The Wine of Angels

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Party then, is it?’ Dean trying to peer into the van.

  Colette didn’t look at him. ‘Might be.’

  ‘This a mate o’ yours?’

  Dean looked down at the black guy, who was short and lithe, wore a black T-shirt and white leather trousers, Dean looking like a Land Rover next to a Porsche.

  Colette still didn’t look at him.

  ‘This is Dr Samedi,’ she said.

  ‘No shit,’ Dean said, reluctantly awed.

  Dr Samedi lifted a big, square vinyl case out of the van and pushed it into Dean’s barrel stomach.

  ‘Carry dis into de restaurant fuh me, mon?’ Dr Samedi said.

  ‘Right,’ Dean said. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Don’ drop it.’

  Danny Gittoes had arched over, with his big, stupid grin, and Dr Samedi allowed him to carry an even bigger black vinyl case into Cassidy’s Country Kitchen.

  ‘Seen you in Shrewsbury last year,’ Danny called over his shoulder. ‘Shit hot. Man.’

  ‘Up de stairs,’ Dr Samedi said. ‘Leave ‘im by de restaurant door. An’ no peekin’.’

  When they’d gone, Colette looked at Jane and shook her head and grinned. ‘This is Jeff. Jeff, this is Janey. Her mother’s a priest.’

  ‘Brilliant. Yow bringing her along, too?’ His accent was now closer to Kidderminster than Kingston, Jamaica.

  ‘I don’t somehow think so,’ Jane said. ‘Er ... you are Dr Samedi?’

  He fixed lazy eyes on Jane’s. He growled, a low, seismic rumble.

  ‘Long night, moonbright, burnin’on a low light, everythin’you wearin’, honey, just a liddle too tight ...’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Jane said, impressed. She’d always found rap and drum ‘n’ bass stuff quite tedious after a while, but the idea of it happening in Ledwardine was something else.

  ‘... and de drummin’ begin, feel de drummin’ inside, fingers dancin’, dancin’, dancin’up an’downyo’spine ...’

  Jeff killed the rap, yawned and stretched. ‘Excuse me, ladies, I better go make sure them sheep-shaggers don’t put that gear the wrong way up.’

  Colette watched the little guy sashay towards the glass doors. ‘Isn’t he just like magnetic?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘He will blow you away, Janey. I promise. Heavy magic’

  ‘Seems a bit cheeky, getting Wall and Gittoes to carry all the stuff in when they aren’t invited,’ Jane said. ‘I mean, you know, cool. But ...’

  ‘I want them like really desperate to get in.’ Colette lightly tongued her upper lip. ‘And all their mates. I want them wetting themselves to be in there.’

  Jane looked at her. There was this perverse side to Colette she didn’t quite understand.

  ‘They might cause trouble.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ Colette agreed. ‘They just might. If they can find their balls.’

  ‘You want that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, Janey ...’ Colette sighed in despair. ‘When they do get in, I want them to feel like gatecrashers. Unwanted. Resentful, you know? My dipshit parents have naturally gone over the guest list, so we have a lot of nice boys from good families, that kind of thing, plus a few like Lloyd Powell on account of his old man’s a councillor. I mean, you tell me, where is the tension in that?’

  ‘Tension?’

  ‘A party,’ Colette said with heavy patience. ‘Ain’t a party. Without tension.’

  The evening was still and heavy with the scent of apple blossom, which clung to the orchard trees like hoar frost. Made Lol shudder as he got out of the rusting Astra in the drive.

  As he let himself into the cottage, the phone began to ring, and his spirits collapsed like a card-house. It’s Lucy, he thought. Something’s wrong.

  Around his trainers, on the doormat, he saw a pale confetti.

  On the mat inside. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus. Examining the soles of his shoes to make sure he hadn’t brought them in himself. The orchard was coming in on him. There’d be petals all over the carpets, on the table, over the bed, in the bath. Jesus. Calling out, in his panic, to the stern, unforgiving God of his parents, collecting the usual stab of guilt – he’d once, aged sixteen, dropped a cup washing up and muttered Jesus Christ, and his mother had slapped his face with some ferocity, wouldn’t speak to him for two days.

  The phone kept on ringing and Lol kept staring at the petals on the mat.

  Maybe they just came in through the cat door. Maybe Ethel brought them in. That was it: Ethel had been hunting in the orchard and returned with her fur full of apple blossom. That made sense, didn’t it?

  The phone went on ringing. Who would know he was back, except Lucy?

  Lucy. Who had sent him away after the thing with Jane Watkins. Seeing at once that he was in no fit state to go back to the cottage. Go off somewhere for a few days. I’ll feed the cat. Go to a city. Somewhere not like this, do you understand, Laurence? We’ll talk when you return. When you’re in a more receptive state.

  In Oxford, over four days, he hadn’t even seen Gary Kennedy. Just walked the touristy streets and the parks and gardens and the riverside, dipping into bookshops and record shops and pubs.

  And reading Thomas Traherne and getting as much sleep as he could take and reading more Traherne – the poet who’d found the whole universe in the fields and woods and hills within a few miles of Lol’s cottage and was completely knocked out by everything he experienced out there.

  He has drowned our understanding in a multitude of wonders. Lucy had underlined this in his copy of Traherne’s Centuries, and written in pencil in the margin. Just because it’s something you can’t explain, it doesn’t have to be bad. It doesn’t have to be ominous. It might just be wonderful.

  But the old strength, the conviction, had been missing. It was a worried Lucy who’d waved him off in the rusting Astra. When he’d come down from the loft and said this was a nightmare she hadn’t contradicted him. It had a fuzzy dreamlike quality when it happened, when he saw Jane Watkins lying in the orchard, but the implications were nightmarish.

  The living-room door was always left ajar for Ethel, and when Lol went in, she was weaving in and out of his ankles. He picked her up and she purred into his chest as he grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You little fuck.’ The rasp distorting in the earpiece. ‘What you trying to do to me?’

  Karl Windling, the old Karl Windling sounding cracklingly close. He’d spoken to Dennis; it had made him angry. Lol felt cold sweat on his forehead. Windling could be at the Black Swan. He could be in his car, in the lane.

  ‘Don’t shit me, son. Do not shit me.’

  Lol said, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Close enough. Now you fucking stay there. You understand? You go anywhere, I’ll find you. You don’t move the rest of the night. I’m coming over. I’ll have a nice, simple contract with me. Which you are signing, son. You won’t—’

  Very gently, Lol put down the phone. Thought for a moment then unplugged the wire from the wall. Went to the window: just the Astra in the drive. And blossom in the orchard.

  He carried Ethel into the kitchen where he put out a bowl of wet food, a bowl of dry food and more water. He got out the litter tray, filled it and laid it by the door. He stroked the little black cat and put her down.

  Not knowing how long he would have to be away before Karl Windling gave up.

  When the kid walked in, Merrily was at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and an ashtray full of butts.

  Jane dumped her schoolbag. ‘You have to be at the church by seven, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Merrily said glumly. ‘Sure do.’

  Jane sat down opposite her. ‘Second thoughts? Bit late for that, isn’t it?

  Merrily lit another cigarette. When Jane was away at school, she couldn’t wait for the kid to come back. Fooling herself that her daughter was entirely on her wavelength. But looking at her now ... there was a distance. In
her eyes. This was not paranoia, not isolation. Whether she knew it herself or not, part of Jane was somewhere else.

  ‘I had a chat with Stefan Alder today.’

  ‘Cool,’ Jane said non-committally. Even a couple of weeks ago, her eyes would have lit up and she’d have wanted to know all about it because, even if he was gay, Stefan was really heavy-duty totty.

  ‘He was telling me about the play and how they came up with—’

  Merrily paused. She’d have to explain this sometime, because there was going to be a fuss about it, but she wondered if Jane was really mature enough to understand.

  She put down her cigarette. ‘It’s because of Stefan that Richard Coffey wrote the play. Stefan’s gay, right? Stefan’s a homosexual’

  ‘I do know what gay means,’ Jane said sullenly. ‘And I know they think Wil Williams was persecuted because of that. Even if he wasn’t.’

  ‘Right.’ Merrily was encouraged by the last bit. ‘Stefan is ... I don’t know if his relationship with Coffey’s going through a bad patch or if he only stays with Coffey because of his career—’

  ‘That’s a bit cynical.’

  ‘I said I don’t know, Jane. What I do know, what I strongly feel, is that Stefan Alder believes that he’s been – I don’t want to use the word possessed, because he didn’t use it – chosen, by the spirit of Wil Williams, to recreate the circumstances of his death, to reveal the truth.’

  ‘Wow,’ Jane said.

  ‘It’s become an obsession.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Stefan’s in love with ... a ghost.’

  ‘It’s a bit beautiful, isn’t it?’ Jane said.

  ‘No! It isn’t beautiful! It’s unnatural and it’s dangerous, and Coffey’s only going along with it because he’s a very warped individual. And I think it would be very wrong for me to let it happen in the church.’

  ‘What?’

  Merrily picked up the cigarette and drew on it. ‘I’m going to suggest they put it on in the village hall. I’ll tell everybody tonight. I thought I’d tell you first.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Jane said.

  ‘I have to, flower.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Jane stood up; the chair clattered to the floor behind her. ‘You sad cow. And I really thought you were smart.’

  Lol drove twice around the village, looking for somewhere discreet to park the Astra. There were far more cars in the village than usual; the square was packed, a few dozen people walking about. Something on in the church?

  Arriving at the square a second time, he panicked – suppose Karl’s car appeared in the mirror, a car which could go twice as fast, driven by a man ten times as hungry. He swung down Church Street and left the Astra by the kerb, at the bottom end, near the Ox, getting out and crossing to the shadowed side of the street.

  Lucy Devenish lived in the middle of a small black and white terrace halfway up Church Street, doors opening to the street. He had reservations about going there for sanctuary. Visions of Windling finding out, busting in drunk, smashing things. But what could he do? No other options. He slid across the road, lifted the small, brass goblin knocker and rapped twice. It sounded very loud in the street, too loud.

  No answer. Shit, what if Windling was to drive past now? He rapped again. Please, Lucy.

  She wasn’t in. It occurred to him that, whatever was happening in the church, she might be there. He ran back across the road, sweating now. On the noticeboard was a small poster.

  Service for the licensing and installation of

  THE REVEREND MERRILY WATKINS

  as Priest-in-Charge of the Parish of Ledwardine.

  And a couple of dozen cars on the square. Yeah, Lucy would be in there, along with anybody who was anybody. Including – he spotted a familiar old blue Land Rover – James Bull-Davies. He stood on the cobbles staring at the Land Rover, recognizing the repairs in the canvas, each one stitched into his mind from the day it had been parked outside the cottage with all of Alison’s stuff inside.

  ...at 7.30 p.m. followed by refreshments in the church,

  courtesy of Cassidy’s Country Kitchen.

  ALL WELCOME.

  Should he go in there and try to attract her attention? Hadn’t been inside a church since his mother’s funeral. The thought of it created a ball of cold in his stomach. Ominous. Wouldn’t help his state of mind going into a church, especially tonight. Besides, James Bull-Davies would be in there, and probably Alison.

  No. Not Alison.

  A small tremor went through him. Bull-Davies and Alison rarely appeared in the village together. Bull-Davies, with his sense of what was proper, would never bring her to church.

  Lol looked up at the church clock. It was not yet seven-fifteen. How long did these things take? Couple of hours, at least.

  Chances were, Alison would be alone at Upper Hall.

  She felt completely wrong. She felt overdressed and under-qualified for the white surplice and the clerical scarf and the academic hood from theological college.

  She should have been barefoot, in sackcloth. She was here to serve, and she wasn’t up to it. She was going to be a disaster. She looked out at all the pious, formal faces, fronting for the inveterate village gossips who’d always known she wasn’t going to fit in.

  She’d fasted, at least – if unintentionally. A whole day on tea and coffee and cigs. Her head felt like it was somewhere in the rafters. She didn’t much care.

  The bishop was ritually explaining a few basics to the congregation, as if they needed to know.

  ‘The Church of England is part of the One, Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church worshipping the one true God – Father, Son and Holy Spirit. It professes the faith uniquely revealed in the Holy Scriptures and set forth in the catholic creeds, which faith the Church is called upon to proclaim afresh in each generation.’

  The word generation making her think at once of her daughter.

  Oh, Jane.

  The kid had stalked out and Merrily had sat there for another twenty minutes and smoked another two cigarettes. Was she being weak, uncool, pathetic? Even homophobic, for heaven’s sake, in spite of everything she’d said to Stefan Alder? And now Jane – even if, with her famous sense of honour, she wouldn’t tell anyone why – would boycott the service.

  And then, just as Merrily was rising wearily from the table to go and change into her vestments, Jane had appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed demurely in a high-necked jumper and skirt. I said I’d go and I’ll go, Mother. I’ll go on my own. I’ll see you afterwards.

  A long time afterwards. They’d agreed that the kid would leave after the service, come back and change into her party gear, all laid out, presumably, in her bedroom, in her apartment, her separate life.

  Meanwhile, in public, Jane would do the honourable thing, play the dutiful daughter. Oh God.

  Half an hour later, while making her lonely, sorrowful, self-conscious way to the church, the fake Barbour flung over her clerical finery, Merrily had met Lucy Devenish. Or rather Lucy had blocked her path, just short of the lych-gate, the poncho spread wide like a bullfighter’s blanket.

  ‘I was hoping, Merrily,’ she’d said without preamble, ‘that you would have come to me. But it’s not too late. We have to talk, you and I.’

  ‘Oh, you really think we should talk, do you, Miss Devenish? That’s you and me rather than you and Jane.’

  ‘You’re angry.’

  ‘Just sad.’

  ‘My fault. I was arrogant, as usual. I truly thought that you would come to me.’

  ‘You said we’d quarrel,’ Merrily reminded her.

  ‘Pshaw!’ – she’d actually produced that archaic sound – ‘A ploy. A challenge to which I was sure you’d rise. I suppose you’ve been too busy. But we can’t put it off. I need your help. The village needs your help. And, of course, your daughter.’

  Merrily had glared at the old bat for presuming to know what her own daughter needed.

  ‘Meanwhile, all I would say to you tonight �
� directly, a personal plea – is that you should announce, without delay, your decision to permit this man Coffey to stage his play in the church. Do it now. Do it tonight. Believe me, it will clear the air and alter the focus and make your life so much less complicated.’

  Merrily had felt the smoke beginning to rise between her ears. She’d made herself take a long breath before reacting, even though about a dozen parishioners were converging on them.

  ‘Miss Devenish, I don’t have time to discuss this right now, but you can take it that I will not be announcing my decision to let Coffey’s play go ahead in the church. Not tonight, not any night.’

  Fury and anxiety nudging each other as she went in to make her vows to the bishop and to God and to blessed Ledwardine.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Alison said.

  Standing just inside the crumbling Georgian doorway, mistress of the house.

  He’d come on foot, figuring that if she saw his car wheezing up the drive, she just wouldn’t answer the door. He’d followed, with some trepidation, the route Alison took in the mornings on her horse, the old bridleway alongside the orchard. Trying not to look at the apple trees, but the image of Jane Watkins going in and out of focus in his head, the smell of spring orchard powerfully everywhere and full of a mustiness that made him think of old sepia photographs.

  The bridleway had come out near a pair of huge stone gateposts topped with the blurred stumps of what might once have been lions or eagles. He’d let his anger propel him between them. It had been a long time coming, this anger, and it felt strange and cumbersome, like a stiff, new overcoat. He knew he’d always been one of life’s accepters. Like when Alison had walked out, he’d accepted it must be his fault, there must some deficiency in his character, his sexual ability, his social behaviour ...

  Well, all right, there was, he knew that for a fact, he was screwed up, and yet ...

  ‘Don’t do this to me, Lol,’ Alison said, expressionless. Echoing Karl Windling. It was always him doing it to them.

  Lol looked over his shoulder, down the hill to where the spire sprang up between the trees with the big red sun almost on its tip, like a needle about to burst a balloon. Like he wanted to burst the smug bubble around Alison.