by Phil Rickman
'Do you need somewhere to stay tonight, Mr Macbeth?'
She gave him a look that was almost a plea.
'I guess I do,' he said. 'You have a room?'
'Yes,' she said gratefully, 'I have a room.'
'I've spent the last couple of days studying and thinking,' Mr Dawber said. 'In the end, you see, I'm a man of logic.'
Christ, Willie thought, preserve us from logic
'Bridelow's is a peculiar logic, but logic it is. But our grasp of it has been gradually weakened.'
'Can't build a wall,' Willie said. 'Can't keep the modern world out for ever.'
'We did have a wall,' Milly said despondently. 'But I don't think I was cut out to be a brickie.'
Willie longed to give her a cuddle. For his benefit as much as hers. Longed to build up the fire, with crackling logs to block out the rain. His kind of wall. He thought about Joel Beard and his born-again mob, exulting and singing in tongues in the dying church: their kind of wall.
Mr Dawber picked up Milly's chubby hand and held it. 'Tonight, lass. If this wall finally comes down, it'll most likely be tonight, because somebody has the Man and they'll use him for evil. And that'll finish it.'
Old bugger's spent more than a couple of days on this, Willie thought. Ma's been schooling him. They're looking for openings. Looking for cracks in the wall. Been gathering out there for years, hundreds of years.
Mr Dawber looked steadily at Milly. 'You've got to replace the Man, my dear.'
'Her?' Willie spluttered. 'She has?'
'Ma would have taken charge, but sadly, she's not here. Which puts you in the firing line, Millicent, I'm afraid, and you've got to be strong. You're a big girl, if you don't mind me saying so. Big enough to wield the knife.'
Milly screamed and dragged her hand away.
Mr Dawber said, 'I know it'll hurt you more than it hurts me, and I'm sorry, I really am, lass.'
He stood up and straightened out the skirts of his mac. 'When I said I didn't go out on the Moss any more, I wasn't being strictly truthful. I spent a lot of time out there last summer after the Man was found, working out where he lay in relation to the village and also in relation to the path marked out by the Beacon of the Moss. Result is, I know just the place to do it.'
'Nay,' Willie said. 'Moss'll have shifted. Besides, there were no beacon in them days.'
'You mean there was no church clock. The beacon was a real beacon on the hill where the church now stands. And the Moss was more like a lake. Water to reflect the light.'
Willie stood up. 'Look, Mr Dawber, we'll forget you ever sad all this if you will.'
Mr Dawber put on his hat. 'I'll leave you two for a bit. Perhaps you might summon the Mothers, what's left of them as are well enough to come out on a night like this, and have a chat about it.'
"Hey, come on,' Willie said. 'Get some sleep, Mr Dawber. We'll see you tomorrow, have a proper chat. All right?'
'No, I'll not sleep. I've a few things to sort out. Few private things to burn. Letters and such.' He looked at his watch, it's ten to nine now. I'll be back for you soon after eleven.'
Milly shrank away from him. 'Mr Dawber, you don't seriously ...'
'I do,' he said sternly. 'And it's got to be tonight. Tonight has the power. The word is Samhain, Millicent, although I realise the Mothers have gradually dropped the old terminology. And on a practical level, the Moss is swollen with rain; when it goes down, things will be absorbed again, taken in.'
'Mr Dawber,' Milly Gill whispered, 'don't do this to me. Please.'
'Perhaps, before I return, something'll have happened this night to make you see the sense of it. Ma dead? That young lad up on the moors? How many do you want? Where, for instance, is ... ?' He pulled down his hat. 'Never mind.'
He turned round at the door, and a broad smile was channelled through the wrinkles, from the corners of his mouth to his eyes, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
'I'm not unhappy, tha knows. Be a lovely thing.'
Mr Dawber turned the key in the double lock and unbolted the front door to the fierce rain and the night.
CHAPTER V
'You been there before? The house?'
'Mmmm.'
' I suppose,' Chrissie said, 'I should be flattered. It's possibly our first official date.'
'What did you say?' His eyes flicking over to her then back to the road, quick as the windscreen wipers.
'You haven't been listening to anything I've been saying, have you?'
'Of course I have.'
'Doesn't matter. You're obviously preoccupied.'
She hadn't wanted to come with him anyway, being actually in the process of trying to lose his attentions without losing her job. Even if he had been comparatively spectacular in bed of late.
'Did you say something about a date?'
'I said it was possibly our first official one. Where we're actually seen together without a collapsible coffin between us. I was being flippant, Roger.'
'You're here as my assistant,' he said coldly.
'Oh, thanks very much. You'll be paying me, then.'
Actually, there was no real need to be especially nice to him. No way he could get her fired, knowing what she knew about him and his dealings behind the scenes with the man they were going to meet.
'What a bloody awful night,' she said. Now they were up in the hills it was coming down so hard the wipers could hardly keep up. 'I wonder what witches do when it's pissing down.'
'What?' Almost a croak.
'Witches.'
'What about witches?'
'It's Hallowe'en. I was wondering what witches do when it's raining this hard. Whether they call it off. Or do it in the sitting room. Can't dance naked in this, can you? Well, I suppose you could. You're on a pretty short fuse tonight, Roger.'
'No, 'I'm not,' he snapped.
'Why don't you just tell me what's bothering you. Apart from the usual, of course.'
He didn't reply.
Sod this, Chrissie thought. 'Anyway, it was my understanding that your friend John Peveril Stanage lived in Buxton or somewhere. Why, pray tell, is he holding his Hallowe'en party in Bridelow?'
'Look.' It was too dark to see but she could tell his hands were throttling the steering-wheel. 'It's not a party. It's just a gathering. A few drinks and ... a few drinks.'
'But not a party.' She was starting almost to enjoy this.
'And the reason it's In Bridelow ... the Bridelow Brewery's been bought by Gannons Ales, right? And it now emerges that Stanage has been a major Gannons shareholder for some years and recently increased his holding, oh ... substantially. Is now, in fact, about to become Chairman of the Board.'
'I suppose he's got to do something with all his book royalties and things. Apart from setting up bogman museums.'
Roger didn't rise to it, kept on looking at the road, what you could hope to see of it. 'Seems Shaw Horridge - that's the son of the original brewery family - is about to become engaged to Stanage's niece. They own Bridelow Hall. Which is where we're going.'
'I'll probably be underdressed,' Chrissie said, putting on a posh voice, 'for Braidelow Hawl.'
If it was that innocuous, why was Roger so nervy?
'Where's your wife tonight?'
'Working.'
'How are things generally?'
'So-so.'
'Everything all right in bed these days?'
'Chrissie, for Chr—' He hurled the car into low gear and raced up a dark, twisty hill.
'No clammy, peaty feelings any more?'
'What the hell's the matter with you tonight?'
'What's the matter with you?'
When they crested the hill she saw a strange blue moon. 'What on earth's that?'
'It's the Beacon of the Moss,' Roger said in a voice that was suddenly tired. 'Look, I'm sorry. Sorry I ever got committed to Stanage. I admit I'm in too deep, all right?'
She saw the bog below them. In the headlights it looked like very burned rice-pudding.
'It's a
s though he owns a piece of me,' Roger said. 'Bought me just as surely as he's bought Gannons Ales. I mean, last weekend, when I went to London ... Chrissie, I didn't go to London. I was at Stanage's place.'
'In Buxton?'
'In Buxton, yes. That's where ... Look, I'm a scholar, an academic, not religious, not impressionable. I'm basically a very sceptical person, you know that.'
Chrissie stifled it. 'Absolutely.' She allowed herself a deep, deep breath. 'But tell me this: who gave the bogman a penis?'
Roger slowed down for the causeway across the Moss. He seemed to slump on the wheel; she could have sworn she actually heard him gulp.
'I did.'
Ha!
'I used a piece of gut, what they thought was part of the duodenum.' He sounded relieved to be telling someone. 'Moulded with peat and something Stanage gave me ... a ... a stiffening agent.'
How ridiculously sleazy it sounded. Hadn't done much laughing, though, had she, when she saw the thing lying there projecting its bloody great menacing cock into the lights?
Actually, it was pretty sick.
They set off very slowly across the causeway. It seemed to be raining harder than ever here.
'Why?' she said. As if she really didn't know. Scholar. Academic. Sceptic. Not impressionable. Ha.
'He insisted it'd ... you know ... do the trick. Said I'd obviously become very close to the bogman, and the bogman had - this sounds very stupid - power. And I should use it.'
'You didn't laugh in his face because you needed him.'
'No! I didn't laugh because ... because he isn't a man you can laugh at. You'll know what I mean when you meet him. Look, do you really think I'd go discussing my private difficulties with ... well, with anyone? I mean, my bloody wife's a doctor, and I couldn't talk to her about it. Of course, I did think things would be different with you.'
'Because I was a bit of a slag, I suppose. And not very bright in comparison with Doctor Mrs Hall. And because I was impressed with this big glamorous archaeologist who was on telly a lot, and flattered.'
'No, of course not, what do you think I... ?'
'Stick to honesty, Roger, you were doing very well. So you discussed your little ... problem with Mr Stanage.'
'I didn't intend to. Well, obviously. He just seemed to know. He looked at me ... into me, almost. Smiling faintly. As if he'd decided to find something out about me that I didn't want him to know. And then he said, "Try something for me, would you?" Sympathetic magic, he called it. I knew if I didn't give it a go, he'd know somehow. And if anyone saw it, I'd just blame the students. But then ...'
'But then it started to work,' Chrissie said. Or something did. Probably the power of suggestion.
'As you know,' he said.
'You must have been half-dismissive and half-elated. And half-frightened, I suppose. I know that's three halves, but I'm not very bright, as we established. God almighty, Roger, what
have you got yourself into?'
'He's ... a strange man. His knowledge is very extensive indeed. But, yes, there is something I can't say I like.'
'Some of his books are very weird, Roger.'
'I haven't read his bloody books.'
'You should.'
'Just keep your mouth shut when we're there, that's all.'
'At the party?'
'It's not. . :'
'What is it, then?'
Roger drove up off the causeway, past the entrance to the big stone pub, The Man I'th Moss, and into the main village street. Halfway up the street, greasy light seeped out of a fish and chip shop, but it seemed to have no customers; not surprising in this weather. The blue moon turned out to be shining out of the church wall - must be a clock with a face each side of the steeple. But no hands, no numerals. How strange.
The clock lit up the inside of the car and Roger's bearded face. Chrissie began to feel uneasy.
'Come on, then, Roger.' As if the blue clock was lighting him up for interrogation. 'What else are you hiding?'
'Yes.' He turned right before the church, back into darkness. 'I'll tell you. Stanage says he can get the body back.'
'Oh, yes. Who from?'
'I don't know.'
'How?'
'I don't know.'
'What do you know?'
'He says we should all get together, those of us who've been close to him.'
'Him?'
'Him.'
Chrissie lit a cigarette. 'Turn 'round,' she said.
'What?'
'Turn the fucking car 'round, Roger, I'm not having anything to do with this.'
He stopped the car abruptly in the narrow road and it skidded into the kerb. The rain drummed violently on the roof and splashed the dark windows. It was savage and relentless, like a thrashing from God.
'Chrissie, please ...'
She blew smoke in his face.
He choked back a cough. 'Chrissie, I don't want to go on my own.'
'Grow up, Roger.'
'Listen, I'm just a little bit scared too, can't help it. If only for my ... for my reputation.'
'Well, naturally.'
'But I can't not go, can I? And say goodbye to everything … make him, you know ...'
'Make him what?'
'Angry,' he said pathetically.
She couldn't see his face; she didn't want to. She gritted her teeth. 'Turn it 'round, I said.'
Lay off, eh, Frank?'
'I wanna know. Come on, he can't just fucking show up, middle of the night, and not tell us why. Don't want no more fucking mysteries in this place. Had it up to here with fucking mysteries.'
'Go home, Frank, you've had too many.'
'Too many what? Listen, fart-face, you're not my fucking foreman no more. Not your pub, neither. What's your name, mate?'
Macbeth had had too many bad experiences of telling his name to guys in bars. 'Kansas,' he said. 'Jim Kansas.'
'... kind of fucking name's that?'
'Frank, if you don't go home …'
'Aye? Go on. Finish sentence, Stan. What you goin' do if I don't go?'
'I shall pick up that big bottle of Long John,' said Mrs Lottie Castle, appearing in the doorway, 'and I'll use it to bash out all of your front teeth, Frank Manifold. That's for starters.
Out!'
'It's raining,' Young Frank said.
And he giggled. But he went.
Macbeth started to breathe again.
'Sorry,' the barman Stan said to him. 'Everybody seems to be on edge tonight.' The other guys in the bar were draining their glasses, coming to their feet. 'We'll leave you to it, Lottie, I think. Shut the place, I would. You'll get no more custom tonight. Not in this.'
Now Stan looked meaningfully at Macbeth. Lottie said, 'He's staying.' Stan nodded dubiously and didn't move. 'He's an old friend of Matt's,' Lottie said. 'Couldn't make it for the funeral.'
'Right.' Stan accepted this and shrugged into his overcoat. 'Night then, Lottie. Good night, Mr Kansas.'
Macbeth was curious. This woman didn't know him from Bill Clinton and here she was letting her regular customers and the help go and him stay the night. Normal way of things, the woman being a widow, this would've been no big surprise, he had to admit. But she was a very recent widow. Also, she didn't seem to have even noticed what he looked like.
She looked tired. Drained. Eyes swollen. She dragged out a weary smile.
'Mr ... Mungo. I've located Willie Wagstaff. He doesn't know where Moira is, but he says he doesn't mind talking to you if you don't keep him too long. He's at his girlfriend's - that's the Post Office. About a hundred yards up the street, same side.'
'Right. Uh, what did you ... ?'
'I told him I thought you were all right. I hope you are.'
Macbeth said, 'Mrs Castle, what's going on here? Just why is everybody on edge? Who're all these people at the Rectory?'
'Ask Willie,' she said. 'And just so you know, he used to play the drums in Matt's band, so he's known Moira a long time. Do you want to borrow an umbrella?'<
br />
'Thanks, I have a slicker in back of the car. What if I'm late?'
'I'll still be up,' Lottie Castle said. 'Whatever time it is. Just hammer on the door.'
Lottie bolted the door behind him, top and bottom. Then she went through to the back door and secured that too.
She put on some coffee, partly to combat the rain noise with the warm pop-pop-pop of the percolator.
Earlier she'd pulled through a three-seater sofa from the living room that never got lived in. There was a duvet rolled up on the sofa.
Tonight's bed. Would have been, if she'd been alone in the pub. She'd put the American in Bedroom Three, the one Dic used when he was here. Soon as he'd left yesterday she'd changed the bedding, aired the room. It was just across the passage from her own.
Were bad dreams somehow stopped at source when you were no longer alone in the building?
That, of course, would depend on whether they were dreams.
On the refectory table was a local paper with the phone numbers of two estate agents ringed, the ones that specialised in commercial properties. Give that a try first, see if anyone was interested in a loss-making pub, before resorting to the domestic market.
Former village inn. Full of character. Dramatic rural location. Reduced for quick sale.
Well, did she have a choice? Was there any kind of alternative?
Lottie poured coffee, strong but with a little cream which she left unstirred, thin, white circles on the dark surface, because black coffee was apt to make her think of the Moss.
She left the cup steaming on the table, stood in the centre of the room for a moment with her sleeves pushed up and her hands on her hips.
'Matt,' she said, 'you know I didn't want to come, but I didn't complain. I supported you. I gave up my lovely home.'
Strange, but all the time he was dying he never once allowed a discussion to develop about her future. But then, they never actually talked about him dying; just, occasionally, about him being ill. And he obviously wasn't afraid; he was just - amazing when you thought about it - too preoccupied.
'You were always a selfish bastard, Matt,' she said.
Standing on the flags, hands on hips, giving him a lecture.
Don't see why I should feel ashamed, do you?'
Feeling not so unhappy, because there was someone to wait up for.
