The Smile of a Ghost mw-7

by Phil Rickman

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You get some sleep. I’ll be back as soon as I can. And we’ll still go back tomorrow.’

  ‘It is tomorrow,’ Jane said.

  And sensed that everything was about to go seriously wrong.

  When the phone went again, not five minutes after Mum had left, Jane didn’t even have the heart to do the spoof-answering-machine bit.

  ‘Ledwardine Vicarage.’

  ‘Is that Mrs Watkins?’

  ‘She’s… not available. This is Jane Watkins.’

  ‘It’s Gail Mumford here. Andy Mumford’s wife.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I know.’

  ‘She isn’t with my husband again, is she?’

  Jane smiled. It was like Mum and Mumford were having some kind of torrid affair.

  ‘I can honestly say she isn’t.’

  ‘You haven’t heard from him, have you?’

  ‘I…’ Jane had picked up some serious strain in this woman’s voice. ‘No, I’m pretty sure we haven’t. He’s out somewhere?’

  ‘He’s been out all day, I think. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. When he was with the police, at least you— Look, I don’t know how old you are—’

  ‘Old enough,’ Jane said. ‘Look, Mum’s had to go over to Ludlow. I don’t think she’s expecting to see Andy there, but I’ll give her a call, and if…’

  Jane noticed Mum’s mobile, left behind on the sermon pad. Bugger.

  ‘… If I get to speak to her, and she knows anything, I’ll get back to you. Will you be up for a bit?’

  ‘Of course I’ll be up.’

  ‘OK. And, of course, if we hear from Andy meanwhile—’

  ‘If you hear from him, you tell him he might not have a wife here when he gets back,’ Mrs Mumford said.

  33

  Lift Shaft into Heaven

  Merrily left the Volvo outside the health-food shop at the bottom of the row, just up Corve Street from St Leonard’s chapel, and walked up to Lodelowe, its small window misted crimson from a lamp burning in the recesses. It made her think of shrines.

  The alleyway next to the shop door was unlit and made her think of the Plascarreg Estate, and that made her want not to enter the alley.

  The night was mild, almost warm. She peered into the shop window, over the painted plaster models of timber-framed houses, a stack of tourist pamphlets: Haunted Ludlow. No movement in there, and — she backed off and looked up towards the centre of town — no movement on the street, either, apart from shifting shadows and the glimmer of street lamps and the waning moon in old windows and the traffic lights near the crest of the hill. Always an eeriness about traffic lights in the dead of night, when there was minimal traffic, as though the lights must be a warning of something else that had always travelled these streets, silent and invisible.

  She stumbled over the kerb as a ribbon of female laughter unravelled from somewhere not too close. She thought of women and girls binge-drinking in packs, beating people up. Was this a twenty-first-century phenomenon, or was it happening just the same when this town was young, in the days of Merrie England, when street violence was part of the merrie system? And therefore the apparent growth of civilization was all illusion — God seeing right through it, looking down with weary cynicism, the oil running low in his lamp of eternal love.

  Night thoughts. Merrily stepped back as a light was put on, and all the bricks in the alley came to life.

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  She stepped into the alley. Jon Scole was standing at the bottom of some steps, under an iron-framed coach lamp, his leather waistcoat undone over a black T-shirt, a bunch of keys hanging from his belt, like a jailer’s keys.

  ‘Hey, listen, I’m sorry, Mary, I did try to ring you back.’

  ‘Damn.’ Patting the pockets of her fleece. ‘Came out without the phone.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘she’s gone now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You better come in.’ He stepped back for her to go up the stairs, which were concrete, a kind of fire escape.

  ‘Is she hurt?’

  ‘Not much, I don’t think. Sick, though.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘Go on up.’

  Climbing the steep steps, Merrily realized how tired she was. A long day, or was that yesterday?

  The door at the top was ajar. It was an old door, patched and stained, the light inside mauve-tinted. She went through, directly into the room over the shop, a room that shouted temporary. Strip lights were hanging crookedly from a bumpy ceiling shouldered by old beams smeared with new plaster. The furniture was second-hand rather than old — the kind of stuff Lackland Modern Furnishings might have sold twenty-five years ago. There was a wide-screen TV and a stereo with silver speaker cabinets, and a flat-screen computer that looked expensive.

  The room smelled of curry.

  ‘Bit of a mess,’ Jon Scole said. ‘Haven’t had time to tart it up yet. Can I get you a drink? Red wine? White wine?’

  ‘Jon, it’s after midnight, I’m a bit knackered.’

  ‘Sorry.’ His flaxen hair was slicked back, and his beard looked damp, as though he’d held his face under a tap to sober himself up. ‘I’m not thinking. She does your head in. Look, at least sit down. Cup of coffee, yeah?’

  ‘No, really…’ She lowered herself to the edge of a red, upholstered chair with wooden arms. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

  ‘It’s like I said, she comes banging at the shop door. I’d not been in long, been down the pub with some tourists after the ghost-walk. She’s like, “They’re after me.” ’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Just girls… women. See, she’s safe, more or less, if she stays up the posh end of town. Anywhere else, pushing her luck. She’s not popular in some quarters. It’s like, rich slag doesn’t give a shit for the poor young people she’s forcing out.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning the land over there, below the castle, that this guy was gonna build on and she bought off him?’

  ‘I thought people were delighted about that.’

  ‘Some people were delighted — the neighbours who’ve got all the old houses near hers, the ones as were faced with losing their view and getting kids on bikes, and lawnmowers and radios and idiots cleaning the fuckin’ car on a Sunday morning — they were delighted, the Ludlow bourgeoisie. But, you see, there’s a ruling now from the council that if you’re building new housing you’ve got to include a percentage of affordable homes.’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘’Course, this guy Dickins, the feller planning to build down here, he’d agreed to double the low-cost quota. He’d’ve wormed out of it if he’d got planning permission, but he gets the benefit of the doubt, unlike the bitch who’s denied young people their only chance of having an affordable house in a decent part of town. So that’s why they went after her, I reckon. Get tanked up and then it’s like, Let’s wait for the rich bitch. Rage and booze, Mary.’

  Jon Scole went and stood by the window. It overlooked Corve Street, a red-brick Georgian dwelling opposite, under a street lamp: the unattainable, unless you’d sold your house in London.

  ‘What did they do to her, Jon?’

  ‘Mucked her up a bit. Mauled her about. She wouldn’t go into details.’

  ‘It’s a police matter.’

  ‘She don’t want the publicity. If I rang the cops, she’d never speak to me again. Anyway— Bloody hell’ — he squatted at her feet and looked up into her bruised eye — ‘what happened to you?’

  ‘I have a dangerous job,’ Merrily said. ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘So that’s why you were wearing them sexy shades.’

  ‘How long was she here?’

  ‘Went in the bathroom to clean herself up, and that was when I phoned you. I see you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

  ‘You told her I was coming?’

  ‘She wasn’t gonna wait. Just hung on till it
had gone quiet and then she was off. About quarter of an hour ago. You got a boyfriend, Mary?’

  Merrily didn’t move; if she leaned away from him she’d be trapped in the armchair, if she edged forward she’d be touching his knees. He was evidently still a little drunk. It would, on the whole, have made more sense not to come up here.

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘Aye, well…’ Jon Scole stood up. ‘That couldn’t’ve helped.’ The keys clunked at his belt; he seemed to like wearing things that made metallic noises.

  Merrily took the opportunity to stand up, too, stepping nearer the door.

  ‘She’s got… kind of a nightdress on,’ he said. ‘Satin. It laces up at the sides. It looked… strange.’

  ‘She was walking through the streets like that?’

  ‘I offered to drive her home. She wouldn’t let me. Just as well, I expect I’m a touch over the limit.’

  ‘You could’ve walked back with her.’

  ‘Mary, nobody’s allowed to do that. When she walks at night, she walks alone.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should ring the police now?’

  ‘She’d know who it was. I keep telling you, Mary, I don’t want to blow it with her. She’s like…’ He waggled his hands. ‘Look, if you wanna make sure she’s OK, I know which way she goes.’

  ‘What sort of state was she in?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Shocked? Distressed?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ He went to the window, looked down into the street. ‘Angry… electric.’

  ‘In what way?’ Merrily moved nearer the door.

  ‘It’s like something charges her up. I went to watch her, once. I waited for her in the churchyard, behind a tree — just to watch what she did, you know? I’d waited for bloody ages by the time she showed. I mean showed — faded up, not a sound. Weird. She was like she was in a trance — like her mind was somewhere else, but her body was… wooar… trembling. Vibrating, you know? Like it was aglow. I’m probably exaggerating this a bit, she was just a woman walking in the dark. Anybody like that in these streets is bound to look a bit spooky.’

  ‘You approach her?’

  ‘Break the spell? She’d have had me eyes out. I let her go past, and I went home.’

  ‘What did you think was happening?’

  ‘She was getting off on it.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Scole seemed almost angry that he didn’t know. ‘When she comes banging on the door tonight, she’s all over me. Hot and… you know. Burning up. It’s why I called you. Anybody could see she were burnin’ up…’

  Merrily waited by the door. There was a dark green waste bin next to it, with chip paper in it, a curry carton, squashed lager cans.

  ‘I din’t trust meself, all right?’ He looked down at his trainers. ‘Didn’t wanna blow it.’ He looked up, across at Merrily, punched his palm. ‘I cannot believe you’re a priest. What’s a woman like you doin’ bein’ a fuckin’ priest?’

  ‘Which way did she go, Jon?’

  ‘Dunno. Back towards St Leonard’s? Makes no difference, she’ll pass through St Laurence’s churchyard. Whichever way she goes, it always takes in the churchyard. I’ll show you, eh?’

  ‘No, I think it’s best if I go on my own, thanks. We don’t want her to feel threatened. Not after what happened.’

  ‘You think that’s safe, Mary, on your own?’

  ‘It’s Ludlow, Jon, not Glasgow.’

  ‘I wouldn’t touch you,’ Jon Scole said, plaintive.

  ‘I know. I just… maybe I should talk to her on my own. Maybe it’s the best chance I’ll get.’

  ‘As a psychic?’ He laughed.

  ‘Something like that.’ She pushed down the door handle and the door sprang against her hand, and she was grateful he hadn’t locked them in. ‘And, yes,’ she said, ‘for future reference, I have got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Well, he’s a lucky twat,’ Jon Scole said bitterly, not moving from the window. ‘Hey…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You wanna watch yourself, Mary. She likes women, too.’

  ‘But not priests, apparently,’ Merrily said. ‘If it gets difficult, I can always flash the cross.’

  There were still a few people around as Merrily walked quickly up through the centre of the town towards the Buttercross: the inevitable sad drunk, the inevitable couple-in-a-shop-doorway and, more curiously, two women with one small boy trotting ahead of them, a good six hours after his bedtime. All the untold stories of night streets.

  At the Buttercross, she slipped like a cat into the tightness of Church Street, narrow as a garden path, with its pub and its bijou shops and galleries, most windows dark now. Behind this street — seamed by alleyways, made intimate by moonlight and scary by shadows — was the church of St Laurence with its great tower, the axle through the wheel of the town.

  She stood at the main entrance, looking directly up at the Beacon of the Marches, taller by far than the castle keep. The tower, with its lantern windows, seemed to be racing away from her, a lift shaft into heaven, and she thought about the Palmers’ Guild, convinced it was pressing the right buttons. Medieval Christianity: two steps up from magic.

  The night was soft and close here, the air still sweet with woodsmoke from dying fires in deserted hearths, and the sky was olive green, lightly stroked with orange in the north.

  She stood listening for a couple of minutes, almost convinced that if there was anything abusive or violent occurring anywhere in Ludlow she’d be able to hear it, because this was the nerve centre. Never had a cluster of buildings felt more like some kind of living organism, and she wondered if Belladonna, of whom there was no sign at all, was standing somewhere, just like this, letting it heal her.

  Or perhaps she’d simply run all the way home.

  Merrily walked past the body of the church into what she thought was College Street, old walls closing in — was this the college where the chaplains appointed by the Palmers’ Guild had lived? Turning a dark corner, now, and emerging into what could only be The Linney, the narrow lane that followed the castle wall to the river, the backstairs from the country to the heart of the town.

  She walked quietly down the centre of the lane, which would be just about wide enough for one car if you were daring enough to risk it. Terraces and stone cottages were wedged either side, most of them unlit, backing onto the darkness of the castle’s curtain wall to the left and the edge of the hill to the right, a gap between houses revealing the countryside below salted with tiny lights.

  Feeling as if she was balancing on Ludlow’s curving spine, she stopped and listened again. No movement, and no obvious place of concealment in the narrows of The Linney. There was a sign announcing a new restaurant, and someone had stuck a white paper flyer on it that read, The Lord will tear down the temples of gluttony!

  After the last house, a path to the left… surely the path that burrowed among the castle foundations, the path she’d taken with Jon Scole to the yew tree where Marion fell, where Jemima Pegler fell with the heroin raging through her veins.

  Here, the ground softened underfoot and the texture of the night seemed to have altered, the shapes of trees morphing into matt shadows and the woodsmoke aroma becoming the raw stench of damp earth.

  And the castle was a hard form, a stronghold again, the land falling invisibly away to the right of the track, through the trees and into darkening fenced fields, sports clubs, and the river and the woodland around The Weir House.

  And Merrily knew, then, that it was too quiet.

  There should be wildlife-rustlings, foxes prowling, badgers scrabbling, night birds, and… and there wasn’t anything.

  She stopped.

  Sometimes on still evenings, before a church clock chimed somewhere, you would be aware of a pause in the atmosphere itself — a soft, hollowed-out moment, all movement suspended. And then a vibration, like a shiver, as if the air knew what was coming. When you spent days an
d nights hanging around churches, it became a familiar phenomenon. It seemed like part of the mechanism, and maybe it was — some ancient acoustic collusion between night and clocks.

  Usually it was clocks. In a town like Ludlow, on a night like this, it ought to have been clocks.

  She reached up and felt for the ridge of the tiny cross under the fleece and the T-shirt, pressing it into the cleft between her breasts, and heard a voice, hollow with pain.

  Might have been just an owl inside the castle grounds. Or, a moment later, two distinct species of owl in sequence: the breathless fluting of the woodland tawny overtaken by an ethereal screech — barn owl. That was all, that was—

  As she was plunging into pockets for the cigarettes and the Zippo, it started up again, bloating into something swollen and visceral that wasn’t like any kind of owl but definitely like a woman.

  Then a harsh, white shriek.

  ‘TAKE ME!’

  The castle wall was caught by a blade of moonlight.

  ‘TURN ME!’

  Merrily stood looking up, frozen. The jagged windows of the Hanging Tower were holes in mouldy cheese,

  ‘TAKE ME, TURN ME… TEACH ME…

  ‘PLOUGH ME, PLY ME, PLEACH ME!’

  The words seemed to be crawling up the wall.

  ‘TAKE ME, RAKE ME…’

  She knew it, of course. It was from Nightshades. It was twenty years old.

  When it stopped, the air was alive again, as if the night was frayed and abraded.

  And from below the Hanging Tower, the same voice, only different. Soft and breathy, ethereal.

  Wee Willie Winkie running through the town

  Upstairs, downstairs, in his nightgown

  Rapping on the—

  A stifled sob. In the distance, Merrily heard a car horn, the furry rumble of an aeroplane. And then there was coughing and the voice came back, husky and earthen and bitter.

  ‘You lie like carrion…’

  And then rising, fainter and frailer but spiralling up again like pale light.

  ‘… I’ll fly like Marion.’

  Mumford