Crybbe

CHAPTER V

Have you ever performed an exorcism?

Sitting in the near-dark in Grace's parlour. Sitting awkwardly, with his elbows on the table where Fay used to keep her editing machine until… until somebody broke it.

And the only voices he could hear were Jean's and Murray's alternately repeating the same strange question.

Exorcism.

Well, have I?

Canon Alex Peters remembered the sunny afternoon when Murray was here – only about a week ago – the very last sunny afternoon he could remember.

Remembered exploring his memory with all the expectation of a truffle-hunter in Milton Keynes… finally dredging up the Suffolk business. 'Wasn't the full bell, book and candle routine… more of a quickie, bless-this-house operation.

'Actually I think I made it up as I went along.'

Grace's chair waited in front of Grace's fireplace. The brass balls twisted in the see-through base of Grace's clock, catching the last of the light, pulsing with the final death-throes of the day.

And now, when you really need the full bell, book and candle routine, you haven't got the right book and the only bell in town is the bloody curfew which we don't talk about.

Candles, though. Oh yes, plenty of bloody candles. Everybody in power-starved Crybbe has a houseful of bloody candles.

Alex dipped his head into his hands and moaned.

What are you doing to me, Wendy? I can't handle this, you know I can't.

He looked at the clock. He could see the twisting balls but not the time. But it must be getting on for nine.

Nine o'clock and Alex sitting waiting for his dead wife, and frightened.

Oh yes. Coming closer to the end didn't take away the fear.

'Dear Lord,' said Alex hopelessly. 'Take unto Thee Thy servant, Grace. Make her welcome in Thine Heavenly Kingdom, that she should no longer dwell in the half-light of limbo. Let her not remain in this place of suffering but ascend for ever into Thy holy light.'

Alex paused and looked across at the mantelpiece as though it were an altar.

'Amen,' he said, and lowered his chin to his chest.

He had no holy water, no vestments, no Bible, no prayer book.

An old man in faded Kate Bush T-shirt, tracksuit trousers and an ancient, peeling pair of gymshoes, standing, head bowed in the centre of the room, making it up as he went along.

What else could he do?

Certainly not this strident stuff about commanding unquiet spirits to begone. Not to Grace, a prim little lady who never even went to the newsagent's without a hat and gloves.

'Forgive me, Grace,' Alex said.

He sat down in the fireside chair, which had been hers, on those special occasions when the sitting-room was in use.

'Forgive me,' he said.

And fell asleep.

Fay slipped into the hall unprepared for the density of the crowd.

How could so many be so silent?

Every seat was taken and there were even more people standing, lining every spare foot of wall, two or three deep in some places.

Wynford Wiley, guardian of the main portal, turned his sweating cheese of a head as she came in, rasping at her. 'Not got that tape recorder, 'ave you?'

Fay held up both hands to show she hadn't, and Wynford still looked suspicious, as if he thought she might be wired up, with a hidden microphone in her hair. For Christ's sake, what did it matter?

She stood just inside the doors and saw the impossibility of her task. There must be over three hundred people in here. Joe Powys hadn't been entirely serious, but he'd been right: the best thing they could have done was pile into the car and make a dash for civilization. And she'd been so glib: I'll think of something.

Fay looked among the multitude, at individual faces, each one set as firm as a cardboard mask. Except in the New Age ghetto, towards the front of the hall, to her left, where there was a variety of expressions. A permanent half-smile on the nodding features of a smart man in a safari suit. A woman with an explosion of white hair wearing a beatific expression, face upturned to the great god Goff.

Max was being politely cross-examined on behalf of the townsfolk by the chairman, craggy Colonel Croston, who Fay knew from council meetings – the only councillor who'd ever spoken to her before the meetings.

'I think one thing that many people would like me to ask you, Mr Goff, is about the stones. Why is it necessary to erect what I suppose many people would regard as crude symbols of pagan worship?'

Goff seemed entirely at ease with the question.

'Well, you know…' Leaning back confidently in his chair 'I think all that pagan stuff is a concept which would raise many an eyebrow in most parts of Wales, where nearly every year a new stone circle is erected as part of the national eisteddfod. I realize the eisteddfodic tradition is not so strong here on the border any more – if it ever was – but if you were to place these stones in the ground in Aberystwyth, or Caernarfon, or Fishguard, I doubt anyone would even notice. The point is, Mr Chairman… all this is largely symbolic. It symbolises a realisation that this town was once important enough to be a place of pilgrimage – like Lourdes, perhaps. And that it can be again.'

Spontaneous sycophantic applause burst from the New Age quarter.

Is he blatantly lying, Fay wondered. Or does he seriously believe this bullshit?

Or are we, Joe Powys and I, grossly, insultingly, libelously wrong about everything?

But almost as soon as she thought this, she began to feel very strongly that they were not wrong.

It was ten minutes past nine, the chamber lit by wrought-iron electric chandeliers, and she just knew there was going to be a power cut within the next half hour.

'Come in, Joe,' Jean Wendle said. 'I fear we shall be losing our electricity supply before too long.'

How do you know that?'

Carrying Arnold, he followed her down the hall and into her living-room, where a pleasant Victorian lamp with a pale-blue shade burned expensive aromatic oil.

'There's a sequence,' Jean said, perching birdlike on a chair-arm. Tea?'

'No time, thanks. What's the sequence?'

'Well, temperature fluctuation, to begin with. Either a drop or a raising of the temperature. Coupled with a kind of tightening of the air pressure that you come to recognize. Y'see, these new trip mechanisms or whatever they use do seem to be rather more vulnerable to it than the old system. Or so it seems to me.'

Jean crossed her legs neatly. She was wearing purple velour trousers and white moccasins. 'No time, eh? My.'

He put Arnold down. 'When you say "it"…?'

'It? Oh, we could be talking about anything, from the geological formation – did you know there's a fault line running through mid Wales and right along the border here, there've been several minor but significant earthquakes in recent years, there's the geology, to start with…'

'Jean,' Powys said, 'we're in a lot of trouble.'

'Aye,' Jean Wendle said, 'I know.'

'So let's not talk about temperature fluctuations or rock strata, let's talk about Michael Wort.'

'What about him?'

Powys sat down, gathered his thoughts and then spent three minutes telling her, in as flat and factual a way as he could manage, his and Fay's conclusions. Ending with the shadow of Black Michael falling over Crybbe, whatever remained of his earthly power centres fused with the town's, the exchange of dark energy.

He felt Arnold pushing against his legs in the way he'd done last night in Bell Street, before leading him to the blood and the semi-conscious Fay. Powys reached down a hand and patted him, and Arnold began to pant. He's aware of the urgency, too, Powys thought. But then, he's a dowser's dog.

'It'll try and take the church tonight,' he said. 'And then. .. God knows…'

Jean sat and listened. When he finished she was silent for over a minute. Powys looked at his watch and then bit on a knuckle.

'That's very interesting,' Jean said. 'You may be right.'

Arnold whined.

'Shush.' Powys laid a hand on the dog's side. Arnold breathing rapidly.

'We haven't any time to waste, Jean. I think… it seems to me I need to get over to the church and ensure that… well, that old Preece makes it to the belfry. I can't think what else I can do that's halfway meaningful, can you?'

Jean thought for a moment and then shook her head.

'What I think is… in fact I know… that you ought to go for the source.'

Her eyes were very calm and sure.

Powys said, 'I don't know what you mean.'

'The source, Joe. Where it begins.'

He thought of the great dark mound with its swaying trees and the blood of Henry Kettle on its flank.

'That's right,' Jean said. 'The Tump.'

'I…' It was forbidding enough by daylight.

'Don't think you can handle that?'

'I don't see the point, I'm not a magician. I'm not a shaman – I'm just a bloody writer. Not even that any more.'

No, he might just as well have said. I don't think I can handle it. This was Jean Wendle he was talking to. Jean Wendle, the psychic. Also Jean Wendle the barrister. The human lie detector.

'Oh, Joe, Joe… You're like Alex. You won't face up to the way it is. To what has to be done. You lost the wee girl Rose, you lost Rachel Wade.'

'No.' He shook his head. He didn't understand. He hadn't understood when it happened – either time – and he didn't understand now.

What am I missing? Suddenly he was in a mental frenzy Why did she have to say that? Why did she have to slap him across the face with the incomprehensible horror of Rose and Rachel? And was he missing something?

'Don't let yourself lose this one,' Jean said.

Fay?

Please… What can't I see?

'And when I get to the Tump,' he asked weakly. 'What am I supposed to do then?'

'You're looking for Boulton-Trow, aren't you?'

He stared at her, Arnold throbbing against his ankle.

'If Boulton-Trow has orchestrated all this, then he has to find somewhere, has he not, with his wee conductor's baton. He has to have a podium, from which… if you really want to end all this – you must dislodge him. I'm sorry, Joe, it's never easy. You know that really, don't you? You could indeed lend Jim Preece a supporting arm as he climbs the steps to the belfry, but are you going to be there again tomorrow night, and the night after?'

Powys stood up. His legs felt very weak. He was afraid. He gathered the trembling Arnold awkwardly into his arms, looked vaguely around. 'Where's the Canon?'

Jean saw him to the door. 'Don't worry about Alex. He's coming to grips with his past, too.' She gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze, it's the night for it.'

Col Croston was pleased and yet disappointed, too. It was going smoothly, Max Goff was making his points very cogently and had been impressing him as the strictly neutral chairman. And, no, he hadn't expected fireworks.

But wasn't this just a little bit too tame?

Hadn't once had to bang his gavel or call for silence. Just that spot of aggression towards the cameraman – minor pre-meeting nerves. And that single, reedy interruption during his introduction. All of this before he'd even called on Goff to address the meeting.

And now the fellow had been given a more than fair hearing.

'Right,' Col said. 'Well, I think I've put all my questions, so what about all of you? What's the general feeling? I think we at least owe it to Mr Goff for him to be able to walk away from here tonight with some idea of how the townsfolk of Crybbe are reacting to his ideas.'

Wasn't awfully surprised to get a lot of blank looks.

'Well, come on, don't be shy. This is a public meeting and you are, in fact, the public'

When he did get a response it came, unsurprisingly, from the wrong side of the room.

The large, middle-aged woman with the white hair was on her feet.

'Yes?' said Col. 'Mrs Ivory, isn't it? Go ahead.'

'Mr Chairman,' Mrs Ivory said sweetly, 'I'm sure we seem a pretty strange lot to the local people.'

She paused. If she was waiting to be contradicted, Fay thought, she'd be on her feet for the rest of the night.

'Well…' Mrs Ivory blushed. 'I suppose we all have adjustments to make, don't we. I know I got some very odd looks when I went into a sweetshop and said I preferred carob to chocolate, actually, and didn't mind paying the extra for a no dairy alternative.'

Good grief, Col thought, is this the best you can do?

'What I mean is, Mr Chairman, I suppose we have got what seem like some funny ideas, but, well, we're harmless, and don't mind people thinking I'm an eccentric, as long as they accept me as a harmless eccentric. That's the point I want to make. We don't want to take over or impose some weird new regime. We're not like the Jehovah's Witnesses – we won't be knocking on doors or handing out pamphlets saying, "Come and join the New Age movement." We're gentle people, and we're not going to intrude and… well, that's all I have to say really. Thank you.'

'Thank you, Mrs Ivory,' said Col. 'Well, there you are, I think that was very, er… a valuable point. So. What about some local reaction? Mr Mayor, you're down there on the floor of the meeting tonight, somewhat of a new experience for you, but what it does mean is you are entitled to speak your mind. Give us the benefit of your, er…'

He was going to make a little New Age sort of joke then about the Mayor's 'ancient wisdom', but decided perhaps not.

'… years of experience.'

He watched Jimmy Preece rising skeletally to his feet.

'Not expecting a sermon. Just a few words, Mr Mayor.'

'Well, I…' Jimmy Preece looked down at his boots, and then he said prosaically, 'On behalf of the town, I'd like to thank Mr Goff for coming along tonight and telling us about his plans. Very civil of 'im. I'm sure we'll all bear in mind what 'e's 'ad to say.'

And the Mayor sat down.

Col looked helplessly at Max Goff.

At the back of the room Fay Morrison looked at her watch, saw it was coming up to twenty minutes past nine and was very much relieved. Within a couple of minutes the meeting would be wound up and all these people would go their separate ways, they'd be off the line, away from what she was slowly and less credulously corning to think of as the death path.

'Thank you, Mr Mayor,' Goff said, rising to his feet. 'Thank you, Mr Chairman. But this is only the start of things…'

What?

Goff said, 'I'd like you to meet at this point some of the people you'll be seeing around town. For those who wanna know more about the heritage of the area, the distinguished author M. Powys will be, er, with us presently. But I'd like to acquaint you, first of all, with some of the very skilled practitioners who, for an introductory period, will be making their services available entirely free of charge to anyone in Crybbe who'd like to know more about alternative health. As Hilary said a few moments ago, there'll be no proselytizing, they'll simply be around if required, so first of all I'd like you to meet…'

He stopped. The chairman had put a hand on his arm.

'One moment, Mr Goff, I think we appear to have another question… Think I saw a hand going up at the back. Oh.'

Col had recognized Fay Morrison, the radio reporter. This was public meeting, not a media event; however, in the absence of any worthwhile response from the floor, he supposed it would be all right to let her have her say.

'Yes,' he said. 'Mrs Morrison.'

Goff's head spun round. 'This is not a press conference, Mr Chairman.'

'Yes, I'm aware of that, Mr Goff, but Mrs Morrison is a resident of Crybbe.'

'Yeah, sure, but…'

'And I am the chairman,' Col said less affably.

Goff shut up, but he wasn't happy.

Col was. This was more like it.

'Go ahead, Mrs Morrison.'

I'd like to know if Mr Goff is going to introduce us to his chief adviser, Mr Boulton-Trow.'

'I'm afraid,' Goff said coldly, 'that Mr Boulton-Trow is unable to be with us tonight.'

'Why not?'

Goff dropped his voice. 'Look, Mr Chair, I've had dealings with this woman before. She's a load of trouble. She makes a practice of stirring things up. She's been fired by the local radio station for inaccuracy, she's…'

'Mr Goff…' Thin steel in Col's voice. 'This is a public meeting, and I'm the chairman. Go ahead, Mrs Morrison, but I hope this is relevant. I don't want a slanging match.'

'Thank you, Mr Chairman,' Fay said. 'I've certainly no intention of being at all argumentative.'

Oh God, go for it, woman.

'I'd simply like to ask Mr Goff what contribution he expects will be made to the general well-being of Crybbe by employing a descendant of perhaps… perhaps the most hated man the history of the town.'

She paused. People were turning to look at her, especially from the Crybbe side of the room and Goff was on his feet. 'This is ridiculous…'

The chairman slammed down his gavel. 'Please!'

'I'm referring,' Fay said, raising her voice, 'to the sixteenth century sheriff known popularly, since his death, as Black Michael, and widely known at the tune for unjustly hanging…'

'Mrs Morrison,' said the chairman. 'With the best will in the world, I don't honestly think…'

'Andy Trow has, of course, reversed his real surname. He is Andy Wort, isn't he, Mr Goff?'

There was a silence.

Oh fuck it. Fay thought. Take it all the way.

'He's also, I understand, your lover.'

And the lights went out.