by Phil Rickman
It went so quiet you could even hear the Frome moving below.
‘Ah,’ Lol said.
‘Redefine your goals. That kind of thing.’
‘Damn,’ Lol said.
‘Nice tune,’ Merrily said.
They both stood with their backs to the door, so there was no way out, short of physical violence. And although they were both seriously into middle age, they were big people. She was kind of pudgy-armed and hefty and he was tall and thin and, although he didn’t look too well, he did look desperate enough to damage somebody.
Like, for instance, somebody who might know where his daughter was but was refusing to tell him.
‘Honest to God,’ Jane said, scared, ‘we didn’t even know she was missing. We came here to see her.’
Invoking God because it looked like this might well cut some ice here. The room was too bright from a big white ceiling bowl loaded with high-wattage bulbs. There was a wooden crucifix on the mantelpiece over the Calor gas fire and round the walls these really awful religious paintings by one of those pedantic Pre-Raphaelite guys who thought it was important to paint every blade of grass individually.
‘I wouldn’t lie,’ Jane insisted. ‘My mum’s a vicar. I wasn’t brought up to lie, OK?’
‘Your mother knows you’re here, then?’ said Mr Shelbone. He had a weak voice that sounded kind of laminated, and Jane felt slightly sorry for him; it was clear his wife called the shots.
‘Of course she doesn’t,’ Mrs Shelbone snapped. ‘Her mother seems to know very little of what goes on.’
Jane let the slur go past. ‘No, she doesn’t. But only because I feel responsible for dropping her in it when I didn’t tell her at the time because I didn’t think there was anything particular to worry about, but now I know I was wrong, and I want to put it right.’ She drew a long breath.
‘Why should we believe you?’ Mrs Shelbone demanded. ‘How do we know you’re not just sensation-seeking?’
‘This is silly. Jane’s only trying to help.’ Eirion’s Welsh accent coming through. ‘That’s all she wants – and to find out what’s going on.’
‘And what,’ said Mr Shelbone, ‘is going on, in your opinion?’
Jane swallowed. It was one thing telling Amy what kind of psychotic slag Layla Riddock was; it was something else laying it on her parents in her absence. Serious as this whole thing could turn out to be, it broke some kind of code of honour. You didn’t grass until you reached the stage where it was impossible to deal with it yourself.
This didn’t seem to worry Eirion, however. Maybe he’d just had it with the whole thing. Or maybe he thought this was the stage.
‘It comes down to bullying, Mr Shelbone. Your daughter’s been picked on by an older girl, who evidently thinks she’s… something special.’
‘Picked on?’
‘Ensnared. You must know what I’m talking about. Especially as it’s been suggested to us today that she – this girl – might have wanted to use Amy to get at—well, to get at you.’
Mr Shelbone was silent. Once Eirion mentioned the Christmas Fair, Layla Riddock would be in the frame. Best to leave it here, Jane decided. They should say as little as possible, get out and go and grovel to Mum, let her decide what to do.
‘Sit down.’ Mr Shelbone indicated a sofa in a pine frame, like the bottom half of a bunk.
Jane said, ‘We have to be…’
Eirion just shrugged and went over to the sofa and sat down.
‘Now then, son,’ said Mr Shelbone. ‘Let’s start at the beginning.’
‘Well, her name’s Layla Riddock,’ Eirion said.
36
Confluence
LOL TENSED. There was the tower across the fields, just as he’d seen it the first time, the tip of its witch’s hat askew, as if a low-flying aircraft had clipped it. He remembered how he’d thought it looked like a fairy castle, with that glow in the window.
Where a glow was now.
‘What?’ Merrily demanded.
‘There’s—’ He sagged, his back to a tree trunk, the breath forced out of him as if he’d been punched. ‘Sorry, it’s just the moon. It’s just a reflection of the moon.’ It seemed to be everywhere tonight.
‘What did you think it was?’
‘How about we go back?’ He searched for the path, then spotted where he’d gone wrong the last time: there was a stile he could have climbed over to follow a circular route back to the bridge, and another path that led into the tangled wood. ‘Merrily?’
‘Erm… Lol, how do I get to the old hop-yard? Where you saw Stephanie that night?’
‘Oh no.’ Lol stood in the middle of the path, ‘I really don’t think so.’
‘Lol…’
‘Merrily – tell me. That’s why we’re here?’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I haven’t got the gear, I haven’t got the holy water, I haven’t got the sacrament. But I can pray. I can do the words.’
‘Words?’
‘Words to get them out of here.’
‘Who?’
‘Stock, Stephanie… Call it precautionary. Call it—’
‘To stop them becoming earthbound, right? To fix it so nobody in the future goes for an innocent walk in that field and’ – Lol actually shivered – ‘sees something.’
‘All right, to try and fix it. You’ve got to try, haven’t you? It’s what I do. Like I keep telling people. I’m actually trying very hard to believe it’s what I’ve been put here to do.’
‘Cure of souls,’ Lol said. He sensed how close she was to tears.
‘Yes.’
‘Souls of the living or the souls of the dead?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Merrily, it’s just a phrase I heard with the right balance, the right metre. If it sounds right, use it. What does it mean?’
‘It’s,’ she shook her head at him, ‘just an old description of what we do – what we’re supposed to do. Implies we have curative powers, which I suppose we don’t, most of us. We just know how to ask nicely. And all I want to do now is say, Please God, will you accept the souls of these two people, help them break the bonds of obsession, anger, lust, hatred – help them leave it all behind. Is that so bad?’
‘You’ve known you were going to do this ever since we left the Boswells, haven’t you?’
Something to prove, he thought. Stock’s death must have made her wonder if she wasn’t so much a force for good as a force for chaos.
‘It kind of grew,’ Merrily said. ‘It’s a responsibility. Least I can do. You don’t have to join in or anything. Just point me in the right direction. If you think it’s crap, that’s OK.’
Lol nodded. ‘Joining another river,’ he murmured.
‘Sorry?’
‘Just another song.’
***
The trees were closing overhead, the moon shining through a grille of high branches like the wires around a hurricane lamp. He wasn’t even sure of the way, but he was in no doubt that they’d get there.
He wondered if Merrily was secretly hoping that if she prayed in the haunted hop-yard God would mystically grant her knowledge, an explanation of the deaths of both Stephanie and Gerard Stock.
Because it seemed unlikely that anyone else could.
‘You know what I’m beginning to think?’ she said, with alarming synchronicity. ‘I’m thinking Stock – because of his professional history, because of his attitude – was sorely misjudged. I’m tempted to think he approached Simon St John out of pure need, having come to the conclusion – very gradually and very reluctantly, no doubt – that Stephanie was possessed by something evil. I think it was her he wanted exorcized, not the kiln.’
‘But wasn’t the type of guy who could ever come out and say that.’ Lol held up a branch for her to duck underneath. ‘So he laid it on Stewart. The obvious ghost.’
‘The e-mail he sent to the office was very straightforward and very sincere,’ she said. ‘He appealed to me as a Christian. He said he and h
is wife were being driven to the edge of sanity. I also spoke to a journalist today, called Fred Potter, who spent some time talking to Stephanie’s colleagues at the agency where she worked. She seems to have gone through a radical personality change, from mouse to… someone altogether more predatory.’
‘Are you actually talking about possession?’
‘I don’t know. I’m the only person who ever has to consider that possibility. So I try not to.’
‘I think it was Conan Doyle who had Sherlock Holmes say—Oh.’
Just as he’d done the first time, Lol almost walked into it: the first of the abandoned hop-poles. They walked out of the wood and into full moonlight, into the first alley of hop-frames, the moon overhanging the hop-yard, making the lines of naked frames gleam whitely like prehistoric bones.
‘God,’ Merrily whispered, ‘you were right. It isn’t nice at all, is it?’
She took his hand and led him to the centre of the hop-yard – the field of crucifixion. They stood together beneath a broken frame, the crosspiece hanging down, a frizzle of bine dangling from it. Lol had an image of Stephanie, with the bine in the bedroom. He blinked hard and shut it out.
‘Has to be done tonight, you see,’ she said, ‘because this place will probably be crawling with people tomorrow.’ She looked around. ‘I’d like us to get protection first against anything else that might be here. So we’ll do St Patrick’s Breastplate – Christ be with us, Christ within us… you know? And perhaps we could visualize a ring of light around the hop-yard and the kiln, spreading out to Knight’s Frome.’
‘Sure. I mean I’ll try.’
The truth was, he felt an unexpected, slightly shameful excitement. This was nothing like the cleansing of the kiln. Just the two of them this time. And the big full moon.
She said, ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I could do this alone, tonight.’
‘Well, I’ll do whatever—’
‘Just be here. And think no harm of them. Wish them… love. Maybe repeat a few things after me.’
‘Merrily, I…’
‘Mmm?’
‘I believe you can do this. I believe in you.’
‘I know.’
They were quiet for a few moments, looking across at the kiln-house, soot-black now against the creamy sky.
‘Erm… it’s about guiding the undying essence to God,’ Merrily said. The moon was full on her face and she didn’t look like a saint or a goddess. She looked like a woman. ‘That’s Deliverance.’
He said on impulse. ‘Merrily, how can you love Him? How can you commit your—?’
‘Can I love Him like a man?’
‘Words to that effect.’
‘You want this straight?’ He nodded. ‘When I pray, I don’t see a man. Or a woman. I just experience – it started out as imagination, but now it truly exists – a warmth and a light and a great core of… what you’d describe, I suppose, as endless, selfless love. Which asks for nothing in return but an acceptance of it… which is faith. It sometimes comes in a kind of blue and gold – but that’s subjective. It’s just some incredible benevolence, so beautiful and so close, so intimate that… No,’ she said, ‘this is not a man. It’s completely different.’
Lol was glad, for a moment. ‘You feeling any of it here? The benevolence?’
‘No. That’s what worries me. Somehow I can’t get going until I feel there’s something – some small light – something to… connect with.’
‘So what exactly are you feeling?’
‘Scared?’
The moon hung in the black wires, several feet above them. The moon was not Christian; it was not about selfless, undying love; the moon was cold rock and had no light of its own.
They stood together between the poles, looking down a whole avenue of poles towards the wood, and then Lol was aware of them turning and facing one another, and he didn’t actually perceive Merrily coming into his arms, she was just there, a small, warm, slippery animal, not a saint, and her mouth was soft and moist, not like the marble mouth of some sacred statue, and the air around them was full of the caramel essence of tumbled hay.
‘Oh God,’ Lol murmured, drawing back in final, fractional hesitation and then lowering his head again as he felt her lips part and her breath meeting his breath, a confluence, her breasts pushing against him. He felt the two of them were pure energy, blown down the alley, the poles to either side blurring in the warm, racing night. He felt this was the moment his soul had been rushing towards, through days and months and years and lives and…
… And yet it was wrong.
It was sickeningly, shatteringly wrong.
It grew cold. The air around them grew as cold as the moonlight. Lol heard wooden poles creaking, as if one had cracked. They were old poles, some had fallen, many were probably rotting inside their creosote shells. Held inert by a damp dread, he heard a crumbly rustling that his mind translated into images of brittle hop-cones on mummified bines. He heard the humming in the wires and looked up at stringy clouds in the luminous green-grey northern sky, through the hop-frame, a black gallows.
‘No!’ he heard behind the studio silence, the crisp eggbox acoustic. ‘Come out!’
Merrily’s back felt cold against his hand, the cold of an effigy on a tomb. Their faces were apart, a chill miasma around them, as if they’d dropped into a vault, and Lol felt sick with the wrongness of it and sick at heart with what this implied.
37
Rebekah
CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT. Sweet, black tea. A cardigan around her shoulders. A warm summer’s night, and she was still cold under a moon that now looked pocked and diseased.
The iron table was wobbling between clumps of couch grass on the cracked flagged yard in front of Prof Levin’s studio, the four of them seated around it, Merrily between Al and Sally Boswell, with her back to the hay meadow and the moon.
‘I called you,’ Sally was telling her. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I stood in the clearing and I shouted to you to come out of there. My voice’ – she looked at her husband in sorrow and some irritation – ‘doesn’t have the carrying power any more.’
‘She means I should have gone in for you, but she thinks I was afraid.’ Al was sitting with his back to the stable wall. ‘I wouldn’t go further than the little wood.’ He put a hand over Merrily’s. ‘Well, maybe. But the real truth is, I’d only’ve made it worse. My father was the chovihano. I just make guitars.’
Sally said, ‘After you’d gone, we talked about it and then we came after you. With Stock dead, there seemed to be no reason at all any more why we shouldn’t tell you… everything, I suppose.’
Opposite Merrily, with his chair pulled a little further back from the table than the others, Lol was looking down at his hands on his lap. Merrily felt his confusion. Also the distress, coming off him in waves.
Al was talking to her. ‘… like we were saying earlier about the Romany custom of burning the vardo? Was this your Christian way of ensuring that the Stocks did not—?’
‘Maybe.’ It seemed such a long time ago. Had she actually done that? Had she completed her impromptu apology for a Deliverance? Had she even started it?
Couldn’t remember.
Couldn’t remember.
‘Brave girl,’ Al was saying, ‘but maybe not so wise. That yard – the yard in the shadow of the last kiln – they tried to turn it into pasture once, and the cattle kept aborting.’
Why couldn’t she remember? Was it the potion Sally had given her? She said, ‘Can someone tell me what happened? Did something happen in there?’
Lol looked up, bewilderment in his eyes.
‘We couldn’t see what was happening,’ Sally said quickly. ‘Too many poles.’
‘Laurence brought you out,’ Al said. ‘I respect him for that.’
She didn’t understand.
Lol said to Sally, ‘Why don’t you tell us about the Lady of the Bines? That’s what this all comes back to, isn’t it? Rebekah Smith.’
Sally sho
t him a glance. ‘The Lady of the Bines… there’s been more than one, of course.’
Lol nodded.
‘But the original, I suppose,’ Sally said, ‘was Conrad’s first wife. Caroline.’
It was the local secretary of the National Farmers’ Union who had got into conversation with Sally. This was in the mid-seventies, when Verticillium Wilt first hit Herefordshire in a big way. They wanted to discourage young trespassers who might carry the disease from yard to yard, and Sally had said, in fun almost, why not put a ghost story round?
And she’d thought then about the Emperor of Frome and how much more resonance the story would have if it carried echoes of the truth.
According to the ‘legend’, the Knight of Knight’s Frome had banished his wife because she could not give him a son. It wasn’t quite like that with Caroline, but the basis was there. It was true that she couldn’t have children, threatening Conrad’s dynastic dreams – Conrad, collector of farms, with his lust for land, each new field turned into a sea of stakes, a medieval battleground. Eight centuries earlier, Sally said, Conrad would have impaled the heads of his competitors on hop-poles as a warning to other potential rivals.
And yet, he could be charming. Especially away from his domain, on one of his wild weekends in London or at someone else’s house party. He’d charmed Caroline, still in her teens, a city child with dreams of vast green acres and dawn walks through wildflower meadows.
Caroline had actually loved the hops – the exuberance of them, their mellow smell, much nicer than sour old beer. Caroline had loved, especially, the month of September when the Welsh came, and the Dudleys and the gypsies. She loved to talk to them – especially the Romanies who did not want to talk, who reeked of mystery.
Conrad had said she should not mix with them, the lower orders – lower species, he’d implied. Conrad would drive among the hop-yards in his Land Rover, a royal visitor. He looked on his pickers, it was said, much as the American cotton kings had regarded their slaves.
