Mean Spirit (50 page)

Outside a small crowd had gathered, ten or fifteen people. Cindy recognized a number of them as stallholders and resident psychics. A murmur rippled through the group as Cindy was brought out.

A young man stepped forward. He wore a motorcycle jacket. A golden ankh hung from one ear and his shaven head was green and red under the coloured lights. He stood in the path of the second and older Forcefield officer. His accent was deepest Lancashire.

‘You know who you’ve got there, man, don’t you?’

‘We’ve got a thief.’ One of the security guards gripped Cindy’s arm, bruisingly, above the elbow. ‘Out of the way, please.’

‘That is Cindy Mars-Lewis, man.’

The Forcefield man snatched a look at Cindy; his eyes widening momentarily. ‘It doesn’t matter to me who it is. It’s what she … he … has nicked is what concerns us, so you just—’

‘Perhaps,’ Cindy said, ‘I could meet the person who is accusing me of theft. Or you could simply name the stall from which the items are alleged to have been removed.’

‘I think what you do is you let go of him, man,’ the young man in the leather jacket said. ‘You’re nowt but a bumped-up bouncer, anyroad.’

At which the Forcefield men hardened visibly, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, like riot police.

The older one said, with a formality which was indeed indicative of an earlier career in the police service, ‘Under the authority invested in me by the organizers of this event, I must ask you to step out of the way. And I must warn you that if you
don’t
—’

The young man smiled. ‘And by the authority invested in
me
by
the radiance of the unquenchable flame, I’m warning
you
that if you don’t let go of Mr Mars-Lewis right now, me and my enlightened brethren will take you and your mate over the field there and shove them bloody big torches where the eternal light never shines.’

A cheer went up. Several other people moved forward. Including, Cindy observed, the mild little man who had carried the placard relating to the death of John Hodge. When the Forcefield officer let go of Cindy’s arm so that he might grip his long torch with both hands, the shaven-headed boy grinned in satisfaction, thrust himself between the security men and Cindy and pushed out a hand.

‘Maurice Gooch, Federation of South Pennine Dowsers. Glad to meet you, Cindy, man.’

Seward’s nasal voice was so close behind Grayle that she imagined she could smell his breath. ‘See, what you got in here is Clarence’s, as you might say, vibe. Clarence’s kind of atmosphere. Put the old love in a dark room wiv a few frightened people and an air of – as you might say – repressed violence, and poor old Clarence, he’d become very excited indeed. Isn’t that true, Ronald?’

‘You mean, was he sick?’ Foxworth said. ‘Yes, the man was very sick.’

Callard pointed at a silver-framed photograph on one of the tables. ‘Is that him?’

Holding her cool with difficulty now. She’d walked down here, presumably, of her own free will. Convinced that, whatever was going to happen, she would be in control. She was Persephone Callard, she was famous, she was unique; either she got to call the shots or she walked away.

Here, in this half-lit dungeon, Gary Seward, with his sawn-off gun, was calling the shots. Callard’s outrage, Grayle guessed, had not yet quite been overtaken by fear.

‘Clarence was young then, Miss Callard.’ Seward motioned with his gun at the photo. ‘And the ladies was fond of him. Sad, really. He never could understand why, as he got older, they shied away.’

‘So not too smart either,’ Grayle said.

‘Grayle Underwood, you get the second warning,’ Seward said quietly. ‘Now, Miss Callard, you see that jacket on the hanger? Over the heaters?’

Grayle saw that the jacket was black or dark grey. That all three buttons were fastened. Oh Jesus.

‘He had two suits like that,’ Seward said. ‘He was cremated in the other. That one over there is the actual jacket he was wearing when he died.’

Callard made no comment. Grayle saw her glance at Bobby.

‘We did have it cleaned. That was probably a mistake. Too late now. Now this shotgun. This wasn’t actually Clarence’s – he was more of a hands-on craftsman, know wha’ mean? – but he was the geezer modified it. Sawed off the barrel for me, filed it down nice, so it didn’t rip the lining of your coat.’

‘This is the Clarence Museum,’ Bobby said.

‘A Clarence
shrine,
cock. Now, in my understanding, Miss Callard, and from what young Kurt’s figured out from studying the pioneering work of Anthony Abblow, I think I’m right in saying we could not have a better atmosphere into which to invite the spirit of my dear old friend.’

‘That’s simplistic,’ Callard said, but there was a faint sheen on her face.

‘Nor indeed a better person to facilitate the connection. You’re number one, ain’tcha? The most effective medium in this country, maybe the world?’

‘I don’t think so. I think I’ve just had the most publicity.’

‘Nah. Don’t undersell yourself, sweetheart. See, even Kurt thinks you’d be the one Abblow hisself woulda picked for the job. On account of you got no religion.’

Grayle remembered the heavy cross Callard had worn around her neck. It was not visible tonight; she wore no jewellery with the plain black dress.

‘Plus,’ Gary laughed his awful laugh, ‘Clarence was quite fond of coloured ladies. As I recall. And Ron recalls. Tell the people, Ronny.’

Foxworth sighed bitterly.

‘Gary means he raped one once.’

They guided Cindy, somewhat bemused, to a spacious tent jointly rented, apparently, by practitioners of t’ai chi and transcendental meditation. There were cushions and rugs and oriental lanterns, and the central space was swiftly filled by people reflecting that mixture
of the quaint, the exotic and faintly menacing which had come to characterize such gatherings as this.

‘Why the disguise, Cindy?’ Lorna Crane asked him. ‘I don’t get it. You’re a legend. We were all having a laugh earlier on about the directors of Camelot jumping from the fourteenth floor.’

Cindy was startled. ‘They haven’t?’

“Course they haven’t. But I think everybody here agrees the National Lottery’s a force for the dissolution of society.’

‘It is?’

‘What?’ Lorna snorted. ‘Millions of people living from ticket to ticket? Gotta be a millionaire by weekend or life’s not worth living? Buying more and more tickets, five times as many on a roll-over week, ’cause that’s
big
big money? And if they lose on Saturday, they’re spiritually comatose until Wednesday, existing day to day on a drip-feed of Lottery Instants. And if they win, everybody who ever knew them expects a piece and it’s never big enough, and you’ve got this dark fog of hatred and jealousy radiating all around them.’

A small Indian gentleman in a white suit told Cindy, ‘Sir, you have helped enlighten the populace about this pulsing core of negativity thrusting its black tentacles into every household. You have become the vehicle for a necessary karmic force.’

‘Well, I’m not too sure about that,’ Cindy said. ‘Indeed, it was never my intention to become the vehicle for anything more than a mild irreverence, but…’

‘Don’t knock it, man,’ Maurice Gooch whispered in his ear. ‘You’re on a roll here.’ And then, raising his voice, ‘Well, it’s good to have Cindy wi’ us.’

‘It’s a sign!’ someone shouted.

‘Aye,’ said Maurice, ‘but let’s not forget the original purpose of this meeting, which was to elect delegates to express our general dissatisfaction to organizers with the exploitative way the festival’s being run. First up, Forcefield Security. We’ve just had an example of the way them buggers operate – law unto ’emselves, private army – and that’s not acceptable in a civilized society, least of all in what’s supposed to be a centre of enlightenment and human potential. Agreed?’

‘Forcefield must go,’ the Indian gentleman said firmly.

‘Point two – the fees. We all thought the basic charge for a pitch
were a complete rip-off, but we thought it were worth coppering up for on account of it were such a prestigious event.’

‘Some of us always had our suspicions,’ Lorna muttered.

‘But what we didn’t reckon on were the extras – vegetarian meals at fancy restaurant prices wi’ no discount for stallholders. No water on site except for bottled at rip-off prices. And then the campsite fees – seventy quid a night for a bit of sodden grass, size of a hearthrug.’

‘Should be free,’ Lorna said.

‘Aye, it should. Question is, what do we do about it? We’ve got a proposal on t’table that we elect a delegation to go up t’castle first thing tomorrow wi’ a petition signed by everybody as objects to the way we’re being treated – with the stand-by threat that, if we get no satisfaction, we all pull out, leavin’ ’em completely shagged for the big weekend. Now that makes sense to me. Do we have an amendment?’

Cindy coughed lightly.

Maurice turned to him.

‘Far be it from me, Maurice, to intrude upon a private meeting …’

‘You’re a paid-up stallholder, man. Let’s have it.’

‘… but while energies are at this moment running high, a grey morning and a deserted site could well be less conducive to the firing of passions. Also, I wonder how many of you are aware that at this very moment, being formally entertained in the banqueting suite, is a small and elite gathering of dignitaries representing local government, national government, tourism, economic development …’

‘Fuck me,’ said Maurice. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘And while a petition may be taken away for consideration, thus delaying the consultative process by a day or more, it would be less easy for the organizers to brush it under the carpet were it to be presented in full view of the great and the good …’

‘Embarrassing the piss out of the buggers at t’same time! He’s right. Bugger the petition. We should ger up there now.’

‘What about the security guards?’ someone asked nervously.

‘They may well find themselves outnumbered on this occasion, don’t you think?’ the placid placard man pointed out.

‘Shit hot, man,’ said Maurice.

*       *       *

‘It was how we last put him away,’ Foxworth said. ‘She was called Priscilla Hall. West Indian. Barmaid at Judge’s local, the Dragoon. She was in hospital for three weeks with internal injuries.’

‘Jesus,’
Grayle breathed.

‘But she
deserved
it, Ron,’ Seward said. ‘You forget that. What she would do, she’d lead customers on. Then, on the way back to her place, her brothers would step out the shadows and roll the poor sods, for wallets and watches.’

‘The same night’, Foxworth intoned, like he was giving evidence in court, ‘one Clayton Hall, aged nineteen, brother of the rape victim, was hospitalized with serious abdominal stab wounds.’

‘A very silly boy,’ Seward said.

‘He died three days later, from complications. We never managed to hang that one on Judge, as a murder.’

Seward snorted. ‘That was not murder, Ron. That was waste disposal. Those youths was becoming an irritant.’

Persephone Callard had started to back away towards the door. She had her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that Grayle thought she heard a knuckle crack.

‘Come back, Seffi,’ Seward said lightly. ‘You got away last time, just when we was so
very
close. That is not gonna happen again.’

‘Close?’
Callard screamed. ‘Close to
what
?’

‘Close, darlin’, to the manifestation. Come
back.
You know what I want. I want Clarence Judge here. I wanna see my dear old friend. In all his glory.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Am I? That’s your opinion, is it?’

‘Think about it, Gary,’ Bobby said. ‘It doesn’t really make any sense.’

But Grayle knew that it kind of did.

And there were photos of the mother all around the walls, and her favourite things scattered about … clothes, handbags. And all the family – the husband, the twins, another sister – all of them there. And the room was dense with her before we started …

Callard at Mysleton, talking about the most effective manifestation she ever scored.

Bobby said, ‘You want Clarence to tell you who killed him? Because if that’s—’

‘I just want Clarence!
I wanna
see
him. I want the proof that we go on. Just the way Abblow said we go on. Without any fucking angels with harps on fucking clouds. That we remain what we are. Who we are. That what we made ourselves into is not blown out like a bleeding match, know wha’ mean?’

‘Life everlasting and no heaven,’ Grayle said. ‘Jesus, Gary, you’re a piece of work.’

Her neck contracted; she was sure he was going to do something to her from behind.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Over there. Join the circle, Seffi. And fetch Clarence for me. I will not ask you again.’

Callard tossed her head like a pedigree racehorse, turned her back on him and walked towards the door.

‘Fetch him yourself,’ she said, ‘you crass little man.’

There was a moment like a chasm.

It was only when the light bulb turned red that Grayle was truly aware of what had happened: the shotgun had gone off.

LIII

BY THE TIME THEY REACHED THE CASTLE, THERE WERE POSSIBLY SIXTY
of them. Gentle, peace-loving New Age people: astrologers, dowsers, palmists, Tarot-readers; practitioners of acupuncture, reflexology and reiki; regulators of auras and biorhythms; experts on earth mysteries, geomancy and
feng shui
; members of the New Order of the Golden Dawn, the Aetherius Society and the Subud Brotherhood; followers of Wicca, Rosicrucians and Scientologists. Seers and mystics and healers in suits and saris, patched jeans and ceremonial robes. They carried lamps, they carried candles in glass holders. They held Celtic crosses and wooden staves with archaic symbols carved into them.

At the head of the procession, with the militant Maurice and the edgy etheric therapist Lorna Crane, were Cindy Mars-Lewis, Celtic shaman, and Mr Harry Douglas Oakley, whose great-grandfather was said to haunt the grounds.