A Crown of Lights mw-3

by Phil Rickman

  ‘I did watch the Livenight programme,’ Sophie said. ‘I didn’t really see how else you could have handled it. Without coming over as a... crank.’

  ‘Or a bigot. Both of which are probably better than a drowning wimp.’ Merrily drank her tea, both hands around the cup, like someone pulled out of the sea and wrapped in a blanket. ‘You spend an interminable hour making a fool of yourself on TV, you walk out thinking all religion’s a joke. You’re unhappy and ashamed and cynical all at the same time. You get in your car, you drive maybe not quite as carefully as you ought to, given the ubiquitous fog warnings and the fact that your husband just happened to have died horrifically on this same stretch of motorway. You drive into a fog bank. You become aware of two dull specks of red that you think must be a hundred yards away and which turn out to be this bloody great crashed lorry dead in your path. You spin the wheel in panic. You become aware of a figure dragging another figure across the road in front of you. The second figure stares full into your headlights, and you see... you see the face of your daughter who you know for a fact is at home in bed fifty-odd miles away. Your daughter’s face... blank, white, expressionless. Like the face of a corpse.’

  Sophie shuddered. ‘It must have been... I can’t imagine what that must have been like.’

  ‘Like... Nemesis,’ Merrily said. ‘You know what I was thinking about in the few minutes before? I was thinking about this woman who believes she’s seeing her sister’s ghost. I was just deciding she really didn’t have a psychiatric problem— Oh no!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I told her I’d go with her to her sister’s funeral. It’s this afternoon. It’s in about two hours. Or less.’

  ‘Oh, Merrily, nobody could possibly expect—’

  ‘I’ve got to.’

  ‘You’ve had no sleep.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had... had an hour on the sofa. Fed the cat, grabbed a slice of toast, rung Worcester Infirmary twice to make sure Jane’s not... worse. No, look, I’ve got to go, because...’ Because if I don’t and something awful happens... ‘Because it’s something I can’t just leave in the air.’

  ‘Then you must lie down for a while first. I’ll find somewhere in the palace. Look at you – you’re trembling. Are you saying this pile-up actually happened in the same area where your husband was killed?’

  ‘Well, that was on the other side, the northbound lanes. He was... I suppose he was on my mind, when...’

  When she’d walked into that studio? Was Sean stalking her then? Was he already deep-harboured in her head when she’d entered the TV building? Having driven along the same stretch of the M5, under the very same bridge against which his car had balled on impact and bounced in its final firedance, while he and Karen were torn and roasted.

  Couldn’t tell Sophie any of that. Couldn’t tell her about the eloquent pagan, Ned Bain, sitting there with his lazy, knowing Sean-like eyes, and even his legs crossed à la Sean.

  Just stay with the main event.

  ‘And, you think... what you think is that this can’t be happening. And if it can’t be happening then it’s a hallucination. And you know you’re not hallucinating. Therefore – click, click – it has to be a paranormal experience, just like all the paranormal experiences other people have told you about and you’ve nodded sagely and given your balanced opinion.’

  ‘But only you would think that. Only someone in your—’

  ‘Only someone in my weird, cranky job.’

  ‘But you didn’t hit her,’ Sophie said intensely. ‘Did you? You did not hit Jane.’

  ‘No. There was no impact. I didn’t hit anyone. But still a complete nightmare – I mean dreamlike. You haven’t physically driven into your daughter, therefore it must be a premonition: a vision of killing your own child.’

  ‘But it wasn’t, was it?’

  ‘I could see Sean in her face... that little bump in the nose, the twist of the lips. I could see Sean in her, like I’d never seen him there before.’

  ‘Juxtaposition of ideas,’ Sophie said, ‘or something.’

  ‘I swerved, violently. Stopped the car and got out, terrified out of my mind. Only to discover...’ Sophie reached across the desk, squeezed Merrily’s cold right hand. ‘... that this really was Jane. The actual Jane, being pulled away by a terrified Eirion after being very nearly killed when this speeding low-loader smashed into the back of his car. She was pale and expressionless not because she was dead, but because she was semi-concussed. This is the mind-blowing perversity of it, that there is an absolutely cold, earthly, rational explanation... for everything. For every aspect of it. Why do I find that even more frightening? The most horrifying moment in my life, and there is, in the end, a simple, rational explanation.’

  ‘You’re afraid that you’ve stopped looking for simple rational explanations? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How many people were killed?’ Sophie asked. ‘In the end.’

  ‘Three. And one critical in hospital. I think about four slightly hurt, including Jane. There were about six cars involved, and a couple of lorries. Seemed like the parameds and the fire brigade were on the scene before I was out of my car. There was one poor woman...’

  Merrily shook her head, blinked away the unbelievably horrific image of a torn-off arm on the central reservation.

  ‘You were very lucky, both of you. And the boy?’

  ‘Eirion. His car was a write-off.’

  ‘He’s not injured, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Some whiplash. They kept him in for the night, too, but I think his father picked him up this morning. Or his father’s chauffeur. I talked to his stepmother on the phone. Eirion seems to be blaming himself for what happened. Nice kid.’

  ‘So, altogether...’

  ‘What I keep coming back to is, suppose I’d arrived one second earlier? Suppose I’d killed her? In one of those one-in-a-billion freak family tragedies? What would I have done with the rest of my life? What would any of it be worth?’

  ‘But you didn’t. Someone didn’t want to lose you – and didn’t want you forever damaged either.’

  Merrily leaned back, shook out a cigarette. ‘You ever thought of getting ordained, Sophie?’

  ‘God forbid.’ Sophie stood up. ‘Put that thing away and get your coat.’

  ‘It’s Jane’s coat. What for?’

  ‘Jane’s coat, then. I’m going to drive you to this funeral. You can perhaps sleep on the way. If we leave now, we might even stop for a sandwich.’

  ‘Sophie, it’s Saturday. You can’t... You have things to do.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sophie said, ‘I think Hereford United can manage without me for one week.’

  Merrily blinked. Sophie unhooked a long, sheepskin coat and a woollen scarf from the door. It did rather look like the sort of outfit you would wear to a football match in January. Bizarre?

  ‘This is above and beyond, Soph.’ Merrily got unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘I should be grateful if you didn’t smoke in my car,’ Sophie said.

  19

  Abracadabra

  THE MAIN ROAD from Old Hindwell to New Radnor passed through the hamlet of Llanfihangel nant Melan. The church of St Michael was right next to the road and, although it didn’t actually look very old, there were indications of a circle of ancient yew trees, which suggested it had been rebuilt.

  Although there were a number of other cars nearby, Betty stopped the Subaru. She was in no mood to talk to Mrs Wilshire or anybody else right now. She would check out the atmosphere of the church. It might even calm her down.

  She was still furious with Robin. If he’d been accosted the other night by the drunken wife of Greg Starkey, feeling him up in the street, why hadn’t he told Betty when he arrived home? Old Hindwell wasn’t exactly known for its red-light quarter. So why had he kept quiet?

  Why? Because they’d just had a goddamn row over his handling of Nick Ellis. Because he’d slammed out of the house and d
idn’t think she’d be speaking to him anyway. Because he was cold and tired. Because.

  So why hadn’t he mentioned it the next day, even?

  Because... Jeez, was it important? Did she think he enjoyed it? Did she think he’d snatched this chance to feel Marianne’s tits?

  Actually, she didn’t think that. What she thought was that Robin hated to tell her anything that might make her think less of Old Hindwell. Why don’t you get to know the people here? Like Judith Prosser – she’s OK, not what I imagined.

  Dickhead.

  Betty walked over to the church. The stonework suggested extensive Victorian renovation. Did anything remain of the church built as part of some alleged St Michael circle? How would this one feel inside?

  Sooner or later, when Robin was not around, she would have to go back into the Old Hindwell ruins to face the question now looming large: the stained and sweating, fear-ridden man at prayer – was that him? Was that the Reverend Terry Penney? Was he dead now?

  But this wasn’t an exercise in psychic skills. Before she went back there, she wanted to know all there was to be known about all the churches in the St Michael circle.

  However, in Llanfihangel Church, she was immediately accosted by a man in a light suit who asked her if she was on the bride or the groom’s side. So much for standing there in the silence and feeling for the essence of the place. Betty apologized and escaped with a handful of leaflets, which she inspected back in the Subaru.

  And just couldn’t believe it. One, apparently produced as a result of a community tourism initiative, was blatantly entitled, ‘Where sleeps the Dragon on the trail of St Michael’s churches’.

  Betty slumped back in her seat, broke into a peal of wild, stupid laughter. A tourist leaflet. Was that how all this had started?

  The text explained that there were four St Michael churches around Radnor Forest – at Llanfihangel nant Melan, Llanfihangel Rhydithon, Cefnllys and Cascob. It presumably didn’t mention Old Hindwell because it was a ruin, now on private land.

  An inside page was headed: ‘St Michael and the Dragon of Radnor Forest’.

  It referred to the introduction by Jewish Christians of ‘angelology’. Angels guarded nature and local communities. St Michael guarded Israel and was named in the Book of Revelations, etc., etc. Most Welsh churches dedicated to him had appeared in the tenth and eleventh centuries.

  The specific Radnor reference had been pulled from a book called A Welsh Country Parson by D. Parry-Jones, who recounted a legend that the last Welsh dragon slept in Radnor Forest and, to contain it, local people had built four St Michael churches in a circle around the Forest. It was said that if any of these churches was destroyed, the dragon would awaken and ravage the countryside once more.

  This was it? This was the source of Nicholas Ellis’s paranoia?

  Crazy!

  Still, it did look as though Robin and Ellis were right. Assuming there was no fire-breathing elemental beast locked into the landscape, this appeared to be a simple metaphor for paganism, the Old Religion.

  ... if any one of these churches is destroyed...

  Old Hindwell had been virtually destroyed... and initially by its rector, which didn’t make any obvious sense. Why would a clergyman make a gesture which was bound to be adversely interpreted by anyone superstitious enough to give any credence to the dragon legend?

  Unless Penney had been a closet pagan. Was that likely?

  Not really. Something was missing. For a moment, Betty smelled again the rich, sickening stench from the praying man in the skeletal nave.

  She drove off too quickly, the Subaru shuddering.

  Lizzie Wilshire greeted her with a spindly embrace.

  ‘I don’t know whether it’s your herbal mixture or just you, my dear, but I feel so much better.’ Holding out her right hand and making it into a claw, the fingertips slowly but effectively closing on the palm.

  ‘Gosh,’ Betty said.

  ‘I haven’t been able to do that for months!’ Those ET eyes shining like polished marbles. ‘You’re a wonder, my dear!’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite say that.’

  Psychological? The potion couldn’t possibly have had such a spontaneous and dramatic effect unless her problem was essentially, or to an extent, psychosomatic.

  And yet... Betty caught an unexpected sidelong glimpse of Lizzie’s aura. It was, without a doubt, less fragmented. And she was talking constantly, garrulous rather than querulous now.

  ‘Were you originally called Elizabeth? Like me?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ Betty admitted, as they sat down.

  ‘A long time ago, my dear, you weren’t even born.’ Lizzie Wilshire laughed hoarsely. ‘Now, were those papers useful? If not, just throw them away. I’m in a clearing-out mood. Clutter frightens me. I’m even thinking of selling the summer house. Every time I look out at it, I expect to see Bryan walking across the garden. Do people buy summer houses second-hand like that? Can they take them away?’

  ‘I should think so. You could advertise it in the paper. I could do that for you, if you want.’

  ‘Oh, would you? That’s terribly kind. Yes. I told Dr Coll – I hope you don’t mind...’

  ‘About the summer house?’

  ‘About you, of course! About your wonderful herbal preparation. He called in this morning, even though it’s Saturday – such a caring, caring man – and said how much better I was looking, and naturally I told him about you.’

  ‘Oh.’ In Betty’s experience the very last thing a doctor liked to be told was that some cranky plant remedy had had an instantaneous effect on a condition against which powerful drugs had thus far failed to make a conspicuous impact.

  ‘He was delighted,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘He was?’

  ‘Far be it from him, he said, to dismiss the old remedies. Indeed, he’s often suggested I might benefit from attending one of the Reverend Ellis’s services – but that’s all too brash and noisy for me.’

  ‘He must be a very unusual doctor.’

  ‘Simply a very caring man. I didn’t realize how pastoral country doctors could be until Bryan died. Bryan had a thing about the medical profession, refused to call a doctor unless in dire emergency. He’d have liked you. Oh, yes. His army training involved finding treatments in the hedgerows. A great believer in natural medicine, was Bryan. Although, one does need to have a fully qualified medical man in the background, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ Betty said. ‘I suppose so. Shall I make some tea?’

  She knew now where everything was kept. She knew on which plate to arrange which biscuits. On which tray to spread which cloth. All of which greatly pleased Mrs Wilshire. When it was done, Betty sat down with her and they smiled at one another.

  ‘You’ve brightened my life in such a short time, Betty.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful to me, too.’

  ‘I won’t forget it, you know. I never forget a kindness.’

  ‘Oh, look...’

  ‘We never had children, I’ve no close relatives left. At my age, with my ailments, one doesn’t know how long one has left...’

  ‘Come on... that’s daft.’

  ‘I’m quite serious, my dear. I said to Dr Coll some time ago, is there anything I can do to help you after my death? Is there anything you need? New equipment? An extension to the surgery? Of course, he brushed that aside, but I think when you’ve been treated so well by people, by a community, it’s your duty to put something back.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘In the end, the most he would do was give me the name of a local charity he supports, but... Oh dear, I’ve embarrassed you, I’m so sorry. We’ll change the subject. Tell me how you’re getting on with that terrible old place. Have you been able to do anything with the damp?’

  ‘These things take time,’ Betty said, careful not to mention the need for money.

  Getting into the car, she felt deeply uncomfortable. It might be better if she didn’t return to Mrs W
ilshire’s for a while. The old girl probably wasn’t aware of trying to buy attention, even if it was only with compliments about a very ordinary herbal preparation, but... Oh, why was everything so bloody complicated, suddenly?

  She leaned back in the seat, rotating her head to dispel tension. She noticed the dragon leaflet on the passenger seat. Where, out of interest, was the next church on the list?

  Cascob.

  Nestles in the hills near the head of the Cas Valley... village appears in the Domesday Book as Casope – the mound overlooking the River Cas.

  Promising, she supposed. And was about to throw the leaflet back on the seat, when another word caught her eye.

  It was ‘exorcize’.

  A couple of miles into Radnor Forest, Betty became aware of an ominous thickening of cloud... and, under it, a solitary signpost.

  She must have passed this little sign twenty times previously and never registered it, perhaps because it pointed up that narrow lonely lane, a lane which didn’t seem to lead anywhere other than: Cascob.

  Strange name. Perhaps some chopped-off, mangled Anglicization of a Welsh phrase which meant ‘obscure-church-at-the-end-of-the-narrow-road-that-goes-on-for-ever’. Or so it seemed, perhaps because this was the kind of road along which no stranger would dare travel at more than twenty mph. It was deserted, sullen and moody. Robin would be enchanted.

  There wasn’t much to Cascob. A bend in a sunken, shaded lane, a lone farmhouse and, opposite it, a few steep yards above the road, the wooden gate to the church itself, tied up with orange binder twine. Betty left the Subaru in gear, parked on the incline, untied the twine around the gate.

  Sheep grazed the sloping, circular churchyard among ancient, haphazard gravestones and tombs that were crumbly round the edges, like broken biscuits. There was a wide view of a particularly lonely part of the Forest, and the atmosphere was so dense and heavy that Betty couldn’t, for a while, go any further.

  Some places, it was instantaneous.