The Chalice

FOUR
Horrid Brown Fountain

Woolly said, 'Mind if I move some of this stuff, Diane.' I need to spread the maps out.'

She put on all the shop lights; it was a dark morning. 'Gosh, how many have you got?'

'Three. I need to put 'em all together. Think we're gonner have to use the floor. This is heavy shit, Diane, man. This is, like, end-of-the-world-scenario.'

Woolly squatted on the carpet and began to unfold an Ordnance Survey map, sliding one edge under two legs of the display table for current bestsellers. He'd phoned just after seven, to check if he could come round before the shop opened. He needed to lay something on her. Couldn't believe what he was seeing.

For once, Diane hadn't wanted to get up, not even for Woolly. She'd been out long after midnight. Yes, OK, she'd lied to J. M. Powys. It did matter about the van. It mattered terribly.

'I got the proof here, look, no hype,' Woolly said.

'Proof?'

'About the road. You all right, Diane?'

'Yes. Fine. Sorry. Go ahead.'

The maps were covered with little circles and ruler marks. All Woolly's Ordnance maps were customised into ley-line plans, with prehistoric sites – stones and burial mounds – and ancient churches, moats, beacon hills and things neatly encircled in red ink. People like Woolly could prove all kinds of wonderful things with maps and rulers and set-squares.

What you did was to find how many of the old sites fell into straight lines and then draw them in. It never failed; you'd finish up with a whole network of lines, some with four or five points, sometimes a whole star-formation of lines radiating out from a single point, indicating a very powerful ancient centre.

Glastonbury Tor, of course, was the classic example, perhaps the most important power centre in the whole of Western Europe. Sure enough, there it was on the second of Woolly's maps, with lines of force spraying out in all directions.

'Spent all night on this, Diane. Couldn't believe it myself at first, where the road goes. Bit of a mind-blower, girl. Don't know how we missed it, here of all places.'

Woolly was a very intelligent chap, but he'd done so many exotic drugs in his time that he tended to approach life obliquely, from strange directions. So that rather mundane things seemed, to him, quite astonishing.

Of course, there was the possibility that what Woolly saw was the truth and everyone else was blinded by the familiarity of things. Diane liked to think that, most of the time.

She made some tea. When she came back he had the three maps pushed together, taking up more than half the shop. He was thumbing through one of the paperback Dion Fortunes.

'Wish this lady was still around, Diane She'd get us organised all right.'

Diane handed him his tea and said nothing.

'Ever heard of the Watchers of Avalon, Diane?'

'Sort of. The group she founded to defend Britain against Nazi black magic in World War Two?'

'I believe that,' Woolly said. 'Everybody goes on about the V-2 or whatever it was being the Nazis' secret weapon, but the secret secret weapon was heavy-duty magic. They were well into it. Now the Watchers, they were all over Britain, but they all concentrated on the Tor at certain prearranged times and like pooled their energy. Really heavy. A real reservoir of psychic power to keep the enemy out.'

'The Tor's a very powerful beacon,' Diane said. A few weeks ago, all this would have sent her into overdrive, but this morning, everything felt so dull and stagnant.

'Some people say the Watchers of Avalon are still around, you know. Not the original ones, like, but magical adepts who've picked up the banner. What I wanner know- is, if they are around, what the hell they doing about this fuckin' road? Right,' Woolly rubbed his hands together. 'Got your notebook?'

'I've got a good memory. Oh gosh!'

'Huh?'

'Nothing. It's OK.'

What if Colonel Pixhill and John Cowper Powys were involved with DF in the Watchers of Avalon? Pixhill first came to Glastonbury in the War – while recovering from his wounds in fact. Was that how the three got together?

'OK,' Woolly said. 'Gimme a sec to get my head together. Everything'll be cool.'

'Everything will be cool,' repeated a voice as smooth as cashmere 'Is this a cartographer's convention, Diane, or have I wandered into a timewarp?'

Woolly spun round in alarm.

Dark overcoat, briefcase, gloves. Diane's brother Archer in his city clothes.

'Leaving early to catch my train to London,' Archer said.

'Saw the lights. The sign said Closed but the door was slightly open. So I took the liberty of walking in.'

Woolly dived at his maps like a maniac, gathering them to his chest. The one held down by the table legs ripped in two places.

'Not inconvenient, I trust,' Archer said.

Young Paul, who thought even anoraks were a little avant garde, was wearing a sleeveless pullover in maroon. He was waving his arms about.

'Swear to God, Sam, I'm coming back from the Avalon Internet Group at Dean Wiggin's flat, I'm taking a short cut across the car park… and there she is. Got three, four spray cans and she's going at it like a loo… like mad.'

'Painting her van? At night?' Sam leaned back in his favourite director's chair, legs stretched out, hands behind his head. 'You don't by any chance take hallucinogenic drugs at meetings of the Avalon Internet Group?'

Paul looked insulted. The kid didn't even drink; his idea of hard drugs was extra-strong mints.

'Sam, I saw it.'

Sam needed to think about this. He'd been in the print-shop since seven, no need to be here, wasn't expecting Diane cracking the whip or anything. The Avalonian dummy was more or less in the can, just waiting for the interview the guy with the dog was doing with the bishop. So no sleep lost over The Avalonian.

Just Diane?

Daft eh? Found he couldn't sleep for ages last night, through… not exactly worrying about her. Trying to puzzle her out. Track down her motivations. Odd, that. Never lost a wink of sleep over Charlotte or the row with his dad. Or even getting arrested over the sabbing, come to that. Probably the last time was the fox cub. Six nights feeding the little guy with a dropper – seven, eight years ago, this must be, a hunt orphan from Pennard's land.

Nearly got himself snatched by that bastard, Rankin – Hughie Painter shouting, Leave it, Sam, they'll see your face.

He couldn't do that.

Rufus. Cute little guy. Still had that sweet, puppy smell. Used to fall asleep on Sam's knees. He'd cried like a baby into his pillow the night Rufus died.

'OK, Paul,' Sam said. 'You don't mention this to a soul.'

'No, Sam.'

'Good boy.' Sam sat up in his director's chair, Beyond puzzlement this time

Verity arose at seven-thirty and made a point of not putting on any lights, doing her tenebral breathing as she found her way through the shadows to the kitchen.

Although it was the youngest and least museum like part of the house, the Victorian kitchen was depressing in its own way. Those tall, dark stained, fitted dressers leaving hardly any wall visible. Knotted, exposed wiring crawling along two beams like varicose veins. The water pipes coiling in the shadows, making intestinal noises.

In the drab stillness, the telephone rang just after eight a.m., rattling the plates on the dresser, the combined sound somehow reminding Verity of the shrill, protesting warble of the fire engines trapped in Wellhouse Lane, less than half a mile away, while poor Mr Battle had burned to death.

She picked up the receiver sharply.

It was Dr Grainger; he came straight to the point.

'Verity, I've been thinking about this a good deal. Also discussing it, in confidence, with my partner, the psychotherapist Eloise Castell. Bottom line is, if you are going to gain any benefits from our work together, we need to get around to some corrective therapy for the house itself.'

'Yes, but Dr Grainger, I don't…' He was suddenly a runaway force in Glastonbury. The publication of his book. Embracing the Dark, had been brought forward to coincide with the Winter Solstice, the shortest, darkest day, and the Sunday Times had done an article on him for its colour magazine.

But she really couldn't have him tampering with the fabric of Meadwell.

'I would like to check this out soonest. Verity. Specifically the old well itself.'

'But you can't get to the well. It's sealed up, Dr Grainger. Concreted over. Because of contamination. There was a… a health risk.'

'Precisely. The sealing of the well put the house into a state of denial. What you have there is a vital subterranean artery you can no longer access. I say vital, because this was the reason for the house being built in this location. Could we say tomorrow? Eleven a.m.?'

'Oh, but I…' Verity frantically fingering her wooden beads. 'I would need to consult the Trust.'

And I'm afraid to. Because I don't know who controls the Trust ant more or to what extent it still honours the Colonel's wishes.

'Verity,' he said with heavy patience 'I ran into Oliver Pixhill last night. We discussed the problem at some length. Oliver is concerned about your situation. He wants to help you. He said to me, go ahead.'

'Go ahead?'

'And unblock the Meadwell.'

Afterwards, Verity, who had not been down to the old well in years, felt so jittery that she was obliged to take a measure of Dr Bach's Rescue Remedy before she was even able to leave the oppressive kitchen.

Archer stood in the doorway exuding Presence; Diane wondered if this was something they taught you at Conservative Central Office, how to walk into a room and dominate everybody or perhaps he'd just had lessons from Father.

'Councillor Woolaston.' Archer smiled, managing to make Diane feel as though he'd discovered her and Woolly dancing in the nude.

Woolly shoved roughly folded maps under his arm to shake hands. Archer said, 'I suspect we'll be seeing a good deal of each other in the years to come. Or perhaps not.'

'If you get elected,' Woolly said. Diane glanced at him; wasn't like Woolly to be so abrasive. He must have been very startled.

She saw Archer's full mouth develop a petulant twist, swiftly straightened. Too swiftly – as if he'd been studying his less appealing expressions on video, with a view to strangling them at birth.

'Quite,' Archer said pleasantly. 'Look, I don't want to intrude on you, Diane, if…'

''s OK,' Woolly said hurriedly. 'I was just off. Got this site-meeting out at Meare in half an hour. Catch you again, Diane.'

'Interesting to meet you. Councillor.' Archer watched him go, shaking his head almost kindly. 'Quaint little person. Surely the last of a dying breed.'

'He's a nice man, Archer.' Diane moved defensively behind the counter.

'I'm sure he is. Diane, reason I called. Father's been trying to reach you – with a conspicuous lack of success – to find out what you were doing for Christmas.'

'If you remember,' Diane said icily, 'the last time I saw Father was when he had me kidnapped.'

'Oh Diane…' Archer twitching off his gloves. 'What can one say? The old man was thinking of me. A trifle embarrassing if the news of one's election had appeared next to the arrest of one's sister, along with two dozen smelly hippies, for public order offences. But you're quite right, an overreaction Educated people make allowances for you now.'

Archer smiled his vulpine smile She noticed he'd developed lady Thatcher's mannerism of finishing a sentence by putting the head on one side and exposing the teeth.

'Archer…' Diane stopped suddenly, realising she was being given a chance to mention what the Rankins had done to Headlice. Archer was watching her, unblinking, and Diane felt a stillness come upon the room. The colours of the books on the display stands seemed to be neutralising before her eyes.

She let her arms fall to her sides in defeat. 'It… it's just you can't do that, you know, that… that sort of thing.'

The words mushy and inexact, not quite aware of what she was saying. 'I mean I'm twenty-seven, which… which makes me a… grown-up person, you know?' Blinking to clear her vision. 'I mean, what… what was he going to do, lock me in the attic?'

Archer retracted his smile If he was relieved she hadn't mentioned the Headlice business he wasn't showing it.

'Diane, believe me, when Juanita Carey arrived to collect you, we couldn't have been more happy. A responsible woman, in spite of…'

Archer gesticulated at the books with a certain nosewrinkling contempt.

'Really 'palling tragedy, though. Wondering if I ought to pop in and see her in hospital. Take a bunch of flaaahs.'

'Perhaps not,' Diane said carefully. She felt as if she were standing in a pool of grey water, its temperature just above her body heat.

'Whatever you think best. Anyway, we're all jolly happy to see you apparently settled and working on this little… ah… periodical… pamphlet thing.'

Diane let it go. They weren't making a great secret of The Avalonian, but the less Archer knew the better. She didn't want to talk about the new road either. And certainly not the Tor; Archer was its enemy. And her…

'So.' He beamed, 'What are you doing for Christmas? Because, Father and I thought you might like to join us – family, friends, neighbours. Party people – at Bowermead. The usual Christmas Day gathering and then the hunt, of course, on Boxing Day. We couldn't possibly think of you being so close and not joining in the festive fun.'

Diane could almost feel the bloody dampness on her thighs as she remembered Archer's idea of festive fun. She could hardly see him now, the shop was so dark, its window and door clouded with fog. She heard her own voice say, 'Tell Father it's terribly kind of him, but I think Juanita's going to be out of hospital for Christmas. And she won't be able to use her hands much, you see. Not properly. Not for some time.'

'Ah, yes. How good you are, Diane. I shall try and explain it to Father.'

Diane felt a movement in the pool of mist at her side.

'Of course it was his original intention…' Archer's little smile was almost coy, '… to invite Patrick and his family.'

She clutched at the counter, feeling sick with hatred, the loathing solid and real inside her and also, somehow, existing separately, in the room

'If you'd then refused to come, he'd doubtless have sent Patrick to fetch you and it would all have been horribly embarrassing. Tact, diplomacy and forethought never being Father's middle names. Don't worry, my dear, I've talked him out of it.'

'Thank you,' Diane said on a long, volcanic breath. 'Thank you, Archer.'

'I'll be on my way then.' Archer slipped a glove over his hand, paused in the doorway. 'And when is this little paper of yours to be published?'

'Er… er, next year perhaps.'

'Oh, nothing imminent then?'

'We want to get it right.'

'Absolutely. I'm sure Father will be delighted to see you deploying your, ah, new-found journalistic skills.'

She saw how cold his eyes were.

'Even if it is in our backyard, as it were,' Archer said.

'Even if it scorns all our best endeavours.'

He raised a gloved hand. 'Look after yourself, Diane Damned hippies and squatters are turning this town into a jungle. Drug-dealing. Burglaries. Muggings. Vandalism.' He caught her eyes. 'Graffiti.'

Diane's insides were already pumping like a sewage works as she slammed the door in his face and barely made it to the kitchen sink before her meagre carob-bar breakfast came up in a horrid brown fountain.