by Phil Rickman
‘Yeah,’ Colette conceded. ‘Maybe messed about.’ She sounded very high, not fully in control.
‘Where are we?’
‘Where they won’t come.’
Jane put out a hand. Touched something cold and knobbly. ‘Come on, where are we?’
‘Relax. It’s a good place.’
‘It’s Powells’ orchard, isn’t it?
Orchard ... apples ... cider. She felt sick and closed her eyes, leaning back against the scabby tree trunk. Never again, never, never, never.
‘Yeah,’ Colette said. ‘It’s the Powell orchard.’
Jane took a gulp of clean night air. ‘Why’s this a good place? Why won’t they come here?’
‘They won’t come in. They’re shit scared, Janey.’ Colette raised her voice. ‘Scared of ... old Edgar.’
A swish of bushes. Jane opened her eyes, looked up and couldn’t see any stars. She could make out the shape of Colette’s white dress now. Just the dress.
You see? They’re there, all right. Four brave country boys. You there, slimeball? But they won’t come any further. Because’ – her voice rising to a kind of whoop – ‘we ... are under Edgar Powell’s tree!’
Jane sat up rapidly, inched forward on her bottom, away from the tree trunk.
‘The Apple Tree Man,’ Colette said. ‘The old king of the orchard. I often come here.’
‘On your own?’
‘No, with the Cricket Club. Of course on my own!’
‘Aren’t you scared?’
‘You mean of the ghost of Edgar Powell? Well, actually— Hey, listen, all of you, listen – He’s been seen, OK? He has been seen. I heard some people whispering about it in the restaurant. Old Edgar Powell, the headless farmer. All aglow and hovering about nine inches off the ground.’
‘No. Stop it.’ Jane giggled and shuddered simultaneously. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘Sort of a grey light around him, from his feet to his neck. Situation is that his mind was going before it happened and he doesn’t know why he did it to himself. Doesn’t know he’s dead, probably. So he just walks around the orchard. He Walks. Plod. Plod. Plod.’
‘Colette,’ Jane said. ‘Shut up. Would you mind?’
‘You believe in ghosts, Janey?’
‘No.’
‘Does the Reverend Mummy?’
‘I don’t know. But I do know the Reverend Mummy’ll be out of her mind with worry if she gets back and I’m not there, so I think we should get moving.’
Colette laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ Jane said. ‘It’s her big working day tomorrow, up at five-thirty. She’s going to kill me.’
Colette said, ‘This grey light, it’s from his feet to his neck, did I just say that? Just his neck. No head. Now where could his head be? I know. Look up. Look up, Janey!’
Jane looked down. She didn’t want to think about Edgar Powell. Instead, she found herself thinking of Wil Williams, poor lush Wil, coming out here on a lovely spring morning to hang himself. Oh God ... a night in Suicide Orchard. Goosebumps started forming on her arms.
Colette said slowly, ‘You look up ... into the branches ... and maybe there’s this wizened old face. Grinning. Gappy old grin. Eyes like grey holes. Most of his chin blown away, though. In these very branches, just over where we are.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Go on ... have a look.’
‘Sod off.’
‘Just a little glance, Janey.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘You can look through your fingers if you want.’
‘I don’t want. I want to go home.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Don’t go all fractious on me, Jane. This is fun.’
‘It’s not.’ Jane hugged herself and tried to see the shapes of apple trees. Or anybody behind one. ‘They’re not here at all, are they? Dean Wall and Gittoes. They never followed us. They’ve gone to get cleaned up.’
‘I don’t know,’ Colette said. ‘Why don’t you take a chance on it? Get up and just walk away, and pray they don’t ... grab you!’
Jane screamed. Colette had seized her from behind. Her arms were very cold.
‘Go on, Janey! Edgar will protect you. He’ll put his old mac around your shoulders. Squeeze you tight.’
‘Stop it!’ Jane felt tears coming.
‘Look up. For me. Just look up, once. And then we’ll go.’
‘OK. There. Now can we—?’
‘You didn’t look up.’
‘I did!’
‘You didn’t, Janey,’ Colette said lightly.
‘All right!’
With Colette’s cold arms around her, Jane looked up.
10
Mistress
THE KNOCKING ON the door had Lol rolling on to his side on the rug, where he’d been reading Traherne’s Centuries. Bringing his knees up, like an embryo in the womb – he was aware of that and ashamed, but he didn’t move all the same.
But what about his breathing? If you put your ear right up to the thinly curtained glass you’d surely be able to hear the ragged, terrified pumping of Lol’s lungs. He tried to slow his breathing; it nearly threw him into a coughing fit. He choked weakly.
At least you couldn’t see much through the curtains. He’d been outside and tested it out, creeping like a burglar through his tangled front garden. All you could see was the glow of the lamp, and that was OK, because people often left lamps on when they were out, for security. So he could be out, could be down the pub drinking with his mates. Except that if you knew Lol, you’d know he wouldn’t have any mates and was too shy to go in a pub on his own ... full of people he didn’t know ... but they all knew who he was. People laughing.
Thump. Rattle. Batter.
He didn’t move. Reciting Traherne in his head. You never enjoy the world aright till you so love the beauty of enjoying it that you are covetous and earnest to persuade others to enjoy it ...
If he let Karl in ...
Karl would have a bottle with him, maybe two, and they’d still be drinking when the sun came up on a new and ominous day.
... and so perfectly hate the abominable corruption of men in despising it, that you had rather suffer the flames of Hell than willingly be guilty of their error. There is so much blindness and ingratitude and damned folly ....
Batter, batter batter. Almost frantic. Someone losing it.
Karl wouldn’t do that. Not at this stage. Karl stoked his rages slowly, with finesse. Karl laid detonators, timed his explosions.
Not Karl? A cautious relief began to seep like warm oil into Lol’s clenched-up muscles.
‘Lol! For Christ’s sake!’ A woman’s voice, and batter, batter, crash.
He stood up shakily, shuffling into his sandals. In the hall, he switched on the bulkhead light on the outside wall before he opened the front door and Ethel the cat streaked in between his legs as though she’d absorbed some of the agitation radiating from ...
... Colette Cassidy.
‘For fuck’s sake ...’ Colette’s face was full of fury and reminded him of Alison. Except Colette was fifteen years old and she was on her own, in a skimpy white frock, and it was late at night. ‘What were you bloody doing, Lol?’
‘Sorry. I fell asleep on the rug. Is there something wrong?’
She stared at him in despair, a bit like the way Alison used to stare at him. Disappointed that he was all there was. He found that look, under the circumstances, almost comforting, but he didn’t want her here at night. He had to get rid of her.
‘You’ve got to help me,’ Colette said, and it was an instruction, not a plea. ‘She’s going on about little lights in the tree.’
Within five minutes, Merrily was back downstairs, edging into the lounge bar, peering over heads and into every corner. The low-beamed room was mellow with buttery lamplight and soft laughter. Well-dressed, well-off couples relaxing after dinner, not many locals.
Exc
ept, of course, for Dermot Child, on his own on a stool at the bar, accepting what must be his second Scotch from the morose manager, Roland, and brightening visibly when he spotted Merrily. She went right up to him, wasn’t going to tell the entire room.
‘Dermot, you haven’t seen Jane?’
‘Is she supposed to be here?’
‘Certainly not. She’s supposed to be in our suite, watching TV.’
‘Perhaps she’s just popped out for a walk.’
Merrily shook her head. ‘We have this agreement that she never goes out alone at night without I know precisely where and when.’
‘But this is Ledwardine, Merrily.’
‘That’s a pretty stupid thing to say. Didn’t a teenage girl go missing from Kingsland last year? Oh, look, I’m sorry, I’m just getting ...’
‘No, no.’ Dermot put down his glass. ‘You’re right, of course. No one can be too careful these days. Let’s go and find her.’
‘Sorry. Hysterical mother. It’s just that she knows I have to get to bed at a reasonable time on a Saturday night. She’s rarely intentionally thoughtless, if you see what—’
‘ We’ll find her.’ He took her left hand in both of his, pressed it. ‘Hold on to that malt for me, would you, Roland?’
‘I’ll be closing in twenty minutes, Mr Child.’
‘You drink it then.’ Dermot was on his feet. ‘Come along, Merrily.’ Steering her into the oak-panelled passageway. ‘Now, have you checked the residents’ lounge?’
‘And the public bar. And the snooker room. She’s definitely not in the building.’
‘Can’t be far away. Not into badger-spotting or anything like that, I take it.’ Hustling her out into the porch.
‘Nor bats, nor owls. I don’t think...’
Down in the square, a couple got into a Range Rover and four youths played drunken football with a beer can on the cobbles. Dermot said, ‘She have a boyfriend?’
‘No one since we came here. Been a couple in the past. Nothing too intense. As far as you can ever tell.’
‘Must be a difficult age.’
‘Every age is a difficult age.’
‘Including yours? Sorry!’ Dermot clapped a hand to his head. ‘I’m sorry, Merrily. And please believe me, I didn’t mean to pry earlier. We just want you to be happy here. We know how lucky we are to have you. Old Alf ... I mean, he’d just been going through the motions for years. Just being there. Church is like the Royal Family. Needs more to survive these days than just being there. Needs motion.’
‘Motion?’ From the double-doorway of the porch, Merrily was scouring the square. Please, Jane ... ‘Don’t know about motion. Sometimes I think I’m struggling just to stay upright.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ Dermot Child whispered. ‘You have absolutely nothing to worry about.’
And she felt his arm around her waist.
‘We’ll keep you on your feet,’ he said.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t freeze. She was the vicar. He was the organist.
He was the best organist in the county, the presumptuous little bastard. She contemplated moving towards him, looking deep into his eyes. Then bringing up her right knee and turning his balls to paste.
Instead, she said, ‘Who’s that, Dermot?’ And walked steadily out on to the steps.
Dermot followed her but didn’t touch her again. ‘Wouldn’t you know it?’ he said.
James Bull-Davies walked out of Church Street on to the square. He walked almost delicately, like a wading bird, long legs rigid, neck extended.
‘Been in the Ox,’ Dermot said. ‘Drinks socially in the Swan, but when he’s serious about it, he’ll go to the Ox. He’ll stand at a corner of the bar, by himself, and hell sink one after another, cheapest whisky they’ve got, until his eyes glaze. Happens two or three times a year. He isn’t an alcoholic. Just needs to do it sometimes, to keep going.’
‘Keep going?’
‘He hates it here,’ Dermot murmured out of the side of his mouth. ‘Haven’t you realized that? Hates what he is. Or what he feels he has to be. Would’ve stayed in the army, the old man hadn’t keeled over. Probably be a brigadier by now, but like poor bloody Prince Charles, he’s got to keep going.’
Bull-Davies was in the centre of the square, looking over the parked cars, peering at each one individually, like a crazed traffic warden.
‘Coffey’s play brought this on?’ Merrily wished James would just go away; whatever his problems were, they weren’t as immediate as hers.
Dermot lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know many details of the Williams affair – mostly pure legend, anyway, I’d guess. But I’d be very surprised if, among that long-ago lynch mob at the vicarage, there wasn’t a Bull or a Davies.’
Oh God. Merrily stiffened. Remember poor ...
‘Never trust the Bulls,’ she whispered.
‘Who says that?’
‘Miss Devenish. On the night of the ... wassailing. Just after she had that row with the Cassidys.’
‘Didn’t go to that thing. Couldn’t face it. Too cold. What did Miss Devenish say?’
‘ “Never trust the Bulls. Remember poor ... poor ... Wil.” Of course.’
‘Old gypsy’s warning, eh?’
‘Never thought about it from that moment to this. I suppose what happened a few minutes later rather ...’
‘Woman’s insane, of course,’ he said. ‘Never forget that.’
‘Oh?’
‘Bonkers. And embittered. Used to write children’s books, but nobody’ll publish them any more. Roald Dahl, she wasn’t.’
Enjoying himself again. Trying to work his way up to another arm around the waist. She’d have to do something, couldn’t put up with months, years of this. She could deal with it. Would deal with it. If she could just find Jane.
‘Also feels threatened,’ Dermot said. ‘Mostly by the Cassidys because they want her shop to extend their restaurant. Well, partly that and partly because Caroline feels the Devenish emporium’s cheap and tacky and not in keeping with the sophisticated image they’re after. Every so often they’ll make the old girl an offer. How she can afford to keep refusing is beyond me, because that little shop’s doing next to nothing.’
‘That’s sad.’ Merrily moved as far away from him as she could get without falling off the damned step. ‘Jane went in there today, she—’
She stopped because she didn’t want to explain why Jane had gone to the shop and also because James Bull-Davies had kicked over a litterbin.
‘Fuckers!’ he roared. ‘Bloody fuckers?’
He slipped and went down on one knee.
‘Fuckers,’ he said in a normal voice. Then laughed, picking himself up.
Evidently unaware of Merrily and Dermot Child, he leaned against the metal lamp-post beside the market cross and peered down Church Street, where the lights of a vehicle had appeared. The litterbin was still rolling along the cobbles.
‘Perhaps I should go down and talk to him,’ Merrily said. ‘This is my job, isn’t it?’
‘For what my opinion’s worth, Vicar, I’d seriously advise against it. He won’t be terribly civil, even if he recognizes you, and he won’t thank you for it in the morning.’
The vehicle stopped on the square, engine rattling. It was an old and muddy blue Land Rover. Alison Kinnersley jumped down. She wore tight jeans and a black shirt; her blonde hair shone like a brass helmet in the fake gaslight.
‘Come on then, my lord.’ She stood relaxed, legs apart, on the cobbles, the Land Rover snorting behind her like the stallion she rode around the village. ‘Let’s go home.’
Bull-Davies didn’t move from his lamp-post. ‘You whore. Who told you?’
‘Powell called.’
‘Good old saintly bloody Powell. Thought I saw his head come round the pub door.’
‘Let’s go home, Squire.’
‘Do you demand it?’ Bull-Davies grinned savagely. ‘D’you demand it, mistress?’
God, Merrily thought, s
he’s got him locked into some pathetic Brontë-esque sex play.
Alison seemed to shrug. Her breasts rather than her shoulders. Merrily felt Dermot Child quiver, and she shuddered and wanted to be almost anywhere else. But she also wanted to find Jane, and if Alison and James didn’t take their games home, she was going down there anyway.
‘Do it here, hey, my slinky, slinky whore?’ Bull-Davies rasped hoarsely. ‘Shag ourselves senseless on the bloody cobbles? Give the prissy bastards a show? Dent someone’s shiny Merc with your lovely arse?’
‘James, you’re pretty senseless already,’ Alison said coolly. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to get in before I leave you to sleep it off in the gutter.’
‘Whore.’ Bull-Davies detached himself from the lamppost.
‘Get in the truck, James. There’s a good boy. We have your reputation to look after.’ Alison sounding as if she knew they had an audience, of which James remained oblivious.
‘Reputation? Wassat going to be worth when that scented arse-bandit shafts me? You tell me, mistress. You bloody tell me.’
He walked unsteadily towards the Land Rover, mumbling morosely to the cobbles about the little, shirt-lifting, socialist scum, squatting at the bottom of the drive with his odious catamite.
‘You sold it, darling,’ Alison said wearily, as though they’d gone through all this many times before. ‘It isn’t yours any more.’
‘Man’s a piece of shit.’
‘Whatever. Do get in, Jamie.’
The Land Rover door was slammed. The chassis groaned, the engine spluttered and gagged and the battered vehicle was reversed, illegally, into the alley leading to Cassidy’s Country Kitchen and Ledwardine Lore.
‘Well,’ Dermot said after a moment. ‘I did warn you, didn’t I? The way it would go.’
But Merrily wasn’t listening; she was already stumbling down the steps.
Through the dirty wool of exhaust in the diesel-stinking air, she could see them bringing Jane along Church Street.
11
Pious Cow
‘AND IT’S A really terrifying situation to be in. I mean, you know, what on earth do we do? How can we – ordinary, fallible human beings – even contemplate making a decision which we know is going – whichever way we turn – to offend somebody?’
