by Mal Peet
Irritating Gordon Chouse persisted. ‘And how, if you don’t mind me asking, Sir Arthur, do you explain the business with Mrs Flaxman’s goats? Or the damage done to your garden? Or, for that matter, to Krishna’s secret dope plantation?’
‘Ray,’ the colonel said.
‘Pardon? Who?’
‘Ray. A ray. Laser sort of thing. State-of-the-art weaponry. Fired by mistake, I imagine. Some chappie down in Plymouth pressing the wrong button. Or simply a gremlin. Takes time to iron these things out, y’ know.’ He waited. ‘Any further questions?’
Gammon drew in a breath and looked around the table. ‘No? Thank you, Colonel. I’m sure we’ll all sleep easier in our beds. Now then, item one on the agenda. Apologies for absence.’
14
Had Rogers-Jelly not sworn the Rotarians to secrecy, the fearful thrill that possessed Flemworthy might have been quickly suppressed. Instead, reports of, or imaginings of, the Great Fly became almost the sole topic of conversation. Visits to the library increased tenfold; sometimes there were more than five people at once in there, pulling books at random off the shelves and spending an hour or more at the checkout desk. Now that persons of quality had come out in support of their story, the Weird Sisters began to wax loquacious.
‘It pulled itself outer Murdsten’s chimberly like a fat rat outer a pipe,’ Merilee said. ‘Us didn’ notice it at first. We wasn’ really lookin, was we, Francine, being as we was just on our walk.’
‘No.’
‘Then there was this rustlin, like someone undoin a parcel. Come from up above. So we looked, and there twas. Our heart stopped in our chest, didn’ it, Francine?’
‘Oh, worse’n that. I felt like I had a paira hands acrost my throat. I tried to speak but I couldn. There it was, head goin this way and that, wings whackin together with a sound like cardboard. Then it takes off backards an go back’n’forth for a bit like he’s pissed, then set off in the general drection a Nodden Slough.’
Their audience shuddered satisfactorily.
Pale-faced Pauline from the post office said, ‘Wasn’t you tempted to hev a peek through the winder?’
‘Us did try,’ Merilee admitted, ‘but we cudden see nothun cos the glass were covered in condescension. And us was buggered if we was gorna knock on the door.’
A great deal of lively conversation centred on Philip Murdstone.
That he was a queer fish had never been in doubt.
The way he’d just shown up out of nowhere and bought that damp hole Downside Cottage after it had lain empty for six years since its previous inhabitant, old Ma Birtles – who was definitely a witch – had been found dead in her armchair with the Bible upside-down – upside-down, mark you – in her stone-cold claws and half her left ear eaten by her cat.
The way he’d lived poor as a church mouse, and then suddenly made millions with a book all about Black Magic and Neck Romancers and what have you.
The way he’d lurk up at The Devil’s Clock at all hours.
And lately, he’d been acting very strange indeed. Who could forget how he’d turned up, bearded and sockless, at Kwik Mart and caused mayhem?
‘I thought at the time,’ Merilee or Francine said, ‘he was pissed as a two-legged stool. Now I hevta ask maself if I wasn wrong. Whether what we witlessed wasn a boner feeday case of demonic possession.’
Even those unconvinced by the Weird Sisters’ analysis had to concede that it was very significant that Murdstone had disappeared at the same time – perhaps at exactly the same time – that the Great Fly had launched itself from his chimney. Simple logic seemed to insist that the fly was Murdstone. And that, therefore, Murdstone’s return was a thing to be feared.
On the fifth Sunday after the Fly, the Reverend Colin Minns was somewhat surprised to discover that the congregation at Evensong was thrice its normal size. No fewer than twenty-four worshippers, some of whom he barely recognized, huddled together in the tall gloom of Saint Jude’s. He knew that this burgeoning of the faithful was not the result of his going amongst his flock inspiring them with the love of the Lord because it had been some time since he could be arsed to do much of that sort of thing.
His first inkling of the explanation came towards the end of the Lord’s Prayer.
‘And lead us not into temptation; But deliver us from evil,’ he intoned; and in the following short pause his congregation loudly murmured, ‘And from the Great Fly.’
He glared down at them, but none would meet his glittering eye.
Later, emerging from the vestry with gin on his breath and microwaved Chicken Tikka on his mind, the vicar found a deputation awaiting him. It was headed by his sexton, William Sexton.
‘Bill,’ Minns exclaimed, more or less heartily, and popped a Polo mint into his mouth.
‘Vicar,’ Sexton said.
All stood silent for a long moment in the dimness that smelled of mould and wax and unanswered prayer and moth-eaten military banners.
Minns rubbed his hands together. ‘So, er, how can I help you good folk? You do look most dreadfully solemn, I must say. Is there a problem?’
Someone almost discernibly female poked Sexton from behind and whispered something urgent. The sexton braced himself and spoke.
‘Us wants you ter perform a extersism, Vicar.’
‘Beg pardon?’
Sexton shifted his feet. ‘I dunno if perform be the right word. Do one, anyhow. On Downside. Philip Murdsten’s place.’
Minns put his hands into his trouser pockets and lowered his head.
All waited.
‘William. My friends. I really do think that this fly business has got out of hand.’ He now looked at them squarely. ‘There are those of this parish who have, shall we say, rich imaginations. And, to be frank, there is a, shall we call it tradition? Of superstition? In this part of the world? Mister Murdstone is a successful writer. That is, of itself, no reason for suspicion, let alone fear. I’ve met him once or twice and he seems, well, a perfectly normal sort of a fellow, really. I don’t know if you are familiar with the phrase “mass hysteria”, but—’
Sexton the sexton cut him off. ‘The place is evil, Vicar. Allers has been. Ask anyone. Any dog’ll whine goin pass, and if a dog dunno the Devil no one do.’
Minns opened his mouth and shut it again. The faces that glimmered at him were stonily, anciently, determined.
Hell’s bells, he thought.
When he got home he poured himself another stiff one and called the Bishop.
15
There had not been a midnight event in Flemworthy since the public burning of a Spanish ventriloquist in 1828, so the procession that wended its way towards Downside was joined enthusiastically by almost the entire population of the town and its nearer environs.
Even so, it was strangely quiet. Children – normally thrilled or querulous past their bedtimes – were silent in their all-terrain buggies. The usually and randomly garrulous inmates of Sunset House stumbled or trundled along quietly. Also there, or represented, were the Friends of Abused Donkeys, the members of the White Knights of St George (who also represented UKIP), the Young Farmers, the codpiece enthusiasts of the Francis Drake Society, the Saint Jude Optimists, the grizzled Young Conservatives, both members of the Watch Committee, Eric who pretended to work for the Council, the addled punters who hung around the Gelder’s for an hour after closing time and, in the vanguard, the Weird Sisters. Only the Methodists, the Women’s Institute and Leon and Edgar, for reasons of ideology or indifference, boycotted the occasion.
All were led by the Reverend Minns, who wore a rucksack and as solemn an expression as he could muster, and William Sexton, who bore a large wooden cross. A great many in the train were holding candles; others burned cigarette lighters which flickered off when thumbs were scorched and flickered on again when thumbs had cooled. However, there fell a light but persistent rain, so these various flames and their bearers were sheltered by an almost continuous carapace of umbrellas. These lent the parade a spe
ctral, almost sinister aspect. Viewed from some height and distance – from, say, Krishna Mersey’s smoky yurt halfway up Beige Willie – it might have been mistaken for an improbably large millipede, bearing glowing eggs within its innumerable crotches, creeping towards some unspeakable hatchery.
At the cottage, Minns and Sexton halted, facing the gate. Their followers fanned out behind them along the lane.
Sexton shuddered bulkily. ‘I can feel the evil coming offut in waves, Vicar.’
Nonsense, Minns didn’t say. For all his ecumenical scepticism, he was forced to admit that there was something unwholesome about the place. The way it beetled into the flank of the hill like a trapped and watchful animal, candlelight reflected snakishly in its glass eyes. The thatch lowered like a scowl. A whiff – probably imaginary – of staleness and corruption.
He shrugged the rucksack off his back, turned and raised his voice. ‘Friends. Friends. Thank you. Mr Sexton and I will now enter this house and conduct the exorcism. I cannot say for certain what will happen during this procedure. But whatever happens, I must insist that none of you try to enter the house or take any other unconsidered action. I mean that most sincerely. Mr Sexton and I would appreciate it if you stayed where you are and supported us with prayer. Thank you. Bill?’
The two men opened the gate and approached Murdstone’s front door and hammered loudly upon it.
‘Admit us in the name of God Most High,’ Minns demanded, twice. When nothing happened Sexton put his shoulder to the door, which yielded on the instant. The sexton slipped on a slithery dune of junk mail and tumbled into the living room. Struggling to save himself, he collided with a low table and sent the telephone clattering into the darkness. His dropped torch struck the floor and went out.
‘Bill? Are you all right, Bill?’
‘Vicar?’
‘Wait. I’ll light a candle. By all that’s holy, it smells like a dead badger in here, doesn’t it?’
‘Ar. Tis the stink of the Devil’s chuff.’
Minns groped in his bag and pulled out a beefy beeswax and lit it with his lighter.
(It never occurred to either man to try the light switches. Had they done so, they would not have had to proceed umbrageously. South West Power, having not received Philip’s quarterly payment, had assumed he had switched allegiance to EuroLec and, in an attempt to woo him back, had granted him a reprieve. A letter to this effect was one of the things that had sent Sexton’s foot on its skid. On the other hand, turning the lights on would have seriously disappointed those waiting outside, for whom flickering flame and uncertain light were essential elements of the long-anticipated ritual.)
The clergyman held his flame aloft until it illuminated a table. He set the candle down and lit another. Sexton had located and relit his torch and was now reciting, loudly, the Lord’s Prayer. Minns thought it unwise to silence him and used the opportunity to scan the text he had downloaded from an American website. He was frankly embarrassed by the prospect of addressing Satan directly and in stentorian tones, but it was some consolation that the only person who would hear him do so was an idiot.
Sexton got to the end of the prayer and said ‘Amen’. He waited expectantly.
‘Ah. Yes, Amen.’
‘What do us do now, Vicar?’
‘Well, we arrange ten candles in the shape of the cross. In the middle of the floor. Six down and the other four across. Two either side. See what I mean?’
Sexton drew in a sorrowful breath. ‘I knew twud be complercated, Vicar. I’d best leave it ter thee, I reckon.’
‘Yes. OK, Bill. Shine your torch on my bag, there’s a good chap.’ Minns rummaged again.
Sexton said, ‘I did wonder if he mightn’t be here.’
Minns looked up into the dazzle. ‘What?’
‘Well, like we haven seenum for some time don’ mean he mightn’t be here. Holed up, like.’
‘What?’ Minns’ eyes skittered around the gloom. ‘Are you telling me you think Murdstone might be here?’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Bill. That would be … terrible. It would be so embarrassing. If he—’
A noise came from above them. A crash followed by a small howl of pain.
‘Oh, fuck,’ the clergyman said.
An upstairs door opened. A hoarse voice was heard. ‘Fluke me, I can’t be doing with that much longer. Like being puked up by a goat been eating thorn. Murdstone? Murdstone!’
Minns and Sexton drew closer together. Sexton held forth the cross. He aimed the trembling beam of his torch at the head of the stairs.
‘Aha! So you are here, you frolicking arsewipe. We were beginning to think—’
A demon walked into the light. A demon in the guise of a child wearing a hoodie and sandals. But its eyes were dark and ancient; they flinched from the glare.
‘Stap me, Murdstone. Turn that flukin lamp off!’
‘Don’t, Bill,’ Minns warned.
‘I won’t, Vicar. Tis a thing of darknuss!’
The demon crouched, peering. ‘Who the bollix …?’
When the torch found its face again, the fiend hissed and thrust out two white talons. Sexton cried out in horror when the torch turned to hot biscuit and crumbled in his hand. Men and monster, motionless shadows, stared at each other for an eternal moment. The two candle flames burned in the creature’s eyes.
Sexton said, ‘Vicar?’
All saliva had departed Minns’ mouth. He croaked, ‘In the name of the One and Only God …’
It was as far as he got.
The demon snarled, ‘In the name of the crack of my arse!’ Then it turned and scuttled into darkness. A door banged against a wall. A shudder thrilled the house. Then silence.
Time not measurable by the normal means passed. When it had gone, Sexton walked backwards and cautiously to one of the candles and picked it up.
‘Us’d better check, Vicar,’ he whispered.
Minns rallied himself and picked up the other candle. ‘Yes. You’re right. After you, Bill.’
With the cross leading the way they ascended the stairs. The only door open was that of the bathroom which, when they dared enter, was significantly colder than the rest of the cottage despite the smell of scorch that hung in the air. The exorcists examined the room by the light of their candles.
‘I’d say tis gone,’ Sexton said.
‘Yes. Shall we get the hell out of here?’
At the foot of the stairs Sexton said, ‘Well, all in all, that were a bleddy sight easier than I thought twud be.’
Book Three
Untitled
1
Slut, although barely an hour’s drive from Dubrovnik, has been less ruthlessly improved by Russian Mafia money or British private equity slush funds than other places on the Dalmatian seaboard.
This is because Slut is not quite on the coast. The town is an irritating thirty-minute taxi drive from its beach, and the road is not good. You can, of course, get there by boat. A slow boat will leave from Slut’s riverside quay at unpredictable times (and at unpredictable cost) and deposit you, dizzied by diesel fumes, behind the shingle bar that separates the Slut lagoon from the Adriatic. For these and other reasons, Slut has been spared. No cranes loom over its motley buildings, and the occasional Mercedes-Benz with darkened windows pauses but passes by.
Nonetheless, tourists come, attracted by the magnificent Greek amphitheatre and the remains of the Temple of Priapus just the other side of the service station on the main road. They stay for a day, sometimes even two, eating at the restaurant where Vanda works, poring over their copies of Lonely Planet or The Rough Guide, congratulating themselves on finding The Unspoilt Croatia, and struggling with the menu that Vanda has tried vainly to get Mirko to rephrase. Has tried to explain that ‘Lamb Sin Cocked in its Own Hair’ is unlikely to sound attractive to non-Croats. Nor yet is ‘Tongue of Goat Choked in Sauce’.
Vanda knew these things because she had spent two and a half of her teenage years as an asylum seeker in Cromer, a town on
the coast of Norfolk, England. The experience left her with two things: a working knowledge of English and a repertoire of bad dreams in which she flees through the squalid corridors of a crumbling and labyrinthine hotel built in 1906.
She spoke in English to the Englishman who had been, inexplicably, in Slut for more than a week. He was staying at the Vrt, the resort’s only two-star hotel. (She could not for the life of her understand why the town’s other hotel did not also paint stars on its sign board.) Every day he ate lunch and dinner at The Feral because he had discovered, like other tourists, that the alternatives were worse. He would arrive soon; it was almost twelve twenty-five. She prepared the table he always used, the small one on the terrace in the deep shadow of the awning. She positioned his chair with its back to the wall. And sure enough, here he came now, strolling along the riverside in his light suit and Panama hat as if Slut were Nice. If he wore pince-nez instead of sunglasses, he would look like Death In Venice. Vanda was fairly sure he was an artist of some sort, a composer, perhaps, or a poet. Not a painter. Never a spot of paint on his hands or clothes. Or perhaps he was something more interesting. A criminal evading Interpol. A man recovering from a disastrous love affair or scandal.
She had considered having sex with him; he was not that old, actually, and almost certainly more inventive than the local options. He was always drunk when he left at three o’clock, but not that drunk. She could overtake him on her bicycle, dismount provocatively, and discuss her discontent. She pictured his soft and neatly trimmed beard sliding down her belly to intertangle with her own more luxuriant one.
