacked.”

  I could feel my eyes widen. “What happened?”

  “Well, nothing much, to be honest. He was extremely lucky. Someone threw a brick or something at the back of his head. He felt this hard whack—he lurched forward. If he’d fallen onto pavement, he might have hurt himself, but he fell onto the grass verge by the side of the road.”

  “This didn’t happen in Glastonbury.”

  “No, but he was there. Anthony had got extremely upset when Alys collapsed. Almost hysterical. Some of the residents have very bad histories; nasty memories. He caught the first bus back to Yeovil.” Yew often talked about his residents, all of whom would be homeless if they didn’t have the hostel, and Yew had a passion for his work there. His lavish covering of tattoos and piercings, and the plait that reached down his back, gave him the strong street cred such a job needed.

  “Hysterical? Sort of … laughing?”

  “Yeah, if you like.”

  I remembered him, now. A guy with his hand over his mouth; that embarrassed reaction to death that you sometimes see.

  “Did Anthony see his attacker?”

  “Not by the time he’d scrabbled up and regained his wits. He didn’t want to report it.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “He has a homeless mentality, Sabbie. When you’ve been through that sort of existence, you’re expecting attacks each and every day, and you take it as your due.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “Yeah, but to be fair, Anthony hardly had more than a nasty bruise and his attacker had disappeared. I guess all the cops did was complete the paperwork.”

  “Yew, can you remember what Anthony was wearing?”

  “Why?”

  “Can you?”

  “I honestly doubt even he’ll be able to, to be fair. You can ask him, if you want.” Yew raised his hands to make quotation marks. “Who do you think ‘Morgan le Fay’ is?”

  A tray of drinks had appeared and I slipped into my seat without replying. I didn’t want to get Yew any more involved. Besides, I had no answer to his question.

  There were nine around the table—me, Wolfs, Shell, Ricky, Juke, Yew, Freaky, Esme, and Brice—and every eye was focused on Brice.

  “I guess I should start. Do what I came here for. I feel you deserved to know what happened this morning.”

  Brice gripped his glass too tight. The surface of the beer trembled. His tension was infectious; Wolfs’s future as a well-respected shaman depended on the pathology results. The silence lengthened, as if Brice couldn’t find the words.

  “I’ve been to Wells. Shell and I. Coroner’s court. They’ve—”

  He broke off. No one moved. He glanced at Shell.

  “They’re releasing Alys’s body. That’s it, Brice, yeah?”

  “We can have the funeral. I’ll be sending invitations to all of you. I’d love to miss a certain person out, but I don’t see how I can. Anyone can come to a funeral anyway, I think.”

  “That’s really strong of you,” said Freaky.

  “I’ve asked Shell to provide a eulogy. She’s known Alys a long time. Longer than me.”

  I caught Shell’s eye and she gave me a saddened smile. I was remembering what she’d said about Alys’s early teen years; about getting pregnant by a teacher, and the botched abortion.

  “I’ve already been in touch with a funeral director. I wanted things ready to roll. He said anyone can lead the celebrations. So I thought of asking Wolfsbane and Sabbie to be joint celebrants; to officiate the order of service. We hardly know the ministers round our way, and Alys would have loved you two to do it.”

  “Brice,” I began, “that’s such a huge honour …”

  “It’ll be at the Aldersbrook Crematorium, Friday midday. You’re thinking London’s a long way away. I’ll help with travel costs—buy you all train tickets, accommodation. I’m happy for your partners to come. So you can enjoy London a bit, as well. You could stay all weekend, if you like. Apparently the ashes will be ready to scatter on Monday. I’ll find a hotel, book you all in. No problem.”

  He’d thought this through and sorted it already—thrown money at it straight away.

  “It would be a privilege to lead the ritual,” said Wolfsbane. “Thank you, Brice.”

  “Alys would be so delighted,” said Shell. She had her hands wrapped over Wolfsbane’s, but under the table I’d noticed she was playing footsie with Ricky.

  “That’s a lot of expense, my friend,” said Freaky.

  Brice turned his beer mat round as if it would open a secret code. “You know, I didn’t understand Alys’s interest with this shaman lark. Obsession, I’d’ve called it. I thought the lot of it was rubbish; animals and journeys and, above all, goddesses. And I did presume that everyone else in the business was flaky. Actually, I thought you’d all be completely whacko. I’ve got to know some of you better … you’re good people. Certainly no more nuts than most of my colleagues.”

  There was a pause as people digested his words.

  “That’s kind, my friend.” Freaky showed his brown teeth. “I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to a banker.”

  “They’ve finished the forensic tests,” Shell said, half prompting Brice. “That’s why they could release Alys.”

  “I had hoped knowing would help,” said Brice.

  “Did it help?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  “It’s not good. About as bad as it could be.”

  “Wha …” Apprehension caught at Wolfsbane’s throat. “What d’you mean, Brice?”

  “Alys had taken something.”

  “Ecstasy?” whispered Yew.

  “No. No.”

  “PMA?” I blurted out. All eyes turned me. “Pink Lady?”

  “No … nothing like that at all. She was jacked.”

  There was a long silence. Apart from us, the pub was almost empty; our conversation had filled it. Two old men sat at opposite sides of the bar on high stools. When my gaze strayed their way, they quickly began to study the pints of dark liquid before them.

  “Jacked,” said Wolfs, eventually.

  Brice gave a Gallic shrug. “It’s a fitness supplement. Keeps you going—through a marathon, for example. You pick them up in the gym. Although I had no idea that Alys used them.”

  “She did tell me,” said Shell. She coughed and turned to Brice. “For her marathons. She said it gave her energy. Like a bonus of glucose sweets.”

  “DMAA. Don’t ask me to give you the full medical name, but they called it Jack3d for short. Jacked, with a three for the E. They’ve found it in her blood.”

  “An overdose or something,” I said. “Enough to kill you?”

  “It shouldn’t kill you, Sabbie,” said Shell. “It’s supposed to be a harmless supplement … that’s what she told me, anyhow.”

  “She should have discussed it with me,” said Brice.

  “Yeah.” Shell’s voice cracked. “So should I.”

  Wolfsbane visibly relaxed, leaning back in his chair. Brice would not be hauling Spirit Flyers over the coals. It was no relief to me. Alys had brought something to the Tor and died because of it.

  “I think they’re working along the lines that it weakened her heart.” Brice shook his head. “Straight up, I guess we’ll have to wait for the full inquest.”

  “Brice,” s
aid Esme. “I do wish to offer my full condolences. Stef and I are so very sorry about what happened.”

  “It was nothing to do with you,” said Brice, which was exactly what Esme wanted. “It was nothing to do with any of you. You’re all nice people and I know Alys would love you to come to her funeral.”

  Esme threw her cape tightly around her shoulders, rose from her chair. She embraced Brice, offering stalwart advice into his ear in a stage whisper we could all hear. She air-kissed everyone else and made her getaway.

  Brice picked up his laptop bag. “If you don’t mind, I’ll head off. I’ll be in touch about the arrangements.”

  “We’ll keep everyone informed,” said Wolfsbane. “And, yeah, I’ll ring you soon about the funeral, shall I?”

  We sat for about a minute, almost mute. Then Yew and Juke made their farewells, saying they had to get back to work.

  Ricky disappeared towards the toilets, so distracted he hardly said goodbye.

  Wolfsbane got to his feet, manhandling his chair out of his way. “Let’s split,” he said to Shell.

  She looked around her, as if unsure how to respond. “I’m not coming back tonight, Wolfs. I might stay in Glastonbury for a bit.”

  He didn’t argue. Wolfsbane hated not being in the know and it was clear something was up. He walked off quickly, as if to catch the others. Shell sat tight, watching his ignoble retreat. She gave me and Freaky a wonky smile, then slid off, in the same direction as Ricky.

  “You in a hurry to get home?” Freaky lifted an eyebrow.

  “Well, no—”

  “Fancy one of their veggie pies? I’m not trying to butter you up or anything, but Shell’s mechanic friend has been working on my caravan. It’s good to go, my dear Sabbie, and I need to a lift to the cop shop.”

  I knew getting Freaky’s van released would to take up the rest of the day, and I was right. We waited some time to sign the papers, but then it became clear that the van would have to stay put. I had never towed a caravan and didn’t fancy starting now. “Unless you park it somewhere secure, the cops will take it straight back to the pound,” I told him.

  “Can’t think of any place except Stonedown,” he muttered. “I’ve lived there for so long.”

  “Have you tried apologizing to Stef?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing to apologize about.”

  “I understand that, but a ‘sorry’ can make all the difference.”

  He sighed. “I could try, I suppose.”

  I bit the bullet and drove him there. The Tor rose above us, sometimes invisible, sometimes looming as we wound along the lanes to Stonedown Farm. The afternoon had moved into early evening, and as I’d predicted, the blanket of cloud had lifted without a drop of precipitation. I drove with the windows down to catch the birdsong—a snatch of blackbird here, the shout of a wren there—and a flash of a monk’s grey habit wandering up a rough driveway, like an apparition from past times.

  “Look at that,” I said, slowing. “An abbey friar. Maybe a guide from Glastonbury Abbey?”

  “Not exactly.” Freaky barked a laugh as a flash of mint green showed under the grey robe. “I recognize those trainers! That is Woody Choke, no less.”

  He was right. The grey robe was stock from a High Street pagan shop. I bet Anagarika had paid dearly to kit himself out in that ritual garment.

  “Whatever’s he doing?”

  “Heading towards Gog and Magog, it seems. No concern of ours. Drive on, Sabbie. Drive on!”

  Minutes later we were pulling up in front of Stonedown Farm. Even before we’d slammed the car doors behind us, I could hear raised voices.

  I frowned across at Freaky. He didn’t hesitate. He pounded round to the back of the house, where he knew the doors would be open. I followed, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  The voices grew louder as we came close to the back rooms. A shriek rose on the air. Freaky disappeared through some French doors. I was on his heels. We came to a stop in Stefan’s lounge.

  Esme was curled on the floor, her knees up into her belly. She was still shrieking, but as we arrived the cries were diminishing to whimpers. Stefan stood, legs astride, bending slightly over her, as if he was about to assist her. When he saw us, he straightened up and took a step away.

  “She’s fine,” he said. “She’s good.”

  “What’ve you done to her?” said Freaky, his voice breaking.

  “She’s an emotional woman at the best of times.”

  “You hit her, you fucker.”

  “I barely laid a hand.” He looked at his hands as if to check for signs of guilt.

  I didn’t believe him. Stefan was exuding savage fury; it burned the air between us. I kept my eyes on him as I knelt beside her. “Esme?”

  She groaned, but not in a way that worried me. She was perfectly conscious and able to move. She was that saddest of things; a terrified drama queen, diminished and trembling on a floor. Her pride had taken the worst beating. I took her hand and helped her stand.

  No one spoke as she pointed a long finger at Stefan. I stared at the finger—it reminded me acutely of the pointing hand I’d seen in the shamanic journeys I’d made for Laura. My heart gave an unexpected thud and I knew Esme’s words would be crucial to my client’s problems.

  “All men are savages at heart. I have no wish to live with a brute.”

  “I love you,” said Stefan. “You know I do. But you drive me wild.”

  “Never a need for violence, dear friend,” Freaky pointed out.

  “I lost my temper.” Stefan scratched his hair. “I had a right.”

  “You are weak to the point of uselessness.” Esme began to sob.

  “I had a right. You drive me wild. You drive me into savage acts.”

  Esme spun round and directed her drama at the witnesses. “Will you go now?” she said to us. “Will you go and leave us in peace?”

  “One moment, my friends.” Freaky eyeballed them. “I want my spot back. I want what’s been rightfully mine since before you inherited this crumbling wreck of a house, Stefan.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Esme.

  Freaky kicked at an easy chair with his toe. “Don’t see why.”

  “Because it was the local council who chucked you off the land. And they’re not going to let you back.”

  “It was your bloody partner who hitched my van up and left it in the lane and it was you nagging him to do it!”

  “That’s not the case at all. The caravan was a problem. Stefan kept getting letters from the Planning Office. They clearly stated that your caravan was a ‘residence without planning permission.’”

  Stefan nodded, but he looked perplexed, as if the sudden change in dynamics had thrown him off course.

  “I showed the letters to you, Freaky. Maybe you can’t read, or something.”

  “That’s unfair, Esme,” I said, breaking in without thinking. “Freaky’s not a dunce.”

  “Who asked you anything? What are you doing here anyhow?”

  “Good question. I’m sure you’re going to settle everything a lot sooner without me. Freaky’s caravan is good to go. All Stefan has to do is tow it back.”

  I left through the French doors as fast as I could without running. I had a feeling that without me there, Freaky would be able to negotiate a lot more successfully.

  A mile or so down the country road, I reached the place I’d seen the grey monk. I pulled in and got out of my car. I was desperate to check that our eyes hadn’t deceived us. I left the car unlocked, in case Freaky’s negotiations were a failure, and followed in the direction we’d seen Anag taking. The driveway led into a touring park, but at the top of it was a short path, which I could see would take me onto the lane Wolfs and I had walked the morning of Alys’s death. I continued up it.

  The hooded figure was standing between th
e two brave and ancient oaks, Gog and Magog. His habit was tied at the waist with a loose cord, and the hood was thrown well over the face. He held a wooden recorder to his lips. The notes were soft, if not tuneful—the instrument was forgiving of clumsy fingers. I couldn’t help but slow my pace to watch the spectacle.

  “G’day, there.”

  He lowered the recorder from his lips.

  “Anag, why didn’t you come to see Brice?”

  “I did. It was you lot that didn’t turn up.”

  “No, we were all there. We waited for you.”

  “I was in the Chalice Well Gardens from before the meet time to way after it and I didn’t see any of you.”

  “Ah. Right. We were in the forecourt. We … er … went to the Rifleman’s Arms in the end.”

  “Why d’you do that?” He threw back his hood. There were burrs and bits of goose-grass attached to it.

  “We though it might come on to rain.”

  He looked upwards. “It didn’t.”

  “Ah … no.”

  “Bit of a lame excuse, ain’t it?”

  “It’s not an excuse, Anag—”

  “Don’t worry, it dawned PDQ. You’d told me different ’cause Brice didn’t want me at his little get-together.”

  “That wasn’t it at all. We had no idea that you were in the gardens. You must have been early.”

  “Yeah, well, I was playing on my flute, wasn’t I?”

  Then I saw it. Anag had hoped we’d all arrive to find him, positioned strategically under the yew trees or by the chalice wellhead, engaged in his music and garbed up like something out of The Mists of Avalon. Sad thing was, we didn’t turn up to see the spectacle at all.

  “I know when I’ve been sucked in, Sabbie. You all knock at me, think I’m a fastie. But I can have out-of-bodies with the best of them.”

  “You what? Oh, yes, Anag, of course you have a spiritual side.”

  “I’ve been in the otherworld today, for sure. I saw things I did not believe.” His expression was startled, as if he expected wild things to fly at him. “It’s the zodiac. You know about the zodiac?”