The Lamp of the Wicked mw-5

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Better get it,’ Jane said quickly. ‘Might be important.’

  Merrily hesitated, and Jane turned away. Merrily sighed, went back and picked up. ‘Ledwardine Vic—’

  ‘Mrs Watkins!’ Cheery, booming male voice. ‘George Lomas, Lomas and Sons, Coleford. We haven’t done business before, but we’re burying a certain gentleman – if that’s the correct term in this instance – for Mr Tony Lodge and your good self.’

  ‘Ah, right. Erm… hello.’

  ‘You have Friday, I believe.’

  ‘As I understand it.’

  ‘And, unfortunately, Mrs Watkins, I have to tell you, as quite a number of people now understand it. Mr Lodge had hoped to keep it discreet by using ourselves, rather than one of the firms in Ross, but it seems someone’s let the cat out of the bag, and I had a phone call this afternoon from the local press.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Quite. Not what we want, under the circumstances. However, I’ve spoken to the parties concerned, including the Reverend Banks, and we have an alternative proposal to put to you, if it can be accommodated into your schedule. And that is Wednesday – the day after tomorrow. We’re suggesting late afternoon – very late afternoon.’

  ‘You mean under cover of darkness?’

  ‘I think it makes sense, Mrs Watkins. It had been arranged that Mr Lodge’s coffin should spend at least one night in the church prior to burial, so no one will be surprised to see a hearse arrive. We propose – and Mr Tony Lodge is somewhat reluctantly in agreement – that the funeral should be carried out as soon as possible. We expect there to be no more than five mourners.’

  ‘A clandestine funeral?’

  ‘That wouldn’t exactly be my choice of word but, under the circumstances… well, Mr Banks is certainly in agreement. It means that Mr Lodge will be safely interred before anyone can… cause problems.’

  ‘You’ve been warned of problems?’

  ‘Not if it’s dealt with on Wednesday evening and arrangements remain confidential. Could we say five-thirty?’

  ‘Well…’ There really wasn’t an alternative, was there? ‘OK.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Mr Lomas.

  When she put down the phone, it rang again, under her hand.

  ‘Damn.’ Merrily picked up. ‘Led—’

  Sophie said, ‘I was just doing my final check on the e-mail, and there’s one you might just want to know about before the morning. Cherry Lodge?’

  ‘Already? How long is it?’

  ‘Quite long. Merrily, I’ve already mailed it, but I thought I’d tell you in case you weren’t going to check your e-mails again until the morning.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks. Oh, sh— the computer’s gone down. It’s not working. I was going to ring up someone tomorrow. Oh God, look, under the circumstances I think I’d better come in and collect it.’

  ‘I could drive it over there if you’re tired. You sound tired.’

  ‘No, that’s ridiculous, I’ll come in. How’s the fog?’

  ‘Patchy. I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘OK, give me just over half an hour.’

  When she’d put the phone down, Merrily went into the kitchen and found Jane at the farthest window, where the light was dim, looking out at dark nothings in the garden. The kid didn’t turn round.

  ‘Off to HQ, then.’

  ‘Sorry. Something I need to pick up.’ Merrily saw that Jane’s hair was flattened on one side, as if she’d been lying on it. ‘Erm… why don’t you come, too? We could call for some chips on the way back.’

  ‘I’ve got homework to wrap. Anyway, it always takes you longer than you think it’s going to, once you’re up there closeted with Auntie Sophie.’

  ‘No, I’ll be as quick as I can, honest. But if you want to get something to eat, meanwhile… or I could—’

  Jane said, ‘Just go, Mum, huh?’

  Desperately cuddling Ethel, Jane had thought about it for a long time, and it was her fault. No question, she was the guilty party.

  she would call him.

  A mature decision. You didn’t – because of your own weakness, your own inadequacy – just walk away like this from someone who was not only your first lover but also your best friend. Who you’d lain with and laughed about things with together. Who had virtually nicked his stepmother’s car last summer to drive you home from Wales on a whim. Who, also last summer, had been – face it – hurt for you, and almost very badly, in fact almost—

  Jane clutched the edge of the refectory table with both hands, squeezing hard until she, too, was hurting. Ethel watched her, big-eyed, from the stone flags.

  She should be able to understand why she was feeling like this, continually juggling rage and despair. Like, she’d read The Catcher in the Rye, about the kid in the 1950s making the shattering discovery that all adults were hypocrites. But this wasn’t the 1950s and she wasn’t a kid any more, and she’d known for years that all adults were total fucking hypocrites.

  OK, maybe except for Lol. And Gomer. And Mum, who did her best.

  And anyway, all these were people in the process of getting damaged.

  Jane let go of the table, walked into Mum’s office, and snapped on the light. It was actually quite calm and plain in here. No awful Victorian Bible scenes. Just a blue-framed print of a painting by Paul Klee, which Huw Owen had once given Mum: irregular coloured rooftops under a white moon. On the wall above the desk, there was just one smallish cross, in oak. A paperback New Testament and a prayer book lay on the desk. There was a single bookcase in which the standard theological tomes were being gradually displaced by the kind of books that Jane herself used to borrow: paranormal stuff.

  The Deliverance Ministry. My mother, the exorcist.

  An Anglican shaman, a Christian witch doctor. Paid peanuts to humour fruitcakes.

  Could be worse; she might actually have finished her

  So university course and become a lawyer, like Dad, like Uncle Ted. Jane forced a grin, picked up the phone, tapped out a mobile number more familiar than their own. He’d be home now, in the grim family fortress outside Abergavenny.

  Irene, what can I say? I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve to live. Could he bear to hear that again?

  Ominous silence. No ring.

  Vodaphone robot: ‘The Vodaphone you are calling has been turned off…’

  And nothing about voice-mail. No, please… Jane felt like she was about to start hyperventilating. He’d even disabled his voice-mail.

  Oh Christ, I didn’t mean it. Slamming down the phone, staggering back into the kitchen. I didn’t mean any of it. You know I didn’t, you utter bastard!

  Drawing in a breath like a long, thin hacksaw blade. Once too often – she’d abused him once too often.

  Jane wrapped her arms around herself.

  It was over. It really was over.

  She stood there, not moving, as though she was set in marble, an angel on a grave. Stood there for well over a minute before moving numbly to the sink, half-filling a glass with water and drinking it, watching Ethel disappearing purposefully through the cat door.

  She went back to the table and pulled out the chair where Mum normally sat, removing a book from the seat before sitting down. This house was like a nunnery; even the book was by St Thomas Aquinas, Mum’s place marked with an envelope at a page with – she opened it – some stuff about… angels, of course. Bloody angels.

  Messengers of God. Jane shook her head slowly in contempt, then lowered it into her arms on the table top. This was what Mum had once admitted to doing when all else failed, when she didn’t know where to turn. With a cringing curtsy to primitive superstition, she would actually open the Bible or some other holy tome at random, seeking divine inspiration from the first she read. God, the weight of sadness in a gesture like that.

  And wasn’t it ironic that, after years of mocking Jane’s own passing fascination with nature spirits and angels, Mum sho
uld get finally get round to investigating the subject because a madwoman had given the church a hefty bung? Wasn’t it also typical that she’d turned to a medieval theologian rather than simply ask her own daughter, who had read more books on angelic forces…

  Jane lifted her head slowly, then shook it, smiling what she guessed was a smile of near-insanity but really, what the hell?

  Maybe it worked. A sign from God. Angelic inspiration. She looked at the clock: five to seven. Be a least a couple of hours before Mum got back.

  She got to her feet and went through to the hall. Didn’t, for once, feel the need to take down The Light of the World and smash it onto the flags, didn’t even give it a glance as she pulled her blue fleece jacket from the peg, shrugging it on as she opened the front door, Mum’s voice bleating in her head from when they’d had the row about Jenny Driscoll.

  Maybe I didn’t push her hard enough.

  Well, of course she didn’t. She wasn’t intellectually equipped for it. The truth was that Mum simply didn’t have the knowledge. Everything she knew about angels came from the Bible or the works of guys like Aquinas, whereas Jenny Box-née-Driscoll was coming directly from the New Age, where angelic energies corresponded with the devas, the high-level faerie entities supervising whole areas of life… where angels were considered to be an ecological fact, not a religious device.

  OK, it was all sad crap, but it was crap she knew about. Nobody in – well, OK, certainly nobody in this village was better equipped to get the truth out of Driscoll.

  The fog wasn’t bad now, actually. Jane zipped up her fleece, plunged her hands in the pockets and set off down the drive, towards the square and Chapel House. It would have been good to discuss this first with Eirion, but she was on her own again now, had to find her own way, make her own decisions. thing

  29

  Seeing Marilyn

  DELIVERANCE

  From: cherry lodge cherry.lodge@agritel.co.uk

  To: deliverance@spiritec.co.uk

  ‘Has her own separate e-mail address,’ Merrily noted. ‘But I’d be a bit concerned about mailing her back, all the same.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry – the husband probably never even goes near the computer,’ Sophie said. ‘Some older farmers are uncomfortable with them. Their farm’s a private world, a domain, and they don’t like the thought of anything having access – whether it’s through a public footpath or the Internet. Electronic intrusion is as big a threat as a Ministry man with a clipboard.’

  Lately, Sophie had been letting her white hair grow; in the subdued light it looked unexpectedly dense and dramatic above the grey cashmere and pearls. She was perched elegantly on a corner of the desk, her back to the window, conveying no hurry to be away. Sophie Hill: a woman who lived close to and for the Cathedral. Who didn’t, therefore, keep ‘hours’.

  There’d been tea waiting for Merrily in the Bishop’s Palace gatehouse, and chocolate biscuits. Jane’s ‘Auntie Sophie’ jibe had not been entirely misplaced. It was a bit like going to your auntie’s when you were a kid. A guilty pleasure now, especially with Jane at home nursing her private angst.

  Have you read this?’ Merrily asked. Below the Cathedral gatehouse, the lights of Broad Street were still fuzzy with fog.

  ‘Merrily, it’s why I called you.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Well, obviously my first thought was that they should have told the police.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘No, of course not – not without consulting her first. But then, when you think about it, how interested would the police be anyway? What difference would it make, now he’s dead?’

  We’ve been feeling isolated, like outsiders now in our village, even though Tony’s family has been here for generations. We’re the nearest farm to the village, but we don’t feel involved any more or especially wanted, and since all this came up it’s got much worse. Some people we’ve known for years have been very kind, but they don’t run things here any more. That’s why we didn’t want to talk about it to the police or anyone, it could only have made things worse than they are.

  ‘She’s very fluent, Sophie. Getting things off her chest.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘E-mail can be a liberating experience, as I’m sure you know. One can say things it would be difficult, if not impossible, to say in a two-way conversation on the phone. While the problem with letters is that not only are they more formal but one is inclined to read them back an hour or so later and think, I can’t send that, and tear them up. But with an e-mail…’

  ‘You pour it all out and you’ve pressed send before you can change your mind.’

  ‘For people – especially for women – in remote situations, it’s become a refuge, a confessional… a lifeline. Particularly women who can’t discuss some things with their husbands. She probably gets into chat rooms as well. Therapy. Company.’

  Merrily, sitting at Sophie’s desk, looked up, head on one side. ‘I’ve often wondered, never asked… but are you in The Samaritans?’

  Sophie smiled briefly and looked away. It was obvious now, when you considered. And she’d be very good at it.

  ‘Also, one can write and transmit an e-mail while one’s other half is still in the house, without the danger of being overheard. Without even having to sneak it into the post. I suppose it’s become, for many people, the nearest thing to thinking aloud. Or crying aloud.’

  ‘Yes.’ Merrily thought of Cherry Lodge and her IBM and her spreadsheets. Tony Lodge slumped in front of the TV, and his wife ostensibly at work on the accounts in another room, dealing with DEFRA forms on the Net, in the night when it was cheaper… while secretly entering the bigger world, the limitless virtual world.

  Merrily started to go through the printout for a second time, pencil-marking key paragraphs.

  The police took me and my husband to Roddy’s bungalow, and we were both shocked because we’d not been there much. They didn’t mix, Tony and his brother, him being so much younger, and we’d certainly never been in the bedrooms before. Well, I was not as shocked as Tony because I thought, well, he was just a lad, even though he was thirty-five, and him being single and everything it didn’t shock me that much. I mean the black sheets and everything. We all knew how much he’d changed since he went on his own, how much more confident he was, perhaps through being in business. But then when we saw the pictures of women Tony squeezed my arm to say nothing, and when they asked us if we knew he collected pictures like that, all of famous women who were dead now, with nude bodies of page three girls pasted onto them, Tony said it didn’t make any sense to him at all, and he was just disgusted and he hoped it wasn’t going to be talked about publicly or told to the papers because things were bad enough.

  ‘I saw those pictures when I went to the bungalow with Frannie Bliss. He was hoping I might be able to throw some light on it, but it was as much a mystery to me. I mean, without knowing the full background I’d never have been able to come up with anything as bizarre as this.’

  His father was very religious and he wouldn’t even think about it and so obviously it wasn’t to be talked about in the house, but there’s no doubt in my mind it comes back to the death of Roddy’s mother when he was so young. She was well over 40 when she had him, and never very fit, always ailing, they never thought she’d make old bones. Well she was dead before the baby was 3 years old. It was all so unexpected, and it must have taken a toll on her.

  You’d have thought he’d feel resentment towards Roddy, the old man, because of that, instead of him being his favourite, but he was very religious, he always saw Roddy as a gift from God for which there was a price to pay and that was the loss of his wife. I never understood the logic of that, but Roddy was always special. If anyone was resentful I suppose I would have to say it was Tony and his brother Geoff who had lost the mother they knew and loved and got Roddy instead.

  ‘Merrily, what do you suppose she means by that?’ Sophie fingered the phrase gift from God. ‘All right,
it was unexpected, a fluke – but is she actually saying that he believed his ailing wife had been preserved by God just long enough to give birth to this…?’

  ‘Monster?’ Merrily shuddered.

  The farm was doing quite well in those days and the old man was able to employ a woman to look after the child in the daytime and stay over when he wasn’t well, but they never became substitute mothers, because they never stayed in the job long enough. It was a male household with a bit of help with the meals and the cleaning and childcare on top of that. My husband has told me how Roddy was always asking about his mother, what she looked like and so on, and one day Marilyn Monroe was on the telly and the old man laughed and said That’s what she looked like and although there must have been pictures of his mother around the house Roddy seemed to get fixated on this idea and he started collecting pictures of Marilyn Monroe to put up in his bedroom. When one of his brothers said something about it, Roddy said it was all right because she was dead. And then he’d find other pictures of women he liked the look of and if they were dead he’d say he’d have them for his mother and he’d put them up too and he seemed to find comfort in it so nobody thought anything of it.

  ‘You heard of anything like that before?’ Merrily asked. ‘Be interesting to talk to one of the nannies, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps the police already have.’ Sophie picked up the electric kettle to refill it. ‘Reinventing his mother: not some worthy but possibly rather dowdy middle-aged farmer’s wife in some fairly dour farmhouse, but in fact something world-shakingly beautiful, with glittery dresses and glossy lips.’

  ‘Making a goddess of her.’

  ‘A sex goddess,’ Sophie said quietly.

  ‘That came later,’ Merrily said. ‘Let’s do the child-psychology stuff first. A boy with no mother, an all-male household. He’s quite lonely at home; his brothers are grown men with work to do; his father’s well into middle age and strict in all kinds of ways. It’s an altogether rigid regime. So here’s a child desperately in need of a mother’s love, jealous of all the other kids he sees being taken to school by their mums.’