by Phil Rickman
Layla stood up, lifted up the chalice, sniffed the contents and put it back. Whatever Eirion thought, Jane’s feeling was that this was the absolute unvarnished truth, as Layla saw it.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I just marvelled, Jane. I just wanted to understand. The complete injustice of it. I wanted to understand how come this obnoxious little—I’m going, “How long’s this been happening to you? You had experiences like this before? You must have!” She’s like “What d’you mean?” ’
‘Did that mean she hadn’t? Or she just didn’t understand what you were talking about?’
‘I still don’t know for sure. What I felt – feel – is that she hadn’t, or wasn’t aware of having had any serious psychic experience. Quite often it’s something that doesn’t happen until puberty. But also she’d been brought up in this strict religious household, with the fear of the Devil and all this stuff hanging over her, and the Bible on the bedside table. She was surrounded by this big, white wall of sterile, puritanical—You know what I mean?’
‘Yeah,’ Jane said, excited now. ‘You kind of dislodged that. You knew about her past, you did the ouija thing, you pushed out the block. It all came flooding out, and not only these awful suppressed memories, but the whole—’
‘The whole wall collapsed.’ Layla nodded. ‘The wall her parents – the Shelbones – had thrown up around her, maybe thinking they were protecting her, I don’t know, but I think more likely they were just making sure she was theirs. I’ve read about this loads of times – often people’s psychic side gets awoken by some trauma. Like it could be physical, a bump on the head – or, in this case, something deeply emotional.’
‘Like you suddenly find out what your dad did to your mum.’
‘No, Jane, you remember what your dad did to your mum, ’cause you were there and you saw it all.’
‘This is incredible stuff,’ Jane said.
‘Let’s not…’ Eirion walked off into what she could now see was an aisle between, not rows of pews, but stalls and mangers. ‘Let’s not get carried away, ladies.’
‘Doesn’t this move you at all, Irene?’
‘It makes me a little scared, if you want the truth. But then I come from a stiff, puritanical, religious—’
‘But not so much any more.’
‘No,’ he said, as if this was a cause for regret. ‘Not so much any more.’
‘So where do things stand now?’ Jane said to Layla.
‘You tell me. It’s all out now. The Shelbones are on the rampage. I suppose the police’ll be out looking for the kid. I mean, I was excited, sure, but I also felt responsible for her – still do, obviously. A person I don’t even like. But it was me that broke her through, trying to help Allan. Does that matter now? Seems so trivial: money, again. He’ll go on piling it up, and then he’ll die.’
‘And you were going to meet her tonight,’ Eirion said. ‘Here?’
‘I’ve already said. We were both excited. Hyped up for the full moon. Look, it’s started to run away with itself. Bit like me when I first found out about my dad. Changed my whole world. She’s been rejecting the Shelbones’ church for a while – which is OK. Except she needs something to replace it and what’s been replacing it is her.’
‘Justine,’ Jane said. Her own voice sounded hollow.
‘Justine was real, God wasn’t. I think she thought that tonight she was actually going to see—It nearly happened before… I would swear, it nearly happened.’
‘What?’ But Jane was not sure she wanted to know.
‘It was just a haze, a mist – a fine, grey mist. But it was coming.’
‘Justine.’ Jane was shivering inside the fleece.
‘I think.’ It was as if the cold was even getting to Layla now, she was hugging herself. ‘You want the truth, I’m not sure how much I like Justine.’ She looked up, towards the ventilation slit. ‘Why doesn’t the bloody kid come back? She can’t think I’ve deserted her, just because I was late. Sometimes you could almost believe the stupid Shelbones were her parents.’
‘I think we should call the police,’ Eirion said. ‘If she’s wandering the streets of Hereford… Well, it’s not the genteel country town it might once have been, is it?’
‘Christ, no,’ Layla said. ‘Junkies out there, muggers, violent people – like Amy’s dad. Yeah, give it a few minutes, then call the police. Maybe it’s working out for the best, after all. Maybe it’s better if she does go back into care. Maybe I let a bloody monster loose.’
‘Justine?’ That name had a disturbing symmetrical sound for Jane now. She had to keep saying it.
Layla looked up at the Black Virgin. ‘I lied about this lady. She’s my protection – nothing to do with Amy. I always felt this affinity with Sara. The patron saint of gypsies. But more than that, like I said: as long as she’s up there, watching over me, I feel protected – against whatever Justine turns out to be.’
‘More than I do,’ Jane confessed. Not that it was hard confessing anything to Layla Riddock any more. It was as if, in these past few minutes, she’d shed some age, was far closer in years to Jane. ‘Look, I’m sorry, you know? I got this badly wrong.’
Layla patted Jane’s arm. ‘We’ve all got this wrong at some stage.’
Eirion watched them from a few yards away. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is something I find moving. I’ll go out to the car and ring the police. Where…?’
‘Follow the aisle and you’ll find a wooden door at the end. It’s barred on this side. Hang on, take a candle with you.’
Layla walked back to the flickering altar, where the grotesque but evidently benevolent Black Virgin hung above it in her white robe.
As she reached the altar, the Black Virgin fell, with a slithering sound, down from the screen, in front of the candles. ‘Oh God.’ Jane rushed back down the aisle. ‘She’ll catch light.’
The Black Virgin rose up to meet her, its white arms flapping, which was kind of spooky, but Jane laughed and brushed the cotton robe aside, and then Layla fell into her arms.
‘Oh Jesus!’ Eirion cried out.
Layla was coughing. Jane was aware of movement to her left, but she was too intent on staying upright because Layla was pretty heavy, a big girl. Jane staggered back into the aisle under her weight, her arms wrapped around Layla, who just kept coughing. Jane’s chin and neck were hot and wet now with what Layla was coughing up – vomit or bile. Oh, gross.
It was when she became aware of the salty, coppery tang that Jane’s arms sprang apart in true horror.
One of the candles did set light to the robe of Sara, the patron saint of the Romanies. Jane saw the flames suddenly leap. And then, in their light, she saw the girl with straight, blonde hair in a white dress – it looked like a confirmation dress – standing on the altar with the carving knife held high and dripping.
Then Amy Shelbone leaped down from the altar and ran jerkily up the aisle and, as Jane stood there, with Layla’s lifeblood on her throat and chest, Amy also stabbed Eirion.
Part Four
The healer’s role will lie not only in rescuing a lost soul but also in experiencing that soul’s misery and pain, thereby ‘capturing’ the curse or spell responsible for keeping the dead person out of the grave.
Patrick Jasper Lee: We Borrow The Earth
The spirit of the deceased person is addressed in terms of love and consolation in which the eternal forgiveness of God is emphasized.
Martin Israel: Exorcism
Church of England
Diocese of Hereford
Ministry of Deliverance
email: [email protected]
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Home Page
Hauntings
Possession
Cults
Psychic Abuse
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Contacts
If you are in trouble, any Christian priest will be very willing to help you.
However, in all denominations, att
itudes towards the treatment of spirtual problems will always differ and, as with any other form of healing service on offer, you should never be afraid to ask for a second opinion.
43
Retribution
WHEN THEY FINALLY made it home, the dawn was bleeding freely over Ledwardine. Less than half an hour after going to her own bed, Jane appeared in Merrily’s bedroom doorway.
It was 6.08 a.m. The sun was well up now. It was already, somehow, humid and airless.
‘Cold,’ Jane said and slipped into bed beside Merrily.
Eventually, Merrily slept for almost an hour, though it felt like four minutes. All the time, the phone was ringing downstairs. Or so it seemed.
At just after seven a.m., she rose quietly. Jane was still sleeping.
Merrily prayed, in a desultory way, had a quick, lukewarm shower. All the stored hot water had fallen on Jane not so very long ago. Jane hadn’t wanted to come out of the shower. Ever.
In towelling robe and slippers, Merrily went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The phone was ringing again. She didn’t react to it.
She put out both wet and dry food for Ethel the cat. She made herself some tea. Outside, it was as sunny as it had been yesterday morning and the morning before. This would be the last day of the mini-heatwave, someone had said. More little yellow-green apples had fallen to the ochre lawn.
Merrily felt like the world was in colour and she was in black and white and grey.
She felt like a ghost.
In the scullery/office, she sat down in the usual sunbeam with her tea. The phone was still ringing. There were twenty-five messages on the answering machine, which meant that the tape was full.
Merrily unplugged the phone and forced herself to play every one.
There were calls from papers and radio stations she’d never even heard of.
There was a call from a woman, who even gave her name. Mrs Fry said Merrily was a smug, ambitious little bitch who deserved everything she had coming to her. Merrily didn’t recognize the voice.
There was a call from someone, a man, who just sniggered and hung up. It was a vaguely familiar snigger, quite possibly a church organist who had once exposed himself to her over a tombstone. Stock’s death had been announced too late for most of the papers; the sniggerer, like Mrs Fry, whoever she was, had probably been inspired by something on the radio or breakfast TV. What did it matter now?
A call from Dafydd Sion Lewis, in Pembrokeshire, began without preamble. ‘Mrs Watkins, I consider myself a liberal parent and what my son does in his own time is, for the most part, his own business. However—’
Merrily had already spoken to Dafydd Sion Lewis, awakening him at three-thirty a.m., because she didn’t want the police to call him first.
The only useful message was from DS Andy Mumford at Hereford. ‘Mrs Watkins, thought you’d want to know we found Amy Shelbone wandering near Clehonger, couple of miles from the Barnchurch estate. We’ll be talking to her properly today. And if we could see Jane again, that would be useful. Oh… we still haven’t found the knife, but we’re searching.’
There were several calls she had to make. She plugged in the phone and picked it up.
A man’s voice said, ‘Hello…’
Damn. How could that happen?
‘Is that Merrily Watkins?’
Yes, she said. The word didn’t come out. ‘Yes.’
She decided, at that moment, that whichever paper this was she would answer whatever questions were put to her and she would tell the entire truth. This would save a lot of time and in no way alter the final verdict.
‘This is Simon St John at Knight’s Frome.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, I’m very sorry to bother you so early. I was going to leave a message on your machine, actually. I understand from Lol that you’ve had a stressful night, so you may not want to be involved in this. It’s just that I’ve been talking to the Boswells.’
‘Oh.’
‘And we… decided that something needed to be done.’
‘In relation to?’
‘In relation to a particular area of ground and the building on its perimeter.’
‘Pardon me,’ Merrily said, ‘but weren’t you invited to attend to this particular problem a while ago? Approximately two deaths ago, in fact.’
She waited for him to hang up, the way he’d done with Lol.
‘I can understand your bitterness,’ he said at last.
‘Wouldn’t call it that, exactly. I really admire your ability to tell people with problems exactly where they can shove them. I think it’s an enviable quality in a clergyman.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you do feel inclined to help, we’ll be meeting at the Hop Museum between ten and ten-thirty.’
‘Tonight?’
‘This morning. It has to be done at noon.’
‘What does?
‘Al and I agreed this seems to require a more… customized procedure. There’s a traditional Romany form of exorcism. I believe they have a word or phrase meaning soul-retrieval, but I’m buggered if I can remember it.’
A shadow fell across the desk. She turned in her chair. Eirion stood there. ‘Oh.’ He backed away. ‘I didn’t… sorry.’
She waved to Eirion that it was OK. ‘It’s all a bit of a rush, isn’t it?’ she said to Simon St John.
‘Well, it…’ She picked up either crackle on the line or some agitation. ‘Al’s in a state. A bad way. And I suppose I’m—’
‘What time did you say?’
‘Midday.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it has to be. Al will explain. We were planning to meet as soon after ten as possible.’
‘I don’t know if I can make that.’
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I just… thank you for your—’
And now he did hang up.
Lol grabbed the ringing phone, hoping it was Merrily. He’d given up trying to call her at the vicarage. Last night/this morning, he’d forgotten to ask for her mobile number. He hadn’t been to bed. He was rediscovering, on the far shores of fatigue, a state of heightened consciousness produced by a cocktail of body chemicals that he suspected was only rarely mixed. It happened sometimes after a whole night in the studio. Afterwards, the hangover would be awesome, but right now he was floating on a luminous pool of awareness.
‘Good morning, Laurence,’ Frannie Bliss said briskly. ‘You’re up then. Gorra pen?’
‘Not on me.’
‘Good. Don’t get one.’ There was the unmuffled sound of main-road traffic; Bliss was clearly outside, on a mobile. ‘Some night, then, in the end, eh? Quite a few added complications to this Shelbone business, sounds like. What’s Merrily’s take on it?’
‘Haven’t spoken to her for a few hours.’
‘Never mind, not my case anyway. Let’s leave that alone; time’s short. I got in early this morning, couldn’t sleep – bloody full moon. And I was thinking about what you were saying, about Mrs Stock. So I had another look in Stock’s computer – we brought his computer in; fascinating, all the things a computer’ll tell you about its owner. I got into his Internet files – you click on “history” and the computer very kindly tells yer all the Web sites Stock and his missus have been into the last months or so. Now, what was the general subject that most interested one or the other or both of them over the past few weeks?’
‘Gypsies?’
‘You’re on the ball this morning, son. Aye, there’s about ten files on the general subject of gypsies. Which I already knew about, of course – and no big mystery there because that was Mr Ash’s main interest, too. But I did begin to detect another element coming through. Either Stock or Mrs Stock was going back to the same sites, following up particular angles. Gypsies and Death was a popular one, gypsy death rituals and gypsy ghosts and evil spirits.’
‘The mulo?’
‘Exactly. The living dead. You wouldn’t want one, would you? The female version might be all right at fir
st, but she’d start to wear yer out after a while. Couldn’t keep up, could you. Go bloody mad.’
‘Especially if you were already having problems down there.’
‘Precisely. Now – what would you do to get rid of it? Several suggestions came up on this one particular Web site – you could drive steel or iron needles into the heart of the corpse, or a hawthorn stake through one of its legs. Or you could simply… chop its head off. Isn’t that interesting?’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Lol said soberly.
‘Course, this is corpses, and I think we can assume Mrs Stock was not one of the walking dead. But then if, as you suggest, the normally rational Gerard had come to believe his wife had been taken over by one of these things, and if she was making demands on him he was failing to satisfy – and if he’d got in an exorcist to sort her out…’
‘And if, the minute the exorcist had left the premises, Stephanie appeared to be unaffected or even…’
‘Go on.’
Perhaps even perversely stimulated by it, Lol thought.
‘Maybe prayers focused on helping Stewart Ash didn’t quite hit the spot,’ he said. ‘But how was Merrily to know that?’
‘How indeed? Because Stock wasn’t telling the truth, was he?’
‘Why break the habit of a lifetime? You going to tell Howe about this?’
‘Not yet. Anyway, it might not have the desired effect coming from me. She’s the governor, she decides what line we take. She could tell me to leave the gypsy stuff alone, and that’s me silenced.’
‘Would she?’
‘She might. But let’s talk about the disappearance of this gypsy girl in the autumn of sixty-three and the recent murder of Stewart Ash. What’s the connecting factor between these two events?’
‘There is one?’
