The Prayer of the Night Shepherd (MW6)

by Phil Rickman

‘Antony? He’s quite funny. Very cynical. At first, you get the feeling he really couldn’t give a toss. But then he latches on to something, and you can see this steely intensity in his eyes. Of course I don’t know these guys like you do, and I didn’t realize he was that famous.’

  ‘He’s not famous, Jane. Pro doco guys are seldom famous. He’s respected, is what counts. Which is what brings the work in. And I mean, why would a guy... why would a guy of his stature allow an evil little bimbo like you to... shoot for television?’

  They had him backed up against the farmhouse wall, battering him with white light.

  ‘... The fuck are you?’

  Danny didn’t respond. Stood there with his head bent away from the raging light, knowing that they had him wedged in. Somebody pulled off his hat and his hair came down over his face, near-wringing with cold sweat.

  ‘Looks like one of them fuckin’ travellers,’ another voice said – higher, younger. Danny placed the accent in the Valleys, somewhere down where there used to be coal mines and jobs. A good fifty miles from local, anyway.

  It was them.

  The light veered away from him, and he looked down and saw the lamp – one of them items you could send for out of the glossy catalogues that dropped out of local papers: ten million kilowatts, guaranteed to throw a beam halfway to Rhayader.

  ‘Assed you a question, mun.’ Hot, soupy breath in his face. ‘Assed you a fuckin’ question!’

  ‘What I am,’ Danny said through his clenched teeth, ‘is a feller got hisself invited yere by the owner. Unlike some bastards.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ He’s just a fuckin’ tenant, is all. Scum, he is.’

  It was blasted into his face along with some spit. The light hit him again like a big white fist, just giving him time, before he had to shut his eyes against it, to see two blokes in army-looking camouflage gear, one with the lamp, the other with something that was likely a rifle with a telescopic sight.

  ‘Try again,’ the Welshie said.

  ‘I’m a neighbour. Who’re you?’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘You’ll mabbe find out just now,’ Danny said, and cried out as somebody grabbed his hair and hauled his head back, and they shone the light directly into his eyes, and when he shut them the night turned bright orange like the logs in his stove.

  ‘Danny!’ Jeremy. His voice coming from above, probably an open window.

  ‘Call the cops, Jeremy,’ Danny said, surprised how calm he sounded, still held by his hair with his eyes tight shut.

  From behind, another bloke said, ‘OK, he’s on his own.’ Then they let go of Danny’s hair, and he couldn’t feel the heat from the lamp any more, and he risked opening his eyes a fraction.

  The first thing he saw was the gun.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Danny said.

  It wasn’t what he was expecting. It had a shortish single barrel and a skeleton butt, like the end of a crutch.

  ‘Look,’ he said, nervous as hell now, ‘what’s this about?’ If you didn’t know better, you might figure these blokes for the SAS on some night exercise. All the instructions shouted, rasped out, like soldiers and armed police did on TV. A performance, designed to put the shits up you.

  And it was working. No bugger in these parts had a gun like that, not even—

  Danny said, ‘Sebbie Dacre sent you, right?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Nathan!’ The younger voice, from a few yards away. ‘I can year the bastard movin’ about! Fetch the fuckin’ light!’

  ‘Now, you won’t move, will you, mun?’ the close-up Welshie said. ‘’Cause if we has to come and find you we gonner beat the shit out of you, no arguments.’

  ‘Where’m I gonner move to?’ Danny just hoping Jeremy had got over his suspicions of the police and was on the phone to them right now. Failing that, it was all down to Gret. This wasn’t normal, not by a mile.

  ‘He’s comin’ out!’ The younger voice – a shrill excitement there, you could almost hear the adrenalin crackling. Boys with guns – unstable. Danny saw one of them swing round, levelling his rifle at the half-open barn door, going into a crouch.

  Behind Danny, back at the house, there was the sound of a door bolt being slammed back.

  ‘No!’ Jeremy. The boy bursting out of the farmhouse.

  From inside the barn, there was a scuffling of straw, maybe the sound of something panting. Then a shadow was rising up in front of Jeremy, and he was going, ‘Errrrrrr,’ like all the breath had been punched out of him.

  ‘You don’t wanner get hurt, little man.’

  ‘That’s, that’s my...’ Jeremy, fighting for breath. ‘That’s my dog!’

  Danny ran out into the yard. The barn doorway was fully exposed in the bright beam, two yellow bales on end inside. He saw the butt of the rifle go back hard into the crook of the camouflage feller’s shoulder. His own breath came in like ice. One of the Welshies ran over and kicked the barn door wide open and then threw hisself to the side, bawling.

  ‘Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot the fucker!’

  The gun went off twice, these crisp, tight cracks, Jeremy screaming, ‘Noooo!’

  Amid the echoes, Danny heard rapid footsteps and saw something else flitting across the yard through the lamp beam to the barn.

  ‘Stop her!’ The first Welshie striding out, the lamp snatched up, beam swinging all over the place like a bar of solid light.

  And then Jeremy Berrows going, ‘No, Clancy, stop, Christ almighty, no!’

  Jesus, it was the girl. Danny found himself moving fast towards the open doorway, aware of the feller with the gun coming up alongside him, his face shiny-white in the light, and Danny thinking Oh God, oh God, oh God, what they done?

  A couple of yards from the barn, the gunman pulled ahead of Danny and twisted back, and Danny saw it coming, but he couldn’t do a thing about it. His head seemed to burst apart, and he went down clawing at the frozen shit on the cobbles.

  13

  Real Personal

  SPIRITUALISM: THIS, ESSENTIALLY, was the problem. Spiritualism was the keyhole in the door to hell, and the Deliverance Ministry tended to take an inflexible line on it, so this was why Jane couldn’t tell Mum about the White Company.

  ‘Or, er... the camera.’

  ‘You mean she doesn’t know you’re doing this?’

  Eirion disapproved too, naturally. Rigid Welsh Chapel ethic. OK, he didn’t actually go to Chapel, but it had seeped into the whole culture.

  ‘She trusts me these days, Irene. We’re into a new phase of mutual trust and support. Look, I’ll tell her... at some stage. Meanwhile, don’t be an old woman. Just give me a few, like, really basic hints, OK? Please, Irene.’

  ‘You don’t deserve it. You’re evil and duplicitous.’

  ‘Irene. I’ve had a lot of bad stuff happen to me, you know that. No father any more... dragged out to the sticks... adolescent crises... mother in a permanent state of spiritual angst...’

  ‘You’re not just economical with the truth, you’re parsimonious.’

  ‘Not with you.’

  In fact, she’d told him virtually everything: the church, the Vaughans, the White Company... all the stuff she couldn’t talk about to Mum without risking the most God-awful row, which she, frankly, did not at this moment need.

  ‘How did Largo put it?’ Eirion asked. ‘What did he actually say?’

  ‘Well, it... it was after we got back from the church, and I’d been helping Nat with these awful Christmas lights, and Amber’s determined to talk to Ben, so Antony just wanders in and he’s like, “Jane, could I have a wee word?” ’

  She told him how she’d made Antony some coffee in the lounge, and he’d said, ‘Sit down a minute, Jane,’ and started asking her questions: what did she think of this and that on TV, what did she have planned for when she left school?

  ‘I mean, it was dead casual, I thought he was just making conversation. We were getting on pretty well – better than when Ben was around. And like h
aving a laugh about how serious Ben was getting over all this. And then he goes, “Tell me, Jane, have you ever used a decent video camera?” ’

  ‘And then when you said no... ?’

  ‘I didn’t exactly say no. As such. I mean, suddenly I was getting an incredible feeling of where this might be going. Which was just... wow. So I told him that my boyfriend... I said my boyfriend’s family was connected with television in Wales and I’d been on lots of shoots and, like, helped out... filled in... done a bit of this and that. You know?’

  There was a silence. What she’d actually said was ‘my ex-boyfriend,’ wanting to keep whatever might be on the cards to herself, and she felt desperately guilty about that. Despicable. What kind of bitch did that to her guy? OK, he wouldn’t be able to be involved anyway, being out of the country, but it was still... well, not the kind of thing Eirion would ever do to her.

  ‘It just came out,’ Jane said.

  ‘You... lied to Antony Largo?’

  Jane swallowed, realizing she was sweating.

  ‘You didn’t mention my name to him, did you?’ Eirion said. ‘Because when this is all over and your name is like something scraped off his trainers after jogging across the dog pound...’

  ‘Look, it’s no big deal!’ She stared at the silvery little camera, panic rising. ‘He’ll shoot the heavy stuff himself, the seance. He just wants me to keep track of stuff happening day-to-day when he’s not there. Just like point the thing at anything interesting going down around the place and especially at Ben. See, he can’t afford to spend whole days himself around Stanner when he hasn’t flogged the idea to anybody yet – which can take like weeks and weeks – and he needs to keep track of developments and he needs Ben to be in some of the pictures, so... Apparently, they’re always getting people to do it these days. Shoot bits of stuff. There used to be hassles with the unions, but all that’s—’

  ‘So why don’t you ask Ben for a few hints?’

  ‘Because...’ Jane shut her eyes. ‘Because Ben’s clearly not happy about me doing it. He’d rather shoot it himself and not be in shot. It’s all so confused. Antony’s idea of this project may not quite tie in with Ben’s. Like, they’re mates, but there’s artistic friction, you know? I think, what Antony’s got in mind, is that if it all crashes, at least it’ll make a funny episode for this Punching the Clock series, about mid-life crises launching new careers.’

  ‘And these spiritualists – the cranks who think they’re going to raise the spirit of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – they’re actually going along with this?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re cool with it. Maybe they’re hoping for something amazing. Irene, come on, even if nothing happens it could still be totally brilliant stuff.’

  Eirion did this bitter sigh. ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this, but the most basic piece of advice I can give you is to use the tripod whenever possible. You’ve got a tripod?’

  ‘Antony’s having one sent over to Stanner for me.’

  ‘Right, well, don’t get carried away with hand-held stuff. Unless you’ve got a lot of experience and really steady hands it looks awful. Unusable, right? Also, stick to auto at all times or you’ll just get in a mess.’

  ‘Won’t it look amateurish?’

  ‘The difference will probably be minimal, and Largo can get rid of any fluffs in the editing. And make sure your shots are long enough – remember you’re recording what might be a familiar scene to you for people who’ve never seen it before, so hang in there. Don’t pan unless it’s vital. Don’t get carried away with the zoom. And remember that the mike on the camera’s OK for ambient sound or when you’re tight, but... What’s the other mike like? Directional, or what?’

  ‘Well, it... I mean you can like point it. Look, when you said zoom...?’

  ‘Ration it severely. My advice is to pretend that every time you use the zoom it’s going to cost you a tenner.’

  ‘So the zoom... where is that exactly?’

  ‘Well, it’s... Oh, bloody hell,’ Eirion said, ‘suppose I just come over and show you.’

  Jane fisted the air. ‘I love you so much, Irene.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ Jane said, low and sexy and exultant inside. ‘Maybe later.’

  This greasy, low-wattage bulb over the door. Only a feeble light, coated with dust and cobweb and dead flies, but all light was pain.

  Silence in here. The only sound was in his head: the buzzsaw of pain. Standing in the doorway, he was sick with the pain.

  ‘No. It’s a friend,’ Jeremy said. ‘A friend.’

  Danny held on to the door frame. The girl in the straw didn’t move. Her hair was the same colour as the straw in the rancid butter light. She stared up at him and her eyes were full of fear and hate.

  Jeremy said, ‘Oh Christ, they done that?’

  Danny’s face and head were wet. He kept his hands away from it.

  ‘Gone?’ It was a tattered croak; he couldn’t believe the terror in his own voice. ‘All of ’em? You sure?’

  On the flagged floor, a broken bale and the girl sprawled forward in the straw, looking up, covering the black and white dog with her body.

  How much time had passed Danny didn’t know. His head felt like the time he’d been kicked by a horse. Jeremy was staring at him.

  ‘They was gonner shoot the dog, Danny. Clancy, she just hurled herself in front of ’em. Wasn’t no answer to that. They buggered off.’

  ‘They was gonner shoot the dog?’

  ‘What they hit you with?’

  ‘Butt of the gun, I reckon. Why the dog?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Jeremy was wearing baggy jeans and an old sweater with holes in it. He was quivering. ‘Dunno what they thought.’

  ‘Don’t you really, boy?’

  ‘I better get you an ambulance.’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘Can you see out that eye?’

  ‘It missed the eye. You called the cops?’

  ‘You can’t drive home in that state,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘You called the police?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t want no police, Danny. It’d all get twisted round. You know how it is.’

  ‘This is Dacre, ennit?’

  ‘They never said, not really.’ Jeremy ran his hands through his sparse fair hair, his face all screwed up. ‘They never... He’ll admit to hiring them, but he’s gonner deny responsibility for how they done it.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Shot the foxes.’

  ‘Foxes, balls. He’s the bloody hunt master. He don’t wanner see no foxes shot at night, or by day. He wants ’em all decently ripped in half by his hounds. The bloody Middle Marches Hunt looks like running out of foxes to chase, Sebbie’d have a couple crates of the buggers shipped over from the city, you know that.’

  Danny leaned back against the door frame, breathing through his mouth. The effort of saying all that had left him feeling faint.

  ‘He en’t an easy man to deal with,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘He’s a total bastard of a man, Jeremy, we all know that.’

  ‘He phoned me earlier.’

  ‘Oh, did he?’

  ‘Said did I know what that feller Foley was doing over at Hergest. With another feller. And a girl.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  ‘Well, ’cause... ’cause Nat’lie, she d’work up at Stanner.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You tell him?’

  ‘Told him I didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’.’ Jeremy looked down at the girl. ‘You best get inside, Clancy, ’fore your mam gets in.’ He smiled at her. ‘Take the dog in with you. You’re gonner need some tea, Danny.’

  ‘No, I’ll get off home, ’fore Gret calls in the bloody Armed Response Unit. Give her a call for me, will you, boy? Say I tripped on the cattle grid but I’m all right now.’

  In the end, it was past midnight when Danny made it home, and Jeremy had to take him in his Land Rover.
<
br />   What had happened, those bastards had rammed the Justy out of the way with the bull bars on the Discovery, heaving it into the ditch. The driver’s door was stove in, and Danny didn’t give a lot for the sub-frame.

  Bastards! Couldn’t believe they’d done that. Couldn’t believe any of this.

  Knowing for a fact that if he tried to make a claim against them – even if he could find out their names – they’d deny the whole lot. Anyway, Danny avoided lawyers the same way you didn’t drink sheep-dip.

  ‘I en’t fully sure what this is about,’ he told Jeremy out on the bypass. ‘But far as I’m concerned it just got real personal.’

  ‘Leave it, eh, Danny. En’t nothing to be done.’

  ‘En’t nothin’—?’

  ‘I’ll pay for the damage.’

  ‘You bloody will not, boy!’

  ‘Happened on my ground. Me as called you out. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have rung you. I just didn’t want nothing to happen to the girl.’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said. ‘What’s going on, Jeremy?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Just some shooting yobs from—’

  ‘Not the Welshies, you... that girl. And her mam.’ Danny was talking through the pain now, so he didn’t care what he said, long as he could get it out. ‘What’s the score there, Jeremy? Where’s it goin’, you and her? What’s that about?’

  Jeremy said nothing.

  ‘All right, why’d them Welshies say it wasn’t your ground? Sebbie Dacre still think he’s entitled, is it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Jeremy staring straight ahead, driving slow. ‘En’t his. En’t never gonner be his. That’s all I know. I was born there, I’ll die there.’

  Not just an expression of intent, Danny thought, it was like he knew it for a fact – that he would die at The Nant.

  Above them, the wishy-washy moonlight shone damply on Stanner Rocks, and Jeremy never spoke another word, except for ‘goodnight’ – not much more than a clicking of the tongue – when he dropped Danny at his top gate.

  Part Two

  ‘My friend was still looking at the coat of arms and I walked to the archway here and just looked across at the blue curtain. There was an image... it wasn’t even a shape... I can only describe it as when motes hang in sunbeams. But it was the image of a bull and he was giving out the feeling of being angry... he was pawing at the ground but he was in the air. The inside of his nostrils – this was one of the most vivid things – were very, very red, like a racehorse when it’s just stopped running. And it was wet, it was dripping moisture or something on to the ground. It was as though it was hanging in sort of strings... As we walked to the middle aisle it started to fade... I’m a hard-headed business person. But I can’t deny it, I’ve seen it – I’ve experienced it.’