Friends of the Dusk

by Phil Rickman

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Didn’t move. It was night. No moon. Didn’t want to put my foot down the hole in the floor, where I’d taken a couple of boards out. Kept still. There’s a quality of quite impenetrable darkness you get in some old houses.’

  ‘Like now?’

  ‘Darker. Much. It was night-time, getting on for midnight, and I’d switched off the landing lights.’

  ‘Where was Mrs Kellow?’

  ‘In the kitchen, I suppose. You don’t know where other people are in this house. Sound doesn’t carry the way you expect it to. Sometimes, you’re on your own and nobody, as they say, can hear you scream, which…’ He paused. ‘… which I did.’

  ‘Screamed?’

  ’˙ʎɐp ǝuo pǝxıɟ ʇı ʇǝƃ p’ǝʍ ƃuıʎɐs sʎɐʍlɐ‘ ˙pıɐs sıuuǝp ’'sɹɐǝʎ ǝǝɹɥʇ ɹǝʌo uı pǝɯıɥɔ pɐɥ ʞɔolɔ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯıʇ ʇsɹıɟ‘

  ¿ǝɔuǝloıʌ ɟo ʇɔɐ uɐ ʇou ɟı 'pɐǝɥ ɹǝɥ uı ʎlʇɟos ƃuıʎɐs sɐʍ ʍollǝʞ ʎǝsɐɔ 'ʇı sı ʇɐɥʍ ˙uǝdo ƃuɐɹds sɹǝddod ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ pɹɐɥ os 'ʇǝʞɔɐɾ ɹǝɥ ɟo sʇǝʞɔod ǝpıs ǝɥʇ oʇuı uʍop ƃuıƃunld spuɐɥ ɹǝɥ punoɟ ʎlıɹɹǝɯ

  ’˙pɹoʍ s’ʎǝsɐɔ‘ ˙ʇsıɟ ɐ oʇuı pǝɥƃnoɔ ǝɥ ’˙”ʇuɐɥdɯnıɹʇ“ puɐ pnol ˙pǝɯǝǝs ʇı os ɹo ˙ʞɔolɔ ɥɔɹnɥɔ ɐ sɐ pnol ˙ƃuıɯıɥɔ ˙llɐɥ ǝɥʇ uı uʍop ʞɔolɔ ǝsɐɔƃuol ǝɥʇ s’ʇı ˙sɹıɐʇs ǝɥʇ ɟo ɯoʇʇoq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎldǝɹ ɐ s’ǝɹǝɥʇ ɹoolɟ ǝɥʇ oʇ ʇı ƃuıʞɔouʞ ʎq ʇı sdoʇs ǝɥs uǝɥʍ ˙ɟɟo ƃuıoƃ ʎluǝppns s’ʞɔolɔ ɯɹɐlɐ ǝɥʇ 'ƃuıpuɐʇs ɯ’ı ǝɹǝɥʍ oʇ ʇxǝu ǝƃpǝl ʍopuıʍ ǝɥʇ uo 'ʇɐɥʇ sʎɐs ǝɥs ʇnq 'ʇı ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ʇ’uɐɔ ı ˙noʎ llǝʇ plnoʍ ʎǝsɐɔ ʇıq ǝɥʇ s’ǝɹǝɥ os‘ ˙pıɐs sıuuǝp ’'dn uɹnʇ sɔıpǝɯɐɹɐd ǝɥʇ llıʇ ƃuıɥʇʎuɐ ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ʇ’uop ı‘

  ˙ǝuoʇsɥɔnoʇ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd ǝq oʇ ƃuıoƃ ɹǝʌǝu sɐʍ ʇı ˙llɐ ʇɐ ʎɹoʇs sıɥʇ ǝʞıl ʇ’upıp ǝɥs ˙ǝɔɐlduoɯɯoɔ ʇsoɯlɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ snouıɯnu ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɥɔʇıʍs ǝɥʇ 'ʎɐʍ lɐɹǝɔsıʌ ɐ uı ƃuıqɹnʇsıp sɐʍ ʇı ˙pǝɹǝppnɥs ʎlıɹɹǝɯ

  ’˙pɐǝɥ ʎɯ ɟo ʇɹɐd lǝǝɟ ʇ’uop ı ɹǝɥ llǝʇ oʇ ǝʌɐɥ ı puɐ ”¿ʇɥƃıɹ llɐ noʎ ǝɹɐ“ 'ƃuıʎɐs s’ǝɥs puɐ 'ǝɯ oʇ ʇxǝu ʎllɐnʇɔɐ s’ǝɥs ʇnq ǝɯ puıɥǝq ʎɐʍ ƃuol ɐ ǝʞıl spunos ʇɐɥʍ ɯoɹɟ ʎǝsɐɔ ɹɐǝɥ uɐɔ ı ˙ǝɹǝɥʇ ƃuıpuɐʇs ɯ’ı ƃuol ʍoɥ ʍouʞ ʇ’uop ı ˙ǝuoʇs ǝɥʇ ɟɟo ƃuıɔuɐlƃ s’ʇɥƃıluooɯ ǝɥʇ 'ǝlʇsɐɔ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʎǝllɐʌ ǝɥʇ ssoɹɔɐ ƃuızɐƃ ɯ’ı 'ʇɥƃıu ʇıluooɯ ˙ʍopuıʍ ɯooɹpǝq ǝlʇʇıl ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ƃuıpuɐʇs ɯ’ı 'ɯooɹɥʇɐq ǝɥʇ uı s’ʎǝsɐɔ ˙pǝq ɹoɟ ʎpɐǝɹ ƃuıʇʇǝƃ sɹıɐʇsdn ǝɹ’ǝʍ 'sʇnoqɐǝɹǝɥʇ ɹo ǝɯıʇ ǝɯɐs 'ɹǝʇɐl ʞǝǝʍ ɐ ˙ʇ’uop ı ɟı noʎ llǝʇ llıʍ ʎǝsɐɔ ʇɐɥʍ sı ʇxǝu noʎ ƃuıllǝʇ ɯ’ı ʇɐɥʍ 'uǝʇsıl ˙ǝsɹoʍ s’ʇɐɥʇ ˙ʎllɐuoıʇoɯǝ‘

  ’¿ʎllɐɔısʎɥd‘

  ˙pıɐs ǝɥ ’'ʞɔıs‘

  ˙pǝʇıɐʍ ǝɥs

  ’˙ʍouʞ ʇ’uop ı …ʇlǝɟ ı‘

  ’˙sʇuǝɯoɯ ǝsoɥʇ uı ˙ǝɯıʇ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ¿lǝǝɟ noʎ pıp ʍoɥ ˙sıuuǝp 'ɹoʇɔop ɐ ʇou ɯ’ı 'llǝɥ …snolɐɯouɐ ʎlƃuıʞɔoɥs ƃuıɥʇǝɯos ʎq pǝɔuɐlɐqun ǝɹɐ suoıʇoɯǝ puɐ puıɯ ɹnoʎ uǝɥʍ ˙ǝʇɐʇs lɐɔısʎɥd ɹnoʎ ʇɔǝɟɟɐ uɐɔ sǝʇɐʇs lɐʇuǝɯ‘

  ’˙ɯɹɐɥ noʎ ǝsnɐɔ plnoɔ ʎǝɥʇ ʞuıɥʇ ʇ’upıp ı ˙uǝddɐɥ sƃuıɥʇ ʇdǝɔɔɐ ı ˙sɹɐǝʎ ʎʇɹoɟ ɹǝʌo ɹoɟ sǝsnoɥ plo uı ƃuıʞɹoʍ uǝǝq ˙uǝddɐɥ sƃuıɥʇ ǝsǝɥʇ ʎɐs oʇ uɐɥʇ ɹǝɥʇo‘ ˙pıɐs sıuuǝp ’'sıɥʇ uıɐldxǝ ʇ’uɐɔ‘

  ˙ǝʌıʇɐuɹǝʇlɐ ǝɥʇ uɐɥʇ pǝɥɔʇǝɟ-ɹɐɟ ǝɹoɯ ɥɔnɯ os ʎllɐnsn ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ 'suoıʇɐuɐldxǝ lɐuoıʇɐɹ ɥʇıʍ ɯǝlqoɹd

  ¿ʇı ƃuıʞɐǝɹq ʇnoɥʇıʍ 'ʎɐʍʎuɐ 'ʞɔolɔ ɐ doʇs noʎ op ʍoɥ puɐ ¿ǝɥs plnoʍ ʎɥʍ

  ˙sʞɔolɔ ǝɥʇ pǝddoʇs ʎǝsɐɔ :suıʞʍɐp ǝɥʇ op 'ʞo

  ’˙ʇɥƃıɹ‘

  ’˙uıɐƃɐ ǝɯıʇ ǝɯɐs ˙ɹǝʇɐl ɯooɹpǝq ǝɥʇ uı ǝuo ǝɥʇ punoɟ ǝʍ ˙ǝɯıʇ ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ ʎlʇɔɐxǝ ʇɐ pǝddoʇs ǝɹǝʍ ǝuo ʇɐɥʇ ɟo spuɐɥ ǝɥʇ puɐ llɐɥ ǝɥʇ oʇuı ʇuǝʍ ǝɥs 'pǝddoʇs pɐɥ ʞɔolɔ uǝɥɔʇıʞ ǝɥʇ pǝzılɐǝɹ ǝɥs uǝɥʍ ˙uǝɥɔʇıʞ ǝɥʇ uı ʞɔolɔ pǝɹǝʍod-ʎɹǝʇʇɐq ɐ puɐ ɯooɹpǝq ǝɥʇ uı ɯɹɐlɐ dn-puıʍ lɐʇǝɯ plo uɐ 'sɹıɐʇs ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇooɟ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʞɔolɔ ǝsɐɔƃuol ɯnlnpuǝd ǝnbıʇuɐ uɐ‘ ˙pıɐs ǝɥ ’'sʞɔolɔ ƃuıʞɹoʍ ǝǝɹɥʇ pɐɥ ǝʍ‘

  ˙dn ʇɐs ʎlıɹɹǝɯ

  ’”¿pǝddoʇs sʞɔolɔ pǝuɯɐp ǝɥʇ llɐ ǝʌɐɥ ʎɥʍ“ ˙sɹıɐʇs lɐɹıds ǝɥʇ ɟo ɯoʇʇoq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ˙ɯooɹ ǝɥʇ ǝpısʇno ɯoɹɟ ǝɔıoʌ s’ʎǝsɐɔ 'ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ı ƃuıɥʇ ʇxǝu ǝɥʇ s’ʇɐɥʇ …ʎǝsɐɔ pɹɐǝɥ ı ˙ƃuıɥʇou ʇɐ ƃuıɹɐʇs sɐʍ ı uǝɥʇ puɐ 'ǝɯıʇ ǝloɥʍ ǝɥʇ ʇı ʇɐ ƃuıɹɐʇs sɐʍ ı ˙ʞuılq ʇ’uplnoɔ ı 'ƃuıʞool doʇs ʇ’upıp ı 'ou …uıɐƃɐ pǝʞool ı uǝɥʍ ˙ǝɔı pǝʞɔɐd punoɟ ǝʌ’p’ǝɥ uoǝƃɹns ɐ ʎq dn pǝuǝdo uǝǝq p’ı ɟı‘

  ’¿ɹǝploɔ ¿ploɔ sɐʍ ʇı‘

  ’¿ʞuıɥʇ noʎ op 'ɹɐǝp’ɯ 'ǝɯ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʇ sdɐɥɹǝd ɹo‘ ˙ʎllıɹɥs ʇsoɯlɐ 'pǝɥƃnɐl ǝɥ ’˙ƃuıɹǝʌınb sɐʍ ʇı ɟı sɐ 'pǝɹɹnlq pǝɯǝǝs ʇı ˙ǝɯ ʇɐ ƃuıʇuıod ɹǝƃuıɟ ǝuo ˙ɹǝƃuıɟ ɐ puɐ ˙puɐɥ ɐ ʍɐs ı puɐ ˙pǝpuǝʇxǝ‘ ˙ʇɐoɹɥʇ sıɥ pǝɹɐǝlɔ ǝɥ ’˙ɯɹɐ uɐ ǝʌɐɥ pıp ʇı ˙ɯɹɐ uɐ‘

  ’˙ǝɹɐ noʎ‘

  ’˙llǝʍ ʎɹǝʌ sıɥʇ ƃuıʇʇnd ʇou ɯ’ı 'ʎɹɹos ˙ǝdɐɥs sǝƃuɐɥɔ ʇı puɐ ʇı ʇɐ ʍolq noʎ puɐ 'ɹıɐ ǝɥʇ uı ɔlɐʇ ǝʞıl‘ ˙pıɐs sıuuǝp ’'ʎɹǝpʍod‘

  ˙sıɥʇ ǝʞıl ʇ’upıp ˙dıl doʇ ɹǝɥ ʇıq ʎlıɹɹǝɯ

  ’˙ʇı ʇǝl ʇ’uoʍ ı ˙ʇı ʇǝl ʇ’uoʍ ı – uɯɐp – ou‘

  ’˙sɹıɐʇsuʍop oƃ uɐɔ ǝʍ‘

  ’˙sıɥʇ ƃuıʎoɾuǝ ʇou ɯ’ı …sɐʍ ʇı ˙ʇno ʇı ǝʞɐɯ oʇ ʇɥƃıl ɥƃnouǝ ʇou ɹo ˙ǝɔɐɟ ou ˙ǝsoddns ı 'ǝlɐɯ ˙ʎɐs oʇ pɹɐɥ‘

  ’¿ǝlɐɯǝɟ ɹo ǝlɐɯ‘

  ’˙noʎ ʇɹnɥ uɐɔ ʎǝɥʇ ʞuıɥʇ ʇ’uop noʎ – sɹıɐʇsuʍop pıɐs ı ǝʞıl s’ʇı ˙ʇɥƃıl ǝɥʇ uı uoıʇɐɹǝʇlɐ uɐ 'ɹıɐ ǝɥʇ uı ƃuıɥʇǝɯos ˙ƃuıɥʇou ¿ʎǝɥʇ ǝɹɐ ʇɐɥʍ 'uɐǝɯ ı‘

  ’˙sıuuǝp 'ʎllɐnʇɔɐ 'op ı‘

  ’˙op ʎǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ noʎ uǝʇɥƃıɹɟ uɐɔ sƃuıɥʇ ǝsǝɥʇ ǝuıƃɐɯı ʇ’uop noʎ‘ 'pıɐs ǝɥ

  ˙xɐʍ ǝʞıl 'ʇuǝɔnlsuɐɹʇ pǝʞool ɹıɐɥ ǝʇıɥʍ s’sıuuǝp

  ’˙uǝɥʇ ˙ʍou ʇou ˙ǝɹnƃıɟ ɐ ˙ǝɹǝɥʇ ƃuıpuɐʇs‘

  ’¿ʎɹɹos‘

  ˙pıɐs sıuuǝp ’'ǝɹnƃıɟ ɐ‘

  ˙sʇooq ǝlʞuɐ ɹǝɥ uı qɯnu ʇlǝɟ ʇǝǝɟ ɹǝɥ ˙sɥƃıɥʇ ɹǝɥ ɹǝʌo ʇǝʞɔɐɾ ɹǝɥ ɟo spuǝ ǝɥʇ pǝllnd ʎlıɹɹǝɯ ˙pılos pǝʎɐʇs ʇɐɥʇ ʍopɐɥs ɟo sqɐls 'sɐǝɹɐ pǝpnlɔɔo ǝɹǝʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ 'ǝɹǝɥ uı ˙ɯooɹ pǝuǝʞɹɐp ɐ oʇ ʇsnɾpɐ ʎllɐnpɐɹƃ plnoʍ sǝʎǝ ɹnoʎ ʎllɐɯɹou :ʇuɐǝɯ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʍ ʇoƃ ǝɥs ˙ǝǝs oʇ ƃuıɥʇou

  ’˙ǝɹǝɥʇ ɹǝʌo‘ ˙ʇı ʍǝɹpɥʇıʍ ʎlpıdɐɹ uǝɥʇ puɐ ǝuoʇs ǝʞıl ǝɹǝʍ sʍopɐɥs ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥʍ ɹǝuɹoɔ ǝɥʇ spɹɐʍoʇ ɯɹɐ uɐ pǝpuǝʇxǝ sıuuǝp ’˙ƃuıɥʇ pooƃ ɐ ʇou s’ʇɐɥʇ ǝɹns ɯ’ı 'sɹɐǝ ɹnoʎ ǝpısuı sǝoɥɔǝ puɐ ʎpoq ǝloɥʍ ɹnoʎ sllǝʍs ʇɐɥʇ ɯɐǝɹɔs ɐ ˙pɐɥ ʇı ɥsıʍ ˙ʇno ǝɯoɔ ʇ’upıp ʎlqɐqoɹd ʇı‘

  23

  Seedbed

  CASEY KELLOW, A grey woollen shawl around her shoulders, followed Merrily to the Freelander, leaving Dennis behind the faded Gothic gates.

  ‘What I presume he told you,’ Casey murmured. ‘You should know it took me the best part of three months to get ou
t of him what he saw. The figure. The finger.’

  A wind was winding into the valley, rattling the trees and putting Dennis Kellow out of earshot, but Merrily noticed that Casey, willowy in the breeze, was keeping her back to him and her voice down.

  ‘Finally came out in the middle of a bloody great row. When men come out with things they immediately regret. Nobody understood him, Mirrily, even the bloody house had turned against him. He started to cry. Been very emotional since the stroke. Still is. Don’t you ivver say I told ya that.’

  ‘So until this row – three months after the event – you were both keeping very quiet about what happened that night.’

  ‘He was sick. Had to bring him through that.’

  ‘You hadn’t told him about the clocks?’

  ‘No. I was beginning to wonder if it had really happened. The clock in the hall, afterwards I took the pendulum out. The Castle Room, I won’t go in there, and neither will he on his own. He won’t tell you that. Look at me, Mirrily.’ Casey parted her shawl. ‘Goosebumps. Actual god-damned, flaming goosebumps. We’re grown-ups. Modern, grown-up people who know all this is shit, and look at us.’

  Merrily opened the driver’s door, and pulled back the seat to reach into the well, bringing out the airline bag and setting it down at her feet. She looked beyond her, across the clearing to where Dennis was leaning on the gate, chin supported by his hands, white hair fluffed in the wind. Obviously knowing he was being talked about but not looking at them, gazing bleakly across the brook towards the ruins on the hill as if he was staring into his own future.

  ‘Why do you think he didn’t want to tell you what he saw?’

  ‘That’s pretty obvious. He didn’t want me to feel even worse about his beloved house, his beloved valley, his beloved, flaming castle. He claimed it was because he thought it was the drugs they’d given him in hospital, false memory syndrome, something like that. And he doesn’t talk much about his own problems. Thinks it’s his responsibility to deal with them. Especially here. If the stroke pushed him out of Cwmarrow, he’d rather it’d killed him.’

  ‘Mr Kindley-Pryce,’ Merrily said. ‘What do people say about that?’

  ‘In what sinse?’

  ‘How he was forced to leave a place he loved.’

  ‘I don’t have the medical details. We’re not family.’

  ‘Came on quite quickly, is that right?’

  ‘Who knows how long it’d been coming on. Sure, sometimes I think about that. When you’re alone here, your mind wanders into some weird places. It’s a separate world, and it doesn’t feel happy. Or lucky. Why’d it fall into ruins? Why did the village disappear? Why did people not want to live here, except for crazies like Kindley-Pryce and… Dinnis?’ She smiled, resigned. ‘Could I see him in a modern bungalow with a conservatory, passing the time with some light gardening?’

  ‘But even when he recovered from the stroke, you weren’t comfortable here, is that right?’

  ‘We thought we were at first. Nadya and Adam and Aisha were here. We were a family – well, maybe a strange kind of family, in two units, but Dinnis could talk to a doctor without going through medical hoops, which he hates. But it wasn’t right. If things could break, they’d break. Locks jammed, lights fused. There are parts of the house where you’ll suddenly feel unwelcome. Like something has a contimpt for you. Worse sometimes. Autumn’s not a good time. It’s like Cwmarrow imbraces decay.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to get help?’

  ‘Adam’s friend was here one evening, Raji? Adam doesn’t like to talk about this stuff. He doesn’t disbelieve, he just won’t give an opinion on what he doesn’t have paper qualifications for. Nadya… follows the teachings of the Koran, for God’s sake – that girl, if she goes into something, she doesn’t come up for air. Raji, he’s some different kind of Muslim, more open to weird stuff.’

  ‘He follows Sufism.’

  ‘I’ve heard things about him, but I kind of like the guy. He was the one put the idea in my head, that we needed to do something about it. He said if we thought there was something harmful here, then it didn’t matter how crazy that seemed, we should talk to a priest. Nadya said she wasn’t going to have a Christian priest in the house— this is just so ya know?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Raji says, OK, talk to imam and do what he advises. And y’know what he said. But Nadya says no Christian priest is coming in their side of the house. And then… I dunno. Something changed. I think something happened we didn’t get told about, and the next thing Adam’s phoning Raji. Nadya says, OK, do it, but…’

  ‘She doesn’t feel she has to stay for it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You see…’ Merrily unzipped the airline bag. ‘I really do need to work on the whole house.’

  ‘I thought you guys were supposed to have a black bag.’

  ‘And a big hat. What’s in here, basically, is a Bible, a specialized prayer book and two flasks of holy water. At this stage, it’s not about expelling anything. Partly because we don’t know what we’re trying to get rid of. It’s about bringing light into dark places. But if I can only go into half the house…’

  ‘Jeez!’ Casey stamped her foot. ‘We’re so dysfunctional. Adam’s more English than I’ll ever be, wants to be a countryman, with a chainsaw. And here’s Nadya – English born and bred – throwing up these crazy cultural barriers.’

  ‘Well, look…’ It was easy to overreact, and sometimes stupid. Equally, it could be dangerous to underreact, and this bothered her more. ‘I don’t ever like to leave without doing anything, so how about I do your part of the house. It’s a start. A blessing, room by room. At least that’ll include the Castle Room. What happens, we say some prayers, sprinkle some holy water. All I’m asking of you is that you go along with it. We have a period of quiet first, where we relax, empty our minds…’

  Casey smiled wanly.

  ‘Dinnis doesn’t really do that. He finds relaxation strissful?’ The smile died on her face like an early sunbeam. ‘He tell you about the feeling he had that night, in the Castle Room?’

  ‘He said he felt sick.’

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘Emotionally sick.’

  Casey sighed into the wind, dusty with fragments of dead vegetation.

  ‘He thought he’d grown closer to the house. Giving it what it wanted. Restoring some of its heart. And what he got back was this… withering disdain. He doesn’t like to talk about that.’

  Merrily shouldered the airline bag. By the time they reached the gate, Dennis was walking away back up to the house, retreating like the morning light. The way the day had dulled was fusing everything together, bushes, trees and masonry, so that it looked as if the house had been sewn into the hills.

  The longcase case clock at the bottom of the stone stairs was silent and nobody acknowledged it. The Kellows let Merrily lead the way upstairs, with her prayer book and flask. They followed her meekly with the Lord’s Prayer, the old version: Thy name, Thy kingdom come. Ending on deliver us from evil, which never resonated more than in a room with the windows shut and all the cupboard doors open.

  Occasionally, there would be a sign of something at this stage – something expelled or something lifting.

  Nothing. In the Castle Room, the tools stayed on the workbench and the door stayed almost shut.

  Outside it, afterwards, she glimpsed something behind the velvet curtain across the left-hand passage and pulled it aside, revealing the edge of a frame, one of a couple, containing a mosaic type design and some calligraphy. The Islamic side of the house.

  Merrily paused, glanced from Dennis to Casey.

  ‘We need to get them on board,’ Casey said.

  ‘Think of the house as an organism, divided into two.’ Merrily gestured at the frames. ‘Two faiths. Who knows what effect that might have. I don’t.’ She needed advice. ‘How would you feel about me talking to someone about this?’

  Casey looked at Dennis.

  ‘Who?’<
br />
  ‘It would be someone outside the diocese. I wouldn’t be disclosing your names or the location.’

  ‘Need to ask Nadya,’ Dennis said.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ Casey said. ‘Could we call you?’

  ‘Let me finish your side of the house before I leave. What have I missed?’

  Windows closed, cupboard doors open. Sprinkles and prayers, sprinkles and prayers. She was finding it easier these days to slip into the optimum state of mind, a quietness that was nothing like trance – the irony of this catching up with her between the kitchen and the sitting room.

  Just as you were reaching a degree of competence, someone in a purple shirt came to take it away.

  *

  The Freelander was balanced on a hump of brackeny ground at the end of a passing place in the single-track lane, Merrily leaning against its flank, looking down on the valley, huge old trees on either side. She was on about the same level as the castle ruins across the valley. Cwmarrow Court had vanished. Nothing in sight that was lived in by people.

  She’d stopped here to check her phone because there was no signal in the valley, leaving the Court reliant on landlines which, in this part of the world, would often come down in bad weather. If there was heavy snow you could be trapped for weeks.

  All kinds of lines were down here. She was guessing she wasn’t being told things because there were things they weren’t even telling one another. The family, virtually any family, was a seedbed of secrets and lies. Secrets guarded from everyone outside the family, bigger secrets inside it. Not like she hadn’t been there with Jane.

  And then there was religion. Bring religion into the situation and there was nobody you could entirely trust.

  They’d offered her lunch. She hadn’t felt hungry. Sometimes, after a blessing, you actually did feel very hungry. She just felt empty, which was different. She got back into the Freelander, took a wrong turning but kept on and eventually finished up on the edge of the village of Dorstone, which was no bad thing; you could take the steep and twisty single-track lane over Dorstone Hill and pick up the road towards Leominster and home.