by Unknown
'The grandson. Punkish type. Where is he?'
'He's hurt. He's badly burned. There was a fire. In the church.'
'Are you serious?'
'Yes, I know, you can't see any flames. But you can't see anything else either, can you?'
Col gripped her arm. He wanted to feel she was real.
'Please don't,' she said. 'I've got a burn.'
'I'm sorry, but this . . . Jesus.'
'Just listen. If you think this is mad, don't say anything. Just walk away and keep it to yourself.'
He tried to see her eyes, but all he could make out was the white of her face. 'OK,' he said.
'On this night,' Fay Morrison said. 'And I mean this night, this actual night, exactly four hundred years ago, a large number of people gathered in the square, where we are now, trying to decide what to do about the High Sheriff, who'd taken to hanging men and compelling their wives to have sex with him. And there were various other alleged examples of antisocial behaviour even by sixteenth-century standards that I won't go into now. But the bottom line is the people of this town decided they'd taken enough.'
He would have stopped her, he was in no mood for a long history lecture, but he supposed he'd given his word he'd listen to what she had to say.
'You can imagine the scene,' she said. 'A bit of a rabble, not exactly organized. Not much imagination, but angry and scared, too. Only finding courage in numbers, you know the kind of thing. So they march on Crybbe Court, flaming torches, the full bit. And there are a lot of them, and it really wasn't something this Sheriff would have expected. Not the border way. Keep your heads down, right? Don't make waves. But they did - for once. They made waves. They surrounded the Court and they said to the servants, men-at-arms, whatever,
"You send this bastard out or we're going to burn this place down." Maybe they set light to a barn or something to reinforce the threat, but, anyway, it was pretty clear to the Sheriff by now that he was in deep shit.'
From somewhere close to what he imagined was the centre of the square, Col could hear Graham Jarrett, the hypnotist guy, shouting, 'You're taking absolutely the wrong attitude, you know.'
'He seems to have gone into the attic,' Fay said, 'and topped himself.'
'Hear him out, will you?' a woman bawled. Sounded like that astrologer Oona Jopson, shorn head, ring through nose, who'd threatened to emasculate the doormen.
Fay said, 'What you have to remember about this particular Sheriff is that he was skilled in what I'm afraid we have to call the Black Arts. Except he thought it was science.' She paused. 'Do you want me to stop?'
'I'm not laughing,' Col said. 'Am I?'
'I'll carry on then. Before he hanged himself. Or while he was hanging himself - I mean, don't think I'm an expert on this stuff, I'm not - but, anyway, he left something of himself behind. It's called a haunting, Col. Still with me?'
'Open mind,' Col said. 'Go on.'
'It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment job. He'd been planning this for a long time. Dropped hints to his women. Expect more of the same when I'm gone.'
'Look,' Graham Jarrett was shouting, 'if you'll all just quieten down a minute, we'll do a bit of reasoning out. But I think we've been selected as participants in a wonderful, shared experience that's really at the core of what most of us have been striving for over many years.'
'And here we are . . . panicking!' the Jopson woman piped up. 'Well, I'm not panicking, I've never been so excited.'
Guy Morrison shouted, 'What about poor bloody Goff? He didn't look too excited. He looked a bit bloody dead to me.'
'Yeah, but was he?' Jopson. 'Is he? I mean, how much of that was for real? How much of what we perceive is actual reality?'
Col Croston said, 'Jesus Christ.'
'It smells so awful,' the woman from the crafts shop, which now sold mainly greetings cards, said.
'It smells awful to us, that's all. Or only to you, maybe. To me, it's a wonderful smell. It smells of reality, not as it is to us these days, with our dull senses and our tired taste-buds and our generally limited perception of everything. What we're feeling right now is the essence of this place. I mean, shit, it is . . . this is higher consciousness.'
'And is she right?' Col asked Fay Morrison in a low voice.
'What do you think?'
'I think she's nuts.'
Guy said, 'Has anybody tried just walking away from here in any direction, just carrying on walking until they find an open door or somebody with a torch or a lamp?'
'My . . .' There was the sound of some struggling. 'Give me some space.' It was Jocasta Newsome. 'My husband . . . he said he was going to get help. He's ... I can't find him.'
'Don't worry,' Graham Jarrett said. 'He'll be around. I don't think he can go anywhere, you see, I don't think anyone can. I don't think there's any light to be found.'
'I think there is, Graham,' a new voice said. A cool, dark voice. Lazy.
'Who's that? Is that Andy?'
Col Croston heard Fay Morrison inhale very sharply through her mouth.
'I think,' the dark voice said, 'that we should consider how we can find our own light.'
'Who's that?' Col whispered.
'Boulton-Trow.'
'I don't think I know him.'
'I mentioned him during the meeting. You haven't forgotten that, have you?'
'Oh,' said Col. 'That.'
Her outburst. It occurred lo Col that there was something personal at the back of this. That Fay Morrison had some old probably sexual score to settle with Boulton-Trow. Anyway, it was all rather too much for a practical man to take. He had to reassemble his wits and get to a phone.
'Well, thank you, Mrs Morrison,' Col said. 'You've given me a lot of food for thought.'
'Col, it has to be food for action, or something unbelievably awful's going to happen.'
'Look,' Col said 'I'll come back to you, OK?'
'No, don't go . . .'
But he'd gone
'Oh, please. Fay Morrison breathed into the foul-smelling dark. 'Please . . .'
CHAPTER XV
The dog was in a pool of light on the side of the Tump where the grass looked almost white, and the dog was barking nonstop.
'Wait,' Joe Powys whispered to Minnie Seagrove. 'Don't go any closer. Stay out of the light.'
He moved quietly around the base of the Tump to see what was happening, who it was. Don't look at me, Arnold. I'm not here. Ignore me.
There was a single spotlight directed at the mound from the field, on the side facing the road, the side from which Henry Kettle had come on his last ride in his clapped-out old Volkswagen Variant.
The light went out. The dog stopped barking.
Powys waited.
He heard a vehicle door slam. Moved closer. Saw a match flare and then the red glow on the end of a cigarette.
'Well,' a voice said, 'you buggered yourself yere all right, boy.'
'Gomer! Mrs Seagrove had appeared at Powys's side. 'It's Gomer Parry!'
'Oh Christ,' they heard, and an orange firefly crash-landed in the field.
'Gomer. It's Minnie Seagrove. You replaced my drains.'
'Flaming hell, woman, what you tryin' to do, scare the life out of me? Ruddy dog was bad enough. Hang on a second.'
Two small lights appeared in the front of what proved to be a tractor with an unwieldy digger contraption overhanging the cab. Powys had last seen it parked in the square.
He whispered, 'Ask him if he's alone.'
'Course I'm bloody alone. Who you got there with you, Mrs Seagrove?'
'It's a friend of mine.'
'Choose some places to bring your boyfriends, all I can say.'
'You mind your manners, Gomer Parry. We're coming down.'
He was scrabbling in the grass when they reached him. 'Dropped my ciggy somewhere.' The digger's sidelights were reflected in his glasses. 'Sod it, won't set a fire, grass is bloody wet.' He peered at Powys. I seen you before, isn't it? You was with that radio lady, Mrs Morris, hour or so
ago. Get yourself about, don't you, boy?'
'Gomer!' Mrs Seagrove snapped.
'Aye, all right. Nice lady, that Mrs Morris. Very nice indeed.'
'Pardon me for asking, Mr Parry,' Powys sad, deadpan, but somebody wouldn't by any chance be paying you to take out the rest of the wall?'
'Now just a minute! You wanner watch what you're saying, my friend.'
'Only it's, er, kind of outside normal working hours.'
'Aye, well,' said Gomer Parry. 'Bit of an accident, like. Got a bit confused, what with the ole power bein' off, no streetlights, and I come clean off the road. Dunno what come over me. I never done nothin' like that before, see, never.'
'Don't worry about it,' Powys said. 'Not as if you're the first.'
'What's that?' said Gomer, suspicious. 'Oh, bugger me . . .'Enry Kettle! Is this where 'Enry Kettle . . . ?'
'You knew Henry?'
'Course I knew 'im. 'Enry Kettle, oh hell, aye. Wells, see. Wells. 'E'd find 'em, I'd dig 'em. Talk about a tragic loss. Friend o' yours too, was 'e?'
He nodded and put out his hand. 'Joe Powys.'
Gomer shook it. 'Gomer Parry Plant Hire.'
Powys did some rapid thinking. Gomer had gone off the road, probably at the same spot as Henry. And yet Gomer had survived.
'What happened? When you came off the road?'
'Bloody strange,' Gomer said. 'Thought I muster been pissed, like - sorry Mrs S - but I'd only 'ad a couple, see. Anyway. it was just like I'd blacked out and come round in the bloody field . . . only I never did. And then it was like . . . well, it was like goin' downhill with a hell of a strong wind up your arse - sorry, Mrs . . .'
'You see anything?'
'Oh, er . . .' Gomer scratched his face. 'Got in a bit of a panic, like, tell the truth. See all sortser things, isn't it? Thought I'd seen a feller one second, up there, top o' the Tump, 'mong the ole trees, like, but nat'rally I was more bothered 'bout not turnin' the ole digger over, see. Best one I got this. Customized, fixed 'im myself, big David Brown tractor an' half of this ole JCB I got off my mate over Llandod way. Bloody cracker, this ole thing. Managed to stop 'im 'fore I reached the ole wall - if 'e 'ad gone into it, I'd've been pretty bloody sore about it, I can tell you.'
'Word has it,' said Powys, 'that you were pretty bloody sore when somebody borrowed your bulldozer.'
'Don't you talk to me 'bout that!' said Gomer in disgust. 'Bloody vandals.'
'You were warned off, weren't you? You could've had this wall down no problem, but they warned you off.'
"Ow'd you know that?' demanded Gomer.
'Made sense.'
'Oh aye? You know anythin' else makes sense?'
'Going back to this figure on the top of the Tump. Where exactly were you when you saw him?'
'You're askin' a lot o' questions. Mister. You with the radio, too?' Although he didn't sound as if he'd mind if this were the case. 'No, see, I said I thought I seen 'im. 'E was prob'ly another tree with the light catchin' 'im funny, like.'
'Your headlights are that powerful, that you could see a man standing on top of the Tump when you're coming down and the lights are pointing down?'
'Light. Only got one 'eadlight workin', Joe.'
'So when you said a tree caught in the light . . .'
'Aye,' Gomer said thoughtfully. 'You're right. Not possible, is it? See, I'll tell you what it was like. You know kids when they gets a torch and they wants to frighten other kids and flashes it under their chin and their face lights up really well, on account of half it's in shadow. Well, it was like that, only it was like his whole body was lit up that way. Scary. Only I'm strugglin' with the wheel, I thinks, get off, it's only an tree.'
Minnie Seagrove looked at Powys. 'I used to think like that when I first saw the Hound. You do. You look for explanations, sort of thing.'
'The hound?' said Gomer.
Arnold began to bark.
'Right,' said Gomer, opening the door of the cab. 'If there's anybody else up there I'm gonner bloody find out this time.'
The single headlight spotlit the Tump again, and Powys watched as Arnold ran into the white circle.
Ran. Arnold ran into the light.
He'd lost a leg just a few days ago, and he was running.
Was this Arnold?
'Arnold!' Powys shouted. 'Come on!'
The dog trotted down to the foot of the mound and ambled across. Powys bent down and the dog snuffled up at him and licked his hands. Gently, Powys slid one hand underneath, he could actually feel the stitching.
Arnold squirmed free and made off, back across the field towards the Tump, looking back at Powys every few yards and barking.
'He's found something,' Minnie Seagrove said. 'He wants to show you something.'
I can't believe this, Powys thought. This is seriously weird. He isn't even limping.
Arnold's tail started to wave when he saw Powys was following him. He ran a few yards up the side of the Tump and then sat down.
He sat down.
The dog with only one back leg sat down.
Arnold barked. He turned around and put his nose into the side of the Tump and snuffled about. Then he turned round again and started to bark at Powys.
Powys thought - the words springing into his mind in Henry Kettle's voice - he's a dowser's dog.
He wandered back to the digger, rubbing his forehead. 'Gomer, what are the chances of you doing a spot of excavation?'
'What?' Gomer said, in there?'
'Be a public service,' Powys said. 'That Tump's a liability. If it wasn't for that Tump, Henry Kettle would be alive today and locating wells.'
'Protected Ancient Monument, though, isn't it?' Gomer said. 'That's an offence, unauthorized excavation of a Protected Ancient Monument.'
'Certainly is,' said Powys.
'That's all right, then,' said Gomer, glasses twinkling. 'Where you want the 'ole?'
CHAPTER XVI
The acoustic in the square was tight and intimate, like a studio, and the voice was deep and resonant: strong and melancholy music. Wonderful broadcasting voice, Fay thought, trying to be cynical. Radio Three, FM.
'When you think about it,' the voice said, 'any town centre's an intensely powerful place; it's where energy gathers from all directions, thoughts and feelings pouring in. It's where we go to tap into a town, to feel its life rhythm.'
Pure radio, Fay thought. The purest radio of all, because we can't see anything. No distractions. He can design his pictures in our minds.
'The town centre is where the centuries are stored,' Andy said. 'Smell them. Smell the centuries.'
All I can smell, Fay thought, is shit. Four hundred years of shit. And all I can hear is bullshit. Had to keep telling herself that. This was Andy Boulton-Trow, of Bottle Stone farm. Descendant of Sheriff Wort, scourge of Crybbe, black magician, the most hated man in . . .
'What you can smell,' Andy Boulton-Trow said (and she felt, most uncomfortably, that he was speaking directly to her), 'is many centuries of human life. There haven't always been sewerage systems and hot water and fresh vegetables. This town lived on the border of two often hostile countries, and it had to live within itself. It ground its own flour, killed its own meat and kept its own counsel.'
He paused. 'And its secrets. It kept its secrets.'
Fay thought, drab secrets densely woven into a faded, dim old tapestry.
Boulton-Trow's voice was the only sound in the square. The only sound in the world - for this square was the world. None of them could leave it, except - perhaps - by dying.
Should have been a terrifying thought. Wasn't.
She couldn't remember, for the moment, quite what he looked like, this Boulton-Trow. Only that he was tall and dark and bearded. Like Christ; that was how people saw Him.
But she couldn't see Boulton-Trow. She couldn't see anybody. You'd have thought your eyes would have adjusted by now, so that you'd be able to make our at least the shapes of men and women. But unless they were very close to you, you c
ould see nothing. This darkness was unnatural.
Not, however, to Andy. She could feel that. He knew his way around the darkness. If anybody could lead them out of here it would be him, and that would be comforting to these people.
Perhaps it was comforting to her.
But there was no immediate comfort in Andy's message.
'And now you come here, and you want Crybbe to give up its secrets to you. To lay open its soul to you. You want to feel its spirit inside you. Isn't that right?'
'We want to help it rediscover its own spirit,' someone said 'Surely that's what this is about, this experiment.'
'This experiment.' Andy laughed. 'And who's the subject of this experiment? Is it Crybbe? Or is it us? Maybe we're here to let the town experiment on us. It's an interesting idea, isn't it? Maybe Crybbe can work its own alchemy if you're prepared to put yourselves into the crucible. Perhaps what you're experiencing now is a taster. Can you handle this? Are you strong enough?'
Talk about a captive audience. Fay thought. It was an uneasy thought. She was a captive, too. Would she not also go along with anything this man suggested if he could lead her out of here, back into where there were lights.
'Sense of place,' Andy said. 'You want to feel that sense of place that finds an echo in your own hearts. You want to belong. You want to lay yourself down in a field on a summer's evening and you want the mysteries to come to you, whispered in your ears, drifting on the air and smelling of honeysuckle.'
'Yes,' a woman said faintly. 'Yes.'
Andy paused and the night held its breath.
Thai's not how it works,' he said. 'You know that really, don't you? This is how it works. This is Sense of Place. Feel it. Smell it. Secrets come out like babies, writhing and covered in blood and slime. And all of us genteel New Age people, we turn up our noses and we start to scream. Let me out of here! I can't bear it! Give me my picturesque half-timbered cottage and my chintzy sofa and my books. Give me my incense and my crystals and my immersion tank. Give me my illusions back. Yeah?'
Nobody spoke.
'I can't give you your illusions back,' Andy said gently.
The silence was total.