by Phil Rickman
'Which means... I mean, in the normal way, it means the coffin doesn't leave the back of the hearse until it reaches the church door. Not like this ... it's quite ridiculous in this day and age.'
The two of them standing alone in the pub's lofty back kitchen.
Alone except for Matt's coffin, dark pine, occupying the full length of the refectory table.
'But I mean, what on earth was I supposed to say to them?' Lottie said. 'You're early - go and drive him around the reservoirs for an hour?'
The relatives would be here soon, some from quite a distance, some with young children.
'I keep thinking,' Dic said, his voice all dried up, 'that I ought to have a last look at him. Pay my respects.'
'You had your chance,' Lottie said, more severely than she meant to. 'When he was in the funeral home. You didn't want to go.'
'I couldn't.'
Her voice softened. 'Well, now's not the time. Don't worry. That's not your dad, that poor shell of a thing in there. That's not how he'd want you to remember him.'
God, she thought, with a bitter smile, but I'm coping well with this.
Of course, half the Mothers' Union had been round, offering to help with the preparations and the tea and the buffet. And she'd said, very politely, No. No, thank you. It's very kind of you, but I can look after my own. And the old dears had shaken their heads. Well, what else could they expect of somebody who'd turn down Ma Wagstaff's patent herbal sedative ...
Yes. She was coping.
Then Dic shattered everything. He said, 'Mum, I've got to know. What happened with that nurse?
Lottie dropped a glove.
'At the hospital. The night he died.'
'Who told you about that?' Picking up the glove, pulling it on, and the other one.
'Oh, Mum, everybody knows about it.'
'No, they don't,' she snapped.
'They might not here, but it was all round the Infirmary.
Jeff's girlfriend knew, who's on Admissions in Casualty.'
'They've got no damn right to gossip about that kind of thing!'
Dic squirmed.
'God, you choose your bloody times, my lad.'
'I'm sorry, Mum.'
'Not as if she was hurt. She had a shock, that was all. He didn't know where he was. He was drugged up to the eyeballs. She was a young nurse, too inexperienced to be on a ward like that, but you know the way hospitals are now.'
'They said he attacked her.'
'He didn't attack her. God almighty, a dying man, a man literally on his last legs ... ?'
Dic said, unwilling to let it go, 'They said he called her, this nurse, they said he called her ... Moira.'
Lottie put her gloved hands on the pine box, about where Matt's head would be, as if she could smooth his hair through the wood, say, Look, it's OK, really, I understand.
'Leave it, will you, Dic,' she said very quietly. 'Just leave it.'
'She's not corning today, is she? The Cairns woman.'
'No,' Lottie said. 'She's not.'
'Good,' said Dic.
Cautious as a field mouse, little Willie Wagstaff peeped around the door, sniffed the air and then tiptoed into the dimness of Ma's parlour.
The curtains were drawn for Matt, as were the curtains in nearly all the houses in Bridelow, but at Ma's this was more of a problem, the place all cluttered up as usual with jars and bottles and big cats called Bob and Jim.
He crept over to the table. In its centre was a large aspirin bottle, the contents a lot more intriguing and colourful than aspirins.
The principal colour was red. In the bottom of the bottle was a single red berry, most likely from the straggly mountain ash tree by the back gate. All the berries had vanished from that bugger weeks and weeks ago, but this one looked as bright and fresh as if it was early September.
Also in the bottle was about a yard of red cotton thread, all scrimped up. One end of the thread had been pulled out of the bottle and then a fat cork shoved in so that about half an inch of thread hung down the outside.
The bottle had been topped up with water that looked suspiciously yellowish, the tangle of red cotton soaked through
'By the 'ell,' Willie said through his teeth. 'Nothin' left to chance, eh?'
'You put that down! Now!'
Willie nearly dropped it. Ma's eyes had appeared in the doorway, followed by Ma. Too dim to see her properly; she was in a very long coat and a hat that looked like a plate of black puddings.
'Bloody hell, Ma, scared the life out of me.'
'Corning in here wi'out knocking. Messing wi' things as don't concern you.'
'Me messing!' He gestured at the bottle. 'I bet that's not spring water, neither.'
'Used to be!' Ma glared indignantly at him. 'Been through me now. That strengthens it.'
'Oh, aye? I thought you were losing your touch.'
Ma stumped across to the table, snatched up the bottle and carried it over to the ramshackle dresser where her handbag lay, the size and shape of an old-fashioned doctor's bag. She was about to stow the bottle away then stopped. 'Who's carrying him, then?'
'Me. Eric. Frank Manifold Senior. Maybe young Dic.'
'That Lottie,' Ma said. 'She's a fool to herself, that girl. If she'd let the Mothers' Union give her a hand, we'd all be sleeping easier.'
'Eh?' He watched Ma passing the aspirin bottle from hand to hand, thoughtfully. 'Oh, now look, Ma . . - just forget it. I am not ... Anyway, there'll be no chance, Lottie'll be watching us like a bloody hawk.'
'Aye, p'raps I'll not ask you,' Ma said, to his relief. The thought of opening Matt's coffin turned his guts to jelly.
'And anyway, why d'you need a thing like that? I thought it were all sorted out.'
'You thought' Ma was contemptuous. 'Who're you to think, Willie Wagstaff?'
'Ma, I'm fifty-four years old!' Willie's fingers had started up a hornpipe on the coins in the hip pocket of his shiny black funeral pants.
'And never grown up,' Ma said.
'This is grown-up?'
Ma bent and put the bottle down on the edge of the hearth. The fire was just smoke, no red, all banked up with slack to keep it in until Ma returned after the funeral.
She straightened up, wincing just a bit - not as sprightly as she was, but what could you expect - and faced him, hands clamped on the coat around where her bony old hips would be.
'It's like damp,' Ma snapped. 'Once you get an inch or two up your wall, you're in trouble. If your wall's a bit weak, or a bit rotted, it'll spread all the faster. It'll feed off ... rot and corruption. And sickness too.'
'Ma ...' Willie didn't want to know this. He never had, she knew that.
Ma picked up his thoughts, like they'd dropped neatly in front of her dustpan and brush. 'Comes a time, Willie Wagstaff, when things can't be avoided no longer. He were a good man, Matt Castle, but dint know what he were messing with. Or who.'
'Probably dint even know he were messing wi' owt.'
'And that wife of his, she were on guard day and night, nobody could get near. He were crying out for help, were Matt, by the end, and nobody could get near. Well ...'
'Matt's dead, Ma,' Willie said warningly.
Ma picked up the aspirin bottle. 'And that,' she said, ramming the bottle deep into the bag, 'is why he needs protection. And not only him, obviously. This is crucially important, our Willie.'
'Oh, bloody hell,' said Willie. It had always been his way, with Ma, to pretend he didn't believe in any of this. Found it expedient, as a rule.
'A time ago, lad, not long after you left school, we had some trouble. D'you remember? Wi' a man?'
'I do and I don't,' Willie said evasively. Meaning he'd always found it best not to get involved in what the village traditionally regarded as woman's work, no matter how close to home.
Ma said, 'He were clever. I'll say that for him. Knew his stuff. Knew what he were after. But he were bad news. Wanted to use us. Had to be repelled.'
Willie did believe, thoug
h, at the bottom of him. Most of them did, despite all the jokes.
'What about him?"
Ma's lips tightened, then she said, 'They're allus looking for an opening, and this one stood out a bloody mile. And Matt Castle dint help, chipping away at it, making it bigger.'
'Eh?'
'This musical thing he were working on. T' Bogman.'
'Oh...aye...'
'Another way in, Willie. Weren't doing that on his own, were he?'
Willie went quiet. He knew Matt had been consulting with some writer, but the man never came to Bridelow, Matt always went to the man. Until the final few weeks when he couldn't drive himself any more.
He looked at his mother with her big, daft funeral hat and dared to feel compassion. She didn't need this, her time of life.
'Look, don't get me wrong, Ma ...'
Ma Wagstaff's fearsome eyes flared, but they couldn't hold the fire for very long nowadays.
'... but you've bin at this for a fair few years now ...'
'More than fifty,' Ma said wistfully.
'So, like ... like I were saying to Milly ... don't you ever get to, like .. . retire I mean, is there nobody else can take over?'
Ma straightened her hat. 'There is one,' she said biblically, 'who will come after me.'
'But what 'asn't come yet, like,' Willie said, stepping carefully. You could push it just so far with Ma, and then ...
The eyes switched from dipped to full-beam. 'Now, look, you cheeky little bugger! When I need your advice, that's when they'll be nailing me up an' all.'
Willie held up both hands, backed off towards the door.
'Which is not yet! Got that?'
'Oh, aye,' said Willie.
Outside in the hard, white daylight, he looked across at the church.
'On me way, Matt,' Willie said with a sniff and a sigh, rubbing his hands in the cold. 'I hope they've nailed you down, me old mate. Good and tight.'
CHAPTER III
GLASGOW
Shit, could this be the right place?
Realistically - no.
First off, there was no elevator. The stairway, when he managed to find it, was real narrow, the steps greasy. He didn't even like to think what that smell was, but if he was unfortunate enough to be accommodated in this block he'd surely be kicking somebody's ass to get the goddamn drains checked out.
Hardly seemed likely she'd trust her fortunes to a guy working out of a dump like this. But when he made the third landing, there was the sign on the door, and the gold lettering said,
THE M. W. KAUFMANN AGENCY.
PLEASE KNOCK AND ENTER.
Which he did, and inside it was actually a little better than he'd guessed it would be. Clean, anyhow, with a deep pink carpet and wall-to-wall file-cabinets. Also, one of those ancient knee hole desks up against the window. And the knees in the hole were not, he noticed, in there because they needed to be concealed.
She was about eighteen, with ringlets and big eyes. She swivelled her chair around and looked at him the way, to his eternal gratitude, women always had.
'I ... uh . . He stood in the doorway for a couple of seconds, trying to salvage some breath. This guy Kaufmann had to be pretty damn fit, working here.
'Mr Macbeth, is it?'
He nodded dumbly.
'Do excuse the stairs,' she said. 'Mr Kaufmann represents quite a number of singers.'
'Huh?' Doubtless there was some underlying logic here concerning singers and breath-control, but he was too bushed to figure it out. He hung around in the doorway while she went off to consult with M. W. Kaufmann in his inner sanctum.
Thinking, So you did this again, Macbeth. Put on a suit and tie this time, cancelled your lunch appointment, got busted for speeding by a cop with an accent so thick it sounded like he hadn't got around to swallowing his breakfast. You really did all of this. Over a woman. Again. Maybe, he thought, as the kid beckoned him in, maybe this is what they call a mid-life crisis. Sure. Like all the other mid-life crises I been having since I turned twenty-nine.
'Mr Macbeth,' M. W. Kaufmann said. 'I am Malcolm Kaufmann.'
They shook hands, and, waving him to a chair, Kaufmann said, 'This all seems rather, er, irregular.'
'I'm an irregular kind of guy,' Macbeth said winningly.
Malcolm Kaufmann looked less than won. He was a small, foxy-eyed person with stiff hair the unnatural colour of light-tan shoes.
The secretary was hanging around, eyeing up Macbeth without visible embarrassment. 'Thank you, Fiona.' Kaufmann waved her out, eyeing up Macbeth himself but in a more
discriminating fashion.
'So,' he said. 'You're in television, I understand.'
Macbeth confessed he was, planning to build up the image a little. Then he changed his mind and built it up a lot. How he was over here for the international Celtic conference, but also on account of his company was tossing around an idea for a major mini-series ... piece of shlock about this American guy, doesn't know his ass from his sporran, comes over to Scotland to look up his Celtic roots and before he knows it he's besotted with this, uh, mysterious Scottish lady.
'I see,' Kaufmann said.
Yeah, I guess you do at that, Macbeth was thinking. Besotted with a beautiful, mysterious lady who sings like a fallen angel and has wild, black hair all down her back with just one single, long-established strand of grey. Under the spell of an enchantress who can make the earth move, and the walls and the ceiling, and after you meet her you don't sleep too good any more.
He said, 'Did Moira ever act?'
'Ah.' Kaufmann leaned back in his chair, tilting it against the wall, tapping his rather prominent front teeth with a ballpoint pen. 'Well, her first love, naturally, is her music, but I do believe ...' Clearly searching his memory for the time she'd done a walk-on for some local soap.
Macbeth helped him out. 'Certainly has the charisma, don't you think?'
'Indeed, indeed. The same, er, quality, perhaps, as that apparent in ... who shall I ... ? Cher ... ? Does that comparison do her justice, would you say?'
'Spoken like a good agent, Malcolm.'
Kaufmann's eyes narrowed. 'Don't be deceived by the surroundings, Mr Macbeth. I am a good agent. You say ... that you encountered Moira at the Earl's recent Celtic gathering. That would be on the evening when her performance was unaccountably disrupted.'
'Right,' Macbeth said. 'Unaccountably disrupted.'
'By what appears to have been an earth tremor...'
'Which, when it happened, I don't recall having felt.'
'Really.'
'Maybe I'm insensitive that way,' Macbeth said.
'But you don't really think so.'
Macbeth shrugged. 'Like you say, she has charisma.'
They both nodded.
'Of course,' Macbeth said, 'this is early days. See, first off, what I'd really like is to meet with Moira over lunch before I leave here ... discuss things informally.'
'And how long will you be here?'
'Two weeks, at the outside.'
'Well, I shall no doubt be in touch with her very shortly.' Kaufmann smoothed down his unconvincing hair. 'And I shall naturally inform her of your interest. Then perhaps the three of us might ...'
'Yeah, that'd be, uh, that'd be just ... She in town right now?'
'I fear not.'
'See, I thought if she was doing a gig someplace, I'd kind of like to be in the audience.'
Kaufmann smiled. 'This sudden interest in Moira ... this is entirely professional, of course.'
'I'm a very professional kind of guy. However, I've long been a fan. Of the music. But also ... Malcolm, this is kind of sensitive...'
'Which, as you pointed out to me a few moments ago, you are not.'
'Yeah, well, when I, uh, encountered the lady that night, I was a mite overwhelmed, I guess, by the essential, uh, Celtishness, if that's the word, of the occasion and, if I'm being honest, by the experience of Moira herself, and so ... well, I believe I said a few things left her th
inking - as you doubtless are thinking right now - what a Grade A dork this person is.'
'Oh, yes,' said Kaufmann. He paused. 'She can certainly be quite disconcerting.'
'Thank you for that. So I'd like to meet with her informally and maybe convince her that, in less inhibiting circumstances ...'
'I see. Well, sadly, Moira is not working tonight. Or in the city at present. She has a personal matter to attend to. And though, as her agent, I am obviously aware at all times of her whereabouts, no, I'm afraid I can't tell you where she is. That really would be irregular.'
'Ah ... right," Macbeth said.
'Perhaps you could leave a number with Fiona, where we can contact you.' The agent's face was blank.
'Right,' Macbeth said gloomily.
CHAPTER IV
Joel Beard had been standing there for a couple of minutes, over by the window in the Rector's study, his mouth slightly open.
Hans,' he said urgently, as if the church was on fire, 'Hans, quickly, who on earth is that?'
The Rector couldn't manage anything quickly any more, but, yes, he too had seen the hooded figure. It had vanished now behind the church tower.
'I'm sorry, Joel?'
'Over there. Didn't you see it?'
'No, I mean ... all kinds of women pass through that gate.'
Joel turned to him, a 'Got you' smile on his large, unlined face. 'I don't think I mentioned the gate, did I, Hans? And I don't think I mentioned a woman.'
'Well, obviously I assumed ...' Hans grimaced and bent to his worse knee, feigning pain for once. Bloody man. Joel had spent three half-days with Hans, being shown around, shaking a few hands. Big, cheerful, amiable character, anxious to learn.
But suddenly ...
'I wouldn't be surprised,' Joel said in his flat, calm Yorkshire voice, 'if there weren't quite a lot of things you haven't noticed, Things that go on, hereabouts.'
'... the hell are you talking about?'
'Hell?' said Joel. 'Yes I think I am talking about hell. For instance, Sam Davis, the young chap who was here morning...'
Hans stared at him. 'How do you know about that?'
'When he came out, his Land Rover wouldn't start.' Joel flashed his teeth. 'I was around. I fixed it. We had a chat.'
