by Jodi Taylor
I took a chance. ‘Well, not if they’re female.’
She shot me an appraising look. ‘You’ve noticed.’
‘There are no men here.’
‘Well, there are, of course. There are hundreds and hundreds of men here. You could say they never left.’
It’s one thing to have suspicions. It’s quite another to have them confirmed. I swallowed hard.
‘You give them to the stones.’
She was quite casual about it. There was no shame – no guilt.
‘We do, yes. Every year a man is sent and every year we renew the covenant.’
There was no need for me to feign anger or outrage. I could hardly speak. ‘That’s … monstrous.’
She remained calm. ‘It’s only one life.’
‘Not to the owner of that life.’
‘It’s only one life to preserve many.’
I was hot and furious. ‘It’s still monstrous.’
Her colour deepened to a rich purple. She was genuinely hurt. ‘How can you say that? Look around you. This place is beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s safe for our children to grow up in. There’s no crime, no poverty, no ugliness …’
‘No ugliness? You murder an innocent man every year.’
I could see she was becoming impatient at my failure to appreciate her point of view.
‘It’s only one man, Mrs Page, and not a very important man at that. No one ever misses them. No one ever comes looking for them.’
I was still struggling to ground myself. None of this could be true, surely.
‘Men don’t just vanish without trace.’
‘A certain sort of man does. And it’s not as if they make any sort of useful contribution to the world. Really, you could say we’re doing society a favour, taking men like that out of circulation.’
This calm, callous disregard for others very nearly took my breath away. I had to struggle to speak through my anger and fear.
‘Are you crazy? Do you know what sort of men you could have been bringing back here? Drug addicts, criminals, schizophrenics, violent men, psychopaths …’ I couldn’t go on.
She smiled a sudden, sly, secret smile. ‘Yes, it’s exciting.’
I turned away in revulsion.
‘No, you misunderstand. We take in some useless wretch, clean him up, give him the best year of his life and …’
‘And then you kill him.’
‘His death gives us life. He serves a useful purpose. And it’s not as if he was a useful member of society. He’s of far more use dead than he ever would have been alive.’
‘A man dies just so you can live a nice life?’
‘He dies for the Stones!’
‘How can you do this? Every year. How can you live with yourselves?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s always happened and it always will. Our mothers, our grandmothers … it’s in our bones.’
I stared at her hard, handsome, fanatical face. They’d been doing this time out of mind. At what point had it become a normal part of their lives, like a Harvest Festival or May Day?
I hated myself for showing an interest, but I had to ask. ‘For how many years has this been going on?’
She shrugged. ‘No one really knows. We’ve always done it.’
‘So, you kidnap a man …’
‘A man is sent …’
I scoffed. ‘Who sends him?’
‘The Stones, of course.’
‘The way the Stones were supposed to have sent me?’
She smiled.
‘I’ll tell you again – no one sent me. Your stupid stones had nothing to do with it.’
Her smile congealed. ‘You are tired and overwrought. I will allow you one mistake. That was it.’
I refused to be overawed. ‘The stones didn’t send me. The stones don’t send a man. It’s not a holy ritual. It’s murder. Plain and simple. You’re murderers. All of you.’
She said patiently, ‘You are wrong. Every year at this time a man is sent. A man is always sent. There has never been a year when a man has not arrived at this place. The place of the Stones.’
‘And you just kill him?’
Her voice dripped exaggerated patience. ‘No, of course not. I keep telling you. He is the Year King. He lives a wonderful life. Wine, women, song – all his needs are more than catered for.’
‘But not for very long.’
‘Long enough. He gets a year. A whole year to sleep with whatever woman he chooses …’
‘Whether she wants to or not?’
She shrugged. ‘We consider it an honour. He eats, he drinks, he gets whatever he wants. We make him very happy.’
‘For a year.’
She shrugged again. ‘A year more than he would have had living on the streets in some grimy city. Drunk, diseased, filthy, malnourished.’
‘And then?’
‘And then he dies.’
I was watching her colour, shining bright, weaving itself around her. There was something almost sexual about it.
I whispered, ‘How does he die?’
The words dropped like black stones into the silence.
‘In the last minute of the old year, we hang him upside down and cut his throat. The Stones drink the blood and everything is as it should be for another year.’
‘And a new king takes his place?’
‘On the first day of every year another man arrives.’
‘And never leaves again.’
She was becoming impatient. ‘Why would he want to? He is a king.’
‘For a year.’
‘As you say – for a year. He sires the next generation and then we give him to the Stones.’
I had a sudden, cold thought. ‘What happens to the boy children?’
She shook her head. ‘Not what you think. We’re not barbarians, you know.’
I could see she genuinely believed that.
‘So what does happen to them?’
‘Nothing. There are never any boy children. No male child has been born in this village for hundreds of years.’
I could hardly believe what I was hearing but I could see she wasn’t lying. Ritual murder, blood-drinking stones possessed of a malignant intelligence – no, not intelligence, malignant will was a better description. What sort of a nightmare was I trapped in? I tried to focus.
‘And what of me? You’re keeping me here against my will and you’ve told me your secrets. Will you give me to the stones as well?’
‘Oh no. No, no, no. Whatever gave you that idea? You’re far too valuable. You’re really quite unique aren’t you? I recognised it as soon as you walked through the door.’
This was not something I wanted to discuss. Especially not with this woman.
‘What are you going to do with me, then?’
She hesitated. ‘My mother is dying.’
Well, I’d suspected it and now I knew.
‘There are always three of us.’
I thrust aside the implications of that statement and thought I saw a way out. ‘But I’m not from your family.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘But surely there’s someone here … someone from the village who could take Miriam’s place?’
For some reason I thought of Alice Chervil and suddenly a lot of things became clear. Now I knew the reason for her hostility. She’d hoped she would be the third member, with all the prestige that entailed, and Veronica had chosen someone else. Alice had wanted it badly and now, at the very last moment, I’d turned up and they would be three again. I’d read about this. The Three Ages of women. Men are always just men, but women are classified differently.
I nodded. ‘Yes, it’s the traditional roles of womanhood, isn’t it? The Mother, the Maiden and the Crone.’
She grimaced. ‘Not my favourite descriptions. Sad to say, however, my mother is about to move on and I will take her place. Becky is not yet old enough, and so you, Mrs Page, will take mine.’
I seized on the flaw. ‘
That is not possible. I am not a mother.’
She paused and I knew something bad was coming. ‘You soon will be.’
I suddenly grew very cold. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?
‘Tonight, the Old King will die.’ She paused and said quickly, as if she was in a rush to get the worst over with, ‘Tomorrow the New King will arrive and take his place. You will be given to the New King. It will be our gift to him and your … initiation.’
My mouth was suddenly very dry. I remembered her description of the men who arrived here. Drunk. Dirty. Diseased. I mustered everything I had and said flatly, ‘No.’
Her colour flared out towards me. ‘It will be an honour.’
I leaned away from it. ‘No, it won’t.’
She shrugged. ‘There are many drugs I can use. I do urge you to avail yourself of at least some of them, because this will happen. It always happens. An unbroken cycle since time began. If you wish, I can prepare something that will not only overcome your reluctance but make it a very enjoyable experience for you. The choice is yours. But, whether you accept my offer or not, I can assure you, Mrs Page, it will happen.’
‘It will not. I refuse to submit.’
She turned away. ‘It’s not your decision. You belong to the Stones now. As do we all.’
‘I’m sure the new Year King will have something to say about it as well.’
She laughed at me. ‘Oh really, Mrs Page. How many young men do you think need to be forced to have sex? Believe me, most of them are quite gratifyingly eager to sire the next generation. Many of them take it as a personal challenge.’
‘Even when they know they’re going to die?’
‘Well, we don’t tell them that, of course.’
‘I’ll make sure he knows, trust me.’
She smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘Trust me, Mrs Page, you will be incapable of speech. Both before, during, and after. And once the deed is done, of course, it’s too late because …’
‘Yes, I know. He will belong to the stones. So he has no idea of his ultimate fate?’
‘Not until just before the very end. We make sure he knows then. Terror increases the heart rate and makes the blood taste sweeter. The Stones are drenched and all is as it should be.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Couldn’t believe the nightmare I had strayed into. That this had been going on for centuries and no one had even the slightest suspicion. She had said the stones protected them and I suspected she was right because this place was perfect in every detail. Unless you were a man, of course.
I had to ask. ‘And the body? What do you do with the body?’
‘There are the woods above us. We return him back to the soil whence he came to ensure a good harvest next year. We have another ceremony for that.’
‘But the Year King legend goes back for …’
‘… For thousands of years,’ she said. ‘Back to the Old Days. To the days of the Mother who gives life to us all. Back to the days when all men feared and served the Mother and women were her handmaidens.’
I had a sudden flash. Rows and rows of men, as still as the trees around them. Waiting …
She was suddenly brisk, standing up and smoothing down her dress. ‘So – until this evening then. You’ll want to wrap up warm. It’s going to be a chilly night.’
‘I shan’t be going.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course you will attend. You won’t have a choice. And just a tip – closing your eyes does not help. They do tend to scream a little at the end. And then there’s the smell, of course. And then tomorrow night will be your big night. You won’t be able to wrap up at all for that one, I’m afraid, and it will be a little public. Well, very public, actually. Al fresco, if you like, but there must always be witnesses. Including the Stones themselves, of course.’
I tried to swallow down my fear. ‘I tell you I won’t do it.’
‘You have no choice. It’s an important ceremony.’
‘It’s a rape.’
‘I told you, I can give you something to make it more pleasant. You’re not a virgin, are you?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Shame. Still, never mind.’
‘I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’
She shrugged.
‘He won’t do it. No man would.’
She just laughed and walked out of the room, locking the door behind her.
I suddenly realised I was freezing cold and shaking all over. Sitting at the dressing table I stared at myself in disbelief. How could this be happening? How had I managed to get myself into this? More to the point – how was I going to get myself out of it?
I sat, fists clenched, breathing deeply, struggling to swallow down my panic. The smell of bacon reminded me my breakfast was here. I should eat. I would need all my strength tonight. I lifted the lids and inspected the food. It wasn’t drugged. I could tell. I wasn’t hungry now, but I might be later on, so I should eat now. The food was tasteless and cold but I ate it anyway.
It was as I was stacking the empty dishes for collection that I had an idea. I wondered if they would trust Becky to take the dishes away again. It seemed very likely. Gran was too old and sick and Veronica would surely have better things to do. It would almost certainly be Becky. Becky who probably disliked me more than ever. Becky, the weak link …
Rummaging in my purse, I found my credit card and stared at it thoughtfully, an idea slowly forming. I wouldn’t do anything as unsubtle as leaving it lying around in plain sight. That was far too obvious, so I left it peeping from between the pages of my book – as if I’d used it as a bookmark. The dishes were stacked alongside. She couldn’t miss it.
I heard the key in the lock and in she came. I scowled at her and she scowled right back again. Her colour was flat and defensive. She really didn’t like me.
I stayed well back from her just in case …
She made no move to take the tray, standing in the middle of the room, fists jammed on her skinny hips, her colour boiling with impotent teenage fury.
‘It was supposed to be me. I’m the one who should take my mother’s place. I was supposed to the first with the new Year King. It’s my right. They promised me. And then you turned up. Why did you have to come here?’
I didn’t understand what she was talking about at first. And then I did. Veronica Harlow must be desperate to keep Alice Chervil out if she had been contemplating using Becky, who couldn’t be more than fourteen, if that. But Becky had looked forward to the enhanced status. This might be a tiny and enclosed community, but she would have been important and now, with only hours to go, it had been snatched from her. No wonder she hated me.
She continued with all the petulance of the child she still was. ‘Why did you have to come here? You’ve spoiled everything. I should be the one to take my mother’s place. It should have been me.’
‘Then help me get away.’
Her colour boiled around her. For a moment it spiked a clear, bright orange and I honestly thought she might, and then it faded. She’d been passed over and she was angry. Really angry. But not angry enough to disobey her mother. Or the stones. I would have to think again.
I shrugged and sought to pour more fuel on the fire. ‘It’s not my fault you’re not pretty enough for the new Year King. Or strong enough to take your mother’s place. You’re just a child. Really, you know, these things are best left to adults, don’t you think?’
Just in case she wasn’t annoyed enough with me already, I gestured towards the dishes and said brusquely, ‘I’ve finished here. Take these away,’ To make it easy for her, I took myself off into the bathroom. I sat on the loo, counted slowly to sixty and then went back into the room again.
She’d gone. And so had my credit card.
It was contactless so she wouldn’t need to bother with a signature or PIN number. She’d only be able to spend thirty pounds, but that might be a lot of money to a bored young girl living in the back of beyond in
a village full of women. A bottle – or two – of wine, some make up, some sweets – she’d find something she wanted and the second she used that card …
… Because if Michael Jones wasn’t monitoring my back account then he wasn’t the man I took him for.
I stood in the window, craning my neck to watch Becky pick her way around the green, heading, I hoped, for the village shop and its off-licence shelves.
She disappeared inside and I waited. I was banking on a lot here. Becky’s dishonesty. Miss Chervil not checking the card too stringently. She must know Becky would never have a credit card. She must know from whom she would have got it. If she was privy to my future then why wouldn’t she turn a blind eye? She would know I’d never need that card again. For the first time in my life I was praying for people to show a little greed and dishonesty. And frankly, if they were sacrificing an innocent man every New Year’s Eve then they were unlikely to be that morally fastidious about pinching someone’s credit card in the first place. Or so I hoped.
I stared and stared until my eyes watered. The shop was double fronted but both windows were full of display goods. I could see the lights were on inside but very little else. Given tonight’s excitement, I was just grateful they hadn’t closed early. I closed my eyes and imagined Becky, card in hand, wandering the shelves, choosing this, discarding that, taking her time …
The door opened and out she trotted, carrier bag in hand. A heavy carrier bag by the way she leaned into it. Her colour boiled around her – a strange mix of swirls and spikes. She was both excited and defiant. Exactly what I would expect from a young girl using a stolen credit card for a few illicit treats.
I drew back behind the curtain although she couldn’t possibly see me and watched her as she approached the Travellers’ Rest. Interestingly, she didn’t use the front door – was her mother manning the reception desk and watching the stairs? Almost certainly.
