by Phil Rickman
‘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 peace-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, obviousl
y. 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 shedding 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?’
‘Possibly a church. And then there’s the inevitable passinground-the-chalice sequence.’
‘Black Mass?’
‘Someone drinks from the chalice, and there’s residue on the mouth suggestive of blood. But, as I say, the quality is appalling.’
‘You see, on the one hand,’ Merrily said, ‘the Black Mass is the best-known of all satanic rituals, and probably the easiest to carry out if you’re just idiots with a warped idea of fun. You just do everything in reverse – say the Lord’s Prayer backwards, et cetera. And you pervert everything – urinate in the chalice or… use blood instead of wine. Blood is the aspect which could, on the other hand, mean serious business. Blood represents the lifeforce, and it’s seen as the most potent of all magical substances. If you want to make something happen, you use real blood.’
‘Of course, we have no way of knowing whether this is. It looks too thin for ketchup, but it could be soy sauce or something.’
‘I’m not being much help. Am I?’
‘It’s more a question of what help you might be in the future,’ Howe said. ‘We’ve failed to identify a single person who’s been involved in any… any activity with Sayer. Or, indeed, with serious satanic activity of any kind. That’s not including the self-publicists, of course.’
‘When did you ever see a serious, heavy-duty, educated Satanist stripped off in the News of the World?’
‘You mean – as with organized crime – the big operators are the outwardly respectable types you’d never suspect?’
‘I suppose that’s a good parallel.’
‘It’s also largely a myth,’ said Howe. ‘The Mr Bigs of this world are very rare, and we do know who they are. But I’m still interested. Do you personally believe there are high-powered practitioners with big houses and executive posts?’
‘How would I know? I’m only a village vicar. But if Sayer was just a wanker, perhaps he was playing out of his league.’
‘You mean, if he was regarded by some serious and outwardly respectable practitioner as a potential embarrassment…’
‘Or he was getting too ambitious. Or he angered some rival… group. I’m told there’s a lot of jealousy and infighting and power-struggling among certain occult sects.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It was discussed during a course I was sent on. Is this what you wanted to hear?’
‘Go on.’
‘We were told that there are basically two classes of Satanist – what Huw, our tutor, calls the headbangers who are just in it for the experience or whatever psychic charge they can get; and the intellectuals. Th
ese are people who came out of Gnosticism and believe that knowledge is all, and so anything is valid if it leads to more knowledge.’
‘Including murder?’
‘Probably. Although they’d be as reluctant as the rest of us to break the law. Satanists, basically, are the people who hate Christianity. And they hate us because they see us as irrational. They despise us for our pomp and our smugness. All these great cathedrals costing millions of pounds a year to maintain, all the wasted psychic energy… to promote what they see as the idiot myth that you can get there by love.’
‘I see.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you also think it’s an idiot myth?’
‘Because I’m a police-person,’ Howe said. ‘Love is something we seldom encounter.’
When Howe had left, Merrily phoned Mrs Straker back four times, and never got an answer. Her own phone rang three times; she didn’t pick it up, but pressed 1471 each time. The calls were from Sophie, Uncle Ted and Sophie respectively.
She owed Sophie an explanation, but couldn’t face that now. And anyway, when Mick returned tomorrow, she’d have to talk to him – at length, no doubt. Before then, she wanted to have lost this… virus.
In the afternoon, she filled a plastic bottle with tapwater and took it across to the church and into the chancel, where she stood it before the altar. In the choir stalls, she meditated for almost an hour. Blue and gold. Lamplit path.
She went into the vestry and changed into the cassock and surplice she’d worn at St Cosmas and St Damien, since washed and replaced in the vestry wardrobe. She walked, head bowed, along the central aisle, back to the chancel, and stood before the altar.
‘Lord God Almighty, the Creator of Life, bless this water…’
Back in the vicarage, she went up to her bedroom and sprinkled holy water in all four corners. Then across the threshold and at the window, top and bottom.
She went down on her knees and prayed that the soul of our brother Denzil might be directed away from its suffering and its earthly obsessions and led into the Light.
Filtered through fog, the fading light lay like a dustsheet on the bedroom.
Jane felt uncomfortable on the school bus home. Increasingly so, as more and more students got off. The buses had arrived early at the school, on account of the fog which was getting worse; classes had been wound up twenty minutes ahead of time.
