He nodded once more, clearly wanting Morrigan to leave. Morrigan sensed that, stayed.
‘Everyone else all right about the task ahead?’
‘As far as I know, yes.’
Morrigan’s features darkened. ‘As far as you know?’
‘I mean . . . yes. Everyone’s still in.’
‘Good. That’s as it should be. We’re family, remember. Family in the old ways.’
‘I . . . yes, I know.’
‘Good. I’ll be off now. You’ve no doubt got your work to do. But remember. I’ll always be watching.’
He said nothing.
‘So mote it be.’
‘So mote it be,’ he mumbled in return.
Morrigan left him standing there, watching. Felt that delicious power well up within once more.
15
St Petroc was resting, Tom felt. In a grey lull between extreme weather conditions, like it was waiting for something. Life to return, perhaps. The morning sun hadn’t broken through the clouds yet, if indeed it ever would. The day was dull. Tom ignored it. He had things to do.
The past few days had got him nowhere. He had searched all over but the girl wasn’t to be found. And worse: his dream had returned.
Tom had discussed it with his therapist, his recurring dream. He knew what it represented, why he got it. Didn’t need her to tell him that.
‘It’s always the same. She’s lying there, dead. All broken. Twisted. Covered in blood. And I’m . . . I’m holding the gun. I’ve killed her.’
But that’s not how it happened, is it?’
‘It may as well be.’
‘But it’s not how it happened. It’s just how you’ve chosen to remember it. How your subconscious has chosen to reinterpret it. Does it happen often? Any particular times or triggers?’
‘When I’m stressed. Or thinking about it, you know, dwelling on it. Or I’m depressed.’ He gave a feeble laugh. ‘So yeah, often.’
And it was back again now. He could see himself in the dream, leaning over, turning over the body and . . . then he wakes up. And sees her face everywhere in every waking hour.
He couldn’t let it take hold of him again. He had to do something.
Kai was the best bet. Or the only bet. Tom had worked out that Kai was the smaller of the two travellers he had followed from the pub. He had given himself away on hearing his name. Now, Tom was looking out for him. He hadn’t been back to the pub since Tom’s nocturnal visit to the camp and Tom felt Noah must have warned him off. But that was OK. He had other methods of tracking him down.
During his first morning off, Tom had taken his binoculars and gone for a walk along the cliff edge, taking the route towards the camp but stopping short of it. Finding a patch of gorse on the top of the incline, crouching behind it, training the binoculars on the camp. They were powerful and he had no trouble seeing what was happening in relative close-up. The surf hippies going about their daily business. For a group that seemed to pride itself on its counterculture activities, thought Tom, their lives seemed to be as routine and dull as everyone else’s. Washing, cooking, working. Keeping busy. Occasionally he would glimpse Noah and he studied the reactions of the others as he went about among them. Awe? Fear? Something like that. They seemed scared of him, drew away if he spoke to them. Measured their responses carefully, didn’t initiate conversation. It didn’t seem like a very happy camp. And Noah didn’t seem like a benevolent ruler.
He watched Kai skulking around. He seemed to be Noah’s delivery boy, frequently leaving the camp in his battered camper van, returning with boxes to be unloaded into what Tom assumed was some kind of supplies or mess tent.
He was so intent on watching and trying to formulate some kind of day-to-day timetable for Kai that he didn’t realise he himself was being watched.
‘Doing a spot of birdwatching?’
Tom looked up, startled. Emlyn and Isobel, the old couple from the pub, were standing beside him. Both bundled up in waterproofs and woollens, smiling down at him like garden gnomes come to life.
‘Yeah,’ he said, taking his binoculars away from his eyes, standing up. ‘Ow. Didn’t realise how long I’ve been sitting.’
‘The knees are always the first to go,’ said Isobel, laughing. ‘Emlyn and I used to come out here regularly to watch the seabirds on the cliffs. Can’t any more. Knees, you see.’
‘See anything interesting?’ asked Emlyn.
Shit, thought Tom. ‘Erm . . . yeah. A few birds. Still looking for the right place, though. To see things.’
Emlyn pointed along the shoreline. ‘You should head over that way. Next bay along. Used to be quite a collection of nesting boobies, didn’t there, Isobel?’
‘Oh, yes. It was a lovely sight.’
‘Is that right.’
The three of them stared at each other, conversation having drained away.
‘Well,’ said Emlyn, ‘must get on. Can’t stand here chatting all day.’
‘Right.’
‘Will we be seeing you later?’ asked Isobel. ‘In the pub.’
‘If you’re in tonight you will.’
‘We’ll look forward to it.’
And off they both went.
Tom waited until they had disappeared over a ridge before resuming his spot.
*
That had been the first day. The second he had come back to the same place, notebook in hand, writing down the times that Kai disappeared and returned. Trying to judge from the time spent away just how far he had travelled and what for.
This continued for the next day as well, as Tom built up a picture of the lad’s movements. The day after that he was ready for him.
He spotted the name of the local butcher on the side of a couple of the boxes he brought to the camp. That meant he was going into the village. So Tom didn’t have far to travel to apprehend him.
And now he waited near to the butcher’s shop, ready for Kai.
‘Hello, stranger.’
Tom jumped, turned. Rachel stood behind him, smiling. He managed a hello, then looked round, hoping he hadn’t missed Kai, or been spotted.
Rachel noticed his glances. ‘What you doing round here at this time? Not like you.’
‘Just . . . out for a stroll. A think, you know. Stopped off to . . . just look around, seeing as I live here now.’
Rachel kept scrutinising him. Though not looking convinced, she eventually nodded. ‘Well, whatever, I’m glad I bumped into you. I wanted to say sorry for the other night.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Another glance. Still no sign of Kai.
Rachel frowned, looked closer at him. ‘You listening to me?’ Her voice changed. ‘Or are you here to meet someone?’
Tom gave her his full attention. ‘Sorry. Yes. I’m a bit . . . on edge at the moment. Just, you know. One of those things.’
‘Right.’ Clearly not convinced.
‘But yes. Thank you. You don’t have to apologise, though.’
‘No, I do. I’d had a few at the meeting. I shouldn’t have even been out driving, but you know.’ She laughed. ‘I mean, who’s going to arrest me?’
Tom joined her in smiling, almost laughing. ‘It’s OK. I’m sorry if I seemed unfriendly.’
‘I had no right to barge in like that. If you had someone there that’s not my business. I’m in no position to get arsey with you. I know that.’ Another smile. ‘We still friends?’
He returned the smile this time. ‘Sure. We’ve got to get on together, haven’t we?’
‘We do. Speaking of which . . . Mick’s away for a few nights next week, if you’re free?’
A shiver ran through Tom. He thought he was extricating himself from her but that didn’t seem to be the case. She was persistent.
‘Let me see.’
Rachel seemed to realise how that must have sounded, backtracked. ‘Sorry. Desperately bored local girl craves excitement. Sounds like an advert, doesn’t it? But it’s fine, we can just meet as, you know
, friends.’
‘Actually, I would like to talk to you about something.’
‘Sounds important. What is it?’
Tom looked round once more. ‘Not here. Later.’
Rachel’s eyes widened in what looked like terror. ‘You haven’t given me an STD, have you?’
‘What? No, nothing like that. Just give me a call. Come round when you can.’
‘OK,’ she said, looking slightly unnerved, ‘I will. Right, I’d better get on. Got to go round the farms. Had a few vandalism calls. Never stops, does it?’
Tom said it didn’t. Rachel leaned forward as if to kiss him goodbye, but then seemed to resist and left. He watched her go. She was undoubtedly attractive. And when she wasn’t being so predatory around him she was good company. He still wished they hadn’t become lovers but there was nothing he could do about what had happened in the past. His therapy was teaching him that. He put Rachel out of his mind, concentrated on the task in hand.
The village was quiet. But then it always was. It had a veneer of silence that he hadn’t been able to break through in the short time he had been there. He saw regular faces but only recognised them because of their associations. The vicar always wore her dog collar. The butcher his bloodstained white apron. The woman in the local shop he recognised because it was the only local shop. They were polite towards him but not overly welcoming. He was a newcomer without an established place in the village hierarchy. He felt it was the kind of place someone could live for twenty-five years and still be thought of as the newcomer.
And away from the main street with its dwindling commerce, he had spotted another pattern, something else he wasn’t part of, would never be part of no matter how long he lived there. Homes bearing things he didn’t understand. Holed stones hanging above doors and windows. Small constructions, fetishes, of straw and bones, feather and fur placed on front doors. Too real to be tourist tat. Desperate, fearful pagan offerings for a safe life, a good night’s sleep. For any kind of hope for the future. He could understand the thinking behind this, if not the acts themselves.
The village itself was built on a spiral, a collection of roads leading down towards the cove where the pub was, and it fell short of picture-postcard pretty. It was a casebook study of neglect. Local, national, cultural, economic. Since the Brexit vote the affluent South-East had left the more secluded rural areas alone, both for holidays and the mixed blessing of second homes, unwilling to be associated with those who had voted Leave, fearful of what kinds of people they might meet in those areas. Cornwall had been hit more than other areas in that respect. Places like St Petroc most of all. Tom knew they were desperate for the marina to be built nearby, but anyone looking dispassionately could see that no amount of pagan fetishes would make it happen.
Kai’s camper van appeared at the end of the street. He parked up and got out.
Tom rotated his neck on his shoulders, heard a satisfying crack. This was the part he hadn’t planned in detail.
This was the part he was looking forward to.
16
‘Hello, Grant.’
Grant Jenner looked up suddenly, unable to hide the surprise, then fear, in his eyes. Morrigan smiled in return. Happy to have that effect on him. The fear curdled in his gaze, turned to something Morrigan was less pleased to see. Resentment. Anger.
‘How did you get in? I didn’t hear you.’
‘You never do, Grant.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘I was just passing. Came to see you. That’s all. A social visit. See how you’re bearing up.’
Morrigan stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Grant was at the kitchen table, his wheelchair pushed underneath, piles of papers before him. The kitchen looked like it didn’t belong to a traditional farmhouse, all gleaming, modern, hi-tech appliances, designer fixtures and fittings. Not a rustic wooden chair in sight.
He turned his chair to face Morrigan. Stared. Hard.
‘Come to gloat, have you? See what your so-called magic powers did, is that it?’
The smile slipped from Morrigan’s face. Replaced with something much colder. ‘I did what you asked me to, Grant. I gave you the spell to get your cheating wife to come back to you. You’ve only got yourself to blame for the result.’
Grant pushed his wheelchair closer to Morrigan. ‘Yeah. I did what you told me to. I got her back. No bloody use now, though, is it? Look at me.’
‘You should have been more specific. Caveat emptor.’
The rage Grant was experiencing threatened to turn physical until he glanced down at his legs, realised he couldn’t get up, do anything. He slumped back into his chair once more.
‘Your wife was having an affair, Grant,’ said Morrigan, tone more conciliatory. ‘She was going to leave you because she didn’t love you any more and because of your mismanagement of this farm. You came to me to bring her back. I gave you a spell to do so. At no time did I tell you to get so drunk you couldn’t see and chase after her in your car.’ Morrigan looked at his legs, back to his eyes. ‘So you can’t blame me for your actions.’
Grant said nothing.
‘You got her back. Your farm’s finances are much healthier.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, wheeling himself round the table, picking up the whisky bottle at the side of his paperwork and pouring himself a generous measure, clearly not the first one of the day. ‘And she got her bloke. Paul fucking Priestly. Running this fucking place now. And her too.’ He drank the whisky down in one painful gulp. ‘She’s just my fucking carer now . . .’
‘Then be careful what you wish for, Grant. Be more specific next time.’
He stared at Morrigan once more. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Just to remind you,’ Morrigan said, as easily and breezily as possible. ‘To keep strong. Not to give in.’ Morrigan began pacing round the kitchen, examining hanging pans, knives. Holding one up, catching the light. ‘These are very sharp, Grant. Very. And sturdy. I can imagine them slicing clean through flesh to bone. I could make use of these, Grant.’ Attention back on him now. ‘Great use.’
Grant now looked scared. His outburst had had little to no effect; the whisky was doing its job, dulling his senses once more. The threat of a knife-wielding able-bodied Morrigan advancing on the useless, self-pitying farmer was much more terrifying.
‘Have it if you want it,’ he said, his voice small and parched, like he needed another drink.
‘Thank you, Grant. I may just do that. It could come in very useful for our purposes, couldn’t it? And of course, if we were to use it then it would only be a small matter to check which one of us had a missing blade from their kitchen, wouldn’t it? If it came to that, of course. If things went horribly wrong because someone backed out and spoke when they shouldn’t have. But it won’t, will it? No, no, no.’
Grant sighed. He understood exactly the threat he was being given. ‘No, Morrigan. It won’t.’
Morrigan smiled. ‘Good. Because I wouldn’t want your anger at misusing my spell to become something bigger.’
Another sigh. He clearly just wanted Morrigan to leave now. ‘It won’t.’
‘Good.’ The knife disappeared somewhere on Morrigan’s person. ‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’
Morrigan turned, walked towards the door, looked out. Stopped. Turned. Smiled once more. ‘Oh, look, pulling up in front of the house, here comes your wife now. And Paul Priestly too. I wonder where they’ve been and what they’ve been up to?’
Grant seemed close to tears. He glanced up, his eyes pleading. ‘Morrigan?’ His voice sounded as pathetic as he looked.
‘Yes?’
‘Have you got another spell? Something for these?’
He curled his hands into fists, hammered them down hard on his useless legs. Clearly, he felt no pain.
‘You mean to make you walk again?’
Grant nodded.
‘Yes, that’s possible.’
He looked up, hope appearing for the first time in his eye
s. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. But the most important ingredient in that spell is faith, Grant. Do you have faith that you could walk again?’
‘Yes,’ he said quickly.
‘And more importantly, do you have faith that your wife would want you again if you could?’
He looked to the door where he could see his wife coming towards him, arm in arm with Paul Priestly, not even bothering to hide it now. His head dropped once more.
‘I thought not, Grant. I’ll bid you good day.’
Morrigan left, making small talk with the two incomers on the way out, while in the kitchen Grant reached for the whisky bottle once more, upended it into his glass.
17
Kai didn’t see Tom as he exited the camper van. Didn’t hear him tailing him down a side street leading towards the butcher’s. Didn’t feel him until Tom put his arm round Kai’s throat and said: ‘One word and I’ll choke the fucking life out of you.’
Kai said nothing. Didn’t move.
Tom waited until he was sure that he would receive no resistance, then spoke again. ‘Good. Now if I take my arm away are you going to run? Are you going to shout out?’
Kai shook his head in response.
‘Good.’ He began to slacken his grip. Kai initially did the same, relaxing his body, but Tom felt him tense once more, getting ready to run or hit back. He grabbed him again, tighter this time. Kai gurgled as his air supply was restricted. ‘What did I just say? And what did you just agree to? Stay where you fucking are.’
Kai stayed where he fucking was.
‘Now,’ said Tom, arm slackened slightly to allow his quarry to breathe, ‘you and me are going to have a chat.’
Tom was surprised how quickly his training came back to him. More than that – the person he used to be who utilised that training. As he kept his muscles taut, Kai ceased struggling in his grasp, accepted his situation. Was he just pretending to be this new person, this Tom Killgannon? Was he really still the old him? Or had he just ceased being his old self without a new persona in place? Was that why the villagers didn’t know where he fitted in, because he didn’t know himself?
The Old Religion Page 8
