by Unknown
'I don't think I can. I think you broke my collar-bone.'
'Oh, that's where you keep your collar-bone these days, is it? Don't fuck with me please, get up.'
And Powys did, accepting without question that this guy would kill him if he didn't. Humble stood up, too. He was wearing a black gilet, his arms bare. Humble was a timeless figure, the hunter. He killed.
'Now, we're going to go down off the Tump, Mr Powys, on account you can't always trust your reactions up here, as you surely know. We're going to go down, back over that wall,
OK?'
'Where's Andy?' Powys said.
'I'm empowered to answer just one of your questions, and that wasn't it, I'm sorry.'
Powys tripped over a root and grabbed at a bush. 'Aaah.' Thorns.
'Keep going, please. Don't turn round.'
Powys froze. He's going to kill me. He's going to shoot me from behind.
Something slammed into his back and be cried out and lost his footing and crashed through the thorn bush and rolled over and over.
'. . . did tell you to keep going.'
As he lay in a tangle at the foot of the mound, Humble dipped down beside him, just inside the wall.
'I'll tell you the answer, shall I? Then you can work out the question at your leisure. The answer is - you ready? - the answer is .. . his mother. Now get on your feet, over the wall
and across to the old house.'
The night has gathered around Warren, and he's loving it. Earned himself a piece of it now - a piece of night to carry 'round with him and nibble on whenever he's hungry.
And he's still hungry, his appetite growing all the time.
He's off out of the back door of the town hall and across the square, into the alley by the Cock, the Stanley knife hot his right hand. Only it's not his hand any more; this is the Hand of Glory.
The ole box is just a box now, and what's in the box is just bones. His is the hand and his will be the glory.
Felt like doing a few more while he was in there. That Colonel Croston, of the SAS. That'd have been a laugh.
Incredible, the way he just walked in the back way and the lights had gone, dead on cue, like wherever he goes he brings the night in with him.
He has this brilliant night vision now. Just like daylight. Better than daylight 'cause he can see and no bugger else can.
Standing behind this fat phoney, big man on a squidgy little chair, glaring white suit - you'd have to be blind not to see him - and all the time in the world to choose where to put it in.
Didn't need to choose. The Hand of Glory knew.
Brilliant. Thought he'd be squealing like a pig, but he never made more than a gurgle.
Brilliant.
There's someone behind Tessa in the alley. Tall guy.
'Who's this?'
Tessa laughing. 'My teacher.'
'How's it going, Warren?' the teacher saying. 'How are you feeling?'
Warren grinning, savouring the night in his mouth, and his eyes are like lights. Headlights, yeah.
'Good lad,' says the teacher.
Minnie Seagrove was not too happy with the Bourbon creams.
It was long after nine when she placed a small china plate of the long brown biscuits on one of the occasional tables and set it down by the side of Frank's chair at just the right height. Putting the camping light on the table next to the plate, still dubiously pursing up her lips. 'I do hope they're all right, Frank. They're nearly a month over the sell-by date. I remember I bought them the day they took you into the General. They'd just opened that new Safeways near the station, and I thought I'd go down there from the hospital, 'cause it's not far to walk, take me mind off it, sort of thing.'
Tears came into Mrs Seagrove's eyes at the memory. 'I bought a whole rainbow trout, too. I thought, he's never managed to catch one, least I can do is serve him one up for his first dinner when he comes out.'
She turned away and grabbed a Scottie from the box to dab her eyes. They were Kleenex really, but Mrs Seagrove called all tissues Scotties because it sounded more homely.
'Had to throw it in the bin, that trout, well past its sell-by. Still, you did come back from the General, after all, didn't you, Frank?'
Looking at him through the tears, Mrs Seagrove had to keep blinking and on every other blink, Frank seemed to disappear. She applied the Scottie to her eyes again and sat down opposite him. He didn't look well, she had to admit.
'Eat your Bourbons, Frank,' she said. 'There'll be nothing left of you if you go on like this. I know, I'll put the wireless on - you can listen to the local news.'
Mrs Seagrove kept the wireless on the sideboard. To tell the truth, it wasn't her kind of wireless at all. Justin had bought it for them last Christmas but one. It was a long black thing with dozens of switches and you could see all these speakers through the plastic grilles, big ones and little ones, all jumbled up. Why they couldn't make them with just one speaker and cover it up neatly like they used to, she'd never know.
Being that changing stations was so complicated, she had it permanently tuned to Offa's Dyke Radio. She'd have preferred Radio Two herself, that young Chris Stuart had ever such a comforting voice, but Frank said if you were living in a place you ought to keep up with what was happening around you, even if it wasn't very interesting. Mrs Seagrove certainly found most of it quite boring - too much about councils and sheep prices - so she put it on quite low tonight (Frank had good ears, belter than hers) and she only turned it up when she heard that Max Goff mentioned.
' . . . at a packed public meeting to discuss his plans for the so-called New Age mystical healing centre in the border town of Crybbe . . . from where Gavin Ashpole now reports.'
Gavin who? What had happened to Fay Morrison? She might have been a bit awkward about the . . . thing. But she did seem quite a nice girl when you actually met her.
'. . . Townsfolk listened in hostile silence as Max Goff explained his plans to turn Crybbe into a kind of New Age Lourdes, bringing in thousands of tourists from all over the world and providing a massive boost for the local economy. However, he said, it would be up to the town whether it. . . Oh . . . Oh, you bitch . . .oh, you . . . oh, please . . .'
Mrs Seagrove recoiled from the wireless as if a wasp had flown out of one of the speakers.
'Frank, did you hear that?'
'Oh . . . oh . . . please ... yes... yes, do it... ! CHEW IT OFF!!'
There was a long silence and then the voice of the news reader came back.
'I'm sorry, I ... I'm not sure what happened there. We'll try and return to that report. . . er, other news now . . .'
'Frank,' said Minnie Seagrove. 'Did you hear that, Frank? That's your precious Offa's Dyke Radio for you. Chris Stuart never goes to pieces like that. Did you hear . . . Frank?'
Frank's chair was empty.
All the Bourbon biscuits were still on the plate, six of them arranged in a little semi-circle.
'Frank? Frank, where are you?'
Breathing faster, Mrs Seagrove turned and switched off the wireless and turned back to the chair and rubbed her eyes with the screwed-up tissue, but Frank was gone and the door was closed.
She started to feel very confused.
Get a grip, Minnie, get a grip.
Nothing was right. Nothing was right. Mrs Seagrove went to the window and flung back the curtains. 'It's you, isn't it? It's you.'
Great, ugly slag-heap thing. She'd probably be able to see the church if it wasn't for that; always liked to see a church in the distance, even if she didn't go.
She could see the mound quite clearly tonight, even though there was no moon. It was a bit like the mound was lit up from inside, not very lit up, sort of a yellowish glow like a lemon jelly.
She thought she could see a shadow moving across the field.
'Is that you, Frank?' She banged on the window. 'You're not going out in that wet grass this time of night!'
He was stupid sometimes, Frank, like a little boy. He'd walk down
to that river and just stare at it, wondering why he never caught that many fish.
She pulled her walking shoes from under the sideboard. 'You come back here, Frank Seagrove. It's not safe out there!'
CHAPTER IX
FAY was still seeing it like a bad home video: fuzzy, ill-lit, full of camera-shake and over-reaction. Women screaming, people staring at each other in shock, trying to speak, faces hard and grainy in the blue, deep-freeze light. Stricken Max Goff convulsing on the floor. Col Croston bending over him.
'Get a doctor!'
Portly man from Off shouldering his way to the front. Fay recognized him as the local GP.
Wynford Wiley - probably the last to react - moving like a sleepwalker, Fay following in his considerable wake, up the central aisle, pushing past Guy. Hilary Ivory stumbling towards them, face in a permanent contortion like that painting of Munch s - The Scream - etched in similar stark, nervy colours because of the stammering lights.
Hilary's hands squeezing her hair and then the hands coming out like crimson rubber-gloves and Hilary's shrieks almost shredding Col's crisp command:
'Nobody move! Nobody leaves the hall!'
And then, turning to the doctor, 'Bloody obvious. Had his throat slashed.'
At which point, spangled brightness burst out of the wrought-iron chandeliers - an electrical blip - and Fay saw the Mayor, Councillor James Oswald Preece, standing on the edge of the raised area, holding his arms as though, with his frail frame, he could conceal the carnage.
'Silence!'
Even Wynford Wiley stopped, so suddenly that Fay almost bumped into his big blue back. The big lights stuttered again, leaving the Mayor with a momentary jagged aura of yellow and black.
'Listen to me!'
'Is he dying?' a woman demanded from the New Age quarter.
One of the men in suits said, 'Look, I'm his legal advisor and this is . . .'
'Is Max dead?'
'. . . I insist you call an ambulance.'
'Is he . . .?'
'Will . . . you . . . be . . . quiet madam!'
A new and significant Jimmy Preece, Fay saw. No longer the husk of a farmer, flat-capped, monosyllabic - 'ow're you, 'ow're you . . . Authority there now. Resonance.
'Now,' Jimmy Preece said. 'I'm not going to elaborate on this. Isn't the time. So don't none of you ask me. I'm speaking to you as your First Citizen, but I'm also speaking as a Preece and most of you'll know what I'm saying yere.'
The Mayor's eyes flickered to one side. 'For all the newcomers, I'd ask you to accept my word that . . . that we are in . . . well . . .'
He stopped. His jaw quivered.
'. . . in serious, mortal danger . . . '
He let this sink in. Fay looked around to see how they were taking it. Some of the Crybbe people looked at each other with anxiety and varying amounts of understanding.
'Serious. Mortal. Danger,' Jimmy Preece intoned again, almost to himself, looking down at his boots.
The lawyer said, 'Oh, for heaven's sake, man . . .'
'And it's more than us what's in danger. And it's more than our children and . . . and their children.'
The doctor stood up, flecks of blood on his glasses.
'No!' somebody shouted. 'Oh God, no!' And the New Age quarter erupted.
Jimmy Preece held up a hand. 'I . . .' His voice slumped. I'm sorry he's dead.'
'. . . through the oesophagus, I'd imagine,' the doctor told Col Croston quietly, but not quietly enough.
'I mean it,' the Mayor said. 'I wished 'im no harm, I only wished 'im . . . gone from yere.'
Fay glanced at Guy. His face sagged. His blond hair, disarranged, revealed a hitherto secret bald patch. Catrin Jones was several yards away, looking past him to where Larry Ember was walking up the aisle, camera on his shoulder.
'Who let you in?' Jimmy Preece said wearily, 'Switch that thing off, sir, or it'll be taken from you.' Guy turned, tapped Larry's arm and shook his head.
To the side of Guy, the Newsomes mutely held hands.
'I'm going now,' Jimmy Preece said, 'to see to the bell. I urge you all - and this is vital - to stay absolutely calm.'
'. . . come with you, Jim,' somebody said.
'No you won't. You'll stay yere. You'll all stay yere.'
'Ah, look . . .' Col Croston said, 'Mr Mayor, there's been a murder here. It's not a normal situation.'
'No, Colonel, it's not normal, and that's why nobody goes from yere till I sees to the bell. I don't say this lightly. Nobody is to leave, see. Nobody.'
'Who's to say,' Col came close to the Mayor, 'whoever did this isn't still in the room?'
'No. 'E isn't yere, Colin, you can . . .'
Wynford Wiley pleaded, 'Let me radio for assistance, Jim. Least let me do that.'
'Leave it, Wynford. You're a local man, near enough. This is not a police matter.'
'But it's a murder,' Col Croston protested.
'It's a Crybbe matter, sir!'
'Jim,' Wynford whined, 'it's more than my . . .'
'Your job? A blue vein throbbed in the Mayor's forehead. 'Your piffling little job? You'll take out your radio, Wynford Wiley, and you'll put 'im on that table.'
Wynford stood for a moment, his small features seeming to chase each other around his Edam cheese of a face. 'I can't.' He hung his head, turned away and trudged back towards the main door.
But when he reached it, he found his way barred by four large, quiet men of an unmistakably agricultural demeanour.
'Don't be a bigger fool than you look. Wynford,' said the Mayor, walking slowly down the aisle. 'Just give me that radio.'
Wynford sighed, took out the pocket radio in the black rubber case with the short rubber aerial and placed it in Jimmy Preece's bony, outstretched hand.
'It's for the best, Wynford. Now.' The Mayor turned and looked around him. 'Where's Mrs Morrison?'
Oh Christ.
'I'm here, Mr Preece.'
His deeply scored lips shambled into something that might have become a smile. 'You're not very big, Mrs Morrison, but you been stirring up a lot o' trouble, isn't it?'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
One of the men opened a door for him. Another handed him a lamp, a farmer's lambing light.
'Means I don't want you left in yere,' said Jimmy Preece 'Christ alone knows what ole rubbish you'd be spoutin'.'
He pushed her out of the door in front of him.
Outside, it was fully dark.
It was only 9.40.
Oh my God, my God. . . Oh . . .
'It's only a dead body,' Mr Preece said, 'It can't hurt you, any more than that Goff can hurt anyone now.'
'It's horrible,' Fay said. 'It's . . . perverse. You knew it was here, didn't you, like . . . like this?'
She was shaking. She couldn't help it.
'No,' said the Mayor. 'I didn't think it was gonner be like this. But it don't surprise me.'
'But, Mr Preece, it's your own grandson. How can you bear it?'
'I can bear it, 'cause I got no choice,' said Mr Preece simply. He turned the light away from the coffin and pulled her back, but she could still see the image of Jonathon showcased like a grotesque Christmas doll.
Glad the power was off. Only wished somebody would disconnect the atmosphere.
Was she imagining this, or was it Jonathon she could smell, sweet corruption, bacteria stimulated by exposure to the dense, churchy air?
'Would you mind if I waited outside?'
'You'll stay yere.'
'It's . . . I'm sorry, Mr Preece, it's the smell.'
'Aye. We should lay him flat and put the lid back on.'
Don't ask me to help. Please don't ask me to help.
'Gonner give me a hand, then?'
No . . . ! But he was taking her arm. 'We 'ave time. Ten minutes yet, see.' Guiding her into the body of the church. She held fingers over her nose.
'Mr Preece . . .'
'What?'
She took her hand away from her face. 'Why me
? Why'd you really bring me along?'
The question resounded from invisible walls and rafters.
'Just hold that.' Giving her the lambing light.
Fay stayed where she was, well back, and shone the light on the coffin, looking away.
'Closer, girl. Shine it closer.'
She felt him watching her. She moved a little closer. The smell was appalling. She imagined bloated, white maggots at work inside Jonathon Preece, although she knew that was ludicrous. Wasn't it?
Fay pushed knuckles into her mouth to stifle the rising panic.
Mr Preece was on his knees beneath the coffin, its top propped against the pulpit. 'Never get 'im back on that trolley. Lay 'im ... flat ... on the ground. All we can do.' He pushed at the coffin until it was almost upright and the body began sag and belly out, like a drunk in a shop doorway.
'Jesus, Mr Preece, he's slipping! He's going to fall out! He's going to fall on me!'
'Push him back in, girl! Put the light down.'
'I can't!'
'Do it, woman!'
She did. She touched him. She pushed his chest, felt the ruched line of the post-mortem scar. He was cold, but far from stiff now, and she remembered him on the riverbank, soaked and leaking, tongue out and the froth and his skin all crimped.
She closed her eyes and pretended the stink was coming from elsewhere, until the coffin, with its sickening cargo, was flat on the stones and Jimmy Preece was fitting the lid on. Then she was bending over a pew, retching, nothing coming up but bile, like sour, liquid terror.
'Dead, poor boy,' Jimmy Preece said.
She stood up. Wiped her mouth on her sleeve. The smell was still in the air, sweetly putrid. Would she ever get away from that smell?
Heard herself saying. 'Who was it, Mr Preece? Who did this? Who made a sideshow out of him?'
'Dead,' he said. 'Can't hurt you now, can 'e?' He came close. 'Won't hurt that dog, neither, will 'e?'
Oh no. Something had been whispering to her that it was going to be this, but she'd kept pushing it back.
'That's why you brought me, isn't it? That's why you made me touch him.'
He stood there, recovering from the exertion, his breathing like coins rattling in a biscuit tin. Max Goff stabbed to death something unspeakably vile seeping into Crybbe, but it was the death by drowning of one Jonathon Preece, young farmer of this parish . . .