December (94 page)

      
Tom has his fist drawn back, as if to punch the stone in rage
and anguish.

      
Shelley catches his arm. 'Save it, honey,' she says wearily.

'You're Isabel, aren't
you?'

      
'And who are you?' She feels numb, as if, under cover of the
mist, the paralysis has spread up her spine. In panic she turns her head, it
does turn, and she sees a low white ceiling, like a crypt.

      
'I'm Moira. I'm a friend of Simon's.'

      
Isabel looks back, in sudden misery, into the beautiful woman's
tired eyes.

      
Moira shakes her head and smiles. 'I'm no'
that
much of a friend.'

      
'I'm sorry.' Isabel sighs. 'I don't know where I am.' There's
wreckage all around the chair, piles of smashed stones, glass and earth.

      
This Moira, too, has dust in her black hair. She says, 'This is
the studio. I know it looks like a building site, but it was the only place I
could get you into. That chair of yours is kind of
knackered.'

      
'Me, too, I suppose. I haven't dared to look.' Isabel finds a
weak laugh from somewhere. 'Not that it makes much difference. Just means I'll
have to wear one of those rugs across my legs, like a tarpaulin, so people
won't be frightened and disgusted.'

      
Moira picks up the studio phone. 'I'm gonna call the canteen,
have some hot tea sent over. You've got nice legs. I bet Simon thinks you've
got nice legs.'

      
Isabel says, 'I don't somehow think you are the kind who
patronises cripples, but I really don't have any illusions on that score. I get
the feeling that Simon would have liked them better if they'd been hairy and
muscular and ended in a jockstrap. Tell me honestly. Is it really a mess down
there?'

      
'Down where? This bloody line's just ringing out. Something's
been disconnected.' Moira sighs. 'Maybe we cut ourselves off taking the place
apart.'

      
'My legs! They're totally paralysed, so I didn't feel any pain
when I smashed into that stone, just the blood, gallons of it, all over my . ..
my ...'

      
Her hands, pulled from under her cape, are astonishingly
clean. No sign of blood. Isabel wrenches the cape aside, starts to scream, 'I
don't understand! Moira, what's happening to me?- This is a dream! I'm flying
again! Hold me down ... Touch me for Christ's sake!'

      
'You're not dreaming.' Moira grips her hand. 'I don't know how
much you know about this place ...'

      
'More than is good for me.'

      
'I can tell. Listen, it wasny your blood. The blood came from
the stone. The
sense
of blood. This
place plays tricks with your mind. Did you feel your blood was draining away
through your legs? Awful weak, ready to give up? You didn't want to fight any
more? Is that how come you let yourself fall asleep in the freezing cold?'

      
Isabel slumps. 'Simon. Where is he?'
      
Moira is silent.
      
'Where
is he?
'

VIII

The
Big Taunt

Tom and Shelley in shadow,
holding on to each other. A few yards away, in the canteen doorway, Stephen
Case and Prof Levin watching. Gwyn Arthur Jones is in the admin office, examining
the body of Dave Reilly.

      
'She stowed away?' Tom's face looking like it's melting. 'She
stowed away in Weasel's van - to find me? Well, where's Weasel, then?'

      
'Tom, we don't
know
where Weasel is. That's why we came.'
      
'We?'

      
'Martin and me. Martin Broadbank. You went off with his ...
with Meryl.' Shelley's voice tails off oddly, which makes Tom bend his head to
her, with concern.

      
'Oh, Tom, she's dead. I'm sorry. Meryl's dead. She was knocked
down by ... by a car.'
      
'Where?'

      
'Few hundred yards down the road, I don't know how far.'
      
'
Meryl
? Meryl's dead?'

      
'I'm sorry. She just ran out. He ... it was
Martin
. Martin hit her. I was in the car
too. We hit her. Just now. She just appeared from nowhere, ran out in front of
the car. It was ...' Shelley bursts into tears, it was really horrible, she was
...'

      
'She was a good woman. She meant well.'

      
'Yes.'

      
'This is wrong. This has got to end.'
      
'I'm sorry. He couldn't have
avoided her.'
      
Tom says suddenly, 'I wanna know
where Weasel is. This little guy is my oldest friend.'
      
'I know. I know, honey.'

      
'If Vanessa's here, Weasel's here, 'less Gibson's shitting
us.'

      
'He wasn't.' Steve Case steps forward. He looks very unhappy.
'The child
was
here. Sile ... Sile
asked me to get her something to drink.'

      
Tom whirls on him. Case puts up his hands.

      
'She wouldn't have a drink. She kept trying to run out. I stopped
her. I thought, with her being ... you know ... I thought maybe she should be ...
restrained. I took her to Lee's caravan.'

      
'She's not a mental patient!' Shelley screams at him. 'Don t you
know
anything?
'

      
'I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sure it'll be all right. Sile said
he'd take her to find you.'

      
'When was this?' Gwyn Arthur has returned, very silently.

      
'I don't know ... half an hour ago, three-quarters. Not long before
Tom and Prof arrived.'

      
'And when he said he'd take the little girl to her father, did
he imply he knew where to find Mr Storey?'

      
'Well ...' Case looks awkward, it's not ... I mean, I suppose
it's not as if Tom is a particularly difficult man to find.'

      
'Took us all of half a minute,' says Gwyn Arthur, 'Indicating
he didn't search very hard. Right. Copesake. Where's he from?'

      
'He's my boss,' Steve protests feebly, 'I can't just ...'

      
'Oh yes, you can, my friend,' Gwyn Arthur assures him grimly.
'And you will.'

      
'He ... Well, he lives in London most of the time. But he has
a farmhouse, the Grange. You go out of the gate here and it's the first turning
on the left. Over an old cattle grid.'

      
'Good. And has he a car?'

      
'He's got a four-wheel-drive thing. He leaves it at the farm, comes
over here on foot; it's only five minutes.'
      
'Excellent.'

      
'What are you going to do?'

      
'I'm going to keep poor Mr Reilly company for a minute or two,
while I use your telephone. Meanwhile, perhaps you could be thinking of an answer
to two particular questions. Firstly, why would Mr Copesake want to, let's say
go
off
, with Mr Storey's daughter? I'm
sure, given time, you can think of a fairly sound reason for that.'

      
Gwyn Arthur beams savagely at each of them in turn.

      
'And the other question: where, precisely, is our good friend St
John, vicar of Ystrad?'

It's brutally cold on the
stone platform. Simon doesn't try to fight it. He hasn't brought a coat or
anything to sit on; knows he must not fall asleep. He has no Bible, no cross,
no symbol of his 'faith'.

      
This is not his first vigil between midnight and dawn. He once
spent the entire period on his knees, like new knights were supposed to in the
age of chivalry, praying for spiritual guidance.
      
That was the night before his
ordination.
      
The arrangement was this: just one
impure thought, one image of Richard Walden removing his coarse, brown robe,
and the ordination would have been off.

      
Richard - he was sure of this now - played along. And when the
first red line of dawn appeared in the window, Simon swore his famous oath of
celibacy. For as long as he should remain a priest, there would be no sexual
distractions.

      
This was a problem in waking hours, but not (because religious
thought could be a more than adequate replacement) an insurmountable one. And
when sex, in various forms, not all grotesque, visited his dreams, he began to
surround his bed with Bibles, sometimes imagining a ring or a square of golden light
connecting them.

      
It worked. After a fashion. But after some years, Simon began
to realise it meant nothing. It was simply a smokescreen for himself. His
parishioners automatically assumed he was gay and no one seemed to object as
long as the choirboys remained unmolested. One day, in fact, the bishop made a
pass at him. It was his personal smokescreen. And behind the smokescreen lay
the Abbey. When the living of Ystrad Ddu became available, he made himself apply,
desperately hoping (but not daring to pray) that he wouldn't get it.

      
From that day onwards, tonight's confrontation had been inevitable.

      
Simon can't feel his nose, is sure his lips are blue. Is
gratified to think that, in these conditions, his penis has probably shrunk to
the size of an acorn.

      
Mostly it is dead quiet. Occasionally, in case he should begin
to think he's alone, there's a snigger close to his ear, the trickle of warm
breath. He doesn't move, doesn't resist it.

      
But he doesn't respond either.

Tom says, 'Look, about
Meryl ...'
      
'I don't want to know, Tom.'
      
'It was just ...'

      
'I don't want to
know
.
And you are never to ask about Martin Broadbank.'

      
Tom looks hurt. In fact, nothing has happened between Shelley
and Martin Broadbank and, one day, she'll probably tell him; just now she
doesn't feel that strong, dependable, utterly trustworthy Shelley Love is the
person she wants to be. She also wants him to see the common ground between him
and Martin. They both killed their women on the road from the Abbey, perhaps
even at the same spot. He is not unique. It was not his fault - everybody knew
what a mad bitch Debbie was in that Lotus, even when pregnant.

      
'So where
is
Simon?'
They're standing in the grass, half-way between the Portakabin and the ruins.
Shelley doesn't even want to begin thinking about poor Dave Reilly, lying dead
back there.

      
'Ain't gonna tell him,' Tom says. 'And I'm sorry, darlin', but
I ain't gonna tell you, case you feel obliged. It ain't important, not to the
cops.'

      
'All right,' Shelley says. 'The other question.'

      
'Sile?'

      
'I don't know the man. I met him a couple of times when he
came into Epidemic to see Max. But I don't
know
him. I can't
imagine
why he'd want to
abduct a thirteen-year-old girl with Down's Syndrome. I can't imagine any
bad
reason.'

      
Tom says, his voice heavy with dread, 'I can.'
      
'Tom?'

      
'Let me fink about this.'

      
'In that case,' Shelley says, facing him up, 'you can bloody well
think aloud.'

      
'It's probably not right.'
      
'
Tell me!
'

      
Tom puts his hands on her shoulders, gives her a condensed
history of Sile and his connection with the Abbey. He tells her some things she
doesn't know about the Abbey. He doesn't dress it up.

      
'This is ludicrous, Tom.' Shelley backing away into the mist, her
voice risen most of an octave, 'I don't need this. Just now, I don't need it. I
want some sense. I don't want...'

      
'All right. See that man over there we was wiv a minute ago?
His name's Prof Levin. He's one of the best. You go and have a coffee wiv Prof,
steady your nerves and by the time ...'

      
'Don't
do
this to
me!'