December

by Phil Rickman

  X

  Organism

  Eddie Edwards had been staking out the place since just after eight, walking Zap up and down the street in the sharp air until the poor dog was dizzy, had to be. But it was nearly ten by the time Mrs Pugh left the house. Vicarage-cleaning day, too - the woman was giving herself an easy time of it in Simon's absence.

  Soon as she was round the corner out of sight, Eddie was hauling Zap up the path and hammering on the door. His old plastic briefcase was under his arm, the handle snapped off years ago.

  'Heavens,' Isabel said, 'I don't know which of you's tongue is hanging out furthest. Seen you go past that window fifteen times. Mug or a cup?'

  'Mug, please, my dear.' Eddie unpacked his case on the accounting table. 'Sit now, Zap.'

  'Always wanted a dog,' Isabel said sadly, pouring coffee. 'But you try taking a puppy for a walk in a wheelchair, and Mother couldn't be bothered. You're all red-faced and frozen, Eddie. Think it's going to snow?'

  'Too cold for it,' Eddie said, hanging his overcoat over the back of a dining-chair, approaching the open stove with arms wide as if he wanted to hug it to death. 'Or maybe it's just me that's profoundly cold. Starting to frighten me, this business. Feels like a great claw is poised over us all.'

  'Not all of us,' Isabel said. 'Only Simon.'

  'Aye, and anyone who consorts with him.'

  'Consorts, now, is it? I should be so lucky.'

  Eddie accepted a mug of coffee, warming his hands on it.

  'Getting fond of the boy, aren't you?' He added tentatively, 'I'm not sure that's good.'

  Isabel wore her business suit and a lot of make-up. She looked glamorous, dangerous and terribly vulnerable.

  'Not good?' She said aggressively. 'Bloody suicidal it is.' She smiled, couching the euphoric Zap's head in her lap. 'But what can you do?'

  Simon said, 'He talks to you?'

  'Well, you know.' Dave, embarrassed, shifted about on his amplifier. 'I mean, mostly it's insults. He gets impatient with me. I can understand that.' Dave shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. 'Maybe I just do such good impressions I can even fool myself.'

  'If it's a guilt-trip,' Prof said, 'it's misplaced.'

  'It's not misplaced,' Dave said quietly. 'We all know what we're capable of, and when we fall short we fall very badly short and it's a slippery slope. It's like Simon. He's bisexual. Well, fine. Fine for a normal person; no kind of sex is perverted, long as it's consenting adults or consenting sheep. But when the psychic element intrudes and you've got dead monks on your back, as it were, that's perverted, Simon's right. Perverted, blasphemous, the whole bit, and it's all too easy for people like us to slide into that kind of pit. Especially in this business.'

  'Which I got out of,' Simon said. 'Not realising that taking holy orders only increases the risk. For a priest, the temptations are truly enormous, black pits opening up all over the place. I won't go into details. Well, you know ... a lot of priests crash spectacularly. Sometimes you think maybe a monastery - a hard-line Trappist outfit or something - is the only refuge. Complete seclusion.'

  'Seclusion don't work,' said Tom. 'Seclusion's a real bummer. You start feeding on your own guts.'

  'Seclusion's scary,' Moira agreed. 'Small things set you off - things you wouldn't normally notice.'

  Dave turned to her. 'What happened with your mother?'

  'She died. Just died. She had a stroke.'

  'How old was she?'

  'No age,' Moira said. 'No damned age at all.' She blew her nose. I let her down, Davey. I was so smug and hard and self-sufficient. She was looking out for me all this time, and I couldny see it.'

  'Looking out for you?'

  'We had a link. You all know about the comb, right?'

  She looked across at Prof. 'I know the song you did,' he said. 'About the girl who's given this mystical comb and becomes, like, a princess, glamorous.'

  'Was a real comb,' Moira said. She told him about being reunited with her mother at the age of twelve, being sent along a whole new life-path. 'The comb was this kind of symbolic link between us. It was very old. Celtic. A family heirloom.'

  'Was?' Dave said.

  'I buried it with her. Maybe that was stupid. Donald - he was ma mammy's minder, kind of - he thought it was insane. Thing is, I'm no' gonna have a kid of my own to pass it on to. I mean, like, I wouldn't, anyway, burden a kid with this hassle.'

  'I got a terrific kid,' Tom said. 'And yeah, she's got somefink. She's starting to see, you know? I try not to fink too hard about it, and she don't say much. Never has, to me. We look at one anovver, and we know. She's close. Too close, you know? Soon's I woke up this morning, I could feel her reaching out. Bad news, getting close to me. It was starting to destroy Shelley.'

  The morning was a dark one, as usual, because of the mist. Three red pilot lights winked on the mixing desk and the aluminium decks of the recording machines.

  'There's this geezer fancies Shelley,' Tom said. 'Businessman. Got hisself a chain of supermarkets. But not a bad guy, really. Normal, yeah? Maybe Shelley should go wiv him, that's what I've been thinking. Maybe it's the last chance she'll get to live a normal life.'

  Simon said, 'And Meryl?'

  'She works for the guy. She's a bit of a loony - finks it's a game.' Dave groaned. 'But she's strong. She ain't easily fazed. Don't misunderstand. Ain't much between us, like. Convenience. Anyway, I was finking maybe if Shel goes off with this geezer, Vanessa'd have a better chance. Then, when she's grown-up, she can come and find me if she wants to. Maybe I'll give her a family heirloom.'

  Tom smiled sadly.

  'She's got Down's Syndrome, right?' Moira said.

  Tom nodded. 'That's the complication. Down's Syndrome and psychic, I don't know what kind of combination that is.'

  'Probably nobody knows,' said Simon.

  It was all so much less mystical in the morning. It had become a slight problem.

  'What are we going to do about you?' Meryl asked, as Vanessa helped herself to muesli with extra raisins. 'Take you into Abergavenny for some new clothes, for starters.'

  It would be as well to get out of the house. Simon had said the woman came every Wednesday to give it a thorough clean, top to bottom.

  And going shopping was always a good practical move; it was relaxing and it gave you breathing space. Immediately after breakfast, Meryl put Vanessa into the Peugeot and they set off along roads which were becoming familiar, through countryside Meryl was developing quite a feel for.

  As soon as they were out of the valley, the mist thinning, she started to look out for the Skirrid.

  She'd been dipping into Simon's books, starting with the local guides - Meryl always liked to know precisely where she was - and following up interesting items in a couple of border folklore volumes.

  Always coming back to the Skirrid.

  This hill made marvellous connections for Meryl. A link between Christianity and … and Britain. That was what was always so wrong with the religion she'd been taught in school.

  It was all so remote, so foreign. Meryl had wanted someone to assure her that this - this England, this Wales - this was the holy land, just as much as the Middle East, where the Muslims and the Jews were forever at each other's throats.

  But where was it, this holy mountain?

  'Where's the Skirrid, Vanessa, do you know?'

  Vanessa didn't reply. She sat calmly in the passenger seat in her crumpled school blazer. Meryl had wanted to press it, but Vanessa wouldn't let her. She knew her own mind, this child, that was for certain. Seemed to know her limitations. And her potential?

  Only child of the seventh son of a seventh son. It must mean something.

  But whatever went on inside her head, she was still a problem. When, last night, she'd asked if Grandad could come in too, because he was cold, Meryl had looked up in great apprehension, half-expecting to see a lofty, cloudy entity with a pitifully damaged face looming out of the mist. And knowing, full of shivers ... that she coul
d never close a door on Grandad.

  She'd seen nothing, thank the Lord. And felt nothing.

  But Weasel? Vanessa had wanted Weasel to come in as well.

  The little man with the long, greasy hair and the ruined smile, Shelley's driver. How did he come into this? Why would he be with Vanessa and the Man with Two Mouths, unless ...

  Oh lord.

  Where's Weasel. Weasel's not...

  No! No!

  The child dragging at her arm when she'd picked up the phone to ring Shelley. Hysteria in the air.

  And not another word out of her that made any sense.

  Meryl, feeling suddenly overburdened, realised she'd been staring through the windscreen at the Skirrid for about ten minutes. Only it was from a different angle than in the picture in the guidebook. From here, she could see two humps, a big one and a little one which was fuzzed around the edges as if there'd been quarrying. Meryl had read about people taking holy earth' from the Skirrid and bringing it down, using it on their gardens and in the foundations of buildings.

  'Yes,' she said. 'Why not? Indeed, why not? Maybe you'll speak to the Skirrid.'

  Eddie laid out his papers on the gate-leg dining-table.

  'Let's take it from the beginning,' he said.

  'But when is the beginning?' Isabel put her glasses on her nose. 'What's this?'

  'That's a photocopy of what Giraldus has to say. Which isn't much, and you have to be careful with Giraldus, as is always the case with these medieval historians. They wrote to please. They had to. Write up the wrong history and your head would end up on a spike. See, this line ...'

  Eddie pointed.

  William de Braose was not the instigator of the atrocity which I have preferred to pass over in silence. He was not the author of it, and, indeed, he played no part in it at all. If he was responsible in any

  way, it was because he did nothing to stop it.

  'Talk about a whitewash,' Eddie said. 'Well, we know this now, of course. We know that Giraldus was dependent on the goodwill of de Braose and actually changed his story from the first edition to the second. There is no question that de Braose ordered the massacre and was, if not a participant, at least a cheering spectator. Now. Giraldus also goes on, in a subsequent chapter, to record that de Braose was one of a number of barons who gave large donations towards the building of the new abbey at Ystrad Ddu. This ... this I am inclined to believe.'

  'So what's new about that?' Isabel said. 'People have always thrown money at the church, trying to buy their way into heaven.'

  'Hmmm.' Eddie tapped the paper. 'I think Giraldus is trying to tell us something here, that's what I think. Let's go back. Richard Walden, now, despoiler of novices and altar boys. What we have here is not just a man who cannot control his urges but a man who will use his position, his status, to gratify those urges.'

  'Again, what's new?'

  'Try and follow my reasoning, girl. Not a humble man, see, wasn't Richard, before his alleged vision. No great humility afterwards, either, if he's going around soliciting large grants from wealthy Norman barons. This ...' Eddie shook the photocopied works of Giraldus Cambrensis '... this is not the kind of man to whom holy visions are granted.'

  'What about St Paul? He was no angel.'

  'What?' Eddie rose up spluttering. 'Where is it recorded that St Paul introduced his member to defenceless choirboys?' Then, remembering who he was talking to, sat down again. 'Sorry, my dear. Get carried away, I do.'

  'Don't feel you have to spare my feelings, Eddie. Everybody within a fifteen-mile radius of Ystrad knows I'm not a virgin ... by about three seconds .. .'

  Eddie felt himself blush. Isabel parted his hand. 'I hope you're not suggesting Simon ...'

  'Good God no! No, what I am saying, see ... Here's the Abbey, a great religious house founded by a malignant pederast and lavishly financed out of the ill-gotten fortunes of brutal marcher lords. Suppose they were all friends or associates of de Braose. Suppose de Braose was repaying a favour.'

  'And suppose,' said Isabel, wagging a finger and rocking her chair in sudden excitement, 'that Richard Walden's vision, if it happened at all, was not what you'd call a holy vision. The candles, I'm thinking of, the horrible brown candles made from ... you know.'

  'You're saying the man was a devil worshipper?'

  'You've as good as said it yourself Eddie. You've been talking all around it. For days.'

  'Yes,' said Eddie, going very still. 'I believe I have. It just didn't seem a scholarly conclusion.'

  'Well, stuff that. What's scholarly matter if it feels right?'

  'You know what you're saying, don't you?'

  'I don't know,' Isabel said, looking worried. 'What am I saying?'

  'That the Abbey is a satanic abbey, founded upon evil, built upon black soil.'

  'No skin off my nose,' said Isabel.

  'And if you believe that these candles were ... sent ... to Simon, then it's difficult to imagine he has not come to the same conclusion.'

  'I suppose he must.'

  'So what are we saying now?'

  'I think ... I know he's a good man.'

  Eddie sighed. 'I thought that too. But if, knowing what we think he knows, he has gone back to that place, to live there for a week, in that tower, surrounded by the decaying legacy of evil. And no safer in decay, mind.'

  'Less safe,' Isabel said. 'I speak from experience.'

  'Yes. Er … He hesitated, 'I never liked to ask, Isabel, but what is the problem exactly, with your ...'

  'Lower half? They could never agree, you know what doctors are like. At first it was spinal shock due to severely compressed nerves. I'm lucky. I still have control of my bowels and waterworks. Well... let's say they came back. Nothing else, though. Crushed nerves, if they don't spring back into shape within a couple of years, you've had it. Twenty-one years? Well ...'

  Isabel failed to smile.

  'You must hate the very thought of that place.'

  'My own fault. Everybody says so. The Abbey's a holy place, not to be desecrated.'

  'Hmmm,' Eddie said, reminded of something important. 'Tell me ... did you do that sum on your calculator?'

  There was a large shovel of coal on the hearth. Isabel wheeled herself over, lifted it with one hand and tipped the coal into the stove.

  'Strong wrists, you must have, girl.'

  'We compensate, us cripples. Yes, I did the sums. Multiples of seven. Interesting. So very interesting I've arranged to go with Mother tonight to the W.I. cheese and wine. A few faces will no doubt change colour when I roll over the threshold, but it might be worth the aggro if I can jog some memories.'

  'Yes indeed,' Eddie said. 'I never thought of that. But it won't be easy, getting them to open up.'

  Isabel smiled grimly. 'You'd probably find this quite difficult to believe, but I can be a terrible bully.'

  'I would find it almost impossible to believe,' said Eddie, remembering her ramming him up against a pew end with her wheelchair. 'But my poor shins might just accept it.'

  Moira passed the paper to Prof who read it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it to Simon. Blue Basildon Bond on which was inscribed:

  BREADWINNER

  and

  DEATHOAK

  Simon looked up. 'Could she have got this from you?'

  'It's possible,' Moira said. 'Anything's possible. But even if she did ... Look at the timing. How would you feel if it was your mother and all she left you when she died was a wee note with two words on it you never wanted to hear again and not even a goodbye on the end?'

  'Point taken,' Simon said. 'I'm sorry, Moira.'

  'And then there's the other thing, since we're all being so upfront. If I'm walking funny, it's due to getting my thighs badly blistered by boiling water.'

  She passed Dave a meaningful glance and a rueful little smile. Prof noticed Dave looked shattered.

  'What happened, I pulled a hotel kettle off the dresser after seeing something I didn't want to see. In the steam.'

/>   'Your mother?' Dave guessed. 'The Duchess? Why the hell didn't you tell me?'

  'You can all believe what you like,' Moira said. 'But something was seeping through, like damp through a wall. And you all were getting it, and she was absorbing my share. And I'm ashamed of that. I just didn't think. I thought all we had to do was stay away from each other and it would all gradually fade into history. And the Duchess would say to me. You have some damage to repair. And here she is, dead, and still saying it.'

  Tom said, 'Who was that poet, wrote about how your mum and dad fuck you up?'

  'Larkin,' Simon said.

  'They fuck you up even more when they're dead,' Tom said sagely.

  'Yeah, but Tom,' Moira said, 'I just don't see the Duchess wanting to put me in hospital with burns."

  Simon folded the blue paper, passed it back to Moira. think there was something else seeping through?'

  'What I think is, you guys have been getting lots of bad stuff over the years. Simon, you and the objects and the ... I don't want to go into the sexual stuff ... Tom and the spooks from his record collection and all kinds of paranoia - not to mention Debbie and the wee girl having Down's Syndrome. And Davey seeing black auras everywhere and John Lennon at his shoulder. But me ...'

  Moira shook her head as if, Prof thought, she couldn't believe she'd been so blind.

  '... Me, I had the Duchess to protect me ... and the Duchess didn't say a word about it, except You have damage to repair. Until it ... filled her up ... blew out her brain ... Jesus, I don't know what I'm saying, this might be the purest nonsense.'

  Yeah, Prof thought. It might all be. But it ain't. Too much of it. And nothing explainable in physical human terms, nothing.

  'Pardon me,' he said. 'But might all this have begun in earnest when certain old tapes went into the ovens at Audico and ended a beautiful friendship between Maurice Rubens and myself?'

  Simon opened his hands. Who knew?

  'This is implying human intercession,' Dave said.

  'The Abbey uses people,' Simon said. 'Sometimes they submit to it, invite it even, and sometimes they don't know. We walked into it with our eyes wide open and still couldn't see it. When Sile Copesake brought me down here last week, he said it was this place that had fucked me up and I'd come back to get unfucked.'