Crybbe (AKA Curfew)

by Unknown

  'Let's slip outside, shall we, Mr Powys?'

  Wynford held open the door. To get out of here, Powys would have to step under his arm, and as soon as he was outside the door the arm would descend. He was likely to wind up in a cell. If he resisted he would wind up hurt in a cell. If he ran away the town would soon be teeming with coppers. Anyway, he was too knackered to run anywhere, even if there'd been anywhere to run.

  'Don't make a fuss, Mr Powys. I only wanner know 'ow you got that face.'

  Powys couldn't think of a way out. He stepped under Wynford's arm and the arm, predictably, came down.

  Somebody held open the door for Wynford and the big policeman followed him out, hand gripping his elbow. At that moment, as if to make things easier for the forces of the law, the power came back on, or so it seemed, and Wynford's face shone like a full moon.

  Powys froze in the brightness, momentarily blinded. Wynford reeled back.

  There was a figure behind the light, maybe two. The light was blasting from something attached like a miner's lamp to the top of a big video camera carried on the shoulder of a stocky man with a Beatles hairstyle (circa Hamburg '62) and an aggressive mouth.

  Whom Powys recognized at once as Guy Morrison's cameraman, Larry Ember.

  'You carry on, Sarge.' Larry Ember moved to a lower step and crouched, the light still full on Wynford. 'Just pretend we ain't here.'

  Wynford was squinting, mouth agape. 'You switch that bloody thing off, you 'ear me? When did you 'ave permission to film yere?'

  'Don't need no permission, Sarge. Public place, innit? We were just knocking off a few routine night-shots. You go ahead and arrest this geezer, don't mind us, this is nice.'

  Wynford blocked the camera lens with a big hand and backed into the pub door, pushing it open with his shoulders. He glared at Larry Ember over the hot lamp. 'I can 'ave you for obstruction. Man walks into a pub, face covered with cuts and bruises, it's my job to find out why.'

  'Yeah, yeah. Well, there was a very nasty accident happened up at a place called Court Farm tonight while some of us, Sergeant, were safely in the pub getting well pissed-up. As I understand it, this gentleman was up to his neck in shit and oil helping to drag some poor bleeder out from under his tractor. Fact is, he'll probably be in line for an award from the Humane Society.'

  Powys kept quiet, wondering what the hell Larry Ember was on about.

  'Well . . .' Wynford backed off. 'That case, why didn't 'e I speak up, 'stead of being clever?'

  'He's a very modest man, Sarge.'

  Wynford Wiley backed awkwardly into the pub, stabbing a defiant forefinger into the night. 'All the same, you been told, Powys. Don't you leave this town.'

  'Dickhead,' said Larry Ember, when the door closed. 'Shit, I enjoyed that. Best shots I've had since we came to this dump. You all right, squire?'

  'Well, not as bad as the guy under the tractor. Was that on the level?'

  'Sure. We didn't go, on account of our leader was otherwise engaged, shafting his assistant.'

  'Well, thanks for what you did,' Powys said. 'I owe you one.'

  'Yeah, well, I was getting bored.' Larry swung the camera off his shoulder, switched the lamp off. 'And I figured he'd never arrest you in his state, more likely take you up that alley and beat seven shades out of you.'

  The cameraman, who'd obviously had a few pints himself, grabbed Powys's arm and started grinning. 'Hey, listen, you know Morrison, don't you? Bleedin' hell, should've seen him. We shot this hypnotist geezer, taking young Catrin back through her past lives, you know this, what d'you call it . . . ?'

  'Regression?'

  'Right. And in one life, so-called, she's this floozy back in the sixteenth century, having it away with the local sheriff, right?'

  Powys stiffened. 'In Crybbe?'

  'That's what she said. Anyway, in real life, Catrin's this prim little Welshie piece, butter wouldn't melt. But, stone me, under the influence, she's drooling at the mouth, pulling her skirt up round her waist, and Morrison - well, he can't bleedin' believe it. Soon as we get back, he says, in his most pompous voice, he says, "Catrin and I . . . Catrin and I, Laurence, have a few programme details to iron out." Then he shoves her straight upstairs. Blimey, I'm not kidding, poor bleeder could hardly walk . . .'

  'What time was this?'

  'Ages ago. Well over an hour. And they ain't been seen since. Amazing, eh?'

  'Not really,' Powys said sadly.

  The few oil lamps in the houses had gone out and so had the moon. The town, what could be seen of it, was like a period film-set after hours. An old man with a torch crossed his path at one point; nothing else happened. Powys supposed he was going back to the riverside cottage to sleep alone, just him and the Bottle Stone,

  He couldn't face being alone, even if it was now the right side of the curfew and the psychic departure lounge was probably closed for the night.

  What was he going to do? He had an idea of what was happening in Crybbe and how it touched on what had happened to him twelve years ago. But to whom did you take such ideas? Certainly not the police. And if what remained of the Church was any good at this kind of thing, it wouldn't have been allowed to fester.

  He could, of course, go and see Goff and lay it all down for him, explain in some detail why the Crybbe project should be abandoned forthwith. But he wasn't sure he could manage the detail or put together a coherent case that would convince someone who might be a New Age freak but was also a very astute businessman.

  What it needed was a Henry Kettle.

  Or a Dr John Dee, come to that.

  What he needed was to talk to Fay Morrison, but it was unlikely she'd want to talk to him.

  He passed the house he thought was Jean Wendle's. Jean might know what to do. But that was all in darkness. Faced with a power cut, many people just made it an early night.

  As he slumped downhill towards the police station and the river bridge, something brushed, with some intent, against his ankles. It didn't startle him. It was probably a cat, there being no dogs in Crybbe.

  It whimpered.

  Powys went down on his knees. 'Arnold?'

  It nuzzled him; he couldn't see it. He moved his hands down, counted three legs.

  'Christ, Arnold, what are you doing out on your own. Where's Fay?'

  He looked up and saw he'd reached the corner of Bell Street. Sudden dread made his still-bruised stomach contract.

  Not again. Please. No.

  No!

  He picked Arnold up and carried him down the street. If the dog had made it all the way from home, he'd done well, so soon after losing a leg. Arnold squirmed to get down and vanished through an open doorway. Powys could hear him limping and skidding on linoleum, and then the lights came back on.

  Powys went in.

  He couldn't take it in at first, as the shapes of things shivered and swam in the sudden brilliance. Then he saw that Arnold had nosed open the kitchen door and was skating on the blood.

  PART SEVEN

  . . . but we could not bring him to human form. He was

  seen like a great black dog and troubled the folk in the

  house much and feared them.

  Elizabethan manuscript, 1558

  CHAPTER I

  Max Goff said, 'I came as soon as I heard.'

  Indeed he had. It was not yet 8 a.m. Jimmy Preece was surprised that someone like Goff should be up and about at this hour. Unhappy, too, at seeing the large man getting out of his car, waddling across the farmyard like a hungry crow.

  Mr Preece remembered the last time Goff had been to visit him alone.

  This morning he'd been up since five and over at Court Farm before six to milk the few cows. He couldn't rely on Warren to do it - he hadn't even seen Warren yet. Mr Preece was back on the farm, which he still owned but was supposed to have retired from eight years ago to make way for future generations.

  Becoming a farmer again was the best way of taking his mind off what had happened to the future generations
.

  Everything changing too fast, too brutally. Even this Goff looked different. His suit was dark and he wore no hat. He didn't look as if he'd had much sleep. He looked serious. He looked like he cared.

  But what was it he cared about? Was it the sudden, tragic death of Jonathon, followed by the grievous injury to Jonathon's father?

  Or was it what he, Goff, might get out of all this?

  Like the farm.

  Mr Preece thought of the crow again, the scavenger. He hated crows.

  'Humble said you'd be here.' Goff walked past him into the old, bare living-room, where all that remained of Jack was a waistcoat thrown over a chair back. No photos, not even the old gun propped up in the corner any more.

  Goff said, 'Reason I came so early is the meeting. It's the public meeting tonight. What I wanted to say - there's time to call it off, Mr Mayor.'

  'Call 'im off?' Jimmy Preece shook his head. No, it would be an ordeal, this meeting, but it couldn't be put off. The meeting would be his best opportunity to make it clear to this Goff that he wasn't wanted in Crybbe, that this town had no sympathy with him or his ideas.

  There would, however, be a great deal of sympathy - overwhelming sympathy - for old Jim Preece, who'd lost his grandson and whose son was now lying maimed for life in Hereford Hospital.

  Goff would have realized this. Cunning devil.

  No way Mr Preece wanted that meeting calling off.

  'Too late now. People coming yere from all over. Never get word out in time.'

  'If we start now, Mr Mayor, spread the word in town, get it out on Offa's Dyke Radio . . .'

  'No, no. Very kind of you to offer, but the town council stick to their arrangements, come fire, flood. And personal tragedy, like.'

  He'd be making time today to pay a final visit to each of the farmers with land around Crybbe, make sure they all understood about the need to keep the stones away. He thought they were still with him, but money could turn a farmer's head faster than a runaway bull.

  'Thought I should at least make the offer, Mr Mayor. And tell you how sorry I was.'

  'Aye.'

  There was a long silence. Mr Preece noticed circles like bruises around Goff's eyes and his beard not as well manicured as usual.

  'Well,' Mr Preece said. He might as well say it now, make it clear where they stood. 'I expect you'll be wonderin' 'bout the future of this place. What's gonna happen if Jack's crippled and with Jonathon gone, like.'

  'It's a problem, Mr Mayor. If there's any way I can help . . . We're neighbours, right?'

  'No,' Jimmy Preece said. 'There's no way you can 'elp. And no, I won't be sellin' the farm.'

  Goff spread his legs apart and rocked a bit. He didn't laugh, but he looked as if he wanted to.

  'Aw, jeez, I realize you got to be in an emotional and anxious state, Mr Mayor, but if you're thinking maybe I'm here because I'm angling to buy the place, let me say that was about the last thing . . . I'm not a fucking property shark, Mr Preece.'

  'No,' Jimmy Preece said, and it might have been a question.

  'This family's been here four, five centuries, yeah? Isn't there another son, young, er. . . ?'

  'Warren,' said Mr Preece.

  'Yeah, Warren.'

  'Who don't want anything to do with farming, as you well know, Mr Goff.'

  'Huh?'

  "E's gonner be a star, isn't that right?'

  'I don't . . .'

  'Pop guitarist, isn't it? You're gonner make the boy a millionaire. Sign 'im up, turn 'im into a big star so he 'e can get his lazy arse out of Crybbe and don't need to 'ave nothing to do with us ever again . . . You ask me if there's anything you can do, Mr Goff, I reckon you done enough.'

  For the first time, Murray Beech had locked the church for the night. He'd waited until the curfew was over and then walked over with the keys, surprised to find Jimmy Preece and not his son emerging from the belfry.

  In an arid voice, from which all emotion had been drained, Jimmy Preece had explained why he was here, leaving Murray horrified. He'd remembered hearing the ambulance, wondering who it was for. How could lightning strike twice, so cruelly, at a single family? How could any kind of God . . . ?

  Murray often wondered just how many of his colleagues in the church seriously believed any more in a Fount of Heavenly Wisdom. Perhaps there should be a confidential survey, some sort of secret ballot within the Organization. No one could fault the basic Christian ethic but Murray couldn't help wondering if it wasn't in the best interests of sustaining a credible, relevant, functioning clergy to have this anachronism known as God quietly phased out. God was a millstone. Three times as many people would seek clerical help with their personal problems if they didn't have to cope with God.

  And without God the question of sacrilege would not arise, and nobody, he thought now, standing by the altar rail, would have to cope with . . . this.

  The church door had not been forced last night. A window had simply been smashed in the vestry.

  This morning Jonathon Preece lay apparently undisturbed, a silent sentinel, still, presumably - and Murray was not inclined to check - in his coffin, still safely supported on its bier, a slim metal trolley, only slightly more ornate than those used in hospitals. The coffin was still pointing at the altar with its white and gold cloth.

  Neither the coffin nor the bier had been disturbed. Only the altar itself. In the centre of the cloth, a silver dish had been heaped high with something brown and pungent.

  Murray approached with trepidation and distaste to find the substance in the dish was not what he'd feared.

  Next to the dish was the tin from which the brown gunge had been scraped.

  It was dog food.

  Murray was almost relieved.

  And so puzzled by this that he failed to carry out a more detailed inspection of the church and therefore did not find out what else had been done.

  Goff raised a faint smile and both hands. 'Im starting to understand, Mr Preece. I see where you're coming from. The boy sent me a tape, right?'

  'You tell me, sir, you tell me.'

  'Sure I'll tell you. This kid . . .'

  'Warren.'

  'Warren, yeah. Mr Mayor, you know how many tapes we get sent to us? Jeez, I don't even know myself - a thousand, two thousand a year. How many we do anything with? In a good year - two. Young . . .'

  'Warren.'

  'Sure. Well, the reason he got further than ninety-nine point nine per cent of the others was he sent it to the Cock and I listened to it myself. The normal thing is I pay guys to pay other guys to listen to the tapes on the slushpile, saves me a lotta grief, right? But I didn't wanna appear snobbish, big London record chief sneering at local hopefuls. So I listened to the tape and I had a letter sent back, and what it said was, this stuff isn't basically up to it, but we aren't closing the door. When you feel you've improved, try us again, we're always prepared to listen. You know what that means? You'd like me to give you a frank and honest translation, Mr Mayor?'

  Jimmy Preece swallowed. 'Yes,' he said. 'I'd like you to be quite frank.'

  'I'm always frank, Mr Mayor, 'cept when it's gonna destroy somebody, like in the case of this tape. You ever hear your grandson's band, Mr Preece?'

  'Used to practise in the barn, till Jack turned 'em out. Hens wouldn't lay.'

  'Yeah, that sounds like them,' said Goff, smiling now. 'Crude, lyrically moronic and musically inept. They might improve, but I wouldn't take any bets. My advice, don't let the kid give up sheep-shearing classes.'

  It went quiet in the living-room at Court Farm. In the whole house.

  'Thank you,' Jimmy Preece said dully.

  'No worries, Mr Preece. Believe me. The boy'll make a farmer yet.'

  Behind the door, at the foot of the stairs, Warren Preece straightened up.

  His face entirely without expression.

  CHAPTER II

  Jean's narrow town house had three floors and five bedrooms, only three of them with beds. In one, Alex awoke
.

  To his amazement he knew at once exactly who he was, where he was and how he came to be there.

  Separating his thoughts had once been like untangling single strands of spaghetti from a bolognese.

  Could Jean Wendle be right? Could it be that his periods of absent-mindedness, of the mental mush - of wondering what day it was, even what time of his life it was - were the results not so much of a physical condition but of a reaction, to his surroundings? Through living in a house disturbed by unearthly energy. A house on a ley-line.

  No ley-lines passed through this house. Something Jean said she'd been very careful to establish before accepting the tenancy.

  Why not try an experiment, Jean had suggested. Why not spend a night here? An invitation he'd entirely misunderstood at first. Wondering whether, in spite of all his talk, he'd be quite up to it.

  Jean had left a message on Fay's answering machine to say Alex wouldn't be coming home tonight.

  She'd shown him to this very pleasant room with a large but indisputedly single bed and said good night. He might notice, she said, a difference in the morning.

  And, by God, she was right.

  The sun shone through a small square window over the bed and Alex lay there relishing his freedom.

  For that was what it was.

  And all thanks to Jean Wendle. How could he ever make it up to her?

  Well, he knew how he'd like to make it up to her . . . Yes, this morning he certainly felt up to it.

  Alex pushed back the bedclothes and swung his feet on to a floor which fell satisfyingly firm under his bare feet. He flexed his toes, stood, walked quite steadily to the door. Clad only in the Bermuda shorts he'd worn as underpants since the days when they used to give ladies a laugh, thus putting them at their ease. Under the clerical costume, a pair of orange Bermuda shorts. 'I shall have them in purple, when I'm a bishop.' Half the battle, Alex had found, over the years, was giving ladies a laugh.