The Chalice

SEVEN

Don Moulder had been up late doing his VAT return, last minute as usual, and it was while he was locking up for the night that he heard it.

Would've figured it was no more than his imagination – doing his VAT always made him a bit paranoid about people coming after him – if both sheepdogs hadn't heard it as well and started to whimper.

'Lord preserve us,' muttered Don Moulder.

It came again: the echoey groaning and grinding of a clapped out old gearbox, some distance off. One of the dogs crept between Don's legs. 'Oh aye, that's right,' Don growled. 'You go'n hide yourself, bloody ole coward.'

When Shep joined Prince under the table, Don scowled at then and went to the boot cupboard where he kept the twelve-bore. 'Got to protect me own stock, then?' He glanced up at the plaster between the beams. 'Forgive me, Lord, but I knows not of a better way to deal with these devils.'

Don decided to say nothing to the missus, who'd been in bed an hour and was most likely well asleep by now. Shots'd wake her, mind, if it came to that.

Warning shots only, more's the pity. You blasted away at the beggars these days, professional rustlers or not, and they'd be straight down the police station, figuring to nobble a God fearing farmer for damages, due to the trauma they'd suffered. Bloody ridiculous; got so's a man couldn't defend his own property no more. Well, Don Moulder played by the old rules: thou shalt not pinch thy neighbour's ox, nor his ass nor his best Suffolk ram, and if thou triest it thou gets what's coming to thee, mister, and no mistake.

Shrugging on his old Barbour, Don let himself out. He was halfway across the yard, gun under an arm, lamp in hand but switched off. when he had another thought.

Knackered ole gearbox noise. Lord, suppose it's…Them…?

They'd paid him for three, four nights – via the Hon. Diane, bless her – then cleared off halfway through the first. All right, their decision, no pressure from Don Moulder. But what if they'd come back to claim the rest of their time? How did he stand there? Hadn't given 'em no money back, not a penny; still he hadn't been asked, and there was nothing on paper.

So what you did was you brazened it out. Only Godless hippies, they got no rights. And Miss Diane, nice enough girl but a few bales short of a full barn, so no problems there.

Don Moulder shouldered his gun like Davy Crockett and followed the hedge towards the bottom field.

The lights were still out in the shop when the door opened before Juanita could even get her key in the lock and Diane hissed, 'Quick,' and pulled her inside. She was so glad to find Diane still on the premises that she didn't say a word until she arrived in the parlour and discovered the source of all the night's excitement sitting coolly in her rocking chair looking like Arthur Rackham's idea of a page-three girl.

'Oh,' Domini said. 'Hello, sister.'

'Bloody hell.' Juanita stood in the doorway. 'You've got a nerve.'

'I was in need of sanctuary and Diana took me in.'

'Diane,' said Diane.

Juanita said to Diane, 'Is she pissed or what?'

'I certainly am not. If you must try to explain everything, I think I'm probably in a state of heightened consciousness.'

'While your husband', said Juanita sweetly, 'is in a state of heightened stress, heightened bewilderment and heightened likelihood of being nicked for criminal damage. Plus he's cut his hand rather badly breaking somebody's window.'

Domini sniffed. 'Not a terribly inventive response, all told. But not bad for a boring little turd of' primary school teacher.' She uncrossed her legs and sat up. 'Hey, come on, this is what it's all about, Juanita. Change. No, don't look at me like that. This is what Avalon does for us. Challenges all our preconceptions Forces us to change.'

'Get her out of here,' Juanita said wearily.

'Oh,' said Domini. 'It was different for you then, was it?'

'What?'

'When you threw your man out. When Carey and Frayne lost its Frayne.'

Diane said, 'That's not awfully fair…'

And then the phone rang.

'Excuse me,' Juanita said. Perhaps it was Jim. Perhaps he'd gone straight home. She hoped it was Jim. 'I'll take it upstairs.'

Juanita's sitting room was directly above the shop and overlooked High Street. It appeared much quieter down there now. Nobody seemed to have called the police. She could see a light on over the restyled Holy Thorn Ceramics.

Tony must have gone home. Well, there was no room for bloody Domini to sleep here.

She picked up the phone from the windowsill. 'Hello, Carey and Frayne.'

All she could hear was some awful wheezing. Oh please, not a breather.

Through the window, she saw a large group of people drifting up the street from the Assembly Rooms where this utter dickhead Pel Grainger had been promoting his tenebral therapy. He'd been in the shop a couple of weeks back, suggesting she should place a major order for his forthcoming book. Embracing the Dark. Maybe she should, if he'd pulled a crowd that size.

'Mrs Carey?' A man. Not Jim. She was sorry. If Jim had been about to say tonight what she'd thought he was about to say, then they really needed to talk. Not in a pub.

Poor Jim. With his bikes and his brushes and all those paintings he was going to sell one day when he'd found his Grail. Poor buggering Jim, who she'd thought was just a Really Good Friend. Perhaps no man ever wanted to be just her friend; was that a compliment at her age?

'Sorry,' she said into the phone. 'Yes, it's me.'

'Mrs Carey, I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I'm not awfully well. Little short of breath. It's Timothy Shepherd. From the Pixhill Trust. Terribly sorry to telephone so late, I did try earlier but there was no reply.'

'I've been out. Sorry. No problem, Major.'

'You sound as if there is.'

'Do I?'

'You sound a little stressed.'

'Sorry. It's nothing. Nothing really. Look, Major, if you're ringing to see how the book's selling, I'm afraid not very well at all.'

Major Shepherd went into a prolonged coughing fit.

God, what was the matter who him? Not just flu, that was for sure.

'Don't worry about the book,' he said eventually. 'Mrs Carey, I should like to see you, but I'm afraid I'm in no condition to travel to Glastonbury. Would it be possible for you to come up here?'

'To Cirencester?'

'I wouldn't presume upon your valuable time if I didn't think it was of some considerable importance. Could you come tomorrow?'

She thought about tomorrow's already-unnerving agenda. Jim to sort out, with extreme tact and delicacy. And the problem of the swastika boy. Should she urge Diane to tell the police what she knew?

'Major, quite honestly, tomorrow- could be a problem.'

'Will you try?'

'I really don't think…'

'Friday, then. I beg you to try, Mrs Carey.'

'Is there a particular problem? About the book?'

'Forget the damn book.' She could hear his voice going into a wheeze, and a woman in the background, exasperated, God's sake, Tim…

'Major, do you think I could call you back tomorrow evening?'

'Look, Mrs Carey… All right, Rosemary… I'm sorry. Mrs Carey, how can I approach this with you? There are things you don't know. Parts of the diary we couldn't print for legal reasons. Elements of George Pixhill's past which have a bearing on what I… what I understand is beginning to happen in Glastonbury.'

Bloody Pixhill, Juanita thought. I wish I'd never heard of bloody Pixhill.

'All right,' she said. 'I'll come on Friday.'

'Thank you,' said Major Shepherd slowly. 'Bless you, Mrs Carey.' He said it in a peculiar way, as though it was an actual benediction.

'A pleasure,' Juanita said, strained. Through the window, she saw two women walking up the street; one was Dame Wanda Carlisle.

'And please,' the Major said, 'please don't let me down. Verity Endicott can no longer deal with this alone.'

She watched the two women pass under the window. Dame Wanda Carlisle flamboyant in a cape and – talk of the devil – Verity Endicott a pace behind, like a little chihuahua.

Synchronicity.

Juanita hated synchronicity. She stood there holding the phone, pushing back the metal aerial. The button at its tip was missing and she kept pushing the point into her palm, to experience the reality of pain. More mystery. I don't need any more flaming mystery.

'Major, how does Verity Endicott come into this?'

She saw a man in a cap and a belted raincoat crossing the road towards the bookshop.

'Goodnight, Mrs Carey.' As though he hadn't heard.

'Major Shepherd…'

The man in the raincoat reached the kerb and pulled off his cap. Coils of thick grey hair tumbled out. It wasn't a man at all.

'Oh shit,' Juanita said.

Ceridwen.

Don Moulder could never approach that bottom field now without a feeling of resentment.

It was well out of sight of the farmhouse. Bloody perfect, it was: gently sloping, easy access from the road, magnificent views to the Tor.

Ideal for housing. Also, the only field he'd hardly notice if it had gone. When the snooty beggars at the council had turned the plan down, Don reckoned this was because Griff Daniel was involved and now he'd lost his seat the planners were putting the boot in. Seemed like the only way to get the scheme through now was to get Griff back on the council.

Don slowed up, gun pointing downwards now. No lights down there. Nothing.

Crafty devils.

Griff Daniel had been round earlier with a roll of posters for Don to stick on his fences, on telegraph and electric poles, trees. The posters said: GLASTONBURY FIRST

All would be clear very soon, Griff had said.

What was in the field was not clear at all. Even though there was a bit of a moon, so he didn't need his hand-lamp yet.

There was something – he could sense that, the way you could sense whether there was livestock in a meadow in the dark. Although, when Don put out a hand to the five barred gate, he found the old length of electric wire still looped around the posts, and they never closed gates behind them, didn't hippies. Rustlers he'd ruled out soon as he figured the noise had to be coming from the bottom field.

Sneaky. Well, two could play that ole game.

Don undid the wire, gave the gate a prod, moved silently through and pushed it shut behind him. He crept out into the field, to the edge of where it sloped down towards the road, laid the unlit lamp at his feet and hefted his twelve-bore.

Stand by.

Don stood there a moment in the soggy grass, then he took a deep breath and stamped down with his right boot on the button of his lamp.

'Right then!' he roared. 'What's all this? Who give you per-'

His voice cut out like a wireless in a power failure. The bloody ole lamp hadn't come on. He snatched it up and shook it and still it didn't light up. He dropped the useless bloody thing in the grass and thought about firing a shot into the air.

Maybe not.

He looked up into the sky. A haze of light was wreathed around the moon and you could make out a bit of nightmist below the Tor.

You testin' me, Lord?

It wasn't cold, but it was damp, and Don shivered, wanting to be in his bed with his old woman. Whoever they were, they'd probably been scared off. He picked up his lamp, shoved his gun under his arm and turned away, tramping grumpily back towards the gate.

At least, he thought he was going back to the gate. But when he put out his hand to unloop the wire, he shouted in pain.

'Uuurgh!'

Bloody hedge. Fistful of damn thorns.

Angry with himself now. He must be in a wonky state if he'd got lost in his own bloody field. He kicked out with his left boot at where he figured the gate must be and it got snagged in the hedge and he was left limping about, in a right old mess, trying to drag his foot out and still keep the boot on.

While behind him, in the silence of the bottom field, came the hollow gasp-and-growl of an old engine starting up.

Don Moulder dropped his gun and lamp with the shock of it. He wrenched his foot out of the hedge, leaving the boot still ensnared there.

'All right, come outer there. Show yourselves. I… I can see you!'

And he could. Under the moon, in front of an old oak tree the Green beggars had got officially protected so he wasn't allowed to chop it down.

It sat there under the tree: a big, black hippy bus, engine throbbing.

'Come on then. I'm a-waitin' for you.'

Don standing on one leg, his bootless foot feeling cold. The Blight was over now all right, it was winter in that field. He could see the steam from his own breath rising, and he realised he was afeared. Lights were coming on in front of the bus: feeble, greasy, headlights that didn't light up anything, not the grass, nor the hedge, nor the gate. The lights hung either side of a radiator grille that was peeling off like a scab on a child's knee.

The bus lurched with a cackle of rusty-sounding gears and he thought. Oh Christ, they're gonner run me over, crouching and feeling for his twelve bore but finding only the lamp.

This time, when he pressed the switch, it lit up at once. He shone it directly- at the bus and it lit up the grass and the hedge and the old oak tree he wasn't allowed to chop down.

His mind spun. He blinked, lost his balance and fell to his hands. The bus was still making its rattling cough, but all he could see when, frantically, he shone his light at it, were the hedge and the oak tree.

The noise of the bus cranked up like catarrhal laughter and filled the night and his head, and all he could see in the lamplight was the grass and the hedge and the old oak tree he wasn't allowed to chop down.

Oh no. Oh Lord. Oh no.

His thumb found the limp's switch. He had to do this.

He had to. Oh Lord, please let…

Breath coming raster now, Don snapped off the light. The grass and the hedge and the oak tree vanished, and there was a moment of calm. Before the vibration began. The earth shaking under him. An acrid smell beginning to filter through, diesel and hot rubber.

Gears meshed in the air.

And there, in the roaring darkness, was the bus right in front of him, a halo of dirty smoke around it and wisps of grey steam dribbling out of its loose, grinning radiator and only smog and shadow where its wheels should have been.