by Phil Rickman
And Moira looked down, oh, Jesus, into Matt Castle's face framed in quilted white.
The smell. The perfume of the dead. The coffin lid off. His hair gone. Grave-dirt spilled on his closed eyes.
The way you never want to see them, the way you can't bear to remember them. And still you can't turn away your head; it won't move.
What have they done ... ?
Moira began to shiver. She closed her eyes, and this was worse, like waking up in the fast lane, her senses lurching out of control, cracked images oscillating in the steamy half-light between perceived reality and illusion, the place where the whispers went.
... vaporous arms reaching from the smoky maw of a great fireplace ...
... the splintering white of a skull-storm ...
... dancing lights on the moor... a rock like an encroaching toad ... pop-eyed gargoyles belching blood ... an eruption of steaming intestine on stone ...
All these reflecting one to another like in the shards of a shattered mirror, while tiny, vicious, chattering voices gnawed at her eardrums and she felt something sucking around her shoes pulling her down, and she knew that if she didn't open her eyes she'd be screaming like a loony.
But when she did it was no better. She blinked in pain.
He lay there in his coffin. Matt Castle, not in a shroud but a plain, white T-shirt. And his grey-white hands, crossed over his chest, were fumbling at it.
Oh, God, oh, Jesus, his damned hands were ...
'How dare you! How dare you!'
The man holding up the lantern, the big cleric she'd seen in the church earlier, this man's face bleached in the lamplight with rage and shock.
Below him, the old lady with the bizarre hat, sleeves pushed up and both arms in the coffin, pressing something into the dead hands of Man Castle, crossed over his breast.
It was her hands moving, not his.
Moira saw a frightened, angry glazing in the eyes of the big man as he bent roughly down with the lamp, forced himself between the old woman and the body in the coffin.
She thought she heard him sob, or it might have been her.
The big minister guy had put his own hand in there ... Holy Christ, is this real ...?... and brought it out, something clutched into a fist.
'Put that back ...' The old woman's eyes flashing green-gold, like a cat's, in the lantern-light.
'This is ... unpardonable ...' Yeah, he was sobbing, the big man; sickened, shattered, furious at what he was doing.
'Joel...' The minister, the Rector, was there, on the other side of the grave, his face all twisted up, the fair-haired girl still holding on to his arm. 'Please. Put it back. I'll explain to you, I promise ...'
'How ... How can ...'
'Turn away, Joel. Please. It isn't what you ... Just turn away.'
The big clergyman lifted his left hand to the lamp. He was holding up a small bottle. Something moved in it, liquid. Moira glimpsed red.
'Joel ...Give it to me ...You don't understand ...'
She saw that Joel was breathing rapidly now, a kind of wild, petulant hysteria there. She saw him rise to his full height, saw his arm pull back.
The Rector screamed, 'No!', shook out of the girl's grip, threw himself across the empty grave, one shoe reaching the phoney nylon grass mat on the other side, inches from the coffin ...
... as Joel, breathing violently, hurled the bottle above all the heads towards the moor beyond the trees. Then he turned, put down the lamp and stumbled back into the crowd, his
hands flailing.
Heard him clumping away, his outraged breathing. His sobs.
'Grab him, somebody, please ...' The girl, and she meant the Rector. People pushing past Moira, reaching out for the minister as the false grass slid from under his shoe and he almost rolled into the open grave.
Several minutes later, the graveyard had quietly emptied, except for the group around the empty coffin, Mostly women and not whispering any more. At the centre was the one with the hat. She was the oldest of them. Two of the others replaced the coffin lid.
Moira had backed beyond the lamplight, was a short distance away, leaning up against this tall cross in the Celtic style. Trying to breathe.
Oh, God. Oh, Holy Jesus. What the fuck am I into here?
One of the women at the graveside was Lottie Castle.
Lottie's voice was very quiet, very controlled, carefully folded up tight. 'I can't believe ... that any of this has happened.'
'Lottie ...'It was Willie, coming up behind her.
'And you ...'
'I know,' Willie said. 'I'm sorry.'
'I'll never forgive you, Willie. Or that ... her.'
'She only wanted ... Oh, Jesus Christ,' Willie wailed.
'This is awful. This is a right bloody mess. I can't tell you. Oh, God, Matt ...Why'd it have to be Matt?'
'Willie,' the old girl in the hat demanded. 'Stop that skrikin' and fetch me that bottle back.'
'Ma, nobody's going to find that bloody bottle tonight. If ever.'
'Then we'll have t'do what we can.' She placed both hands on the coffin. 'Pass us me bag, Joyce, it's down behind that cross.' Moira tensed; at her feet was a thick vinyl shopping bag.
Lottie's leather boot slammed down hard on the coffin between the old woman's hands. 'You,' Lottie said, 'have done about enough for one day.'
The old woman's hat fell off. She looked startled. Like nobody ever spoke to her this way.
'You don't understand, girl.'
Moira sensed an even further drop in the temperature of the night air between them. 'No,' Lottie said. 'You're right. I don't understand any of this. I don't want to. Matt thought he did. He thought he should. Well, what good did it do him? Tell me that. I thought you'd try something. I told Willie to warn you off. It goes against everything I ... everything I don't
believe.'
'Please, lass,' the old woman coaxed. 'Let us get on with it, best we can. Let's try and put things straight before ...'
'No. That's it. Finish. You've blown it, Mrs Wagstaff. You've turned the burial of my husband into a bloody circus. You even ... involved my son in your pathetic, superstitious ... Anyway, that's it. It ends here. Willie, you and Eric and the Franks are going to put that poor man in the ground.'
The old woman looked up at her. 'I beg of you, Mrs Castle ...'
'Ha! The famous Ma Wagstaff begging? Don't make me laugh. Don't make it worse. Just get out of my way, you silly old bag.'
Lottie stood on the fake grass behind the coffin and raised a boot. 'Now. Have I got to push it in myself?'
She stopped. 'Where's Dic?'
Willie said, 'I told him to help them get Rector home. I thought it'd be best. Lad'd 'ad enough.'
One of the other women with Ma Wagstaff said hesitantly, 'Is he all right? Rector?'
'I don't know,' Willie said. 'Lottie, look ... what Ma's on about ... I know how bloody awful it seems. Hate it meself ...'
'Then put my husband in the ground, Willie Wagstaff. And you ...' Lottie stared contemptuously at Ma Wagstaff. 'If I ever see you near this grave again, I swear I'll wring your stringy old neck for you.'
She stood and folded her arms and waited. Moira knew she wouldn't move until the last shovelful was trampled down.
When Ma Wagstaff looked at her she turned her back.
'Right, then.' Willie had a rope. He threw one end across the grave and another man caught it. 'OK, Frank. Where's t'other rope? Let's do this proper. I'm sorry, Ma, she's right. Nowt else you can do now. Let's get it filled in.'
Ma Wagstaff stood up, put on the hat with the black balls, dented now. She said, 'Well, that's it. It's started.'
'What has?'
'There were more of um here. At least one. I could tell. I could feel um. Like black damp.'
'Go home. Ma. Stoke thi' fire up, make a cuppa, eh? I'll be 'round later. See you're all right. Now, don't you look at me like that, I'm not a kid no more, I'm fifty-four ... going on
seventy, after today.'
'Bl
ack seed's sown,' Ma Wagstaff said ominously. 'Bury him tight and pray for us all.'
The old woman walked unsteadily away, her back bent. Like she'd been beaten, mugged, Moira thought. Several other women followed her silently down the cemetery path.
The church clock, shining bluish in the sky, said 5.42.
When the women reached the shadow of the cross where Moira stood. Ma Wagstaff stopped, stiffened, stared up at her.
As Moira silently handed her the shopping bag, old embers kindled briefly in Ma's eyes. Neither spoke. Moira didn't know her.
And yet she did.
Hans lay stiffly on the old sofa in the Rectory sitting room. They'd put cushions under his knees, taken off his dog-collar. His eyes were wide open but Ernie Dawber could tell they
wouldn't focus.
Hans kept trying to tell them something, but his mouth wasn't shaping the words.
'Can't fee ... fee ...'
'Pop, stay quiet. Let's put your overcoat over your legs. How's that? Mr Dawber, don't you think we should get the doctor to him?'
'I do. You go and make us some tea, Catherine. Dic, ring for an ambulance.'
When they'd gone, Ernie leaned over Hans. 'Don't try and talk, just nod, all right? Are you trying to say there's bits of you you can't feel? Hey up, you don't have to nod that hard, just tilt your jaw slightly. Is it your arm? Your shoulder?'
Hans pushed an elbow back into the sofa, trying to raise himself. 'Chest. Shoulders.'
'Now, then ...' Ernie raised a warning finger. 'Listen, lad, we've known each other a long time, me and thee. I'll be frank with you. I'm not a doctor, but my feeling is you've had a bit of a heart attack.'
The Rector squirmed in protest.
'Ah, ah! Don't get alarmed, now, I've seen this before. It's nowt to get panicked about. What you are is a classic case of a man who's been pushing himself too far for too long. I know this is not what you'd call an easy one, this parish, for a clergyman, and you've handled things with tremendous skill, Hans, and courage, over the years, anybody here'll agree with that ...'
The Rector's eyes flashed frustration.
'Aye, I know. It's not the best of times to get poorly, what, with ... one thing and another. And that Joel ... by 'eck, he's a rum bugger, that lad. Impetuous? Well... But, Hans, be assured, they'll cope, the Mothers' Union. They will cope. They've had enough practice. Over the years.'
Wished he felt half as confident as he sounded. The trouble with Bridelow was so much had been left unsaid for so long that nobody questioned the way the mechanisms operated any more. It was just how things were done, no fuss, no ceremony, until there was a crisis ... and they found the stand-by machinery was all gunged up through lack of use.
When they heard the warble of the ambulance, Hans grabbed hold of Ernie's wrist and began to talk. 'I've buggered things, Ernie.'
'Don't be daft. Don't worry about Joel. This time next week he'll think it was all a bad dream.'
The Rector's dry face puckered.
'Don't think so? Oh, aye. Folk do, y'know. Things heal quick in Brid'lo. The thing about it ... and I've been thinking about this a lot - and writing it down. Started a book - don't say owt about it, God's sake - Dawber's secret Book of Bridelow. Not for publication, like, Ma Wagstaff'd have a fit ... just to bring all the strands together, reason it out for meself...'
'No, look ...' Hans blinked hard.
'No, the thing about Bridelow ... it's so prosaic. Know what I mean? Not sensational. No dressing up ... or dressing down, for that matter. Nowt to make a picture spread in the News of the World. Joel? Nobody'd believe him, would they? You think about it.'
He patted the Rector's hand. 'No, better still, don't think about it. Get yourself a bit of a rest. I'll handle things. Brid'lo born, Brid'lo bred. Leave it to Uncle Ernie.'
This had been his forte as a headmaster. Getting the kids to trust him. Even when he hadn't the foggiest idea what he was doing.
As the ambulance men crunched up the path, Hans said, 'Shurrup, you old fool and listen. It's Joel.'
'Like I said, we'll handle him.'
'No. You don't understand. Know where he's ... where he's going to spend the night. Do you?'
'Back in Sheffield if he's got any sense.'
'No. He's ... made up a bed. Little cellar under the church. Ernie ... Don't let him. Not now. Not after this.'
'Oh,' said Ernie. 'By 'eck. You spent a night down there once, didn't you?'
CHAPTER VII
GLASGOW
She told him that not only had she never eaten here, she'd never even been inside the joint before. And he, having stayed in better hotels most of his life, felt - as usual - like an over privileged asshole.
She had the grouse, first time for that too. (Didn't Scots eat grouse on a regular basis, like Eskimos and seal meat?) He joined her, a new experience for him also. The grouse wasn't so great, as well as which, it looked like a real bird, which made him feel guilty.
Afterwards, looking up from the sweet trolley, she said, 'I suppose you'll be wanting your pound of flesh, then.'
'Aw, come on, Fiona. I can buy a girl dinner without the question of flesh coming into it.'
'I should be so lucky.' She smiled enticingly. 'I was referring to Moira. You'll want to know about Moira.'
'Well,' he said, 'yeah. But only if this isn't gonna get you into any kind of, uh ...'
'Shit?' said Fiona. 'I don't think so. I see all Mr Kaufmann's receipts, he never comes here. Anyway, it's nice to live dangerously for a change. I bet you live your whole life dangerously.'
'Me?' For one and a half years after leaving college he'd been a trainee assistant director. The very next day he was an executive producer. Mom's company. 'Uh, well, not so's you'd notice.'
'You do look kind of dangerous, Mungo.'
'Looks can be deceptive.' Last thing he planned was to seduce this one.
'Irish,' she said. 'You look Irish, somehow.'
'So people keep telling me.'
'Mungo,' she said. 'Aw, hey, that's really incredible. Mungo Macbeth.'
'Of the Manhattan Macbeths. My Mom's real proud of that.' Giving her the condensed autobiography. 'From being a small kid, I learned how the actual King Macbeth was really a good guy whose name was unjustly blackened by this English hack playwright.'
'That's true, actually,' Fiona said. 'He wisny a bad guy.'
'I'm told they also used to play pipe-band records to me in my cradle,' Macbeth said, screwing up his nose. 'But that made me cry, so they hired this genuine Scottish nanny, used to sing me Gaelic lullabies. That part I remember. That was great. That was how I got into the music'
'My dad used to sing me Tom Jones,' Fiona said glumly.' "The Green Green Grass of Home". Not so great.'
'My dad never got to sing me anything,' Macbeth said. 'He didn't last that long. He was kind of jettisoned by my mother's family before I was born. They are the Macbeths. My dad's name was Smith. I mean, Smith? Forget it. So, anyhow, this trip came up, she said. Go ... go feel the true power of your Celtic heritage.'
'You feeling it?'
'I'm feeling a jerk is what I'm feeling. I won't say she was expecting a delegation from the clan Macbeth to turn out for me at the airport in full Highland costume, but you get the general picture.'
'Out of interest, have you actually seen anybody in a kilt since you got here? Apart from at the Earl's do?'
'Nope.'
'So what'll you tell her when you get home? Hey, would it be OK for me to have the profiteroles?'
'And just a coffee for me,' he said to the waiter. 'Make that two - I'll wait. What do I tell Mom? I'll say I had a peculiarly Celtic experience. I'll say it was too deep and personal to talk about.'
'Oh, wow,' Fiona said, rolling her big eyes. Problem was that tonight she didn't look eighteen any more. She was in a tight red dress - well, some of her was in it. Macbeth thought hard about Moira Cairns to take his mind off this comparatively minor but far from discountable temptation.
'I'll tell her I met a real witch,' he said. 'One of the weird sisters.'
'Aw, she's no' a witch,' Fiona said scornfully.
'No? What is she?'
'She's what my granny used to call fey. OK, maybe a bit more than that. Like, one day she was very annoyed with Mr Kaufmann ... I mean she's usually quite annoyed with him but this was something ... Anyway, here they are, raging away at each other, and she's about to storm out the door and then she just turns round, like she's gonny say something else, only she canny find the words. And then ... one of the damn filing cabinets starts to shake and ... I'm no' kidd'n' here ... all four drawers come shoot'n' out at once. Really incredible. Awesome silence afterwards.'
'Coulda been an earth tremor.'
'That was what Mr Kaufmann said. But he still went all white, y'know? I mean, that filing cabinet was locked, I'm certain it was.'
'I can sympathize.' Macbeth shuddered, his mind making a white skull out of the tureen on an adjacent table. 'Listen, Fiona, I'm a little shaky on Moira's early career. She was at college in Manchester which is where she joined this local band, right?'
'Matt Castle's band. Matt Castle just died.'
'Oh, shit, really?' Remembering something mindlessly insulting he'd said about Matt Castle just after they met. What a shithead. A wonder she spoke to him at all after that.
The waiter brought Fiona's profiteroles. 'Hey, great,' Fiona said. 'So then she was approached about joining this rock band. Offered a lot of money, big money even for the time, to make two albums.'
'The Philosopher's Stone,' Macbeth said. 'But they only made one album.'
'Right. She split before they could get around to the second one. But, see, the word is that the reason they wanted her, apart from her voice, was that ... You remember Max Goff, who owned Epidemic Records?'
'He was murdered, year or so ago. Some psychopath kid with a grudge.'
'Right,' Fiona said.
'I didn't know she was with his outfit. It was CBS put out the album in the States.'
'Well, the word is, Mungo .. .' Fiona leaned conspiratorially across the table, '... that the real reason Max Goff wanted her in the band was he'd heard she was psychic. He was very into all that. Like, he already had a couple of guys signed to Epidemic who were also psychics and he wanted to put them all together in a band, see what happened. Of course Moira didny know this, she thought the guy just liked the way she sang, right?'
