Crybbe (AKA Curfew)

by Unknown

  But she crashed down in the only place he could not hope to throw himself in her path, and he actually heard her neck break as it connected with the projecting corner of a Victorian Gothic wardrobe of old, dark wood.

  Something came after her - a small, grey-brown wisp of a thing.

  PART SIX

  ... In many such cases it has been suspected that there

  was an unconscious human medium, commonly an

  emotionally disturbed adolescent, at the root of the

  manifestations. If these effects can be produced

  unconsciously, it is reasonable to suppose that people can

  learn to produce them by will. Indeed, in traditional

  societies young people who have evident talents for

  promoting outbreaks of psychical phenomena are marked

  out as future shamans . . .

  JOHN MICHELL,

  The New View Over Atlantis

  CHAPTER I

  Monday morning and, over the dregs of an early breakfast, Fay finally found out the truth about her father, Grace and the house. And wound up wishing, in a way, that she'd remained ignorant, for in ignorance there was always hope.

  It was not unknown for Alex to be up for an early breakfast - on one best-forgotten occasion five or six weeks ago he'd been clanking around in the kitchen at 5 a.m. and, when his swollen-eyed daughter had appeared in the doorway, had admonished her for going out and not leaving him any supper.

  No, it hadn't made any sense, except in terms of the quantity of blood reaching her dad's brain, and Fay was resigned to it. With a cold, damp apprehension, she'd accepted there would come a time when it might be necessary to change the locks on the front door and deprive him of a key so he wouldn't go out wandering the streets in the early hours in search of a chip shop or a woman or something.

  However, there were still times - like last night - when it might almost be in remission.

  But last night - Dad, why is Grace haunting us? - they'd parted uncomfortably, Alex mumbling. 'Talk about it in the morning.' The prospect of him remembering had seemed so remote that even Fay had expunged it from her memory.

  Then this morning, she'd come down just before eight, and there was her dad fishing a slice of bread out of the toaster with a bent fork and making unflattering observations about the quality of Taiwanese workmanship.

  'Been remiss,' he'd mumbled 'Shouldn't have tried to cover up.'

  'So you burnt the toast again,' Fay said. 'No big deal, Dad.'

  'No - Grace, you stupid child. I'm trying to say I should have told you about Grace.'

  'Oh.'

  And out it all came, for the first time, as if the blood supply to his brain had suddenly tripled, making him more cogent, more aware of his own defects than she could ever remember. This Wendle woman . . . was it conceivable she'd pulled off some astonishing medical coup here?

  'Grace . . .' Alex said. 'This lady with whom I'd had a small dalliance over twenty years earlier, she rather more serious about it than I. I mean, she really wasn't my type at all, not like your mother. Grace was a very proper sort of woman, prissy some might say.'

  'I never liked to say it myself, Dad.'

  'Such a sheltered life, you see, here in Crybbe. And then the secretarial job with the diocese. I think - God help me - I think she really believed that having an affair with a clergyman was somewhat less sinful than having a less . . . er, less physical relationship with a layman.'

  'Nearer my God to thee,' Fay said wryly.

  'Quite. She was quite unbearably understanding when . . . when your mother found out and threatened to get us all, via the divorce courts, into the News of the World. Tricky period. Things were quite hairy for a while. But, there we are, it ended surprisingly amicably. Quite touching, really, at the time.'

  Fay said, 'You mean she accepted her martyrdom gracefully, as it were, to save your precious career.'

  Alex lowered his eyebrows. 'Quite,' he said gruffly. 'Of course I felt sorry for Grace and we kept in contact - in an entirely platonic way - for many years.'

  'Even when Mum was alive?'

  'Platonically, Fay, platonically. Came back to Crybbe to live with her sister, as you know, then she died, and Grace was alone, a very aloof, proper little spinster in a tidy little house. Terribly sad. Do you think I might have another. . . ?'

  'I'll pour it.'

  'Thank you. And then, of course, I had the letter from young Duncan Christie at the cathedral, just happening to mention Grace was in a pretty depressed state. Not too well, sister recently dead. Feeling pretty sorry for herself, and with reason. Never been quite the same since. . . you know. Well . . .'

  'You've told me this bit A chance for you to make amends.'

  'Nemesis, you see. I had ruined the poor woman's life, after all.'

  'That might be questionable.'

  Alex shook his head, in a rare hair-shirt mood. 'And, well, I just happen to turn up there one day, just passing through, you know. And I just happened to stay. So, after all these years, Miss Legge finally becomes Mrs Peters - or, as she liked to put it, Mrs Canon Peters. And Alex resigns himself to a year or two of ministering to this rather severe elderly lady, incurably ill and incurably set in her ways - odd, really, she seemed much older than me, although she was twenty-odd years younger.'

  'Yes, but . . .'

  'I know. I'm coming to it. Woodstock. Why didn't I sell this place when Grace died and go back to Woodstock?'

  'The very question I've been trying to ask you for months, Dad.'

  'Er . . . Yes.' Alex slurped milk into his coffee. Fay looked up as hard rain spots hit the window. The dried-blood bricks of the houses across the street gleamed drably.

  'You see, there are things you don't know about Woodstock. Like the fact that it.er ..well, it wasn't mine to sell, actually.'

  Fay closed her eyes.

  'Still belonged to Charlie Wharton. I may have conveyed the impression I'd bought it off him. Fact is, I was only sort of keeping it warm for his retirement, and I was surviving rather longer than either of us had envisaged. And they were about to boot him cut of the bishop's palace, you see, so he was pretty anxious to have the place back. In fact, I, er, well, I might have been facing a spot of legal action to remove me if I hadn't cleared off when I did. To be honest.'

  Might have guessed, Fay thought. Might have bloody guessed.

  'So what it comes down to,' she said, smiling icily, 'is that you were rather more anxious to move in with Grace than she was to have you.'

  'Well. Until I, er, raised the possibility of marriage.'

  Fay nodded, still smiling.

  'Problem is, as you know, money and I have never got along terribly well together. Ladies, horses, unwise investments . . .'

  Alex stirred his coffee. The rain came down harder. Fay noticed a damp patch near the kitchen ceiling. It was getting bigger.

  'Dad,' she said, 'you are a total, unmitigated shit.'

  Alex went on stirring his coffee and didn't deny it.

  Fay went to wash the breakfast dishes, digesting the information and its significance: that her father was not a wealthy man, that his total assets amounted to little more than a very small terraced cottage in a back street in Crybbe. A cottage which, even if sold to, say, Max Goff. would hardly pay a year's rent on a basement room in Battersea.

  She wondered what kind of pension he'd got. And if he had debts she knew nothing about.

  So much to think about that it seemed silly even to raise the issue. However . . .

  'You've seen her, haven't you? Since she died, you've been seeing her.'

  'Oh, Fay.' Alex rubbed his eyes. 'This part's so difficult. The past few months - such a blur. I don't know what I've done, what I've seen. These past couple of days. . . It's as though I'm waking up. Wendy perhaps, I don't know.'

  'You know what I'm talking about, though. Let's not piss about here, Dad. Grace's ghost.'

  She shivered, just saying the words, Grace's empty fish-smile
in her mind.

  'I . . . This really is hard. Especially for me, as a priest. All my life ... so many anomalies. So many things one can't encompass within the scriptural parameters. That business in Y Groes a year or two ago. And now young Murray and his evil children.'

  'You haven't told me about that.'

  'Sworn to silence, child. And, you see, there's always a rational explanation, always a psychological answer. Murray rushing ahead with his career in the blissful certainty that a clergyman can operate more effectively if he doesn't believe.'

  'Sod Murray, Dad . . . Grace.'

  'You don't, have to bring me back to the bloody point. I'm not rambling.'

  'Sorry.'

  'All right. So I'm guilty of whatever crime it might be to smooth things out for two elderly folk in a bit of a mess. The problem is, when Grace popped her clogs rather sooner than expected, my overwhelming reaction, I'm sorry to say, was one of relief. There we are. Truth out. I'd got a roof over my head and she wasn't under it any more. How's that for a Christian attitude?'

  'Not so deplorable.'

  'It may not seem deplorable to you, wretched child, but I wanted to suffer. I needed to suffer. I'd been getting away with things all my life and here I was again landing on my feet.'

  Fay thought, Christ, what's he saying? Is he saying that, in his dislocated mental condition, he created Grace's ghost, a resentful avenging presence to remind him of his sins?

  'And you,' Alex said. 'Why the devil did you have to come back and look after me? I didn't want to inflict myself on you. Prissy little Grace didn't want you in her house.'

  The crux of it. He might be able to project Grace, like a gruesome magic-lantern slide on his own dusty mental screen.

  But you can't make me see her, Dad. You can't do that.

  How could she tell him what she'd seen? (Did I really see it? Did I see it?) What would that do for his remission?

  'OK, Dad.' she said. 'Drink your coffee. I understand. Look, I've missed the news now.'

  Fay switched on the Panasonic radio on the kitchen window ledge. She had indeed missed the news and had to listen to a couple of minutes of sport before the headlines were repeated.

  'And to recap on today's main story: in Crybbe, police are investigating the death of a personal assistant to billionaire businessman Max Goff. The dead woman, thirty-five-year-old Rachel Wade, appeared to have fallen from a high, window in historic Crybbe Court This a Offa's Dyke Radio News. Next bulletin: ten o'clock.'

  For long, long seconds, Fay didn't move at all. Stood frozen at the sink, a damp dishcloth hanging from one hand.

  The kitchen clock, two minutes fast, said 9.17.

  Alex, sliding his chair back, getting to his feet, said, 'How come you didn't pick that one up, Fay?'

  'I normally make the police calls before you get up,' Fay said numbly. 'We had breakfast instead. Offa's Dyke have an early duty reporter, in at half past five.'

  'Ah.' Alex brought his coffee cup to the sink. 'Expect you'll be off to find out what happened.' He looked up, his beard pure white in the dull morning. 'You all right, Fay? How well did you know this woman?'

  'Fine, Dad,' said Fay. 'No, I ... I didn't know her very well. Excuse me.'

  Arnold struggled to his feet to follow her out of the room fell over again. Fay picked him up and carried him into the office, her face buried in his fur.

  As she put him down on the fireside chair, she caught a glimpse of her own face in the gilt-framed mirror, a face as pale as dead Grace.

  Fay picked up the phone, called the Information Room at Divisional HQ.

  'Not much we can tell you, I'm afraid.'

  'It was an accident, though?'

  'All I can say is, investigations are proceeding.'

  'You mean, it might not have been an accident?'

  'Hang on a minute,' the police voice said, then she heard, 'Yes, sir, it's Fay Morrison from Offa's Dyke. Sure, just a sec. Mrs Morrison, the duty inspector would like a word.'

  'Good morning, Mrs Morrison, Inspector Waring here, if wonder if you'd be good enough to pop into the police station at Crybbe, see the Chief Inspector.'

  'Why?'

  'Just a few things you might be able to clear up for us.'

  'Like what?'

  'I think I'd rather the chief told you that, if you don't mind.'

  'Oh, come on,' said Fay. 'Off the record.'

  A moment's hesitation, then, 'All right, off the record, we've a chap helping with inquiries, Joseph Miles Powys. Says he was with you yesterday.'

  'What?'

  'Would you mind, Mrs Morrison, just popping into the station? They won't keep you long.'

  'I'm ... I'm on my way,' Fay said.

  CHAPTER II

  In his room at the Cock, Guy awoke at nine-thirty.

  He'd come back here for a good night's sleep, but it hadn't been one, and he awoke realizing why.

  He blinked warily at the overcast, off-white morning. At his suitcase on the floor by the dressing-table. At the wardrobe door agape, exposing his leather jacket on a hanger.

  And, finally, at the portfolio against the wall next to the door. Especially at that.

  He should never have slept with those drawings in the room. In the practical light of morning, Guy knew he should have left the portfolio in his car. Or, better still, dumped them back at The Gallery after his abortive attempt to quiz the girl.

  On his way to the bathroom, he picked up the portfolio and left it propped up in the passage, hoping somebody would nick the thing. It was still there when he returned after a pee and a very quick wash - he didn't like spending too long in bathrooms any more, even by daylight.

  Back in his room, Guy burrowed in his suitcase for his rechargeable shaver. He shaved, bending down to the dressing-table mirror, wondering about Jocasta, what kind of night she'd had.

  Well, yes, he'd felt bad about Jocasta. In a way, especially when she'd clutched at his arm, pleading, 'One more night - just one night. Hereward'll be back tomorrow. Guy, I can't . . . I can't spend a night there alone.'

  'Look,' he'd argued reasonably. 'Why not lock yourself in your, er, suite? You don't have to go near that bathroom, do you? I promise you, I'll find out about this, I'll tackle the girl again tomorrow.'

  'You won't,' Jocasta had wailed 'Your crew'll be back and you'll spend all day filming and you'll forget all about me. I've been very stupid, I know . . . but please, can't you just . . .?

  'No!'

  Jocasta had sniffed and wandered back into The Gallery, leaving him alone on the street with the stiff-backed portfolio under his arm.

  Dammit, he'd done what he could. Opened her poxy exhibition, been charming to the invited guests, none of whom - it seemed to Guy - could get away fast enough.

  And he'd tried to get at the girl - the damned girl in black with the cruel, dark eyes.

  'There she is!' Jocasta grabbing his arm in front of everybody, hissing at him and writhing like an anaconda.

  'Where? Who?'

  'The one who brought those drawings in.'

  'You invited her?'

  'Of course I didn't. She's just turned up. Guy, we've got to make her tell us what it's all about.'

  'We? We have?'

  The girl had spoken to nobody, just wandered around inspecting paintings, wearing a faintly superior, supercilious expression - as well she might, he'd conceded, given the standard of work on show; the artist, Emmanuel somebody or other, apparently specializing in brownish pointilliste studies of derelict farmyards.

  To Guy, the girl looked far too mature and aware to be still at school.

  Jocasta pushing the portfolio at him - 'Please . . . talk to her. She'll be impressed by you. She won't dare lie.'

  But the girl didn't seem even to have heard of Guy Morrison, which didn't make her any more endearing. Add to this the dark-eyed unfriendly face - and the attitude.

  'I was very interested,' Guy began smoothly, 'in the drawings you gave Mrs Newsome. The ones in this folder.' />
  'I don't know anything about them.'

  'That's interesting. She tells me you asked her to try and sell them for you.'

  'Don't know what you're on about. She's a nutter, that woman. You know she's on Valium and stuff, don't you?'

  'Are you saying you didn't do these drawings? In which case, who did?'

  'Why don't you get lost, blondie,' Tessa Byford said loudly, sweet as lemon, 'you're really not my type.'

  She turned away from Guy Morrison and melted into the 'crowd' - a dozen or so people looking uncomfortable, feeding each other canapes and surface-chat. Except for one very thin woman with stretched, yellow-white skin, standing alone and smiling vacuously at Guy, with small needle-teeth.

  Guy smiled back, but she didn't acknowledge him, and he went outside with the portfolio under his arm, to be followed by the faintly tipsy, hysterical Jocasta.

  'No!' he'd said firmly. 'Do you understand? No!'

  Which was how he'd come to walk away still holding the portfolio, feeling angry and confused. Needing a good night's sleep so he could think this thing out. The girl had obviously known about the ghost of the old man haunting the Newsomes' house. Had given Jocasta the drawings in a calculated attempt to terrify her.

  But why? What had the girl got against Jocasta? Was there something Guy didn't know?

  In the privacy of his room he'd thought of examining the drawings in some detail, but he found he didn't want to take them out of their folder. The whole business seemed less frightening now than distasteful.

  Not the sort of thing Guy Morrison needed while shooting an important documentary.

  He didn't need the dreams either.

  Last night Guy had dreamed he was back on the rug in front of the fire, where Jocasta straddled him, swinging her hips tantalizingly above his straining loins.

  'Yes, yes . . .' Guy urged in the dream, but she held herself just a fraction of an inch away so he could feel the heat of her but not the touch of her skin.

  'Please,' he moaned. 'Please come down.'

  Her face was above his; she seemed to be floating, both hands in the air. He felt her pubic hair brush the tip of his . . .