Crybbe aka Curfew

by Phil Rickman

  He didn't even know the circumstances.

  All he knew was that Jimmy Preece had the blind support of an appreciable number of large, uncompromising, tough looking men and, if anybody made an attempt to leave, the situation was likely to turn ugly.

  Not – looking at Max Goff sprawled in his own blood – that it was particularly attractive as things stood.

  Every so often, people would wander over to Col, some angry, others quite sheepish.

  'It doesn't make a lot of sense, now does it, Colonel?', Graham Jarrett argued, sweat-patches appearing under the arms of his safari suit. 'A man's been murdered, and all we're doing is giving his murderer time to get clean away.'

  'Not if he's in this room we aren't,' said Col very quickly.

  Jarrett's eyes widened. 'That's not likely, is it?'

  'Who knows, Mr Jarrett, who knows?'

  Graham Jarrett looked around nervously, as if wondering which of the two or three hundred people it might be safest to stand close to. The main exit was still guarded by large uncommunicative farmers.

  'Can't be long now, anyway,' Col said. 'I'd guess the Mayor's already been in touch with the police.'

  No chance. This is a Crybbe matter.

  Madness. It didn't even have the logic of a street riot. And Col Croston, who'd served six terms in Belfast, was beginning to detect signs of something worryingly akin to sectarianism.

  New Age versus Old Crybbe.

  The Crybbe people scarcely moved. If they went to the toilets they went silently and returned to their seats. They did not converse among themselves. They seemed to know what this was about. Or, at least, they appeared satisfied that Jimmy Preece knew what it was about and there seemed to be this unspoken understanding that they should remain calm, restrain their emotions.

  Bloody eerie. Just as they behaved in church. Admirable self-control or mindless apathy? Beggared belief, either way, and Col Croston knew he couldn't allow the situation to continue much longer. He was under pressure from the New Age delegates who, while in a minority of about twenty to one, were making virtually all the noise. So much for relaxation techniques and meditative calm. Struck him there was a lot they might learn from the indigenous population.

  A man in a suit, one of the Epidemic lawyers, said, 'Look – let us out of here now and we'll say no more about it. But if this goes on, I'm warning you, you're all going to be in very serious trouble. Impeding the course of justice'll be the very least of it.'

  'I've found,' Col told him, very clipped, 'that in a situation like this, telling people what serious trouble they're going to be in is the fastest way to inflame what could be a highly combustible situation. I estimate there are more than three hundred adults in this room and the fact that one of them happens to be dead could just turn out to be the very least of our worries. Now please sit down.'

  Aware of a sudden commotion by the main doors, he yelled into the New Age quarter, 'will somebody please restrain that lady!'

  The feminist astrologer was threatening to damage the genitals of one of the farmers if he didn't get out of her way. It was Catrin Jones, physically stronger than the astrologer and also a woman, who was finally able to lead her back to her seat.

  'They're not real, these people.' The astrologer shook her spiky head. 'They're bloody zombies. Everything's freaky.'

  The Cock being empty and Denzil looking at a bit of a loose end, Gomer Parry thought it was only reasonable to have two pints, aware this could conceivably put him over the limit. But what kind of copper stopped a digger driver trundling along a country lane at 30 m.p.h.?

  It was after ten when he drove out of the square in the yellow tractor with the big shovel raised up out of the way. The roads were about as quiet as you could get.

  Fact everywhere was a bit on the quiet side. This Goff was obviously a big attraction. Not a soul on the streets and with all the lights out, Crybbe looked like one of them film-sets when everybody'd gone home.

  Pulling out on to the Ludlow road, something else struck Gomer: he hadn't heard the bell. They never didn't ring that bell. Used to be said that old Jimmy Preece – well, young Jimmy Preece as he'd have been then – had even rung the curfew the day he got married. A hundred bongs on his wedding night, Mrs Preece wouldn't be that lucky.

  Poor old devil back on the night-shift now, then. Talk about bad luck… you wouldn't credit it. Even if Jack pulled through with both legs still attached, didn't seem likely he'd be in any state to make it up them old steps for a good long while. Have to be putting the arm on that young tearaway, Warren.

  Gomer was never sorry to leave Crybbe – miserable old place: miserable buildings, miserable folk – but he was never that happy about going home neither, not since his old lady had handed in her mop and bucket. He'd work every hour of daylight to put off that terrible moment when he had to get his own keys out instead of seeing the door opening as he tramped across the yard and hearing the old kettle whistling on the Rayburn.

  When midsummer was past and the working days started getting shorter, Gomer's spirits started to droop, and tonight had been a freak foretaste of autumn, black clouds crowding in for a storm that never came, and dark by nine.

  Now there was mist as well. That came down bloody quick. Gomer snapped on the full beams, only to discover his left headlight bulb had gone.

  Bollocks. No copper'd be able to resist pulling him in to point this out, and then he'd get a good whiff of Gomer's breath… Mind just blowing in this yere nozzle, sir… Oh, dear, afraid I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station, well, Gomer could already see the smile cracking up the fat features of that bastard Wynford Wiley, and he couldn't stick

  that.

  What he'd have to do then was switch off the headlights and try and get through the mist on the itsy-bitsy sidelights which were bugger-all use on these roads on the best of nights.

  So he flicked off the heads and slowed down to about twenty, and it was still like skin-diving in a cesspit and he had to drop down to second gear.

  Bloody Crybbe.

  Didn't know why he said that, you couldn't blame everything on Crybbe.

  Well, you could...

  Gomer hit the brakes. 'What the 'ell's that?'

  Bloody hell fire, it's the old Tump. Where'd he come from?

  Hang on a bit, boy, you done something a bit wrong yere. Isn't usual to see that thing straight up ahead, looming out of the mist so sudden like that, enough to scare the life out of you.

  Hello… not on the road now, are we?

  We surely are not!

  Bloody teach you to go over the limit. Thought you could handle a couple of pints, no problem, but the thing is, you're getting older, boy, your reactions isn't what they was, see.

  And now, look what you done, you gone clean off the road, over the verge and you're on the bloody common now and if you keep on like this you'll be knocking down that Goff's wall for him after all and buggering up your digger like they did the bulldozer.

  Gomer was about to pull up sharp when the front end took a dip and he realized that if he didn't go with it he was likely to turn this thing over. And he thought about Jack Preece… talk about lightning striking twice. Well, he didn't like this, not one bit.

  'I can't stand it!' Hilary Ivory shrieked suddenly. 'This room so black and negative. It's oppressing me, I've got to have out. And I can't stand to look at him any more!'

  'Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to cover him up,' Col told her. 'Really daren't risk disturbing anything, isn't that right, Sergeant?' Wynford Wiley nodded vaguely, his cheese face sliced clean of expression; he'd given up – he should be directing this situation and look at him… jacket off, tie around his ear, glazed-eyed and sweating like a pig.

  'All I can suggest is you look the other way, Mrs Ivory, I'm sorry.'

  'It's your fault,' Hilary turned furiously on her husband 'You knew it was coming. You should have warned him. What use is a seer who sees and doesn't tell?'

  'Me?' Hitherto glo
omily silent, Adam Ivory was stunned into speech. 'You didn't want me to say a word, you bloody hypocritical cow!' Halfway out of his seat, gripping his knees 'You didn't want to throw a shadow over things. You didn't want to lose your cosy little flat in your cosy little town in.. in…'

  'Just a minute.' Col Croston jumped down from the platform and strode over to where the couple were sitting amidst Jarrett, a bunch of healers, the Newsomes and Larry Ember standing up, smoking a cigarette, his camera held between his ankles.

  'What's this about? What are you saying?'

  Guy Morrison said wearily, Adam reads tarot cards. He saw disaster looming.'

  'Oh,' said Col, disappointed, 'I see.'

  'No, you don't,' said Guy. 'Don't knock it, Col. This is a very weird set-up. Guy Morrison used to think he knew everything there was to know about the supernatural, i.e. that the whole thing was a lame excuse for not milking real life for everything one could get.'

  Guy made a steeple out of the fingers of both hands and pushed them together, hard. 'But for once,' he said, 'Guy Morrison was wrong.'

  'What d'you mean exactly?' Col looked for somewhere to sit down. There wasn't a spare chair, so he squatted, hands on thighs. 'What's the score here, as you see it, Guy? I mean, Christ, I've been around. Been in some pretty odd places, among some pretty primitive people, but, well, we don't notice things under our noses, sometimes. We think it's what you might call… what? Rural eccentricity, I suppose.'

  'No. Look…' Guy had taken off his expensive olive leather jacket. He didn't seem to notice it was lying on the floor now, entangled in dusty shoes. 'Which is Mrs Byford? Ask her if she knows her granddaughter's some kind of witch… that girl, the artist. Ask her about the ex-policeman who cut his throat in her bathroom. Go on. Ask her.'

  Oh hell, Col Croston thought. Bit barmy. He decided not to tell Guy the girl was here, displaying an anatomical interest in the corpse.

  'You think I'm crazy, don't you? Ask her!'

  'Shut up,' Jocasta Newsome hissed. 'Just shut up, Guy. Just for once.'

  Guy whirled on her, eyes alight. 'You know I'm not crazy, you of all people. You showed me the drawings. You sent me to talk to the bloody girl. You… uuurh.'

  Hereward Newsome's thin, sensitive, artistic hands were around his throat. 'You… smooth… self-opinionated… bastard!'

  Col Croston leapt up as Guy's chair crashed over into the aisle, the chair's and Guy's legs both in the air, Hereward, teeth clenched, trying to smash Guy's head into the boarded floor.

  'No wonder… she wanted you to… open the fucking…exhibition.' Col Croston gripping Hereward's shoulder, wrenching him off, as Catrin Jones – 'Guy!' – fell down heavily beside her producer 'Are you all right?' Lifting his head into her lap. 'Guy?' Staring up, appalled, at the madman with the thinning hair and the greying, goatee beard, held back by his collar like a snarling dog, hands clawing at the air.

  'He's only been screwing my wife,' the madman spat, and Catrin froze – maybe he was not so mad, after all – allowing Guy's head to fall to the floor with an audible thump.

  Larry Ember was cradling his camera, ostensibly to save it from being kicked, the lens pointed casually at the scene before him. 'One for the Christmas tape,' he murmured to Tom, the soundman. 'Got to keep the old spirits up, ain'tcha?' On the same tape were the pictures he'd surreptitiously shot of Max Goff's body, while carrying the camera under his arm at waist level.

  'You'll put that thing away!' Sharp-featured Mrs Byford, the council clerk, was on her feet, back arched.

  'Wasn't aware it was out, darlin'.' Larry inspecting his trousers.

  'Colonel!'

  'Come on, old boy, please. Leave the thing under the table, hmm?'

  'I don't think so, squire.' Larry raising the camera to his shoulder, aiming it at Col, adjusting the focus.

  'Guy, would you mind exerting your…?'

  But Guy, still sprawled half-stunned in the aisle, was staring over the Colonel's shoulder, eyes widening. 'She… she's there … Jocasta… tell them…'

  The girl stood on the edge of the platform. She wore black jeans and a black top. Even her lipstick was black. Her skin, in the blue fluorescence, was like a grim, cloudy day.

  A small, grey-faced man, perhaps the husband, snatched ineffectually at Mrs Byford's arm as she stepped out, screeching, 'Tessa! What you doing in yere…? Get out… No, I…'

  'Nobody gets out,' Tessa said sweetly.

  Guy was up, staggering, one hand massaging the back of his head, the other groping for the cameraman's arm. 'The girl. Shoot her. I want the girl.'

  As Larry advanced slowly towards the girl, camera on his shoulder, eye hard to the projecting viewfinder, Mrs Byford launched herself at him from behind, pummelling his back, clawing at his neck.

  'Nettie!' the grey-faced man shouted. 'No! Don't cause no…'

  Col pulled her off with one hand, getting his face scratched. 'Mrs Byford! Guy, can't you stop this stupid bastard before…'

  'So…' Guy was panting, 'this is Mrs Byford, is it? Perhaps she can tell us all about Handel Roberts, who topped himself in her bathroom… and yet was in this room tonight?'

  'Now listen, Mr Clever TV Man… Guy turned slowly and painfully and looked into tiny, round eyes and a small, fleshy mouth set into a face too big for them.

  'Handel Roberts is dead,' said Wynford Wiley.

  'Exactly,' said Guy.

  Col's feelings about newcomers who tried to take over, assuming a more elevated intellect and an understanding of the rural psyche, were warning him to take it easy. But there was an ice-ball forming in the pit of his stomach.

  'Stop it!' Jocasta Newsome, rising like a Fury. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! What are you all trying to do?'

  'Aye,' a man's voice said. "Can't you, none of you, control yourselves?'

  'At least we're not brain dead!' – the feminist astrologer with the ring through her nose – 'Look at you all… you're fucking pathetic. Somebody tells you to sit there and don't move again until they tell you you can stand up and leave. A man's been brutally murdered… You don't even react! What kind of fucking morons…'

  A girl in her twenties, built like Catrin Jones, only more muscular, stamped across the room, 'You'll shut your mouth, lady, or I'm gonner shut it for you.'

  'Oh yeah, we'll all shut our mouths and turn a blind eye and ask no questions. And where has that got you all these years? Max Goff was the only promising thing that ever happened to this shithole, and what do you do?,.. you kill him, like… like the bloody savages did to the missionaries. Except they weren't savages really, at least they had this ethnic…'

  'Sit down, the pair of you!' Mrs Byford's husband was quaking. 'Can't you see, this is what it wants … Jimmy Preece said, be calm. He knows… it's what it wants… rowing and… and conflict, everybody all worked up, like.'

  'Mr Byford is absolutely right,' Col said, wondering what the hell Mr Byford was on about. 'I'm going to go out and find the Mayor, call the police and get this…'

  'No you're not, Colonel…'

  'Look…'

  And then there was a crash from the front of the hall. Larry Ember hadn't exactly dropped his camera – which Col suspected no self-respecting TV cameraman ever did, even if he'd been shot – but he'd certainly put it down quite heavily, and he was stumbling back along the centre aisle, moaning in some distress with both hands over his face.

  Col Croston looked up at the platform; there was no sign of Tessa Byford. 'What's wrong, man, you OK?''

  Guy grabbed Larry's arm; Larry shook him off, the way a child does, in a kind of frenzy. He'd abandoned the camera in the middle of the floor – unheard of in Guy's experience – and was threshing towards the entrance.

  'Sorry, pal.' A tweeded arm in his way.

  Larry took his hands away from his face. 'Oh Lord!' the man said, and Larry's knee went up into a corduroy crotch.

  'Right,' the cameraman shouted, 'I'm out of here.' Hitting the doors with his shoulder, and they burst open
and the night came in, and Guy strove for the exit, followed by the Ivorys and the men in suits, and Catrin Jones was dragged along too.

  'Stop them!' somebody screamed. 'Shut them doors!'

  For just a moment, Larry Ember turned around in the doorway. Hilary Ivory screamed, and Guy nearly fell back into the room.

  Larry's right eye, his viewfinder eye…

  'Just get me away from that girl.'

  'I think it's a blood vessel,' Guy said nervously.

  'I'm going in tight on her,' Larry recalled, voice unsteady. 'And her eyes… are actually fucking zooming back. Giving me daggers, Guy. And then she's in the bleed'n' camera. Daggers, Guy, know what I mean?'

  Larry's eye looked like a squashed tomato.

  'Maybe… maybe several blood vessels,' Guy said, 'I don't know… Look, you get some air, I'll get Catrin to fetch your camera.'

  'Leave it!' Larry screamed, 'I don't wanna see the bleed'n' tape, all right? I wan' it destroyed…'

  Two of the farmers on the doors were struggling to close them again, but now there was a wild crush of people fighting to get out. Larry and Guy were pushed out into the square. 'Let them go!' Col shouted. 'Or somebody's going to get hurt.'

  There was hysterical laughter from behind him. 'They'll be hurt, all right, Colonel,' shrilled Mrs Byford.

  And Col Croston heard what seemed at first to be a very encouraging noise; the curfew bell was ringing, the familiar, steady clangs.

  'It's the Mayor!' he called back into the room. 'Panic over. He said it'd be OK to leave when the curfew began. Everybody just sit down for a moment and we'll file out in an orderly fashion.'

  'You fool,' somebody said quietly.

  Few among the Crybbe people had even moved.

  And he knew why, quite soon, as a second bell began a hollow, discordant counterpoint, and then a third came in, and a fourth, and then they were all going.

  Col stood and looked at the rows of stricken, frightened faces.

  'What's going on?'

  Never, in this town, had he seen such obvious reaction on so many faces.