by Phil Rickman
Merrily sighed. Amanda played anxiously with one of her chains. ‘Anyway, surely nobody in this day and age expects the clergy to limit their reading to the New Testament. Look, I’m sorry. I’m not a gossip. I never, as a rule, broadcast what my customers buy for themselves. I suppose this was . . . self-defence, as much as anything. She’d never been in here before, and she was quite . . . quite fierce. She rather . . . filled the shop. I was intimidated.’
Possibly understandable. Amanda was built like a cocktail stick; Shirley could have snapped her.
‘I can only say, Mrs Watkins, that if you can bear to shop with us again, I will never—’
‘What else did she say, Mrs Rubens? You said something about vileness?’
‘You besmirch our village with this vileness. That one’s rather stuck.’
‘Did she go further? It’s just . . . there are things I need to be aware of.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose this is right up your street . . . She said the book was part of the Devil’s attempt to take control. In the Final Days. She went on about the Final Days.’
‘Something of a buzz phrase,’ Merrily said, ‘in born-again circles.’
‘A dark doorway to eternal damnation – that’s what she called the book.’
‘Did she say anything about the author?’
‘Spin doctor.’
‘Sorry?’
‘She called him the spin doctor to the Antichrist. She said if I wanted to know the truth about this man I had only to look on the Internet.’
‘And did you?’
‘I’ve been rather busy.’
‘Thank you,’ Merrily said. ‘I suppose I’d better check it out. See if I can save my immortal soul before it’s too late.’
Amanda Rubens smiled nervously, her veneers gleaming evenly in the soft Christmas light.
‘Whole world’s gone mad, Mrs Watkins. You think you can opt out of it, don’t you, by moving to a place like this?’
‘A common misconception, Mrs Rubens.’
‘I never encountered a woman quite like Mrs West in London.’
You found this. For city people, used to mixing in confined circles, the country was often a shock to the system.
‘And now, when they’re saying that Hereford councillor was murdered by some sect . . .’
‘Sect?’
‘You haven’t seen the papers?’
Amanda opened out the Guardian, under the coloured lights, pointing to a story in the middle of the front page.
Usual picture of Clem Ayling. Pastoral colour picture of Dinedor Hill.
Oh God.
Wilford Hawkes was completely bald, white beard down to his chest, an earring with a red stone in it. Bit of a cliché, really.
‘You don’t understand, do you, my love?’ Off the phone, his accent was more distinct. ‘We don’t need to kill people. We don’t need to do nothing. They’re doing it theirselves. All those JCBs, they’re digging theirselves a great big grave.’
‘Mr Hawkes.’ Annie Howe’s voice. ‘I am not your love.’
Bliss smiled. He had his car shoved under dripping trees in this secluded little car park across the main road from Gaol Street. Karen’s interview-room DVD in the laptop on the passenger seat.
‘All I’m saying,’ Hawkes said, ‘is when you knowingly damage a sacred site, you expect repercussions. I can give you stories of farmers digging up old stones, ploughing burial mounds. Next thing, sudden electric storms, directly overhead, and then their crops fail and their stock dies.’
‘Mr Hawkes—’
‘All I was doing was giving him a friendly warning.’
‘That’s your idea of friendly, is it?’
‘All right, it was a bit beyond, out of order. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘You were drunk?’
‘I don’t drink alcohol, my dear. I was, shall we say, in a state of herbally heightened relaxation.’
Mr Hawkes settled back with his hands behind his head, eyes half closed, a faint smile on his lips. The cockiness of a killer? More likely the daft old twat was actually enjoying it. Memories of his lost youth, getting busted by the pigs.
‘Wreckage and blood, Mr Hawkes,’ Howe said. ‘You warned him of wreckage and blood.’
‘I never mentioned his personal blood, did I? We knew we had to lay this on the line, look, in a way the bastards would understand how strongly we feel. They’re pushing the ole city out in all the directions it don’t wanner go, and they’re cutting it off from Dinedor Hill. And then, right on cue, the Serpent shows up after thousands of years just in time to warn us all, and what do they do? They smother it. What they gonner do next, build a supermarket on top? After all, we only got seven already!’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a solicitor, Mr Hawkes?’
‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Mr Hawkes sitting up. ‘They talk your language, those predators. Always been my policy to have nothing to do with the blood-sucking bastards. Possible to go through your whole life without ever meeting a lawyer.’
‘But probably not your life, Mr Hawkes, the way it’s shaping up. The Children of the Serpent – how many of you are there?’
‘How many?’
‘How many children,’ Howe said icily, ‘does the Serpent possess?’
‘None. I made it up.’
‘You made what up, exactly?’
‘The whole thing. Children of the Serpent. I thought it sounded good. You think about it: I ring Ayling up, say this is Willy Hawkes, I’m just calling to give you a gentle warning, what’s that gonner do? He’s gonner laugh down my earole. Children of the Serpent, that’s got a bit of menace. That works.’
‘Mr Hawkes, I shall ask you again, did you kill Clement Ayling?’
‘I cannot believe . . .’
‘Please answer the question.’
‘No! Did I bloody hell kill Clement Ayling! I wouldn’t’ve gone anywhere near him or any of the shabby bastards on that council.’
‘Do you know who killed Clement Ayling?’
‘I been trying to tell you, I don’t mix with them sort of people.’
A silence. Willy Hawkes’s mouth tight shut behind his beard.
‘You’re a pagan, Mr Hawkes.’
‘I’m British. It’s our own faith. Christianity, Islam . . . all that was imported for political reasons. Paganism’s from the earth. Roots religion.’
‘The so-called Serpent. That was supposed to connect Dinedor Hill with the River Wye – is that right?’
Bliss sniffed. She knew it was right, she’d got it from his report.
‘I know where you’re going,’ Willy Hawkes said. ‘You found Ayling’s body in the river.’
‘And what does that tell you, Mr Hawkes?’
‘Would’ve made more sense if you’d found the head in the—Aw, I’ve had enough of this, lady! You don’t know nothing about pagans, do you? Throughout the past two millennia we’ve not been killers, we’ve been the victims. Witches hanged and burned for curing sick people, saving the lives of the poor. Hanged and burned, by the likes of you! You got the face of a witch-burner, you have.’
Bliss thumped the steering wheel. He loved this feller.
Hawkes leaned over the table.
‘Do I look like the kind of man who’d behead somebody? Me and my lady and my spiritual sisters, we’re peaceful, pastoral folk. What happened to Ayling . . . whatever kind of man he was, what you’re looking at there is just plain evil. You’re looking for somebody devoid of all spiritual feeling. You’re looking at a cold heart.’
‘There’s a pagan network in this area, isn’t there?’
‘Nothing so formal. Folks knows each other, but we’re all different – Wiccans, Druids, what-have-you – we all got our own ways. How long you gonna keep this up before I can go home?’
‘Mr Hawkes, you’ve admitted threatening behaviour. You’ve admitted threatening a man who was later murdered. Don’t think you’ll be going home tonight.’
&
nbsp; ‘That’s outrag—’ Willy Hawkes coming out of his seat, uniformed arms putting him back. He sat there shaking. ‘It’s the Winter Solstice. Do you know how important that is? I need to be on Dinedor Hill! It’s an important time. You can’t keep me yere for the Solstice. God damn you!’
Howe didn’t react. Hawkes sat twisting his head. He straightened his shoulders, looked down into his lap for a few moments. Then he looked up, smoothed out his beard with both hands.
‘I’ll tell you as far as it went. If I tell you as far as it went, will you let me go home?’
‘I don’t make deals,’ Howe said. ‘However, if you’re seen to be cooperating . . .’
‘There’s a Wiccan group . . .’
‘A witches’ coven.’
‘If you like. They gathered for a ritual of restraint to bind the Council, tie their hands. They also put a protective spell on the fields below Dinedor Hill. And they done a ritual of invocation.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘To awaken the guardians.’
‘Mr Hawkes—’
‘Every ancient site – well, not every ancient site, but a fair few – they got a guardian, see. A spirit or an elemental force to repel invasive influences. What causes the thunderstorms and what-have-you.’
‘Doesn’t seem to have worked, does it?’
‘They lifted it,’ Hawkes said. ‘Things don’t always work the way you think they’re going to. We’re dealing with forces beyond our comprehension and out of our control, which is why I won’t personally work with spells.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘There was an accident, wasn’t there? During the tree-felling. Bloke was hurt. Well, it wasn’t his fault, was it? He didn’t make the decision, he was just a humble tree-feller. Quite a few people said, no, take it back, get it lifted, bad karma. We can’t play their game, we gotter be above all that.’
‘And that was when they lifted their . . . spell?’
‘And then Ayling died. Everybody got cold feet then. Me in particular. I’d phoned him. I’d left a bad message on his machine. I’d made the connection.’
‘Who are these witches?’
‘I won’t tell you that. They’ve lifted the spell, that’s all you need to know. They got nothing to do with it now.’
‘I need their names.’
‘Well, you won’t get them from me. Not if you keep me yere all week. I’ll tell you another thing. We met – a bunch of us – for a meditation.’
‘When was this?’
‘After Ayling’s death. ’Cos we never wanted that.’
‘Really.’
‘We didn’t.’
‘Where was this meeting?’
‘Our barn. We had some very psychic people, and they all came up with the same thing . . . a big darkness, an unquenchable evil.’
‘And were they given a name, Mr Hawkes?’
‘It don’t work that way.’
‘How unfortunate.’
‘But they got a feeling of it. People’ve forgotten how to listen to their feelings. One of the ladies was quite ill afterwards.’
‘I can imagine,’ Annie Howe said.
31
Neither Horns Nor Tail
ON JANE’S LAPTOP . . . a screenful of apocalypse, grey angels straddling an arid land.
‘I’m not sure I can face this,’ Merrily said.
A false light gleamed in the kitchen’s highest window. On the lunchtime radio news, a big voice was battling the wind.
‘—chaeology’s my life, OK? But I couldn’t say . . . worth the loss of someone else’s.’
‘Classic soundbite,’ Lol said. ‘Do you think he’s done this before?’
‘The archaeologist, Professor William Blore, talking this morning in Herefordshire,’ the newsreader said. ‘In Zimbabwe—’
Merrily switched off, frowning.
‘The archaeologist, Professor William Blore, was supposed to be interviewing Jane on the top of Cole Hill.’
‘Which probably explains why she isn’t back.’
‘She was very excited. Almost took the heat out of having the computer impounded.’ Merrily held the kettle under the cold tap. ‘I shouldn’t imagine they invited Professor Blore to hand over his computer.’
‘You had no choice,’ Lol said. ‘If they’d been forced to come back with a warrant they’d’ve turned the whole place over. Jane’s apartment, anyway. And Jane would’ve gone wild.’
‘Well, that’s what I thought, but . . .’ Merrily plugged in the kettle. ‘They said I might get it back today. As if.’
Lol had turned the laptop towards him on the kitchen table. He would often come over on Saturday mornings, when Jane was usually out. Quality time. Or something. No time for any something today.
‘Thelordofthelight.com. You heard of this one?’
‘There are scores of them, Lol. Probably hundreds in the US alone. Full of raging paranoia and an unforgiving Christ I have problems with. But have I heard of this one? Oh yes.’
Lol had Googled Mathew Stooke, spin doctor to the Antichrist.
‘It’s the name of Shirley’s church, in Leominster,’ Merrily said. ‘They sent me a lovely Christmas card.’
‘Looks bigger than that to me. Bigger than Leominster, that is.’
‘Maybe the source is in America. Often is. What’s the approach?’
‘It’s an endgame thing,’ Lol said. ‘Not too many laughs. Unless you can spot the hidden jokes in the Book of Revelation. Is this Revelation? In the last days, difficult times will come . . .’
‘Maybe Paul.’
Merrily came to sit next to Lol. The depressing angels had gone; the screen had faded to the colour of dried blood and stark words in white.
. . . for men will be lovers of self, lovers of money,
boastful, arrogant, disobedient to their parents,
ungrateful, unholy, unloving, unforgiving, malicious
gossips, without self-control, brutal, haters of good,
treacherous, reckless, conceited, lovers of pleasure
rather than lovers of God . . .
‘All looks worryingly familiar,’ Lol said. ‘How long do you reckon we have left – two weeks, three weeks? Or do we, um, need to go upstairs now?’
In later times some will fall away from the faith,
paying attention to deceitful spirits and doctrines
of demons. By means of the hypocrisy of liars
seared in their own conscience as with a branding
iron, men who forbid marriage and advocate
abstaining from foods which God has created to be
gratefully shared in by those who believe and know
the truth.
With a white screen and normal print, implications of the prophecy were explained in detail for LordoftheLight browsers: veggies were spurning the animals God had given them to tame and slaughter. ‘Now that’s interesting,’ Merrily said. ‘I never quite saw it that way myself, but it explains Shirley’s interest in how much meat I don’t buy.’ While the Green movement, with its worship of Mother Earth, was luring people into pagan ways and modern churches were straying from the laws of God by accepting homosexuality and embracing New Age practices.
‘Like meditation, do you think?’
The dour doctrine of Shirley West was unscrolling before her eyes.
Then came the red silhouette of a naked man.
It has been predicted that, close to the Endtime,
Satan will incarnate. He will have neither
horns nor tail. His true identity will not, at first,
be apparent. He himself may not, at first, realise
who he is. He will believe that his mission is to
explain. He will show that everything can be
explained by science. He will be a hero, hailed
a genius.
‘Who do we have here, then?’ Lol wondered. ‘Hawking?’
‘You really see a very seriously disabled man as the Antichris
t?’
‘I don’t. They might. Black humour’s a key tool of the prince of darkness. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. What about Dawkins?’
‘Doesn’t have the charisma.’
The Antichrist will create marvels, but will insist that
they are not of supernatural origin.
‘Got him,’ Lol said. ‘It’s that Derren Brown.’
‘You’re bloody well enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘It’s interesting watching you getting all embarrassed by your own—’
‘This is not my—’ Merrily caught his smile on its way out. ‘Sod.’ Lowered her head wearily to an arm, looking up at him sideways. ‘Lol, what are we doing?’
‘We’re uncovering the motivational psychology of Shirley West. It’s worth knowing. Ah . . .’
The New Labour government, elected in Britain
in 1997, was largely a product of spin and the
manipulation of the media. Nobody seemed
even to be aware of its policies, responding only
to its apparently clean and youthful image,
its demolition of the reputation of the existing
government and its promise that ‘things can only
get better’. In the same way, the Antichrist has his
own spin doctors, men and women skilled in
the craft of communication, lending their services
to Satan in the same way that the journalist
Campbell made his available to New Labour.
In line with the Endtime prophesies, these men
are already amongst us, one of them the author of a
book which sneers openly at God. Doubters may
care to count the number of letters in each of his
names.
MATHEW ELLIOT STOOKE.
Merrily sat up slowly.
In this context, it is pertinent to ask why he chose
