The Lamp of the Wicked

by Phil Rickman

  Then a final contemptuous push, leaving Gomer on his back in the mud, and then Lodge was off and away – up the pylon, though Gomer didn’t know that at the time, as he heaved himself to his feet, straightening his specs, winded, unsteady. But perhaps it had been his brain that was most battered, by what he’d heard.

  No wonder he’d been so quiet for days, hanging round Minnie’s grave.

  Merrily put the kettle on the stove and came to sit down opposite him. She was remembering Lol’s graphic description of the exchange between Roddy Lodge up in the pylon and Gomer on the ground – Lol recalling Gomer’s opening challenge as completely as if it was the first line of one of his own songs.

  Where was it you set that fire, boy? Where’d you go? Where was it you went Monday night?

  ‘You just couldn’t believe it, could you?’ she said.

  ‘Couldn’t be sure I’d yeard it right,’ Gomer said. ‘Well, I was sure, see, but then I’m thinking mabbe he was – ’scuse me, vicar – pissing up my leg, so to speak.’

  ‘I don’t think he was ever that clever, do you?’

  No. Lodge had surmised that, because Gomer lived in Ledwardine, that was also where his depot was. Aggressively admitting to something he hadn’t done just to get the little guy out of his way, and simultaneously proving his innocence. And how had Gomer reacted? He’d straightened his glasses and gone to the pylon to seek confirmation.

  ‘You were trying to get him to say it again, just to be sure, in your own mind. Or maybe to catch him out.’

  ‘Ar.’ Gomer took off his glasses, rubbed them on his sleeve. ‘Silly bugger. Gutted, see. How could I get it that wrong? Ever since, been asking meself, asking Min at the grave if it was me killed him. Hounded an innocent man to his death.’

  ‘Well: A – you didn’t force him up the pylon, and B – he wasn’t innocent at all, was he?’

  ‘Innocent till proved guilty.’ Gomer rammed both hands through his wild, white hair. ‘Rock-solid sure, I was, that he’d started that fire.’

  Which he admitted again on the pylon.’

  ‘Ar, along with how he was gonner do… wossername?’ ‘Madonna. I know. Who doesn’t even live in the area.’

  ‘Load of ole wallop! All bloody lies. Couldn’t trust a thing he said. He was in Ross that night, from early on – Cliff Morgan told me that. They got witnesses seen him in two pubs in Ross.’

  ‘But think about it this way… If you hadn’t had good reason to suspect Lodge, we’d never have gone over there and found what we found, and Lynsey Davies would’ve been quietly reburied somewhere more discreet. God moves in myst—’

  ‘I tried to tell him. Tried to tell that boy, Bliss, when he’s draggin’ me away.’

  ‘Perhaps that wasn’t really the best time, Gomer.’

  ‘Still oughter’ve told him afterwards, though, ennit? Likely they’d have talked him down off there, see, if I hadn’t been standing at the bottom givin’ the bugger stick. Worst of it is, they en’t never gonner know the full truth now, is it? Never.’ He looked across at Merrily, then lowered his gaze. ‘And now I’ve dumped it all on you, vicar. Didn’t wanner do that.’

  Merrily patted his hand. ‘It’s what I’m here for, as we vicars like to say.’

  ‘You gonner tell him?’ He looked apprehensive, but she knew that whatever she wanted he’d go with it; he nearly always did – a channel for God’s opinion, wasn’t she? Which made offering Gomer advice so much more of a responsibility.

  ‘I don’t somehow think it’s going to arise. You… haven’t heard from him again, have you? In connection with more digging?’

  Gomer shook his head. No time for that in the last couple of days, anyway. He’d been tidying up a few small jobs, things he could do without hauling young Lol out. Need the boy tomorrow, mind, to install a new tank for Mrs Pawson, now the cops had finished messing up her garden. Her’d been in London, and who could blame her, with no working drainage and knowing what had lain underneath the Efflapure?

  The two phones began to ring simultaneously, in the kitchen ‘and the scullery. When the answering machine kicked in, the message was fully audible through the open scullery door.

  ‘Merrily, I need to talk to you… urgently, so call me soon as you get back, eh? Or if you’re there now, will you please pick up the phone?’

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Coincidences, eh? Give me a minute, Gomer.’

  ‘Jesus, Merrily, you took your flaming time.’

  ‘God’s work, Francis.’

  ‘Yeh, listen, I’ll keep it short. The shit’s just hit the fan. One of the people Andy Mumford spoke to in Much Marcle – on my behalf, on the subject of our late friend West – decided there could be a few quid in it and phoned some bloody hack.’

  ‘Oh no…’

  ‘Who of course gets onto our press lady at Hereford for an official quote. And the upshot is, to head off any really wild speculation, Fleming’s been forced to put out a statement on the West angle. And he’s fuming, naturally. And Andy’s on the carpet. And I’m lying very low. So if anybody contacts you, you haven’t spoken to me in yonks.’

  ‘Why should anyone phone me?’

  ‘You didn’t see the local TV news? They had this story about the Rector of Underhowle backing out of Roddy’s funeral due to protests by people who don’t want him lying shoulder to shoulder with their God-fearing ancestors. Then it was mentioned that you’d be standing in.’

  ‘I was named?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Merrily. So if you’re talking to anybody there, or here or anywhere, I did not take you into Roddy’s lair, you know nothing about any pictures on walls, et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘You’re saying you want me to lie for you?’

  ‘If you would, please,’ Bliss said. ‘Er, you got the package?’

  ‘Yes, thanks very much. It’ll make a change from the Bible.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Bliss said, ‘I should give them a glance. There is a connection with West, gorra be. Huw Owen knows that, as you—’

  What?’

  ‘Sorry, Merrily?’

  ‘Right, let’s sort this. Why did you really phone Huw Owen? And how does Huw Owen know there’s a connection between Roddy Lodge and Fred West?’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t know,’ Bliss said awkwardly. ‘I mean, none of us know.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Merrily said tightly. ‘I’ll ask him myself.’

  ‘Fred bloody West,’ Gomer said. ‘Now why don’t that surprise me?’

  Merrily had left the scullery door open; he could hardly have avoided overhearing. Hardly mattered now, if it was all coming out in the press.

  She sat down. ‘You remember the case you found for them, behind the bungalow? It contained a pile of press cuttings on the West case. Things like that.’

  ‘Always givin’ you all this ole wallop ’bout what he done and who he done it with,’ Gomer mused. ‘Showin’ you photos of his missus’s… of his missus.’ He looked beyond Merrily towards the dark window in the back wall. ‘Just the same as Lodge – lies, lies and more bloody lies. You never thought much of it, see… and then the truth turns out to be… a sight worse. Sight more worse than you could ever imagine anybody could be. Least of all some cocky little builder, love nest in the back of his bloody van… always showing you photos.’

  Gomer took out his ciggy tin and extracted one he’d rolled earlier. Merrily stared at him.

  ‘You knew West?’

  Gomer wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Wouldn’t say I knowed him, thank the Lord – though you might’ve thought you did after ’bout half an hour, the way he went on. Givin’ it that’ – making rabbiting motions with fingers and thumb – ‘the whole time. Bugger could’ve yattered for Hereford. ’Bout… private things, mostly, and you can only take so much of that kind o’ chat.’ He lit his ciggy. ‘Good worker, mind, couldn’t fault him on that. Always looked after his tools.’

  ‘You said photos?’

  ‘Ones I saw was just pictures of his w
ife with no clothes on. But this feller I worked with once said West’d offered him, you know, bit of a session with the missus. Free, like.’

  ‘I’ve heard that.’

  ‘And later they reckoned there was these video tapes doing the rounds. Never come across ’em meself, mind.’

  ‘Porno videos?’

  ‘Worse.’ Gomer looked down at the table.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Ar, well…’ Gomer coughed.

  ‘Oh God,’ Merrily said.

  Quite when it became clear that Gareth Box was actually interested in Jane as a woman, she was not sure, but it must have been fairly soon after he first called her ‘Jane’, as if he really knew her. As if they’d known one another quite some time.

  She supposed at first that it was simply a journalist’s thing, assuming this easy familiarity – although he hadn’t been an actual reporter for a long time, she guessed. If Eirion had got it right, he’d already become some sort of executive editor when he’d met Jenny Driscoll.

  It was just the way he said ‘Jane’. Hearing her name in his deep, world-weary voice. There was a kind of charge under it. Also an intensity in the way he looked at her. He was a very intense person.

  And that wasn’t stupid. And she’d only had one glass of wine. Well, OK, he’d topped it up, so say two, but definitely not much more than that; it wasn’t as if she’d been here very long. And anyway Jane could usually hold her drink, no problem, except for cider. Just have to be a bit careful she didn’t say too much, too soon.

  ‘My, er, my… ex-boyfriend… wants to be a journalist.’

  ‘Could do worse,’ Gareth said. ‘Opens lots of doors.’

  ‘Well, at your level, I suppose. Not round here.’

  He shrugged. ‘I started not all that far from here, actually. Worked for a news agency. It doesn’t matter where you start, if you’re good enough, if you can spot opportunities.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She supposed Jenny Box must have seemed like a good one at the time, if you could put up with her obsessive behaviour. ‘Er, you haven’t actually met my mother, have you?’

  Gareth Box sighed. ‘I certainly feel as though I have. My wife talks about your mother quite a lot.’ The way he kept saying my wife, Jane thought, conveyed a definite detachment. ‘I tend to hear about all her problems, though it’s hardly my business.’ He smiled wryly. ‘How are things between her and… er…?’

  ‘Lol.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Oh, well…’ Wow, the old girl really was getting in with Jenny Box. ‘Complicated, you know, unsatisfactory. But like… what’s new?’

  And he poured her a bit more wine and they chatted about Lol for a while, and a few other things. He was very easy to talk to. He concentrated on what you were saying, made meaningful observations, seemed concerned, treated you like a person, a woman. Yes, that was the point: from the first, he’d treated her like an equal. Only Lol had ever really done this before. Even with Gomer, who was never patronizing, it was still always ‘young Jane’. So this felt good, she wouldn’t deny that.

  ‘So like… how do you feel about the angel thing?’

  A pause. ‘More to the point’ – he leaned back in his chair, tossing one long leg across the other, tilting it so that an ankle lay easily on a thigh – ‘how do you feel about it, Jane?’

  ‘Well, I…’ Jane drew breath and went for it. ‘Frankly, I’m inclined to think it’s kind of bollocks.’

  Gareth didn’t laugh. He just nodded, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. Jane felt obliged to qualify bollocks immediately and talked about angels and the kind of people who professed to see them. Talking too fast, maybe. He didn’t interrupt. She felt hot now, edged her chair away from the fire.

  ‘I mean, there’s a history of sightings like this, in certain places, mainly abroad – although most of them sound like mass hallucination. But obviously there’s no history of it here… not over Ledwardine Church.’ She forced a laugh. ‘The problem is, the business my mother’s in, you can’t just knock something like that on the head. Not easily, can you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I imagine not.’

  ‘And it’s hard for her, you know?’

  Gareth Box nodded. ‘So you thought you’d come over and… knock it on the head.’

  She squirmed a little. ‘I just wanted to know what was really happening… what’s really behind it.’ Best not to mention the money at this stage. ‘I don’t like to see her getting taken for a ride.’

  He was silent. Shit, I’ve gone too far.

  A log collapsed in the hearth. Jane jumped. Gareth Box didn’t move.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to be offensive or anything.’

  He met her gaze, although his own eyes were just shadows. Kept on looking at her steadily, as though he was trying to make up his mind about her. Intense. A little shiver went up her spine. Deliciously.

  Then he said, very quietly, ‘What if I was to tell you – in absolute confidence – that she’s done this kind of thing before?’

  She jumped again. Oh my God. Didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘all this is pretty painful for me, as you can imagine. No man likes to think his wife’s…’ He looked away. ‘How old are you, Jane?’

  ‘Old enough.’

  He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t doubt it. Jane, can I rely on your absolute discretion?’

  ‘Yes… absolutely.’ She was aware that her voice had shrunk. She found she’d come to the edge of the chair. She saw that two logs had enmeshed, forming a red, ashy heart. The apple-wood scent filled her head.

  ‘This is a village.’ Gareth Box uncrossed his legs and sat forward with his hands pressed together between his knees, which seemed uncharacteristically hunched and defensive. ‘Whatever’s happening needs to be handled with a certain tact.’

  ‘I’m used to that,’ Jane said. ‘It goes with the territory.’

  He nodded. ‘Look, I don’t know very much about your mother… but I think we both have to accept that, in Jenny’s eyes, there’s only one angel in Ledwardine.’

  The log fell apart. Christ.

  Standing under the porch light, Merrily watched Gomer walking away down the drive, feeling relieved when he turned right at the bottom, heading towards his home and not the churchyard, not Minnie’s grave.

  What a small county this was. Gomer had met Fred West when they were both involved in the renovation of some farm buildings at a small equestrian centre near Ross. Gomer and Nev had been putting in drainage, and Fred had been rebuilding walls and installing the electrics. His van seemed to have been furnished in the back for sex, which he talked about all the time. For all these women he seemed to run into who were begging for it.

  Merrily had asked Gomer if West might have had any contact, in the course of his work, with Roddy Lodge. Gomer, who knew a lot of people in the service industries, had said he couldn’t be sure about Lodge but more men – and women, of course – had been associated with West than were ever likely to admit it.

  Merrily closed the front door, locked it and barred it top and bottom.

  She went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Flower!’

  No reply. It was after nine-thirty now; the kid had probably made herself something to eat earlier, although there were no signs of it in the kitchen. Merrily switched on the grill to warm it up, just in case. Then she went into the scullery, sat down with a sigh and the first of the three books about the West case. On the back it said,

  How and why an evil psychopath was able to ensnare so many in a web of unseeing complicity.

  Horrific, but there was no avoiding it any longer. Perhaps she should know. Everybody else in the county seemed to. It was part of the underside of Hereford history. Fred West still crouched like a spider in a corner of so many lives.

  Even Gomer’s.

  The videos he’d mentioned – the ones he’d only heard of, after the West murders had become public knowledge – were
snuff videos. It was said that Fred had rigged up cameras and shot videos of himself doing what he’d done to girls and young women.

  Gomer had wondered if maybe Roddy Lodge had somehow got hold of a copy.

  The phone rang. Merrily looked at it, didn’t feel like speaking to anyone else tonight and let it go on ringing until the machine picked it up.

  This is Ledwardine Vicarage. Sorry we’re not around, but please leave a message after the bleep.

  Bleep.

  Then, ‘Bitch!’

  Merrily put the book down.

  It was muffled – one of those tissues-over-the-phone voices. ‘Bitch, if you do that funeral on Friday, you’re gonna regret it. You stay at home on Friday, you understand? You bitch.’

  Jane let herself in very quietly by the side door and padded up the stairs to the attic, collapsing on her bed under the Mondrian walls.

  This was killing her, and there was nobody to ring. Nobody at all.

  She lay there, numbed by this shattering hyper-awareness, listening to parts of the past clunking into place like the pieces of one of those really obvious wooden jigsaws aimed at very small children.

  Or the ratchets on some crude medieval engine of torture, squeezing your brain.

  Dad.

  Poor dead Dad. Why exactly did he go off with Karen, his secretary with whom he’d died in a ball of blazing metal on the M5? Jane remembered seeing Karen a couple of times in Dad’s office, and she wasn’t exactly to die for, was she? Maybe a bit younger than Mum but not as pretty. So what exactly was there missing from his marriage that drove Dad into Karen’s arms, Karen’s bed?

  And why had Mum, instead of working to save her marriage, thrown herself into the arms of ‘God’?

  Consider: it was a known fact that a huge percentage of male clergy were gay. OK, so maybe no figures had emerged on women priests yet, but looking at pictures of some of them in the papers you could soon draw your own conclusions.

  Jane sat up. Opposite the bed, the longest Mondrian wall, with its garish red and yellow and blue emulsion, looked like a bad idea clumsily executed. She wished she was lying on Gareth Box’s hearthrug in the red glow of the apple-log fire. Please, Gareth, show me I’m normal.