by Unknown
like Frank. 'Look, Minnie, you didn't see a dog, did you? He he might have been hit, I don't know.'
'He ran off,' said Mrs Seagrove. 'He was off like the clappers, over that way.'
She pointed at the gap where the stone wall had been broken down.
'The one I mean is a black and white dog,' Powys said gently. 'Escaped from my car. Left the window open too wide. But he couldn't have been going like the clappers, he's only got three legs now. You remember, he was shot.'
'Yes, it was the same dog. Fay Morrison's dog. Joe, what going on? What's up with the bells?'
'God knows. Be nice to think it was a few of the townsfolk up in the tower, ringing every bell they've got as a sign they've finally woken up to something after a few centuries.'
He looked over his shoulder towards Crybbe Court, remembered the sparking under the eaves, like flints. Could see nothing now.
Which didn't mean a thing.
'Joe.'
'Mmm?'
'What's that?'
There was a ray of light playing among the trees on the Tump, flickering erratically.
And then a dog began to bark.
'Stay here,' Powys said.
'With him? Not likely.'
The dog was barking fiercely.
Powys watched the light moving among the trees
'Who is it, Joe?'
'I think it's one of those other people I mentioned who are even nastier than Humble.'
Mrs Seagrove said, 'You're frightened, aren't you, Joe?'
Alex had remembered who Kate Bush was now.
Dark hair and sort of slinky. Seen her on the box once, a few years ago, at young Fay's flat. Made the usual comments - if I was forty years younger, etc. - and the next day Fay had presented him with this T-shirt as a bit of a joke, and he'd become quite attached to the garment, made him feel youthful, having Kate Bush next to the skin.
Even tried to listen to the music..
Going up that hill . . . make a deal with God.
Alex was going down the hill, towards the river.
He stood on the bridge and stared down at the dark water.
'Rather funny, really,' he mused aloud to the river. 'Thought I was dead. Can you believe that?'
Always been able to talk to rivers. Sometimes they even burbled back. Not this one, this being a Crybbe river.
'Must have gone out for a breath of air, wound up in the sodding boneyard, mooning over old Grace's plot. Went for a Jimmy in the woods, came back and could've sworn I found my own body. No - honest to God -I remember tripping over something, about to fall flat on my face and it broke the fall. It wore a dog-collar. And there was blood. Got it on my hands. Fell awfully sticky
'Jolly convincing, really.'
Alex rubbed his hands together and they felt strangely stiff. He held them out and couldn't see them at all.
You're an old humbug, Alex, who was it said that? Not Grace, not Fay, not . . .
Wendy!
How could he have forgotten Wendy so soon. Only left her house . . . when? Was it tonight? Or was it last night? Or was it last week?
She said something like, Go back out there and you might start losing your marbles again. But you've got to do it, Alex. Got to go back.
Why? Why had he got to go back?
Because Wendy knows best, Wendy has cool hands.
Actually, he thought suddenly, for the first time, they're quite cold hands. And they all think they know best, don't they? The doctors, your relatives.
Suddenly Alex felt quite angry.
You start to lose your mind and everybody wants a bit. Even if you could get it back, it wouldn't be worth having. Shop-soiled. Messed about.
He said a civil goodnight to the river and began to walk back up the hill towards the square.
Deal with God. Why, after sixty years looking after His best interests, doesn't the bugger ever want to talk business with me?
The street had been quiet when he was walking down to the river; now he could hear people moving about, up over the brow of the hill, around the square.
Alex came to a house with a paraffin lamp burning in the window. He stopped and held up his hands.
They were covered with dried blood.
'Oh Lord,' Alex said, and it didn't start out as a prayer.
Frightened?
Well, how could you not be? But it was no bad thing, most of the time. The worst thing was a belief that you were in some way protected if you did what somebody else said was right. Like walking into the Humble situation because Jean Wendle had told him he needed to go back to the source.
But he always did what he was told. Max Goff: There's a place for you here - think about it.
Andy Boulton-Trow: I think Joe ought to present himself to the Earth Spirit in the time-honoured fashion.
I mean go round the Bottle Stone. Thirteen times.
Even dear old Henry Kettle: My house is to be left to you. Consider it as a token of my confidence.
Sod them all. But then he thought about Fay, with her rainbow eye.
'No,' he told Minnie Seagrove. 'I'm not frightened.'
And it's too dark to see me shaking.
He was scared, for instance, to set foot on the Tump; even Humble had said you couldn't always trust your reactions up there.
So they'd stay on the ground and, where possible, outside the wall.
He'd briefly considered taking Humble's crossbow. But he didn't know how to work it, and this was no time to learn.
That was another problem: what was he going to do about Humble? There was no way this one could be suicide or an accident. And while the police would never suspect Minnie Seagrove, they'd be hauling Joe Powys in within half an hour of the body being found. Minnie would, of course, explain the circumstances, but circumstances like these would sound more than a little suspect in court.
They began to walk around the perimeter of the Tump towards the light.
'Quietly,' Powys said. 'And slowly.'
The dog wasn't barking any more. If Andy had done anything to Arnold, he'd kill him.
OK, I'm full of shit, but I'm not going to obey instructions any more, not from you, not from Goff. And especially not from Jean.
Jean, of course - it made appalling sense - was not protecting him, she was protecting Andy, and Andy, typically, had wanted him to know that before he died.
Humble had said, I'm empowered to answer just one of your questions . . . 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.
He would trace the Wort family tree later, if he ever got out of this. Meanwhile, it had a dispiriting logic, and it cleared up a few questions about Jean that he'd never even thought to ask. The idea of an experienced barrister giving it all up to act as the unpaid, earthly intermediary for Dr Chi had never sounded too likely. Jean's professional life had been built on ambition, power and manipulation: dark magic.
But she's cured people. That can't be dark magic. What about Fay's dad?
Oh, Jesus.
'What's wrong?' Mrs Seagrove whispered.
Fay had started pulling at Jimmy Preece's clothing and slapping at his face and screaming at him through the smoke. 'Please, Mr Preece, please, you can't be . . .'
Just a sign of life, anything, a blink, a twitch. Where do you keep a pulse in a neck like an old, worn-out concertina?
'Mr Preece!'
She pulled him down from the font and he collapsed onto her, dead-weight, and she had to let him slide to the floor, managing to get both hands under his head before it hit the stone. But she could do no more because the appallingly blackened, smoke-shrouded scarecrow thing was dancing down the aisle, its clothes smouldering and its eyes, all too alight. Her own eyes weeping with the smoke, with pity for Jimmy Preece and with fear for herself, she ran through the porch and began now to wrestle with the bolts, throwing herself, coughing and sobbing against the doors.
When she was o
ut, she didn't look back, but she carried inside her head the image of the blackened monster and the scorched smell of him, knowing that if she stopped to breathe, he would be on her.
She ran gasping through the churchyard and out of the lychgate, her lungs feeling like burst balloons, the bells crashing around her like bombs. She could hear voices in the square and she ran towards them, eyes straining, looking for lights.
But the nearer she got to the square and the louder the voices became, the darker it got, as if there was not only night to contend with, but fog. She thought at first it was her eyes, damaged by the smoke, but quite soon the bells stopped and Fay began to realize there was something about the square that was unaccountably wrong.
CHAPTER XIV
First off, anybody got a torch? Yes? No?'
The bells had stopped, and the silence ought to have glistened, Col Croston thought, but it didn't. The silence after the bells was the ominous silence you could hear when the phone rang and you picked it up and there was apparently nobody on the other end but you knew there was.
It was too dark to see who was with him on the square, but he could guess. Or rather, he could guess who was not on the square i.e. anybody born and bred within the precincts of the ancient town of Crybbe.
Graham Jarrett said, 'A torch is not normally considered essential for a public meeting, even in Crybbe. Besides, even when the power's off it's not usually as dark as this.'
'No. Quite.'
The town-hall doors had been slammed and barred behind the last of them and then, minutes later, Col had watched as they were opened again, just briefly, and a bloated figure had emerged, stood grotesquely silhouetted between two men and then tumbled without a word down the six steps to the pavement.
The late Max Goff had rejoined his New Age community, we'll let him lie where he fell; somebody would have to explain this to the police and he didn't see why it had to be him.
Around the square, tiny jewels of light appeared, people striking matches. But almost as soon as a match was struck it seemed to go out, as if there was a fierce wind. Which there wasn't. Not any kind of wind.
There weren't even any lamps alight in the windows of the town houses tonight.
'OK, listen,' Col shouted. 'We need some lights. Anybody with a house near here, would they please go home and bring whatever torches or lamps or even candles they can find. I also need a telephone. Who lives closest?'
'We have a flat,' Hilary Ivory said. 'Over the Crybbe Pottery.'
Hereward Newsome said, 'There's a phone in the gallery, that'd probably be quickest.'
Good. I'll come with you. Stay where you are and keep talking, so I can find you. Mrs Ivory, if you could find your way to your flat and bring out any torches et cetera.'
'I don't think we have torches, as such. When the electricity goes out we use this rather interesting reproduction Etruscan oil lamp. Would that do?'
I'm sure it looks most attractive, but one of those heavy duty motoring lanterns with a light each end might be a little more practical.'
We haven't got a car.'
Col whistled tunelessly through his teeth.
'Colin, I'm over here.'
'Yes, OK, got you, Hereward. Now listen everybody. I don't know any more than you do what the hell's going on tonight. What I do know is that none of us should attempt to leave the scene until after the police arrive. I'm going with Hereward to his gallery to ring headquarters and acquaint them fully with the situation. Any questions?'
'Oh lots,' Graham Jarrett said dreamily. 'And I may spend the rest of my life trying to find the answers.'
'Just hurry it up,' a woman said. 'There's an awful smell.'
'I can't smell anything.'
Actually he could, but didn't want to draw attention to it. It rather smelled as if a couple of people had lost control their bowels, and, frankly, that wouldn't be too surprising under the circumstances.
'God, yes. It's vile.' Sounded like the woman who ran the craft shop. Magenta something.
'Well, obnoxious as it might be, try not to move too far away. Lead on, Hereward. Keep talking.'
'Strange,' Hereward said, 'how when anyone asks you to keep talking you can never think of anything to say . . . Good grief, Colin, she was right about that smell. It's dreadful.'
In certain periods of his SAS career, Col had been exposed long hours to various deeply unpleasant bodily odours, but he had to admit - if only to himself - this was the most sickening. It was more than simply faeces, though there was certainly that. There was also a dustbin kind of pungency and all manner of meaty smells - newly killed to faintly putrid.
'No power, and now the drains are blocked. You'll probably turn on the tap, when you get home, Hereward, and find the bloody water's off, too. I really do think it's about time I put a bomb under my esteemed colleagues on the council. Not that they can actually do anything except talk about it.'
'You can certainly count on my support. For as long as I'm here, anyway. Look, I'm sorry about what happened in there, I overreacted, I suppose.'
'Wouldn't any of us, old chap? Some of these TV types do tend to think they have a kind of droit de seigneur wherever they happen to be hanging up their ... Is it far, Hereward?'
'No, that is . . . I'm sorry, one gets disoriented in the dark, especially as dark as this. I've never known it this dark, I. . . it really should be about here, Colin. Can you feel the wall?'
'I can feel some kind of surface. Is there a timber-framed bit next to your place?'
'Actually, there is, and it goes straight from that to the large window, but . . .'
'Maybe we're on the wrong side of the square. Pretty easy to do, even when you're on what you think of as familiar ground.'
'No, I don't think ... Oh hell, I seem to be way out.'
'Isn't there a pavement in front of your gallery? Because we're still on the cobbles, you know.'
'I thought there was a pavement all around the square, actually. Shows how you . . .'
A few yards away Col heard a woman scream. 'It's gone. It's gone, I tell you, Hilary', the whole bloody front . . . All I can feel is this . . . urrrgh, it's filthy.'
'Colonel Croston, can you help us, please. It sounds terribly stupid, but Celia's lost her Pottery.'
'Look.' Col took a step back. 'Let's calm down and get this in proportion. Funny, how you live in a place for years but never quite notice what order the shops are in. Right. Between the Crybbe Pottery and The Gallery we've got the Lamb, OK, and that . . . what's it called?'
'Middle Marches Crafts,' Hereward said.
'Right. And then, after the Pottery, the road starts sloping down to the bridge and across from there, we've got the Cock. Hereward . . .' He paused, confused. 'The Cock's got its generator, hasn't it?'
'Yes, it has.'
'So why isn't it on?'
'Colin . . .' A brittle panic crumbling from Hereward's voice. 'Something's horribly wrong, don't you feel that?'
'It's all wrong . . .' Hilary's companion wailed. 'Nothing is the same.'
'If we only had light,' Col said. 'I know - cars. If someone has a car parked on the square, they can open it up and switch on the headlights, then we can see where we're at.'
'Look . . .' Hereward breathing rapidly. 'I don't want to start a panic, but there were cars parked on three sides of the square when I went into the meeting. We haven't bumped into a single one, have we?'
'Well, they can't all have been nicked. Just spread the word. We're looking for anybody with a car parked on the square. Just . . . do it, Hereward, please.'
Col walked to the side of the building, felt wood and some type of chalky plaster. And the cobbles, under his feet.
Knowing full well that the pavement around the square had been replaced two years ago, and there'd already been one there for years before that. And now there were cobbles. Again.
He steadied his breathing.
Face facts. It was true; everything was different. Road surface, buildings . . . ev
en the atmosphere itself. What would it look like . . . What would it look like if they could actually see any of it?
Mass hallucination. Col decided logically. Some kind of gas, perhaps. Why had the townsfolk refused to come out of the town hall and, indeed, locked themselves in? Because they knew what was happening, they knew it was too dangerous to go into the square.
Were the bells some form of alarm? Had somebody actually hung all the ropes for this occasion?
And why didn't the locals warn everybody else? Because they only suspected what it might be and were afraid of being laughed at?
Or because they wanted the newcomers to be exposed to it? It was insane. Any way you looked at it, it was all utterly insane.
Concentrate. Col dug the nails of his left hand into the back of his right. Just for a few moments there, completely forgot this was not, so far, the night's most appalling development, Max Goff savagely killed in front of all of them, and that was no hallucination.
Something touched his arm and, such was the state of his nerves, he almost swung round and struck out with the side of his hand.
'Colonel Croston.'
'Who's that?'
'It's Fay Morrison. Keep your voice down.'
'Mrs Morrison!'
'Christ, Colonel . . .'
'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'Where the hell's Jim? You left with him, the Mayor . . .'
'He's . . . he's in the church. Listen . . . I've been following you around for the last ten minutes. I couldn't approach you until you knew. At least . . .'
'I don't know anything, Mrs Morrison. I've never been more in the dark. Excuse the humour. It isn't felt.'
'But you know everything's changed. I heard you talking to Hereward. You realize this is not, in any sense, the Crybbe we know and love.'
'Oh, now, look . . . !'
'I'm trying to keep calm, Colonel.'
'I'm sorry. This is beyond me. Some kind of gas, I suspect.'
'Colonel. . .'
'Col.'
'Col. Forget about gas. Please listen. First of all, I think Preece is dead. Stroke, heart attack maybe, I don't know about these things. But I do know Max Goff was killed by Warren Preece, you know who I mean?'