by Unknown
He felt Arnold pushing against his legs in the way he'd done last night in Bell Street, before leading him to the blood and the semi-conscious Fay. Powys reached down a hand and patted him, and Arnold began to pant. He's aware of the urgency, too, Powys thought. But then, he's a dowser's dog.
'It'll try and take the church tonight,' he said. 'And then . . . God knows . . .'
Jean sat and listened. When he finished she was silent for over a minute. Powys looked at his watch and then bit on a knuckle.
'That's very interesting,' Jean said. 'You may be right.'
Arnold whined.
'Shush.' Powys laid a hand on the dog's side. Arnold breathing rapidly.
'We haven't any time to waste, Jean. I think . . . it seems to me I need to get over to the church and ensure that . . . well, that old Preece makes it to the belfry. I can't think what else I can do that's halfway meaningful, can you?'
Jean thought for a moment and then shook her head.
'What I think is ... in fact I know . . . that you ought to go for the source.'
Her eyes were very calm and sure.
Powys said, 'I don't know what you mean.'
'The source, Joe. Where it begins.'
He thought of the great dark mound with its swaying trees and the blood of Henry Kettle on its flank.
'That's right,' Jean said. 'The Tump.'
'I . . .' It was forbidding enough by daylight.
'Don't think you can handle that?'
'I don't see the point, I'm not a magician. I'm not a shaman - I'm just a bloody writer. Not even that any more.'
No, he might just as well have said. I don't think I can handle it. This was Jean Wendle he was talking to. Jean Wendle, the psychic. Also Jean Wendle the barrister. The human lie detector.
'Oh, Joe, Joe . . . You're like Alex. You won't face up to the way it is. To what has to be done. You lost the wee girl Rose, you lost Rachel Wade.'
'No.' He shook his head. He didn't understand. He hadn't understood when it happened - either time - and he didn't understand now.
What am I missing? Suddenly he was in a mental frenzy Why did she have to say that? Why did she have to slap him across the face with the incomprehensible horror of Rose and Rachel? And was he missing something?
'Don't let yourself lose this one,' Jean said.
Fay?
Please . . . What can't I see?
'And when I get to the Tump,' he asked weakly. 'What am I supposed to do then?'
'You're looking for Boulton-Trow, aren't you?'
He stared at her, Arnold throbbing against his ankle.
'If Boulton-Trow has orchestrated all this, then he has to find somewhere, has he not, with his wee conductor's baton. He has to have a podium, from which . . . if you really want to end all this - you must dislodge him. I'm sorry, Joe, it's never easy. You know that really, don't you? You could indeed lend Jim Preece a supporting arm as he climbs the steps to the belfry, but are you going to be there again tomorrow night, and the night after?'
Powys stood up. His legs felt very weak. He was afraid. He gathered the trembling Arnold awkwardly into his arms, looked vaguely around. 'Where's the Canon?'
Jean saw him to the door. 'Don't worry about Alex. He's coming to grips with his past, too.' She gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze, it's the night for it.'
Col Croston was pleased and yet disappointed, too. It was going smoothly, Max Goff was making his points very cogently and had been impressing him as the strictly neutral chairman. And, no, he hadn't expected fireworks.
But wasn't this just a little bit too tame?
Hadn't once had to bang his gavel or call for silence. Just that spot of aggression towards the cameraman - minor pre-meeting nerves. And that single, reedy interruption during his introduction. All of this before he'd even called on Goff to address the meeting.
And now the fellow had been given a more than fair hearing.
'Right,' Col said. 'Well, I think I've put all my questions, so what about all of you? What's the general feeling? I think we at least owe it to Mr Goff for him to be able to walk away from here tonight with some idea of how the townsfolk of Crybbe are reacting to his ideas.'
Wasn't awfully surprised to get a lot of blank looks.
'Well, come on, don't be shy. This is a public meeting and you are, in fact, the public'
When he did get a response it came, unsurprisingly, from the wrong side of the room.
The large, middle-aged woman with the white hair was on her feet.
'Yes?' said Col. 'Mrs Ivory, isn't it? Go ahead.'
'Mr Chairman,' Mrs Ivory said sweetly, 'I'm sure we seem a pretty strange lot to the local people.'
She paused. If she was waiting to be contradicted, Fay thought, she'd be on her feet for the rest of the night.
'Well . . .' Mrs Ivory blushed. 'I suppose we all have adjustments to make, don't we. I know I got some very odd looks when I went into a sweetshop and said I preferred carob to chocolate, actually, and didn't mind paying the extra for a no dairy alternative.'
Good grief, Col thought, is this the best you can do?
'What I mean is, Mr Chairman, I suppose we have got what seem like some funny ideas, but, well, we're harmless, and don't mind people thinking I'm an eccentric, as long as they accept me as a harmless eccentric. That's the point I want to make. We don't want to take over or impose some weird new regime. We're not like the Jehovah's Witnesses - we won't be knocking on doors or handing out pamphlets saying, "Come and join the New Age movement." We're gentle people, and we're not going to intrude and . . . well, that's all I have to say really. Thank you.'
'Thank you, Mrs Ivory,' said Col. 'Well, there you are, I think that was very, er . . . a valuable point. So. What about some local reaction? Mr Mayor, you're down there on the floor of the meeting tonight, somewhat of a new experience for you, but what it does mean is you are entitled to speak your mind. Give us the benefit of your, er. . .'
He was going to make a little New Age sort of joke then about the Mayor's 'ancient wisdom', but decided perhaps not.
'. . . years of experience.'
He watched Jimmy Preece rising skeletally to his feet.
'Not expecting a sermon. Just a few words, Mr Mayor.'
'Well, I . . .' Jimmy Preece looked down at his boots, and then he said prosaically, 'On behalf of the town, I'd like to thank Mr Goff for coming along tonight and telling us about his plans. Very civil of 'im. I'm sure we'll all bear in mind what 'e's 'ad to say.'
And the Mayor sat down.
Col looked helplessly at Max Goff.
At the back of the room Fay Morrison looked at her watch, saw it was coming up to twenty minutes past nine and was very much relieved. Within a couple of minutes the meeting would be wound up and all these people would go their separate ways, they'd be off the line, away from what she was slowly and less credulously corning to think of as the death path.
'Thank you, Mr Mayor,' Goff said, rising to his feet. 'Thank you, Mr Chairman. But this is only the start of things . . .'
What?
Goff said, 'I'd like you to meet at this point some of the people you'll be seeing around town. For those who wanna know more about the heritage of the area, the distinguished author M. Powys will be, er, with us presently. But I'd like to acquaint you, first of all, with some of the very skilled practitioners who, for an introductory period, will be making their services available entirely free of charge to anyone in Crybbe who'd like to know more about alternative health. As Hilary said a few moments ago, there'll be no proselytizing, they'll simply be around if required, so first of all I'd like you to meet . . .'
He stopped. The chairman had put a hand on his arm.
'One moment, Mr Goff, I think we appear to have another question . . . Think I saw a hand going up at the back. Oh.'
Col had recognized Fay Morrison, the radio reporter. This was public meeting, not a media event; however, in the absence of any worthwhile response from the floor, he supposed it wou
ld be all right to let her have her say.
'Yes,' he said. 'Mrs Morrison.'
Goff's head spun round. 'This is not a press conference, Mr Chairman.'
'Yes, I'm aware of that, Mr Goff, but Mrs Morrison is a resident of Crybbe.'
'Yeah, sure, but . . .'
'And I am the chairman,' Col said less affably.
Goff shut up, but he wasn't happy.
Col was. This was more like it.
'Go ahead, Mrs Morrison.'
I'd like to know if Mr Goff is going to introduce us to his chief adviser, Mr Boulton-Trow.'
'I'm afraid,' Goff said coldly, 'that Mr Boulton-Trow is unable to be with us tonight.'
'Why not?'
Goff dropped his voice. 'Look, Mr Chair, I've had dealings with this woman before. She's a load of trouble. She makes a practice of stirring things up. She's been fired by the local radio station for inaccuracy, she's . . .'
'Mr Goff. . .' Thin steel in Col's voice. 'This is a public meeting, and I'm the chairman. Go ahead, Mrs Morrison, but I hope this is relevant. I don't want a slanging match.'
'Thank you, Mr Chairman,' Fay said. 'I've certainly no intention of being at all argumentative.'
Oh God, go for it, woman.
'I'd simply like to ask Mr Goff what contribution he expects will be made to the general well-being of Crybbe by employing a descendant of perhaps . . . perhaps the most hated man the history of the town.'
She paused. People were turning to look at her, especially from the Crybbe side of the room and Goff was on his feet. 'This is ridiculous . . .'
The chairman slammed down his gavel. 'Please!'
'I'm referring,' Fay said, raising her voice, 'to the sixteenth century sheriff known popularly, since his death, as Black Michael, and widely known at the tune for unjustly hanging . . .'
'Mrs Morrison,' said the chairman. 'With the best will in the world, I don't honestly think . . .'
'Andy Trow has, of course, reversed his real surname. He is Andy Wort, isn't he, Mr Goff?'
There was a silence.
Oh fuck it. Fay thought. Take it all the way.
'He's also, I understand, your lover.'
And the lights went out.
CHAPTER VI
Plea se. Take my arm.
Better.
Good.
Do you remember when I used to offer you my arm in the street and you absolutely refused to accept it 'Not until we're married,' you would say, even though you were quite poorly. Worried about your reputation, I suppose. Bit late for that.
And then, of course, when we were married it was quite impossible, with you in a wheelchair and me pushing the damn thing..
All right now, though, isn't it?
Yes. All right now.
Which way shall we go? No, you choose. Down to the river?
No?
To the church! Yes, of course. Bring back some memories. Young Murray did rather well, I thought. Yes, I agree about the amendments to the vows; saved any embarrassment, didn't it? Indeed it did.
It is dark, isn't it? Careful now. Mind you don't trip over the kerb or the end of your shroud.
Do tell me, won't you, if you're feeling tired.
Jolly good.
As Joe Powys drove, on full headlights, into the lane that slipped down beside the church, he formed an image of Crybbe as an old and poorly built house riddled with damp. Periodically new people would move in and redecorate the rooms: bright new paint, new wallpaper, new furniture. But the wet always came through and turned the walls black and rotted the furniture.
And eventually people stopped throwing money at it and just tried to insulate themselves and their families as best they could. It wasn't much fun to live in, and the people who stayed there were the ones with few prospects and nowhere else to go.
And that was the basic socio-economic viewpoint.
Trying to explain the supernatural aspects in terms of rising damp was more complicated.
If only he could speak to the shadowy figure who, in the late 1500s, had attempted to install, just above ground-level, an effective damp-proof course.
Let's assume this man was John Dee, astrologer at the court of Queen Elizabeth I.
Powys braked hard as a baby rabbit shot from the hedgerows, into the centre of the road and then stopped, turning pale terrified eyes into the headlights.
He switched off the lights, and the rabbit scampered away
Just for a moment, Powys smiled.
There's a portrait. John Dee in middle age. A thin-faced man with high cheekbones. Watchful, but kindly eyes. He wears a black cap, suggesting baldness, and has a luxurious white beard, like an ice-cream cone.
In Andy's notes, Dee (if it is he) gives only graphic descriptions of experiences, like the visit of the spirit (Wort?) in the night.
Perhaps somewhere Dee has documented the action he took to contain the rampant spirit after Wort's death.
Dee never seems to have been very wealthy. Towards the end of his life he was virtually exiled to the north, as warden of Christ's College, Manchester. With Elizabeth dead and James on the throne - James who was in constant fear of Satanic plots and clamped down accordingly on all forms of occultism - the elderly Dee was forced to defend himself and his reputation as a scholar against various accusations that he practised witchcraft. Ill-founded accusations, no doubt, but these were dangerous, paranoid times.
So what would the penurious Dee do if contacted by old friends or relatives in Crybbe with tales of hauntings and oppression by dark forces invoked by the late Sir Michael Wort?
He drove past the turning to Court Farm and could see no lights between the trees. No lights anywhere. He might, out there, be twenty miles from the nearest town. It was like driving back in time, or into another dimension
To Percival Weale,
Merchant of Crybbe
My Dear Mr Weale,
It was with much sorrow that I received your letter
informing me that our mutual associate, Sheriff Wort
continues to torment the town from a place beyond this life.
It has long been apparent to me that the ethene layer is so
dense upon the atmosphere along the border of Wales and
England that it may not always be so comfortable a place of
habitation . . .
And did Dee, old, impecunious and in constant fear of arrest, appeal to Percy Weale to make financial provision for the curfew to be rung (so that the most dangerous hours of darkness might remain peaceful) and to assign some long-established local family to the task?
And being unable to travel to Crybbe himself, did he vaguely suggest that if the malignant spirit were to be controlled it was essential for the stones to be removed, the Tump walled in and the spiritual energy level to remain low.
And you must warn the townspeople to continue with their
lives but not to expand the town to any great extent and,
above all, to offer no challenge to the spirit. And, as for the
hand and any other of his limbs or organs that should come
to light, no purpose will be served in their destruction. You
must take these and enclose them in separate and confined
places - I would suggest within a chimney or fireplace or
beneath a good stone floor - where they may never be exposed
to the light or the air. This is far from satisfactory, but my
knowledge does not extend to more. Forgive me.
Powys drove between the gateposts of Crybbe Court and felt the house before he saw it, a dark and hungry maw.
He thought, Hand? What hand? I don't know anything about a hand.
Get your act together, Powys.
He thought about Fay and started to worry, so he thought about Rachel instead, and he looked up towards the house and felt bitterly angry.
Better keep to the path, I think, my dear. Somewhat safer, in the dark.
Not that they take much care of th
is path, or indeed the church itself, never much in the way of civic pride in Crybbe. Poor Murray's got his hands full.
Ah. Now. I know where we're going.
We're going to your grave, aren't we?
Now, look, before you say anything, I'm sorry it had to be down at this end - not exactly central, I realise that, another few yards in fact, and you'd be in the wood. But it's surely shady on a warm day, and you never did like too much sun, did you? I suppose you spent most of your life in the shade, really, and . . . well, you know I always had the impression that was how you wanted it to be.
I know, I know . . . the flowers. I keep forgetting, memory isn't what it was, as you know. You bring a few flowers with the best of intentions, and then you forget all about them and the next time you come they're all dead and forlorn and there are stalks and seed-pods everywhere, all a terrible mess, and I do understand the way you feel about that, of course I do.
Hello, who's this?
Oh, Grace, look, it's young Murray.
No, don't get up, old chap.
Well, er ... it's a lovely night, isn't it?
Yes. Indeed.
What's that?
Cain and Abel?
I'm sorry . . . I'm not quite getting your drift. What you're saying is, Abel killed Cain?
Well, not in my version, old son, but I suppose you modernists have your own ideas.
Abel killed Cain, eh?
Well, if you say so, Murray, if you say so.
Arnold was not at all happy about being left in the Mini. Joe Powys had pushed back the slide-opening driver's window several inches to give him plenty of air, and he stood up on the seat and pressed his head through the gap and whined frantically.
'I can't take you,' Powys said. 'Please, Arnold.' He'd left the dog a saucer of water on the back shelf. Poured from a bottle he kept in the boot because the radiator had been known to boil dry.