by Phil Rickman
She left on a wall-lamp in the kitchen, went through to the bar, leaving the door ajar. Switched the lights off one by one at the panel beside the mirror, leaving until last the disused brass gas-mantle which Matt had electrified.
The porch-light would stay on all night, gilding the rippling rain on the window. Lottie moved out into the darkened, stone-walled bar, collecting the ashtrays for emptying.
Wondering what Willie would make of the American with the silly name who'd driven down from Glasgow on the wettest Sunday of the year to find Moira Cairns.
Matt would have done that. Matt would have killed for Moira, and there was a time when she would have killed Moira because of it, but it didn't seem to matter any more.
When the gaslight came back on behind the bar, Lottie dropped all the ashtrays with a clatter of tin.
The gas mantle was fitted with on electric bulb under the little gauzy knob thing and it looked fairly realistic. Or so she'd thought because she'd never seen the original gas.
Until now.
Oh, yes. This was gas, being softer, more diffused; she almost felt she could hear a hiss. Did they hiss? Or was that Matt?
Matt, whose face shone from the mirror behind the bar, enshrouded in gaslight.
Lottie stood with her back to the far stone wall. Her hands found her hips. Against which, untypically, they trembled.
She said, very quietly, 'Oh, no.'
Ernie Dawber knew that if he allowed himself to think about this, he would at once realise the fundamental insanity of the whole business.
He would see 'sense'.
But Bridelow folk had traditionally answered to laws unperceived elsewhere. Therefore it was not insane, and it required another kind of sense which could never be called 'common'.
So he simply didn't think about it at all, but did the usual things he would do at this time of night: cleaned his shoes, tidied his desk - leaving certain papers, however, in quite a prominent position.
Love letters, they were, from a woman magistrate in Glossop with whom Ernie had dallied a while during a bad patch in his marriage some thirty years ago. He'd decided not to burn them. After all, his wife had known and the woman was dead now; why not make one little bequest to the village gossips?
In the letter he was leaving for Hans, he'd written: 'Let the vultures in, why not? Let them pick over my bones - but discreetly. Let it be so that nothing of me exists except a name on the cover of The Book of Bridelow:
Suddenly, he felt absurdly happy. He was going on holiday,
He made himself a cup of tea and set out a plate of biscuits, wondering what archaeologists two thousand years hence might have made of this:
The stomach yielded the digested remains of a compressed fruit not indigenous to the area but which may have constituted the filling for what nutritional documents of the period tell us were called 'fig rolls'.
He chuckled, ate two biscuits, drank his tea and sat back in his study chair, both feet on his footstool. He did not allow himself to contemplate the kind of knife which might be used to cut his throat or the type of cord employed for the garrotting or whether the blow to the back of his head would be delivered with a carpenter's mallet or a pickaxe handle.
But feeling that he should at least be aware of what had happened on this particular day in the world he was leaving he switched on the radio for the ten o'clock news.
Not such a bad time to be leaving. Chaos behind what used to be the Iron Curtain, more hatred between European nations than there'd been since the war. A psychopath killing little girls the West Country.
But then, at the end of the national news, this:
Police who earlier today found the body of a man after a
nine-hour search of the South Pennine moors say they've
now discovered a woman's body, less than a mile away, in
the burned-out wreckage of a car.
However, they say there appears to be no link between
the two deaths. The first body, found in a quarry, has now been
formally identified as a 27 year-old farmer, Peter Samuel Davis.
The woman's body, not yet identified, was badly burned
after the car, a BMW saloon, apparently left the road in wet
conditions, plunged over a hundred feet into a valley bottom
and burst into flames.
Ernie switched off the radio, his fingers numb, picked up his telephone and rang the Post Office.
Perhaps, before I return, something'll have happened this night to make you see the sense of it.
Sense, he thought, feeling cold all of a sudden. It's all gone beyond sense.
CHAPTER VI
Chrissie shrieked, 'Come on, come on, come on!' and beat with both fists on the door until it shook.
She was wearing a short mac said to be showerproof, but that depended what you meant by shower and she'd taken no more than two minutes to run like hell down the street and she was panting and absolutely bloody soaked.
When the door opened, Chrissie practically fell inside. 'God!' Shaking water out of her hair.
Expecting glasses chinking, laughter, maybe the clunk-ding of a one-armed bandit. Certainly not silence and dimness and a red-haired woman with lips drawn tautly back and pain-filled, frozen eyes.
'I'm sorry ... I mean, this is a pub, isn't it? You're still open aren't you? I mean if you're not, I only want to use the phone. To call a taxi.'
'Box,' the woman said in a strangled whisper, as if she had a throat infection. 'Up the street.'
'Yes, I know, but I've no change, I... excuse me, but are you all right?'
'Really don't know. Better come in.'
'Thanks. God, what a night.'
'Car …' The woman cleared her throat. 'Excuse me. Your car broke down?'
'Actually, I had a row with my boss ... boyfriend. Well, not either after tonight. I just got out of his car and walked off. Well, ran off, with this weather, I mean, isn't it awful? I'm making a puddle on your floor. Sorry.'
When she'd rubbed the rain out of her eyes, Chrissie saw she was indeed it what seemed to be a public bar. Nobody here, apart from her and the woman. 'Hey, I'm sorry. I really thought you were open and the door had just jammed or something and... You're really not well, are you?'
The woman had her back to the bar which was dark, only the shapes of bottles gleaming. 'Can you ...' She gripped the edge of a table as if to steady her voice. 'Excuse me, but can you see a light-fitting, like an old gas-mantle, side of the bar?'
'Er,... yes. Yes, I think so.'
'Is at on?'
'Well, no.' Could she be blind?
Then the woman just son of folded in on herself as if afflicted by some awful stomach cramp or period pain, and Chrissie' s brain dried out quickly. The Man I'th Moss. This was Matt Castle's wife. 'Hey,' she said, 'come on, sit yourself down. You on your own?'
Mrs Castle nodded and Chrissie led her to a corner seat opposite the bar and bent down to her. 'Make you a cuppa tea?'
She shook her head. 'I've got coffee. I'm OK. Honestly, Just a shock. I've had a shock.'
'Can I send for anybody? Relatives? A doctor?'
'Please,' Mrs Castle said. 'Just don't go, that's all. Come through. Phone's in the kitchen.' She got up and walked to the bar, and when she reached it a tremor seemed to pass through her and she pushed quickly through a door in the back wall.
Chrissie followed her into a big farmhouse-type kitchen, taking off her sodden mac and tossing it into a corner, useless thing. Underneath, she was wearing her navy-blue suit over a light blue silk blouse and pearls. Classy and understated for John Peveril Stanage's soiree, she thought with a sardonic shudder.
'Just keep talking." Mrs Castle said. 'I'll be all right in a minute.' She was wearing a big, sloppy Icelandic-type sweater, but she still looked almost blue with cold and she hunched herself over the stove. Chrissie went and stood next to her and folded her arms.
'Well, this chap I was with, called Roger. Married, of course.
I'm his bit on the side, except that's not as frivolous or irresponsible as it sounds, for either of us ... well, it never is, is it, really?'
Mrs Castle was just looking into space. There was a full coffee cup on the table, but the coffee had gone cold, a whirl of cream almost solid on the top like piped icing.
'Roger's a prat,' Chrissie said. 'There's no getting around that. He's got a terrific opinion of himself and yet at the same time he's obviously a bit intimidated by his wife - she's a doctor. He wanted something else, less demanding. Which was me. One slightly shop soiled divorcee off the bottom shelf - flattering, eh? High powered wife, so he's looking for something cosy and undemanding and, worst of all, a bit cheap, you know what I mean?'
Mrs Castle nodded and struggled to smile, a little bit of colour in her cheeks. She was actually very attractive, good bones.
'I mean, you talk about undemanding, he didn't even have to go anywhere to pick me up. We work in the same office, I'm his secretary-cum-personal assistant - soon found out what that meant.'
Realising she'd never talked to anybody about her and Roger before. Maybe this could turn out to be unexpectedly therapeutic.
'But at the end of the day,' Chrissie went on, 'his biggest love - I mean, listen to this - his biggest love, who's far more important to Roger than cither me or his wife - is a squidgy little brown man who's been dead about two thousand years and came out of a bog. Now, can you ...? Ow!'
A kind of mad revulsion in her eyes, Mrs Castle had suddenly swung round from the stove, grabbed hold of Chrissie's wrist and was digging her nails into it.
As if, Chrissie thought, pulling away, cold, to make sure I'm actually flesh and blood.
'I tell you what, Mrs Castle. I reckon you're the one who would benefit from talking about it.'
'Where are we going exactly?'
'Rog, mustn't be so anxious, m'friend! Mind holding the umbrella? Oops! Two hands, please, or you'll lose it.'
Huge golf umbrella; anything else would have been turned inside out by the sheer force of the downpour. Hard, vertical, brutal rain.
'There, that's stopped 'em from dithering.'
'I wasn't d—'
'Surrounded by ditherers. Don't worry, I like 'em. Shaw used to be a ditherer, didn't you, Shaw? Ditherer, stammerer, cowardly little bastard. Fixed it, though, didn't we? Fixed everything. Right, then, if we're all ready, in we go. Been here before, Rog?'
Darkness. Cold.
'Never. Pretty chilly, isn't it?'
'Chilly? This? Hear that. Tess? Poor Roger thinks it's chilly This is Tess, my niece, aren't you, darling? And what shall we say about these others? What they are is a bunch of unfortunates befriended by the lass, she's so ... good ... hearted.'
'Uncle, please ...'
'Apologies, my love. Yes, up the stairs is where we go. Onwards and upwards. Into the Attic of Death, do you like that?
'Not really.'
'Relax, relax. Relaxation. The key to everything, Shaw knows that, don't you, m'boy? Up again. Ought to be a lift, be totally cream-crackered, time we get there. How you feeling now, Rog?'
'A touch light-headed, now, actually. How many drinks did I have, I can't...'
'Just the one, Roger, just the one. Famous for our cocktails aren't we, Tess?'
'What's that smell?'
'New one on you, is it, Rog? What a terribly sheltered life you must have had, m'boy.'
'Oh, dear God.'
'Ah, now, let's not bring that chap into it, Roger.'
'I'm going to be sick.'
'No you're not, you're going to get used to it. No time at all. Now relax, the dead can't harm you.'
Don't look at it, don't look at it, don't . . . Oh, Lord, what's happening to my head?
'No, actually. I'm lying again. That's a common myth perpetuated by morticians. You're quite right, the dead can indeed harm you, in the most unexpected ways. The dead can harm you horribly.'
Laughter. Laughter all around.
By the time Macbeth walked into the room behind the Post Office the sense of there being something deeply wrong at this rain-beaten village - everybody seems to be on edge tonight - had become so real it was starting to affect the air; the atmosphere itself seemed thin and worn and stretched tight like plastic film, and faces were pressed up against it trying to breathe.
Two faces. One chubby and female that ought to have looked healthy and a small, male face under a brown fringe, a face out of Wind in the Willows or somesuch.
Both faces pressed up against the tight air of a small and crowded room full of flower pictures, flower fabrics and flowers.
Macbeth finding it hard to introduce himself. 'I, uh …' Harder still to explain what he was doing here. 'Mrs Castle - Lottie, right? - thought maybe you could tell me where I could find a ... a friend of mine.'
'Aye,' the little guy said. 'Look, can I ask you, how close were you to Moira, lad?' A slow, kindly voice, but Macbeth felt the damp behind it.
'I guess I'd like to be closer,' he said frankly.
Rain from his black slicker dripping to the floral carpet.
Rain making deltas on the window and small pools on the sill.
Rain coming down the chimney and fizzing on the coal fire.
And yet all the flowers in the room - on the walls, in the pictures, on the woman's dress - contriving to look parched and dead.
The woman said bleakly 'Since Willie spoke to Lottie we've had a phone call.'
'Moira?'
The woman's wise eyes were heavy with a controlled kind of sorrow.
A hammer inside Macbeths head beat out no, no, no.
'Sit down, lad,' the little mousy guy said, pulling a chair out from under a gate-legged mahogany dining table. On the table was a bottle of whisky, it's seal newly broken; beside it, two glasses.
'Well, of course I don't believe in it, you see, Chrissie. I never have. All right, maybe it's not a question of not believing. I mean, is there a name for a person who just simply doesn't want to know?'
Chrissie warmed both hands around her coffee cup. 'For that matter, is there a name for a man who professes to be above all that superstitious nonsense but is more than happy to let it cure his impotence, and then he can go back to not believing in it again?'
'I think "bloody hypocrite" might be one way of putting it.' Lottie said. 'But …'
'But tonight... God, am I really saying this? Tonight you saw the ghost of your husband.' Chrissie shuddered; it really did go all the way up your spine. 'Wasn't going to use that word. Never liked it.'
'Ghost?'
'What does it mean, Lottie? Was he really there? I mean his …?'
'Spirit? Was his spirit there?' Lottie's voice rose, discordant like a cracked bell. 'Yes. I think it was. And crushed. His spirit crushed.'
She thrust a fist to her mouth, swallowing a sob, chewing her knuckles.
'Let it come,' Chrissie said, and Lottie wept some hot, frightened tears. 'Yes, he was a man of spirit, always ... endless enthusiasm for things, what first attracted me. But there's a negative side to enthusiasm, isn't there?'
'Ob ... session?'
Lottie sniffed. 'First there was the woman. Moira. Not only beautiful, but young and - worst of all, worst of all, Chrissie - talented. The thing I couldn't give him. Support, yes. But inspiration ... ?'
'You're beautiful too,' Chrissie said ineffectually.
'Thanks,' Lottie said. 'Was. Maybe. In the right light. Doesn't mean a lot on its own, though, does it? Don't get me wrong, it never ... flowered, this thing over Moira. They never actually did it. I know that now. But I think that's worse in a way, don't you? I mean, the longing goes on, doesn't it? The wondering what it might have been. Maybe I should have let him work it out, but I gave him an ultimatum: her or me and his son, Dic. He'd have lost Dic, too. It coincided, all this, you see, with an offer she got to join another band. He made her take it. It was "the right thing to do".'
'Martyrdom,' Chrissie said.
'He didn't get over her exa
ctly. He just went in search of a new obsession and ended up reviving an old one. Which was coming back to Bridelow. Not my idea of heaven on earth.'
'Not tonight anyway,' Chrissie said, looking over to the window. It was like staring into a dark fish tank.
'Naturally, I encouraged him. Sent him up here at weekends with Dic and a picnic lunch. Safe enough - I just didn't think it would ever happen. Then they found that blasted bog body and he just went nuts over it. Kept going to see the damn thing, like visiting a relative in hospital or prison or somewhere. Next thing, he hears the brewery's been flogged off and this place is on the market, and I was just carried along, like a whirlwind picks you up and you come down somewhere else you never wanted to be.'
Lottie stopped, as if realising there was little more to be said. 'And then he got ill and died.'
She nodded at the door to the bar. 'That gas-mantle. He worked for hours on it. Place was a tip, plastering needed doing, but all he was bothered about was his precious gas-mantle. Bit of atmosphere. Matt all over: tunnel vision.'
'I read once ...' Chrissie hesitated. 'An article in some magazine at the dentist's. This chap said there were certain things they came back to. Gh ... dead people ... Christ, that sounds even worse. Anyway, things they'd been attracted to in life.'
'Aye. Makes sense he'd come back to his bloody gaslight, rather than me.'
'I didn't mean it that way. Sort of landmark for them to home in on. Like a light in the fog. You could always have it taken down.'
'He'd go daft. He'd hold it against me for ever.'
'What did he look like? His old self, or what?'
'He looked terrible.' Lottie started to cry again. Why can't you ever learn to button it, kid? Chrissie told herself.
'It was very misty,' Lottie said through a crumpled handkerchief. 'He kept fading and then ... like a bad TV picture in the old days, remember? As if - I suppose your chap was right - as if he was trying to hold on to his old gas-mantle, for comfort, and something was trying to pull him back.'
