Midwinter of the Spirit

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Iffy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And you want to?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her dark hair shone in the lamplight.

  ‘More than a professional interest?’

  ‘I don’t have a professional interest any more. I am just so angry. That shit.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’m happy you’re mad. When I first saw you in Church Street you were about as animated as Mr Dobbs back there. I worry easily.’

  She smiled, shaking her head. ‘Lol…’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I said some stupid things, all right? Things that weren’t necessarily true.’

  ‘Which in particular?’

  ‘You choose,’ Merrily said. Her face seemed flushed.

  He thought for a moment. ‘OK, I’ve chosen.’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because…’

  ‘Because little Jane doesn’t know where you are?’

  ‘Little Jane doesn’t bloody care.’

  ‘I think she does, Merrily. And it’s not my place to say so to a professional good person, but if you take this out on her before you’ve gone into it properly, you might regret it.’

  ‘You mean I should take steps to find out what she’s doing – and who with?’

  ‘I can… help maybe, if you want.’

  ‘Why are you doing this, Lol?’

  ‘A number of possible reasons.’ Lol stood close to her but looked across the river to the haze of misted lights on the fringe of the city. ‘You choose.’

  Merrily sighed. ‘I can’t go to bed with you, you know.’ And, naturally, she looked soft-focus beautiful under the lamp. ‘Not the way things are.’

  ‘God,’ Lol said sadly. ‘He has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘It isn’t God,’ Merrily said.

  ‘Oh.’ He wanted to roll over the rail into the black river. ‘That means somebody else.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned away from him and from the light. In the moment before she did, he saw her eyes and he thought he saw a flash of fear there, and he thought there was a shudder of revulsion.

  But he was paranoid. Official!

  ‘I’ll take you back now,’ Merrily said.

  32

  Fantasy World

  JANE THREW OPEN the bedroom window, and the damned fog came in and she started to cough. It was like being with Mum in the scullery-office on a heavy Silk Cut night.

  Down on the lawn the last rags of snow had gone. Snow was clean, bright, refreshing. Fog was misery. It was December today, so only three weeks to Midwinter, the great solstice when the year had the first gleam of spring in its eye.

  Always darkest before the dawn. This, Jane thought, was like a midwinter of the spirit. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Hail to Thee, Eternal Spiritual Sun.

  ‘Whose visible symbol now rises from the Heavens.’

  That was a bloody laugh.

  ‘Hail unto Thee from the Abodes of Morning.’

  It had been so brilliant last night out in the garden. Maybe she was a night person. Maybe a moon person. And yet the bedtime exercise had not gone too well, the great rewinding of the day.

  Before you go to sleep, make a journey back through the day. Starting with the very last thing you did or said or thought, then going back through every small event, every action, every perception, as though you were rewinding a sensory videotape of your day. Consider each occurrence impartially, as though it were happening to someone else, and notice how one thing led to another. Thus will you learn about cause and effect. This reverse procedure also de-conditions your mind from thinking sequentially – past, present and future – and demolishes the web of falsehood you habitually weave to excuse your wrong behaviour.

  It was impossible to stay with it. You got sidetracked. You thought of something interesting and followed it through. Or something bad, like Mum being ill, which could plunge you without warning into some awful Stalinist scenario at Gran’s in Cheltenham: As long as your mother is in hospital, Jane, you are under my roof, and a young lady does not go out looking like THAT. Or you remembered seeing some cool male person and, despite what Angela had foretold, you were into the old dyinga-virgin angst. Rowenna never seemed prey to these fears; had she no hormones?

  Gratefully, Jane closed the window. Mum had not looked too bad last night. Quiet, though: pensive.

  ‘You’re not OK! You’re not! You look like sh—’

  ‘Don’t say it, all right?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  And, Jesus, it was true. That ratty old dressing-gown, the cig drooping from the corner of her mouth. A vicar? Standing on the stairs, she looked like some ageing hooker.

  ‘It’s the weather,’ Mum said.

  ‘It so is not the weather! Maybe you should see a doctor. I don’t know about exorcist; you look like completely bloody possessed.’

  For a moment, Mum looked quite horrible, face all red and scrunched up like some kind of blood-pressure situation. And then…

  ‘STOP IT! Don’t you ever ever make jokes about that, do you hear?’

  ‘And, like whatever happened to the sense of humour?’ Jane backed away into the kitchen, teetering on the rim of tears.

  They ate breakfast in silence apart from the bleeping of the answering machine: unplayed messages from last night. ‘Aren’t you going to ever listen to that thing?’ Jane said finally at the front door.

  ‘I’ll get around to it, flower,’ Mum said drably, turning away because, for less than half a second, Jane had caught her eyes and seen in them the harsh glint of fear.

  No, please.

  Standing desolate on the dark-shrouded market square, as the headlights of the school bus bleared around the corner, Jane thought, suppose it’s not flu, nor even some kind of virus; suppose she’s found symptoms of something she’s afraid to take to the doctor.

  Oh God. Please, God.

  The only time Jane ever reverted to the Old Guy was when it was about Mum.

  Bleep.

  ‘Merrily, it’s Sophie. I’m calling at seven o’clock. Please ring me at home.’

  Bleep.

  ‘Ms Watkins. Acting DCI Howe, 19.27, Tuesday. I need to talk to you. Can you call me between eight-thirty and ten tomorrow, Wednesday. Thanks.’

  Bleep.

  ‘This is Susan Thorpe, Mrs Watkins, at the Glades. Could you confirm our arrangement for tomorrow evening? Thank you.’

  Bleep.

  ‘Merrily, it’s Sophie again. Please call me. You must realize what it’s about.’

  Bleep.

  ‘Hello, lass. Time we had a chat, eh?’

  Merrily didn’t think so.

  Lol said, ‘Viv, you know the Alternative Hereford – I mean, most of the people on that side of things.’

  ‘My love,’ Big Viv laughed throatily, ‘I am the Alternative Hereford. Just don’t ask me to point you to a dealer.’

  ‘What happens over that healthfood café in Bridge Street?’

  ‘Pod’s?’ Viv gave him a sharp look. He saw she had two tight lip-rings on this morning. ‘Well, they used to do a good cashewburger, then they got a different cook and it wasn’t so good. You won’t meet anybody there.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Lol shook his head gently. ‘I’m not looking to score anything chemical.’

  He collected another hard look. ‘What then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mysticism?’

  ‘You won’t score that either. Not at Pod’s.’

  He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  ‘Wrong gender, Lol. It’s a woman thing there. I can put you on to a few other people, if you like, depending what you’re into. Wicca… theosophy… Gurdjieff…?’

  ‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ Lol said. ‘It involves a friend of mine. She thought her daughter might be involved in something possibly linked to Pod’s, and she’d like to know a bit about it. It’s a pe
ace-of-mind thing.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Jane. Jane Watkins.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’ Viv went to sit behind the till. ‘All right, I went there a few times, but it got a bit intense, yeah?’

  ‘What was it into?’

  ‘Self-discovery, developing an inner life, meditation, astralprojection, occult-lite – you know?’

  ‘You manage to leave your body, Viv?’

  ‘No such luck, darling. The best teacher they had just dropped out, then they got very responsible. A bit elitist – no riff-raff, no dopeheads. Like an esoteric ladies’ club, you know? That was when I kicked it into touch. Life’s too short.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For taking seriously. Plus, it was inconvenient. They started meeting in an afternoon on account of the kind of women they were attracting didn’t want their oh-so-respectable husbands to find out. Anyway, it was all a bit snooty and bit too sombre.’

  Lol wondered how sombre was too sombre for a Nico-fan.

  ‘This is a very intense, intellectual kid, Lol?’

  ‘Not how I’d describe her. Well… not how I would have described her.’

  ‘They change so fast, kids,’ Viv said.

  The only call Merrily returned was Susan Thorpe’s. A careattendant answered: Mrs Thorpe had left early for Hereford Market. Merrily said quickly, before she could let herself back out, ‘Could you tell her the arrangement still stands.’

  She felt really unsure about this, but she very much wanted to speak to Susan Thorpe’s mother – wanted every bit of background she could get on Thomas Dobbs.

  And it was only an imprint: a redirection of energies. She could handle that – couldn’t she? – if she protected herself.

  ‘That’s fine,’ the woman said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Watkins.’

  ‘OK.’

  She lit a cigarette and pulled over the phone book. This was something she should have done days ago.

  Napier. Surprisingly, there were three in Credenhill. Would it say Major Napier? Colonel Napier? She didn’t even know Rowenna’s father’s rank. A serving officer in the SAS would, anyway, be unlikely to advertise his situation. Might even be ex-directory. She called the first Napier – no reply. At the second, a woman answered, and Merrily asked if this was where Rowenna lived.

  The woman laughed, with no humour. ‘This is where she sleeps’ – London accent? – ‘sometimes.’

  There was the sound of a morning TV talk-show in the background, a studio audience programmed to gasp and hoot.

  ‘Is that Mrs Napier?’

  ‘No, it’s Mrs Straker.’

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to Mrs Napier?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, dear. Depends if you can afford long-distance.’

  Merrily said nothing.

  ‘I’m Rowenna’s aunt,’ Mrs Straker continued heavily, like she’d had to explain this a thousand times too many. ‘I look after the kids for Steve. He’s my younger brother. He and Helen split up about four years ago. She’s in Canada now. If you want to speak to Steve, you’ll have to call back tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know any of this. My name’s Merrily Watkins. From Ledwardine. My daughter, Jane… she seems to be Rowenna’s best friend, at school.’

  No reaction. This wasn’t what she’d expected. She wanted a warm, concerned parent, delighted to hear from little Jane’s mother.

  ‘I don’t know any Jane,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘See, Mrs…’

  ‘Watkins. Merrily.’

  ‘Yeah. See, since her dad bought her that car we never know where she is. I wouldn’t have got it her, personally. I don’t think she should have a car till she’s at college or got a job, but Steve’s soft with her, and now she goes where she likes. And she don’t bring her girl friends back here. Or the men either.’

  Merrily sat down, her picture of Rowenna and her family background undergoing radical revision.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Mrs Straker was saying, ‘I think I should be bothering more than I do, but when she was here all the time it was nothing but rows and sulks, and this is a very small house for the five of us. Where we were before, down in Salisbury, things was difficult, but it was a bigger place at least, you know what I mean?’

  ‘I suppose your brother has to go away a lot.’ In the SAS, Merrily had heard, you could never rely on not having to be in Bosnia or somewhere at a day’s notice.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Straker.

  ‘He is a… an Army officer, isn’t he, your brother?’

  Mrs Straker laughed. ‘That’s what she told you, is it?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Merrily said. It was Jane who’d told her.

  ‘Steve’s a corporal. He works in admin.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s not good enough for Rowenna, obviously. She lives in what I would call a fantasy world. Steve can’t see it, or he don’t want to. I dunno what your daughter’s like, Mrs Watson.’

  ‘Impressionable.’ Merrily’s stomach felt like lead. ‘She’s been out a lot lately, at night, and she doesn’t always say where. I’m getting worried – which is why I rang.’

  ‘You want to watch her,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘Keep an eye on her, that’s my advice.’

  ‘Why would you… advise that?’

  Mrs Straker made a pregnant humming noise. There was a lot she could say, would enjoy relating, but she apparently wanted more encouragement.

  Merrily said, ‘It’s a bit difficult for me to keep an eye on Jane all the time, being a single mum, you know? Having to work.’

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘Widow.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a widow too,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘It’s not easy, is it? Never thought I’d end up looking after somebody else’s kids, even if they are my own brother’s. But I can’t watch that girl as well – I told Steve that. Not now she’s got a car. What do you do?’

  ‘Yes, I can see the problem.’

  ‘No, what do you do? What’s your job?’

  The front doorbell rang.

  ‘I’m, er… I’m a minister in the Church. A vicar.’

  The line went quiet.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Straker said, ‘that’s not what I expected at all. That’s very funny that is.’

  The doorbell rang again, twice, followed by a rapping of the knocker.

  ‘Why is that so funny?’

  ‘That’s your front door, dear,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘You’d best go and get it. Ring me back, if you like.’

  ‘Why is that so funny, Mrs Straker?’

  ‘It’s not funny at all, Mrs Watson. You won’t find it funny, I’ll guarantee that.’

  33

  Wrong Number, Dear

  ANNIE HOWE STOOD on the step, young and spruce and clean, fast-track fresh against the swirling murk.

  ‘Ah, you are there, Ms Watkins. I was driving over from Leominster, so I thought I’d call.’ Her ash-blonde head tilted, taking in the dressing-gown – and the blotches and the bags, no doubt. ‘You really aren’t well, are you?’

  ‘Not wonderful.’

  ‘Flu?’

  ‘No, it’s OK to come in,’ Merrily said. ‘You won’t catch anything.’

  ‘I seldom do. Is this nervous exhaustion, perhaps?’

  ‘That might be closer.’

  Howe stepped into the kitchen, with a slight wrinkling of the nose. Her own kitchen would be hardwood and stainless-steel, cool as a morgue. She sat down at the table, confidently pushing the ashtray away.

  ‘Ms Watkins, it’s the Paul Sayer thing again.’

  Merrily filled the kettle. ‘That seemed to have gone quiet?’

  ‘That’s because we’re still choosing not to make too much noise about it. I’m wondering if we ought to.’

  ‘You want me to discuss it in a sermon?’

  Howe smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps a sarcasm amnesty?’

  ‘Sure. Sorry, go on.’

  So what did she do about this? If Howe knew she was in the process of sheddin
g the Deliverance role, this conversation would never reach the coffee stage. Difficult, since she was unable to square it with the Bishop until his return from London. OK, say nothing.

  ‘You heard from DS Bliss, I believe,’ Howe said.

  ‘He told me about the supplier of crows. Did you get any further?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. They appeared to have paid their money, taken their crow, and melted back into their own netherworld. But, as you agreed with Bliss, the fee suggests that the people involved in this are not the usual… how shall I say—?’

  ‘Toerags.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So, let me get this right – have you actually said publicly that Sayer was murdered yet?’

  Howe shook her head. ‘We’re staying with the phrase “suspicious circumstances”. The situation is, as you must realize, that we could doubtless get widespread national publicity if we told the press about Sayer’s hobby.’

  ‘Especially if you gave them the pictures.’

  ‘Of course. But apart from producing an unseemly double-page spread in the Daily Star, I can’t see that it would help. I’m no longer sure the people we want to talk to would ever read a tabloid. Yes, it’s possible, Sayer may simply be a wanker. We’ve found some videotapes under a floorboard which seem to show ritual activities, but we don’t know if these are events that Sayer was personally involved in or sado-pornographic tapes he acquired for his own gratification. They’re quite explicit.’

  ‘Not commercial films?’

  ‘Oh, no, the quality’s not good enough. Lots of camera shake and the picture itself is so poor it seems to have been recorded with either old or very cheap equipment – which suggests it’s not simulated.’

  ‘What kind of ritual activities?’

  ‘You can view them if you like.’

  ‘I’d rather you just told me.’

  ‘Well, one shows a man penetrating a woman on an altar. She’s wearing a blindfold and a gag, and it looks like rape. The man’s face is not hidden, but well covered by long hair and a beard. In the background are several people whose faces are even less distinguishable. What does that sound like to you?’

  ‘Any suggestion of location?’