by Phil Rickman
‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Give Sarah my love, will you?’ Brenda said.
Not possible, as it turned out. The rain had slowed, but there was no promise of brightness in the swollen sky when Merrily reached the age-warped cottage in Blackberry Lane, with its window boxes of yellow and purple winter pansies. Brian Clee, retired postman, had the front door open before she was through the garden gate.
‘I’m sorry, Merrily, should’ve rung you.’ He looked worn out, frazzled ‘She was only took in this morning, see. Another ward closure – some infection. Half the hip ops postponed.’
‘That means she’ll be in over Christmas?’
Merrily followed Brian Clee into the house, his white head bent under the bowed beams in the hall. She left Jane’s red wellies on the doormat, took off her coat and stayed for a cup of tea, listening to Brian’s opinion of the county hospital, its unfriendly, automated rip-off, too-small car park, its smoking ban in the grounds so you couldn’t even have a fag to calm your nerves.
‘She’ll be fine, Brian. We prayed for her last weekend, and we’ll do it again on Sunday.’
‘Thank you, Merrily.’
Brian nodding as she left him with the chocolates. Not displaying much conviction, though, that virulent hospital infections could be neutralised by prayer.
The word ‘prayer’ will, in turn, reflect memories of something quaint and rather childish. The nightlight on the bedside table. Something grown out of.
‘Sod off, Stooke!’
Merrily stopped in the lane. Had she actually said that out loud? She was furious at herself for letting this get to her. There was no earthly reason . . .
And yet there was. She kept forgetting this – Stooke’s wife coming on to Jane like that, asking too many questions. That was a reason. She’d even Googled Leonora Winterson, finding next to nothing. No picture, anyway; Lensi took pictures rather than appeared in them – and certainly not with her husband. In fact, Google Images had only one shot of him – the ubiquitous Charles Manson pose. His website said he didn’t do TV, and cameras were banned from his bookshop signings.
I’m not a personality, just an investigative journalist who investigated a god and found two thousand years of lies, fabrication, abuse, corruption, hypocrisy . . .
Couldn’t get rid of him. Like he was her nemesis or something. Merrily splashed angrily through a chain of puddles into the churchyard, arriving at the modest grave of Lucy Devenish.
It had come to this.
‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, Lucy. I’m supposed to minister to the living.’
Standing in the grey-brown rain with her bare hands on the rounded stone, remembering the first time she’d encountered the indomitable Miss Devenish, on an ill-fated night of wassailing in the orchard. Lucy with her hooked Red Indian’s nose, wearing her trademark poncho and a sense of unease.
Amply justified that night. During the traditional loosing of shotguns through the branches, to promote a good year of apples, old Edgar Powell had blown his own head off. They used to say – kids, mainly – that Edgar haunted the orchard, and if you looked up into the branches of the Apple Tree Man, the oldest tree, you might see him. The tree had been chopped down. A mistake, Jane had said; old Edgar could appear anywhere in the orchard now, smiling through the branches and the blood. It didn’t scare pagan Jane.
You know what, Lucy? Merrily’s grip tightening on the head-stone. I think I’m losing it. Thought it was going all right. The regular congregations weren’t exactly huge, but the Sunday-evening meditation . . . word was spreading and we were getting people actually interested in searching for something inside themselves. I was finally beginning to see what you meant by the orb.
Orb was a word Lucy had borrowed from Traherne, the 17th-century poet, drunk on Herefordshire. Lucy using it to describe the ambience of Ledwardine, the confluence of tradition, custom, history and spirit. The orb was an apple, shiny and wholesome.
Who’s poisoning the apple, Lucy?
Blinking back tears, she turned away. This was Jane’s place. Jane did the dead. Jane, who felt herself so far from death as to be able to deal with it almost lovingly. Merrily walked away, following the route Jane had identified as a coffin path, a spirit road, into the lower orchard where Edgar Powell had died.
Haunted or not, the orchard in winter was a reminder of loss. The village had once been encircled by a density of cider-apple trees, nurtured, it was said, by the fairies whose lights could be seen glimmering at twilight among the branches.
If there were lights now, they were corpse candles. The trees were slowly dying off, gradually getting cremated on cosmetic open fires in the Black Swan.
A village of smoke and ghosts. The recently dead and the long, long dead.
Curiously, she was feeling calmer now. Standing on the path inside a rough circle of spidery, winter-bare apple trees, thinking about Lol who would sometimes play Nick Drake’s tragically prescient song ‘Fruit Tree’ which suggested that, for some people – for Nick, certainly – nothing would flourish before death.
Merrily looked up. With the trees gradually getting turned into scented ashes, the only active life forms here were the unearthly balls of mistletoe, suspended like alien craft high among the scabbed and blackened branches, always just out of reach.
Kisses for Christmas, out of reach. She walked on, knowing exactly what she was doing now, where she was going.
When you left behind what remained of the orchard, the fields opened up below you. One was Coleman’s Meadow with a temporary barbed-wire fence around it, a parking area marked out with orange tape, and something like a fairground on it now: a dark green tent, like an army canteen, two caravans, two Land Rovers and one of those cranes that they used for a cherry-picker TV camera. About a dozen people in waterproofs around a mini-JCB, laughter rising frailly through the rain. Cole Farm itself, served by a narrow lane, was wedged into a clearing in the trees ascending Cole Hill. But Cole Barn was exposed on the edge of a small field adjoining the meadow, with a pool of flood water in front, beginning to encroach on a tarmac parking area.
Well, it was called Cole Barn, but it had never been an actual barn, according to Gomer Parry, just an old tractor shed. So there was no glazed-over bay, like you usually found with barn conversions, just an ordinary front door, probably not very old.
From which a woman emerged. Turquoise waterproof, coppery hair. She came out quickly and ran through the squally rain to a new-looking black Mercedes 4×4 parked in a turning circle. Merrily stood on the edge of the dripping orchard, as the engine growled and the 4×4 spun, skidding and squirting gravel, into a dirt track full of puddles that led into the lane.
It was, she guessed, quite an angry exit. She herself could now make a discreet one, turning away and melting back among the geriatric apple trees.
Or she could go down, knock on the door and, if anyone was in, do the bumbling-vicar bit. Welcome to the parish, Mr Winterson.
You just wanner . . .
Before she could reconsider, she’d scrambled down to open up the field gate, and then she was crossing the strip of rough grass spiked with the skeletons of last year’s docks, to the front door of Cole Barn.
. . . See if he’s got little horns.
25
Outside the Box
‘BASICALLY,’ STEVE FURNEAUX said, ‘I liked Clem. He was like an old bulldog. Barked at you from a distance and then he’d gradually come sniffing around, always suspicious, until you threw him a biscuit or two.’
Gilbies was in an alley behind High Town, the tower and spire of St Peter’s church pushing up suddenly behind it like a rocket on a pad. A bar, for the upwardly mobile. By the time Bliss had got there Steve had eaten; Bliss had bought coffees.
‘We coped with him,’ Steve said. ‘You couldn’t actually heave him out of the way, but, like I say, you found ways of getting round him.’
Bliss figured Steve Furneaux was about his own age, but with be
tter hair. A middle-ranking official in the planning department at Herefordshire Council. Londoner. Crisp, dapper, sandy-looking feller. No shit on his shoes.
‘Because we’re all quite excited about Hereforward, Francis. It’s a new concept, experimental, and we don’t want it to crash.’
‘Well, I’m just a thick copper. Perhaps you could you explain it to me very simply. As to a child with learning difficulties?’
‘I’ll explain it as I would to a new councillor,’ Steve said. ‘Which is pretty much the same thing.’
He paused to check out Bliss’s reaction. Bliss put on a smile. Harmless Terry Stagg had already talked to the chairman of Hereforward, assembling the nuts and bolts of Ayling’s last meeting. When Bliss had suggested it might be worth looking at some of the issues Hereforward was involved in, Howe could hardly say no at a briefing. Only privately pulling the rug when she had Bliss over a barrel. Bliss had picked out Steve, looking for an official, an employee, rather than a slippery councillor. It was proving a good choice. Steve was slippery, too, but in a different way, and he oozed personal ambition. Therefore no loyalty to Hereford or its councillors.
‘This is how it came about,’ Steve said. ‘There was some new funding available for a number of local joint committees to be set up to consider the long-term economic prospects and cultural directioning of particular areas of the West Midlands.’
‘Cultural conditioning,’ Bliss said. ‘Right.’
So this would be a clutch of councillors, council officials, sharks, leeches, token ethnics and tame gays tolerating each other over a free lunch. Not a new concept at all, then.
‘Hereford was encouraged to go for it, as we’re out on a limb,’ Steve said. ‘Geographically more Wales than West Midlands – but of course Wales is a different country now with its own government.’
‘And this would be another way for us to get quietly reined into the Midlands, would it?’
Steve laughed, glancing across at the bar-huggers. Wiped his nose with a red-spotted handkerchief and lowered his voice.
‘Think of it as a much-needed shot of adrenalin. We get to think outside the box. We were almost certainly the first to float the idea of a University of Hereford, which is now on the wider agenda.’
‘Blue-sky think-tank, in other words.’
‘Exactly. Look, Francis . . . sorry, is it Frank?’
‘It’s not Frank,’ Bliss said.
Through his teeth.
‘I mean, you’re obviously an outsider, too,’ Steve said.
‘I just talk like this to sound cool. Go on. You want to educate the hicks.’
‘The point is, there hasn’t been enough overview. Local government gets lost in details and, inevitably, parochialism – individual councillors nursing their pet projects and nothing getting done. Our brief is to come up with radical, global ideas which we feed directly to the cabinet, so that they’ve been fully shaped before they’re put before the authority en masse.’
‘I see.’ A fait-accompli machine, in other words. ‘And Clement Ayling . . .’
‘. . . was initially suspicious of us, as he always was of anything new. But he had a lot of influence and got himself co-opted onto Hereforward. More to keep an eye on us than anything. I think he saw us as some sort of central-government infiltration.’
‘Perish the thought,’ Bliss said. ‘So . . . what global concepts were you discussing at the meeting on Wednesday, Steve?’
Steve looked doubtful about being able to answer this one, maybe on the grounds that a report had not yet gone to the cabinet, or some bullshit.
‘All right,’ Bliss said, ‘answer me this. Was Councillor Ayling in any kind of, shall we say heated discussion during the meeting?’
‘Not that I recall, Francis, no. He seemed to spend most of it sitting there with his chin sunk into his chest, conveying a certain boredom with the proceedings.’
‘He leave with anybody?’
Terry Stagg had spoken to the Hereforward committee secretary, confirming times and stuff, but going over the same ground would often throw up an anomaly.
‘He left with me, actually,’ Steve said. ‘As I told your colleague.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘Oh . . . trivia. Date of the next planning meeting, that sort of—’
‘Did Hereforward have a view on the Dinedor Serpent?’
‘Ah,’ Steve said.
‘Because Clem Ayling had very definite views, didn’t he?’
‘Ah, well, you see, Clem . . .’ Steve leaned back on his stool. ‘I’m afraid poor old Clem couldn’t see the romance in it. Old-fashioned Herefordian, wanted the city to expand and prosper, offer more jobs and, yes, have its own university, he was with us on that . . .’
‘But couldn’t get excited about a trickle of gravel.’
‘No, I—Francis, where’s this going?’
‘You tell me, Steve.’
‘Well, we . . .’ Steve picking up his coffee for support. ‘We had quite a debate about the Serpent some months ago. Yes, the tourist potential of a world-famous prehistoric monument . . . if that’s what it is, we can’t easily ignore it.’
‘So, in saying it was worthless, Ayling was at odds with the rest of the committee?’
‘Ahm . . .’ Steve putting down his coffee. ‘Essentially, no. This was one of the few issues where Clem and the rest of us were broadly in agreement, although most of us were more tactful about how we phrased it.’
‘I see,’ Bliss said.
‘Obviously, if we’d been talking about something on the scale of Stonehenge . . . but, as you said yourself, this is a trickle of gravel. The tourism potential is always going to be minimal. That was how we saw it. And we certainly need that relief road – Hereford being the only substantial centre in the country without a bypass. This is a move in the right direction. Vital, really.’
‘Had to go through . . .’
‘Had to go through.’
‘So Hereforward didn’t manage to come up with a brilliant compromise solution.’
‘We’re working on it. We’ve asked to be kept informed of developments. If the Serpent does turn out to be something unique, then it’s our job to capitalise on it. But the council would need some convincing, and the more they get slagged off from outside the more they’ll resist.’
‘Who’s been slagging them off? In particular.’
‘The archaeologist, Blore, didn’t help an awful lot did he? Considering we were paying him . . .’
‘Who were?’
‘Hereforward used him as a consultant on the Serpent.’
‘Must’ve been costly.’
‘Not particularly, and we wanted an educated viewpoint.’
Big name, more like, Bliss thought.
‘And then he shoots his mouth off to the media. My colleagues weren’t pleased.’
‘Why? Blore’s a notorious loose cannon. They’d been thinking they could buy his opinion?’
Steve shrugged, wiping his nose.
‘I hear he’s in charge of this other local dig now,’ Bliss said. ‘Ledwardine?’
‘Got in by the back door. Not our problem, that, thank God – strictly a local issue. Local councillor wanted us to intervene, but a bunch of upmarket houses is not the same as a road and I suppose big stones would have more tourist appeal than pebbles.’ Steve looked at his watch – wafer-thin, and an extra dial, probably for New York time. ‘I’m afraid I’ve a meeting at three at Ross and Belmont’s close to impassable, so if you have any major questions . . .’
‘Would hate to hold you up, Steve. You look like a man in a hurry.’
‘Always,’ Steve said. ‘Surprised I haven’t seen you around, Francis. Which gym do you use?’
Bliss stared at him. This was a man who would get on well with Annie Howe. Christ, this man might even be able to seduce Annie Howe. Bliss kept on staring, but Steve Furneaux seemed quite relaxed in the company of a fellow incomer, an ally against the hicks and the rednecks.
‘Out of interest,’ Bliss said. ‘You being a blue-sky thinker, Steve . . . a radical thinker—’
‘I’m a planning officer. But, you’re right, Hereforward lets us off the mental leash.’
‘So who did it, Steve? Who killed Clement Ayling?’
‘You’re asking me?’
He looked thrown for a moment. Kind of feller who’d hate ever to be caught without an informed opinion.
‘I was thinking you could give me a blue-sky idea,’ Bliss said. ‘An independent assessment.’
Steve Furneaux actually looked, for a moment, like he was drawing up a shortlist. Or maybe – call this blue-sky thinking – wondering how best he could convince Bliss that Hereforward was a blind alley.
But he never found out who’d be in Steve’s frame; his mobile went off. ‘Excuse me a moment. Yeh.’
‘Boss?’
‘Hello, Sergeant.’
‘Oh.’ Karen Dowell picking up his signal. ‘Right. I’d better keep this short, then.’
Bliss fiddled with his sugar spoon while Karen told him that Howe was calling the class together for 2.30 p.m. On account of they’d found the rest of Ayling.
‘Well . . . more or less,’ Karen said.
Bliss put the spoon down gently.
‘Where?’
‘In the river. Half in, half out, kind of thing. Up against Bredwardine Bridge. You know where I mean?’
‘So that would be . . . the big river.’
A magnificent river, Harri Tomlin breathed in Bliss’s head. Venerated above all others.
‘Even bigger at present, as you can imagine,’ Karen Dowell said. ‘Well high, and a lot of debris, fallen trees and stuff washed up against the bridge. The body was apparently somewhere in the middle of all that.’
‘Intact?’
‘Still in the suit.’
Bliss had tuned out the background chat, and his mind was back in the mist with Harri Tomlin.
‘This is getting a bit spooky, Sergeant.’
‘Best if you tell me later, is it, boss?’
