by Phil Rickman
‘I know,’ Merrily said, ‘but this… Sophie, has it occurred to you why she’s telling you about it?’
‘I assume because it’s the quickest way of getting it back to you.’
‘Exactly. Why?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps… rather fewer people than you fear have been exposed to this nonsense. However, if you start to… overreact and go around looking for people to blame, you’re going to spread it over quite a wide circle. Perhaps that’s what she wants.’
‘You do think she has an agenda, then?’
‘We both know she has an agenda, Merrily. I think it’s probably no more complicated than a ferocious ambition.’
‘You know the Archdeacon’s suggesting they hang a bunch of extra parishes on me?’
‘Oh. So that’s true.’
‘Who planted the idea?’
‘I suspect we’ll never get further than a guess. It’s fairly clear that an anti-Deliverance movement is gathering ground within the diocese. I don’t know how we’re going to fight it, but my feeling is that the best way to frustrate this stupid rumour is for you to continue as normal. Not rise to it.’
‘Wearing the glasses or not?’
‘Not, I should say. You have absolutely nothing to hide — if necessary, tell people exactly what happened, you don’t have to name the estate. Anyway, the swelling’s reduced considerably this morning.’
‘And Lol. What does he do? What does he tell people?’
‘He’s the one they won’t ask,’ Sophie said, ‘I’m afraid.’
31
Smoke
‘Bastards.’ Gomer Parry accepted a glass of cider. ‘Thank you, boy. Longer I live, the less number of folks I gives a shit about, and that’s a fact. Bloody gossip-mongering bastards.’
Gomer sat on Lol’s new sofa. It was coming up to ten a.m. He took off his cap, and his white hair sprayed out in different directions like an old wallpaper-brush. He said he’d been out early, giving the churchyard a bit of a trim, casually chatting to folks as they came through… and it had come filtering out — people interested in talking to Gomer this morning because they knew he was well in with the vicar.
‘All sorts of ole wallop. Folks remembering how they seen the vicar creeping out of yere at night, furtive-like. Like her’s got some’ing to be ashamed of. Some daft bitch in the shop, her even said the reason Alison Kinnersley cleared out, went off with Bull-Davies, was you was slappin’ her around a bit, too.’
Lol shook his head wearily. ‘Gomer, that is just—’
‘Aye.’ Gomer put down his cider glass, got out his ciggy tin. ‘I says, listen, you go and ask Alison. You ask bloody Bull-Davies ’isself. Bastards. All this ole wallop. Makes you sick to the gut. One day you’re a hero, next it’s, Oh we knew what he was all along, that feller. Look, boy, I’m sorry to have to bring this to your door, but I figured you needed to know what was goin’ around.’
‘I’m grateful.’ Lol was standing by the inglenook, the hearth stale with dead ash.
‘How’d she actually get it, boy — the bruise — you don’t mind me…?’
‘Kids. It was on the Plascarreg Estate in Hereford. She was helping Andy Mumford — family thing — and there was a struggle with some kids. Nothing to—’
‘Miserable Andy? He’s off the streets now, en’t he?’
‘Retired, but not exactly off the streets. His nephew?’
‘Ar… yeard that boy come off the castle was his nephew.’ Gomer licked the end of a cigarette paper. ‘All goes deep with Mumford, see. Not a happy family. I remember his ole man, Reg Mumford, when he was a copper. Hard bastard — too fond of discipline, you get my meaning. Too handy with his bloody belt was the word. Has an effect, see. Vicar should take more care, you tell her from me.’
‘I will.’ Lol wondered if even Gomer might have harboured some small suspicion that the rumour might be true and that was why he’d come. In or out of a JCB, Gomer believed in direct action, shovelling away all the rubble until you reached the core of whatever it was.
‘Come on then, boy.’ Gomer fired up a ciggy. ‘Spit it out. The ole plant-hire’s been a bit slack lately, see, so I been letting Danny do the lion’s share — needs the money more’n me. You and the vicar wants me to hire a loudspeaker van, go up and down the streets shaming these bastards, I got the time.’
‘No, no. God. Look… Gomer… I was wondering, is it possible to trace the source of these stories?’
Gomer thought about it. ‘Lucy Devenish could do it, only one as ever could just by lookin’ in folks’ eyes. Lucy was so deep into this village, her’d just go round asking questions and gazin’ into people’s faces. Folks spreads stuff they reckons is prob’ly lies, see, they’ll never quite look you in the eye. Once you finds the one knows it’s a lie, you’re getting close.’
‘So this isn’t just gossip?’ Lol said.
‘No.’ The light boiled in Gomer’s glasses. ‘Not in my view it en’t.’
‘Orchestrated?’
‘That’s the word.’
‘Why?’
‘Some bastard got it in for the vicar? Can’t believe that. What’s her ever done but her best? Last vicar, old Alf Hayden, he din’t give a monkey’s, bumbling round the village, how’re you, how’re you? Did he care? Did he hell. They don’t deserve a decent minister, half o’ these bastards. What you got there, boy?’
Lol brought the two anonymous notes over, spread them on the sofa next to Gomer. Gomer took off his glasses, cleaned them on his sleeve and then read each note slowly.
‘You been to the cops, boy?’
‘What’s the point? They’re not threatening letters.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Jane’s been round checking the parish noticeboard, the adverts in the shop window, trying to compare the writing.’
‘Worst thing is, see, the vicar could go in the pulpit on Sunday, denounce the whole thing in public, and folks’d still be shakin’ their daft heads, going no smoke without fire, kind of thing.’
‘She won’t be in the pulpit next Sunday,’ Lol said. ‘There’s another guy booked to take the services.’
‘Bugger.’ Gomer took out his ciggy tin. ‘That en’t gonner help, is it? Folks’ll think her’s gone to one o’ them shelters. When’d the last one come?’
‘Last night. I had a concert over in Bristol, didn’t get back till the early hours.’
‘Many folks yere know you was gonner be out that long?’
‘Apart from Merrily and Jane, nobody.’
‘Chances were it got delivered not long after you went out, then. En’t much cover in this street. Likely they was seen.’
‘You reckon.’
‘Possible.’ Gomer chewed the end of his ciggy. ‘Quite possible.’
Around mid-morning, Mumford rang. He hadn’t quite got his old voice back, but there was a crunch to it that hadn’t been there since he’d retired.
‘I was right, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Sorry… Mebus?’
‘Well… he wasn’t the grass. Nor Chain-boy, nor Chain-boy’s half-brother. It was another boy with them, Niall Collins. He told ’em where the warehouse was — one of the industrial workshops between Plascarreg and the Barn Church. Crack and heroin turnover of twenty grand a week, near enough.’
‘Did we meet this Niall the other night?’
‘I reckon he was the one shouted there was a car coming, when there wasn’t.’
‘Yellow fleece? I remember thinking he looked a bit worried about the way it was going.’
‘He would be. Thirteen, and no form. First offence, see. Mate of Robbie’s, as it happened. Not a big mate, he didn’t have any big mates, but this Niall talked to him a bit.’
‘As distinct from bullying him.’
‘That’s about it. This Niall’s family — his dad lost his job, house repossessed, and they wound up on the Plascarreg. Dad hates it, the drug culture, the need for five locks on your front door. Fairly decent family, in other words.�
�
‘I expect most people there are.’
‘So what happens, the dad talks to one of the uniforms, says he’s tried to keep his boy away from the scum but it’s an impossible job on that estate. Says there’s a lot the boy knows about what goes on, but if they spills the beans they can’t very well go back living next to the families of the buggers they helped put away. So the uniform fixes up for Mr Collins to talk to Bliss.’
‘Oh good.’
‘Aye. Result is, when all the police vehicles turns up on the Plascarreg at dawn today, there’s a furniture van behind them. While the raid’s on, all the shouting and screaming, the Collinses’ flat’s being quietly emptied of all their furniture, and off they goes into temporary accommodation off the patch.’
‘Got to hand it to Bliss.’
‘Except that, letting the Collins boy off with a caution, they had to reduce the charges for the others. No ABH any more for Mebus. Be down to causing an affray or some feeble rubbish like that.’
‘Who told you all this?’
Mumford was silent.
‘Just that it helps to know, when I’m talking to Bliss. Wouldn’t like to accidentally finger your contact.’
Merrily heard Mumford sniff. ‘Karen Dowell, it is.’
‘Bliss’s new bag-carrier?’
‘Second cousin, twice removed — whatever. Blood’s still thicker than canteen tea. Keep this very much to yourself, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Of course. How are you feeling now, Andy?’
‘Hard to say,’ Mumford said. ‘Bliss gets a handful of collars, he’s happy. But that don’t bring out the truth about Robbie Walsh, do it?’
‘It might. Why don’t you ease off for a bit?’
‘You called last night,’ Mumford said. ‘Got you off 1471.’
‘Oh…’ She told him about the missing page from Everyday Life in the Middle Ages and what the Bishop had said about the execution site. ‘Probably nothing.’
Mumford grunted, said he’d keep her informed. When she put the phone down, there wasn’t even time to tell Sophie about the development before it rang again, and she automatically picked it up.
Sophie reached across. ‘Let me—’
‘Gatehouse,’ Merrily said. If it was Siân, this was as good a time as any.
‘Oh, good morning. This is Smith, Sebald and Partners, solicitors, in Ludlow. I have Miss Susannah Pepper for Mrs Watkins.’
Merrily went out to clear her head. Ran through the thinning rain across the Cathedral Green and around the corner to the health-food shop to grab something for lunch for her and Sophie. Came back and spread it all over the two desks — bean pasties and rice crackers with sun-dried tomato dip. Bars of Green and Black’s Maya Gold chocolate. She was on holiday; it was a picnic.
‘What was she like?’ Sophie asked.
‘She wasn’t like anything. OK, she wasn’t like anybody. Robotic. A machine for processing wills and conveyancing houses. She talked like’ — Merrily nodded at the computer — ‘you know the voice that comes out of an iMac to alert you to an error?’
She leaned back against the window sill, her black fleece open to the old Radiohead T-shirt that Jane wouldn’t be seen dead in any more.
‘OK, I’m exaggerating. She was neither friendly nor unfriendly. She simply informed me that she’d had a long and detailed discussion with her future father-in-law… not that she called him that, she referred to him throughout as County Councillor G. H. Lackland— What are you smiling at?’
‘Nothing.’ Sophie began to brush crumbs from the desk with the side of a hand. ‘Go on.’
‘The substance of it was that if I — or anyone in my department — wanted to elicit any information from her client, Mrs Pepper, all inquiries should be made through her office. In writing.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘You heard me. I said, “Thank you very much, Miss Pepper.” What can you say to someone like that? Could’ve said that if she wanted to develop her acquaintance with Jesus the Saviour she should make the initial approach through my office—’
‘You’re annoyed.’
‘I’m annoyed. I’m very annoyed. Bloody lawyers.’
She was remembering her marriage and the seepage of disillusion. The divorce that would surely have happened if a car crash hadn’t made her a widow.
‘Who told her about you, do you think?’ Sophie said.
‘Could have been anybody — Callum Corey? I wasn’t trying too hard to be discreet. I could tell she just couldn’t wait for me to give her an opening to bring up the subject of harassment and injunctions. “Stay away from The Weir House or…” ’
‘You studied law, didn’t you, Merrily?’
‘Till the embryonic Jane delivered the first kick. About a year. I was also married to one who I thought was going to be a crusader for justice but turned out to be a crusader against justice. Like most of the greedy bastards.’
‘Could they get an injunction to keep you away from this woman?’
‘Unlikely. Anyway, they’d be shooting themselves in the foot, bringing it into the public domain.’ Merrily stood up, decided that she couldn’t face lunch after all. ‘Well, they can’t do a Mumford on me, accuse me of impersonating a priest.’
‘You’re going back, then?’
‘You’re glad?’
‘I hate to see you defensive and frustrated. Shouldn’t be too difficult. You going home now?’
‘I need to talk to Lol. And Jane. I’d hate her to find out about these rumours from anyone else.’
‘Quite.’
‘But first, I think I’ll pop into the Cathedral for a while. Some of the sensations I’ve been experiencing today could fall under the category of Unholy.’
‘As long as you don’t let Him talk you out of anything.’
Merrily blinked. ‘You’re very hawkish today, Sophie.’
‘Sometimes I feel the phrase “turning the other cheek” should come with a number of get-out clauses.’
‘Mmm.’ Merrily nodded, zipping her fleece.
It occurred to her, for the first time, that the level of anger behind Sophie’s cashmere calm might well exceed even her own.
She never made it to the Cathedral.
It was unavoidable. Cream suit, beard like it had been ironed on, he was following his smile in long strides across the green.
‘Merrily!’
‘Nigel.’
‘Tiresome meeting with the Dean and the Chairman of the Perpetual Trust.’
Challenging Merrily to explain what she was doing here when she was supposed to be on leave. Stuff it, why should she have to tell him anything?
‘And how is your poor aunt?’ Saltash said. ‘It is your aunt, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’
‘Great pity you haven’t been available. I rather thought we might have discussed the difficulties over in Ludlow.’
‘I thought we’d drawn a line under that.’
‘We should, however, I think, decide where we stand on the issue. In case any of us is… approached.’
‘Approached?’
‘For assistance. Or advice.’
‘I thought you had been. By the police. And the media.’
‘Purely as a psychiatrist,’ Saltash said.
‘Special adviser on mental health to the diocese, as I recall.’
‘And, naturally, I cleared it with the Coordinator before making any comment.’
‘You mean Siân.’
‘It’s so important that we’re aware of what we’re all doing. Effective teamwork, acting in unison, speaking with one voice…’ Saltash looked Merrily in the eyes in a way that made it very clear he was looking at her glasses. ‘Crucial, wouldn’t you say? In such an unstable society.’
32
Media Studies
By the time Merrily heard the school bus rattling onto the square, she’d been home two hours, doing a manic clean-up of the vicarage, not answering the phone. Going over th
e black-eye rumours situation, deciding how much to tell the kid. Conclusion: everything… almost.
She finishing hoovering the hall, and looked up into the wizened, thorn-tortured face of Jesus Christ in Holman-Hunt’s The Light of the World, the picture that said, with all its Pre-Raphaelite pedantry, there are no short cuts.
Jane first. And then, tonight, there would be Lol: a different approach.
Jane’s feeling of responsibility towards Lol sometimes verged, Merrily suspected, on the maternal. It had a long history. It was, unquestionably, Jane who had decided that this relationship needed to happen. Jane who had shielded the sparks from the wind, added twigs to the fire. Jane who, when it was going well, liked to bask in its glow. And, when it wasn’t going well, blame her mother.
Merrily touched her eye experimentally. It didn’t hurt.
Jane’s key turned in the lock.
This would hurt.
‘So who was it?’ Jane was gazing steadily into her mug of tea as if its surface would ripple and form into a face. ‘Who do we have to destroy?’
This was after she’d calmed down. Approaching seven o’clock, and the sun had come out to set and to mellow the kitchen in spite of everything.
‘I don’t do destruction,’ Merrily said. ‘I’m a vicar.’
‘I’m a pagan. We’re less squeamish.’
‘Not tonight, huh?’ Merrily said.
‘It’s clear you’ve got a good idea who in this village is trying to shaft you.’
‘Narrowed down the list of suspects, that’s all.’
Down to one.
‘Names?’
Merrily shook her head. ‘Not till I’m sure. I wouldn’t like innocent people to die. Eirion picking you up tonight?’
‘Eight o’clock. Maybe we’ll just go to the Swan.’
‘I think not. You’re still only seventeen. While I’m not naive enough to think you haven’t been going in pubs for the last couple of years, the rule is still not in this village.’
‘Irene’s eighteen.’
‘Anyway, the only reason you want to go into the Black Swan is to broadcast exactly what you’re going to do when you find out who’s been putting it around that Lol hits me.’
