by Phil Rickman
‘I rather understand that I do,’ Edna said tactfully.
‘How did you guess?’ Merrily asked, feeling tired now.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’ Miss White handed her an inch of whisky in what seemed to be a tooth glass. ‘You were hardly here to conduct a wedding.’
Her room was an odd little grotto up in the rafters, with Afghan rugs on the wall, an Aztec-patterned bedspread. And a strange atmosphere, Merrily sensed, of illusion. Twin bottles of Johnnie Walker lurked inside an ancient wooden radio-cabinet. There were several free-standing cupboards, with locks. The room was lit by an electrified pottery oil-lamp on a stand.
Athena White went to sit on the high wooden bed, her legs under her in an almost yogic position, her dressing-gown unbuttoned upwards to the waist. No surgical stockings needed here. Merrily was sitting uncomfortably on a kind of camping stool near the door. It put her head on a level with Miss White’s projecting knees. Miss White seemed relaxed, like some tiny goddess-figure on a plinth.
‘Now then,’ she said. ‘What are you trying to do to Sholto?’
She let the name hang in the air until Merrily repeated it.
‘Sholto?’
A mellower light gathered in Miss White’s glasses. ‘Weren’t you able to see him?’
Merrily made no reply.
‘Come on, young Mrs Clergyperson, either you did or you didn’t.’
‘Let’s say I didn’t.’
‘That’s a shame. Perhaps you were erecting a barrier? That’s what your Church does though, isn’t it? Very, very sad – throwing up barriers, wrapping itself in a blanket of disapproval. And yet’ – Miss White’s head tilted in mild curiosity – ‘you are afraid.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh yes, I can always detect fear. You’re not afraid of Sholto, are you?’
‘Am I to understand Sholto is your ghost?’
‘How perceptive of you to apply the possessive,’ said Miss White. ‘I must say, it’s an awful job you have, Mrs Clergyperson. I never thought to see a woman doing it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Is it a specialist thing, or have you simply been commandeered as Thorpe’s prison chaplain?’
‘Miss White—’
‘Your Church is like some repressive totalitarian regime. Everyone has a perfectly good radio set, but you try to make sure they can only tune in to state broadcasts. Whenever the curtains accidentally open on some sublime vista, you rush in and snap them shut again. That’s your job, isn’t it?’
‘The soul police,’ Merrily said. ‘You should meet my daughter.’
‘Ye gods, are you old enough to have a daughter?’
‘Let’s drop the flattery, Miss White. What are you trying to tell me?’
‘What I am telling you’ – Miss White turned full-face to Merrily, and the light in her glasses became twin pinpoints – ‘is to leave him alone.’
‘Sholto?’
‘Have you any idea what it’s like in one of these places, where all is grey and faded, and romance resides solely in one’s memory?’
‘This room’s hardly grey and faded.’
‘You like my eyrie?’
‘It’s very cosy.’
‘Cosy!’ said Miss White in disgust. ‘Pah!’
‘But to get back to Sholto – that’s your name for him, is it?’
‘That, my dear clergyperson, is his name.’
‘You know his history? Some things about him?’
‘There’s nothing I don’t know about him. He’s a randy sod sometimes, and a frightful lounge lizard, but very, very charming. A look of Ronald Colman, but I suppose you’re too young—’
‘No, I’ve seen some of those old films. And you… have seen him, I take it.’
‘What a stupid question.’
‘And the other residents?’
‘Well, I can’t speak for all the hags. Sholto’s quite choosy – won’t pinch the flabbier old buttocks.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t look like that, girl. He was a man of his time. Men used to pinch bottoms.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Merrily was feeling cramped on the stool. ‘But what exactly are we talking about here? Who… what exactly do you think Sholto is?’
‘What do I think he is?’ A vaguely malevolent elf now, white light spearing from her glasses. ‘What do you think he is?’
An imprint? An insomniac? A volatile? This is the terminology of the Deliverance Age, Miss White.
‘I’ll tell you what he isn’t, Mrs Clergygirl.’ A finger wagging, the face narrowing, and the eyes almost merging behind the glasses. ‘He isn’t doing any harm. So you should go away and forget about him. In this museum of memories, Sholto is necessary.’
Merrily drank more whisky to moisten her mouth. ‘Would you mind if I had a cigarette?’
‘Certainly I would! Pull yourself together. If you don’t realize the importance of willpower in your job…’ Miss White’s neck extended, birdlike. ‘What is the matter with you, child?’
Willpower.
Merrily went cold. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Something was trying to stop me administering the blessing. That was you, wasn’t it? Exercising your… willpower.’
‘Oh, what nonsense!’ Miss White sniffed, delighted.
‘Please,’ Merrily said wearily, ‘no more bullshit, Athena.’
A self-satisfied smile escaped beneath a little portcullis of teeth. ‘Why don’t you just ask yourself… What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Merrily.’
‘Well, ask yourself, Merrily, was what you were doing appropriate? Was it polite?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Did you ask permission? No, you didn’t. It was like a police raid: the way they always go in at dawn and bash someone’s door down. It’s disgraceful – we’re not criminals, even if we are in prison. And what has Sholto done wrong?’
‘Well, he… he’s dead. He shouldn’t be here.’
Miss White’s magnified eyes glowed.
She’s mad, Merrily thought. ‘Look,’ she said reasonably, ‘shouldn’t he be free to move on? That’s what matters. And what keeps him here – that matters, too. Because if what keeps him here is only—’
‘The undying pull of the flesh, one presumes. Perhaps we’re part of his karma. Broke a lot of young hearts in his time, I’d guess. Now all he has to amuse him is a bunch of raddled old bags with their tits round their waists. For him, that’s Purgatory, to use your terminology. But we’re all of us far too old to be corrupted. Sholto is needed here to feed people’s fantasies. He’s not only harmless, he’s essential, and that’s an end to it. I’ll keep him in order, don’t worry. You can tell Thorpe you’ve got rid of him. Now… let’s examine your own problem, which I would guess is a good deal less benign. What are you carrying around with you?’
‘What?’
‘Look at you, all hunched up against the cold. You’re cowering.’
Merrily instinctively straightened as best she could on her camping stool.
‘Oh, stop it! You’re cowering inside. You can’t hide that from me. Come here.’
Merrily found herself standing up.
‘Come and sit on the bed. Come on, I’m not going to touch you up!’ Athena White slid from the bed and leaned, in her tubular robe, over Merrily, peering closely into her eyes. ‘Ye gods, you are buggered up, aren’t you?’
Merrily’s legs felt suddenly quite weak.
‘Don’t struggle,’ Miss White said.
‘This is not right.’
‘It’s not right at all. Look at me – no, focus on me, girl. That’s better. I want to see the inner person. I feel you’re normally quite strong, but he’s certainly depleted you.’
‘Who?’
‘You tell me. Go on. Tell me his name.’
‘I don’t know what you—’
‘Tell me his name: that ball of spiritual
pus that’s attached itself to you. What is his name?’
‘Denzil Joy.’
‘That’s better,’ said Miss White.
36
Crow Maiden
BY 9:30, JAMES Lyden and his band had been ejected from the cellar studio in Breinton Lane. Lol got out of there, too, before Denny’s rage could do some damage. By the time the band had been packed into their Transit in the driveway, he was making his excuses – there was someone he needed to call.
Which was true.
‘You can do it from here, man.’ Denny’s bald head was shining with angry sweat.
‘I can’t.’ Lol was backing away out of the drive, pulling on his army-surplus jacket. No way he wanted to discuss this with Denny until he had some background.
‘You…’ Denny was stabbing at the fog. ‘You know more than you’re letting on. Where’s this come from? What’s this crow shit?’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘And you can tell that fucking Lyden he’s finished!’ Denny bawled after him down Breinton Lane.
The Transit van had reversed, and was alongside Lol now, James’s Welsh friend, Eirion, at the wheel. It stopped.
‘Mr Robinson,’ Eirion shouted, ‘for heaven’s sake, what have we done?’ He sounded shocked and frightened.
‘Get your cocking head back in here, Lewis,’ Lol heard James say lazily. ‘The old man will sort it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Eirion said, as the van pulled away. Lol wondered what his chances were of talking to Dick before James did.
‘How old are you, Merrily?’
‘Thirty-six.’
She sat at the bottom of the bed, feeling a little unconnected, slightly not-quite-here. She felt guilty because that was not unpleasant. Maybe the whisky…
Or not?
‘When I was your age, I knew nothing,’ Miss White said. ‘Indeed, I knew very little even when I retired from the Civil Service. You would have been only a child then. I, however, was very high-powered in those days, or so I thought. In reality I knew nothing. It was only when I left London that I began to study in earnest.’
She unlocked one of the cupboards, threw open its double doors.
Merrily thought: Oh… my… God…
Books. Hundreds of books – many stored horizontally on the shelves, so as to stuff more in. Madame Blavatsky, Rudolph Steiner, Israel Regardie, Dion Fortune: recent paperbacks wedged against yellowing tomes on meditation, astrology, the Qabalah. If the other cupboards were similarly stocked, there must be several thousand books in this attic.
A lifetime’s collection of esoteric reading. A witch’s cave of forbidden literature. You wouldn’t have prised Jane out of here this side of breakfast time.
‘They know I have books in my cupboards,’ Miss White said, ‘but I rather imagine they consider me a subscriber to the lists of Messrs Mills and Boon.’
Merrily thought how wary she herself used to be of Jane’s guru: the late folklorist, Lucy Devenish. God only knew what this old girl got up to when the lights were out.
One thing puzzled her.
‘Miss White, I can’t… What are you doing in a place like this?’
‘Ah, yes… why not the bijou black and white cottage? Why not the roses round the door and the Persian cat in the window?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Because then, my little clergyperson, one would be obliged to prune the roses and feed the cat, to shop for food and employ workmen to preserve the ancient timbers. How much more space there is here… inner space, I mean. As well as beautiful hills to walk in, should one be overtaken by the need to commune with nature.’
‘But how can you…? I don’t know how to put this.’
‘Be surrounded by twittering biddies, patronized by the dreadful Thorpe? That is simply the outer life. The Thorpes suspect I have enough money to buy the whole place, so they don’t pressure me. All right, when one gets very, very annoyed with them, one can be… mischievous…’
‘I bet.’
‘… while at the same time’ – Miss White smiled almost seraphically – ‘giving one’s fellow inmates a welcome, nostalgic frisson once in a while.’
His name drifted serenely in the air between them.
‘Sholto,’ Merrily said eventually.
‘A-ha.’
‘How did you do it?’
Miss White selected from the bookshelves what turned out to be a stiff-backed folder, and took out a yellowing photograph pasted on card.
‘This is him?’
He wore a pinstriped suit with wide lapels. His hair was dark and kinked, his moustache trimmed to a shadow.
‘I bought him in a print shop in Hay,’ said Miss White. ‘I liked his little twist of a smile. No idea who he is or where he came from – there’s no name on the photo. I thought he rather looked like a Sholto.’
Merrily said, ‘I’m not going to ask you how you did this.’
‘Good, because I should refuse to tell you. You could find out easily enough, if you studied. It’s a very well established technique.’
‘He isn’t a ghost at all.’
‘He’s a projection. Do you know what I mean by that?’
Merrily said, ‘Can I think about it?’
Projection?
Psychic projection, psychological projection – a grey area. Come on, Huw, what are we dealing with here?
We don’t fully understand this, but if we assume, to put it simply, that an imprint exists on a sensory wavelength or plane parallel to our own, then it follows that some people are capable of tuning into that wavelength, sometimes allowing the imprint to be transmitted in a way that renders it visible to others. They may be able, consciously or unconsciously, to lend it the energy it needs to manifest. They may even create their own imprint, projecting it like a hologram. If you come across one of these, you’re unlikely to be able to get rid of it through prayer or ritual alone. You’ve got to stop the person from doing it.
Merrily imagined, in the part of the passage where the bulb had blown, turning it into a black tunnel, a man in a doublebreasted suit bringing a match to his cigarette, exhaling the smoke towards her – smoke which rose in a V, a grey, sardonic smile – before shrivelling up into his own vapour like a silently bursting balloon.
‘You’re thinking, is this devilry – aren’t you?’ The light through Miss White’s glasses was intense and focused, like when as a kid you used the sun through a magnifying glass to burn a hole in a newspaper.
‘I suppose I am.’
‘Would you settle for naughty?’
‘I’d love to, but I don’t think I’d be allowed to. You see, the problem – as I see it – is that you’ve created an energy form separate from yourself, but possessing a few atoms of your transferred… intelligence?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘How far is that from it acquiring a level of existence of its own? A primitive level, perhaps, but then other – possibly negative – energies might be attracted to it. And then you could have trouble that’s not so easy to control: a volatile – a poltergeist. Or worse.’
‘Yes.’ Athena White sat down next to Merrily. ‘I follow your argument. It’s unlikely, though, especially if I’m here.’
‘But… I’m sorry, Athena, but you’re not always going to be here, are you?’
‘He’ll die when I die.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Oh, you are a pain, Mrs Clergyperson. All right, I’ll consider it. But it’ll be a frightful wrench – for all of us.’
‘I’m sure he’ll live on in all your memories.’
‘I’ve said I’ll consider it,’ Athena snapped. ‘Now tell me about Denzil Joy.’
There was a rapping on the door, and Susan Thorpe said, ‘Miss White, is there a woman in there with you?’
‘I’m here, Susan,’ Merrily said. ‘Miss White’s been helping me.’
‘I hope she can keep her mouth shut.’
Miss White said loftily, ‘You may, for onc
e, count on it, Thorpe. Now leave us.’
‘You know I can’t drag the party out much longer.’
‘Well, tell your husband to take his clothes off.’
‘Oh!’ said Susan Thorpe. They heard her footsteps recede.
‘That makes me feel quite queasy,’ Merrily said.
‘Wait till you’re as old as they are.’ Mrs White stood up. ‘Merrily, I’m very disturbed by this. I think he’s feeding off you.’
‘Don’t.’
‘If one doesn’t face these things, one can’t take remedial action. I suspect you haven’t been yourself for some days. Tired? Depleted? Prone to emotional outbursts?’
‘Well, yes, since you ask. And also flu-like symptoms: vaguely sore throat, blocked nose, temperature. I put it down to stress.’
‘Losing the will to fight it?’
‘Half the time I just want to run away. I mean… Well, to be quite honest, this was going to be my last job as Deliverance consultant… diocesan exorcist.’
‘You were giving it up?’ An eyebrow rose above the spectacles. ‘While, under different circumstances, that is a decision one might wish to applaud—’
‘I felt I couldn’t cope. I felt under attack from all kinds of different directions.’
‘As you may well be. This could be precisely what’s happening. How many people know of your appalling experience with this man?’
‘I don’t know. The nurses involved… my daughter, Jane… my Deliverance course tutor. And Canon Dobbs, of course.’
‘As he appeared to have arranged it for you? The sheer ignorance of the clergy dumbfounds me. Who else?’
‘There’s no one else I’ve told, I don’t think. It’s not something I enjoy talking about. What’s the significance of that, anyway? If I mishandled the job in the hospital, and I’ve let him in, that’s not their fault.’
‘Admittedly, the idea of an unhappy spirit desperately clinging at the moment of death to a living person is not unknown, particularly in a sexually charged situation. But I think you must also consider the possibility of psychic attack by person or persons unknown. Which is far far more common than most people would imagine. Merely thinking ill of someone is its most basic form, but we may be looking at something more complex in this instance. If I were to lend you my copy of Dion Fortune’s Psychic Self-Defence…’
