Midwinter of the Spirit (55 page)

She straightened up. ‘Looks like you did.’

‘Do you remember what I said to you last night when you asked me if I wanted your resignation from the post of Deliverance Consultant?’

‘You told me to get a good night’s sleep and forget about it.’

‘And?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Put it in writing for me tomorrow.’

‘Mick—’

‘Bishop,’ he said, ‘I think.’

Jane heard him breathing, so she knew roughly where he was – like, somewhere in the crypt, because the breathing filled the whole, intimidating blackness of it. She had her coat open and the candle cupped in her hand inside. She caught a finger in the flame and nearly yelped.

Christ be with me
, she heard inside her head. In Mum’s voice.
Mum be with me
– that might be more use!

Just words, like a mantra – words to repeat and hold on to, to try and shout down your fear, like those poor, doomed soldiers in the First World War singing in the trenches.
Christ within me
.

She walked towards the sound of breathing, which came quicker now, with a snorting and a snuffling. Gross. What
was
this? Maybe she should get back up the steps and shout for help. But there was a power cut; and by the time she could get someone with a lamp down here, it would be over, whatever it was. Like she couldn’t guess.

She shouted, ‘Freeze!’

Bringing the candle out from under her coat, she held it as high as she could reach.

A hundred quaking shadows broke out over the crypt, and James Lyden’s eyes opened wide in shock, his mouth agape.

‘Oh!’ Jane recoiled in disgust.

There he was, the Boy Bishop, with one gaitered leg on a long-dead woman’s stone face. His chasuble was tented over Rowenna, now emerging – who for just a moment looked so gratifyingly ridiculous on her knees that Jane laughed out loud.

‘You total slimeballs!’

But she was nervous, realizing this wasn’t just some irreverent stunt – the Boy Bishop in full regalia, except presumably for his underpants. This was an act of deliberate sacrilege. It was meant to have an unholy resonance.

Get out of here!

Jane turned and made a dash for the steps.

But crashed into a wall. In the dark you quickly lost any sense of direction.

When she turned back, Rowenna was already between her and the steps leading out. Suddenly James’s arms encircled her from behind, his breath pumping against her neck.

Jane screamed.

Rowenna was easing the candle from between her fingers.

‘Oh, kitten,’ she said thickly. ‘Oh, kitten, what
are
we going to do with you now?’

Jane glared at her with open hostility. ‘Does our friend here know you do the same with Danny Gittoes?’

Holding the candle steady, between their two faces, Rowenna looked untroubled.

Jane said, ‘Does he know about those clergymen in Salisbury?’

Rowenna shook her head sadly.

‘I now know everything about you,’ Jane continued. ‘I know exactly what you are.’

Rowenna smiled sympathetically. ‘You’re not really getting any of this, are you? What
I
am is a woman, while
you
are still very much a child.’

Jane glared at her in silent fury, as Rowenna just shook her head. Looking at her now, you detected the kind of lazy arrogance in her eyes that you hadn’t picked up on before – and the coldness.

‘You must realize we were only friends because someone wanted your mother monitored, yeah?’

‘Who?’

‘And that sort of thing is how I make a bit of money sometimes.’

‘Someone at the Pod? Angela? You set me up for Angela, didn’t you?’

Annoyance contorted Rowenna’s small mouth. ‘Oh, please. I was ahead of where the Pod are
years
ago. Though it was quite touching to think of you standing at the window in your little nightie, solemnly saluting the sun and moon, and thinking you were plugged into the Ancient Wisdom.’

‘You bitch—’

‘Pity it all went wrong, though. I could have really shown you things that would’ve blown you away.’

‘Oh, you’re just so full of shit, Rowenna. I—’

Rowenna suddenly slapped Jane’s face, knocking her head back into James’s chest. ‘Don’t push your luck with me any more. Given time, I could really do things to you. I could make you totally fucking
crazy
.’

Jane felt James Lyden’s breath hot on her neck, and struggled vainly. ‘You’re even fooling yourself.’

‘You don’t know anything.’ Rowenna held the candle very close to Jane’s face, so that she could feel its heat. ‘Remember that suit? The greasy old suit I had Danny hide in the vestry?’

‘Yeah, who told you to do that?’

‘
Nobody
told me. I don’t take anyone’s orders… unless I want to.’ Rowenna wore a really sickly, incense-smelling scent that seemed to fill up the entire crypt. ‘I just couldn’t resist it after you’d told me how Denzil Joy had so badly scared your mother. I thought that would be really interesting – to see if I could make him
stick
to her.’

‘What?’

Rowenna put her face very close to Jane’s and
breathed
the words into her. For the first time, Jane knew what it meant to have one’s skin crawl.

‘I found his widow’s name in the phone book, so I sent James round to collect any old clothes for charity. And next I got into
her
: the Reverend Merrily Watkins. I nicked some of her cigarettes when I was at the vicarage, and I smoked them slowly and visualized, and I did a few other things and… OK, maybe I asked for a little assistance. It’s amazing what help you can get when you’re working on the clergy – on the enemy. And it worked, didn’t it? It really made her sweat; it made her ill. You told me she was ill. And I bet she didn’t tell you the half of it.’

Jane felt sick. She must be lying. She
couldn’t
have done all that.

‘You’re… just
evil
.’

‘I’m special, kitten. I’m
very
special.’ Rowenna moved away.

‘No, you’re not. You’re just… maybe you
are
a lot older than me. You’re, like, old before your time – old and corrupted.’

‘Right.’ Rowenna stepped away from her. ‘That’s it. James?’

James answered, ‘Yes?’ in this really subservient way.

‘Hit her for me, would you? Hit her hard.’

James said, ‘What?’

‘
Hit
the little cunt!’

‘No!’ Jane turned and hurled herself against him. Turned in his arms and pushed out at his face.

Which made him angry, and he let go for an instant, and then he punched her hard in the mouth. And then Rowenna’s hand came at her like a claw, grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her forward. Jane felt a crippling pain in the stomach and doubled up in agony. Another wrench at her hair pulled her upright, so James could hit her again in the face – enjoying it now, excited.

‘Yes,’ Rowenna hissed. ‘
Yes!
’

As Jane’s legs gave way, and the stone floor rushed up towards her.

Perhaps she passed out then. For a moment, at least, she forgot where she was.

‘We can’t!’ she heard from somewhere in the distance.

‘Go on, do it!’

Rowenna? Jane heard Rowenna’s voice again from yesterday.
Death can also just mean the end of something before a new beginning
. She saw Rowenna pointing her knife across the table…
Lord Satan, take me!
… the Tower struck by lightning, people falling out of the crack… a long way down, on to the hard, cold stone floor.

Jane felt very afraid.
Must get up
. She opened her eyes once and saw, in a lick of light, another face right under her own, with dead stone eyelids.

They’d laid her out on one of the effigies.

She tried to lift her head from that stone face. But she couldn’t, felt too heavy, as if all the stones of St Thomas’s tomb were piled on top of her. Then the candlelight went away, as they pushed her further down against the stone surface. She felt stone lips directly under hers.

‘Never go off on your own with an exposed flame,’ Rowenna said. ‘It’s bad news, kitten. Night-night then.’

A stunning pain on the back of her head and neck.

Time passed. No more voices.

Only smoke.

Smoke in her throat. Her head was full of smoke – and words. And Mum whispering…

Let me not run from the love that You offer

But hold me safe from the forces of evil
.

But Mum was not here. It was just a mantra in her head.

‘Thank God for that,’ George Curtiss grunted from the pulpit, as the lights came back on.

There was laughter now in the nave – half nervous, half relieved – as George’s words were picked up by the suddenly resensitized microphone.

‘Well, ah… we don’t know what caused this, but it was most unfortunate, very ill timed. However, at least, ah… at least it demonstrates to our Boy Bishop that the life of a clergyman is not without incident.’

The Boy Bishop stood, head bowed, beneath the edge of the corona, in front of the central altar itself. Mick Hunter stood behind him, one hand on the boy’s shoulder.

‘We’d like to thank you all for being so patient. I realize some of you do need to get home…’

Merrily stood in the aisle, near the back of the nave, looking around for Jane, and very worried now.
This is all that matters, isn’t it? This is all there is
.

Something was wrong. Something else was wrong. The power seemed to be restored, but there was something missing. A dullness lingered – a number of bulbs failing to re-function, perhaps. The round spotlights in the lofty, vaulted ceiling appeared isolated, like soulless security lamps around an industrial compound.

‘It’s been suggested,’ George said, ‘that we now carry on with the ceremony, with the prayers and the Boy Bishop’s sermon, but omit the final hymn. So, ah… thank you.’

And no warmth either. The warm lustre had gone from the stones; they had a grey tinge like mould, their myriad colours no longer separated.

George Curtiss stepped down.

An air of dereliction, abandonment, deadness – as though something had entered under the cover of darkness, and something else had been taken away.

Dear God, don’t say that
.

Under her cloak, the cross drooped from Merrily’s fingers, as the choir began – a little uncertainly, it sounded – with a reprise of the plainsong which had opened the proceedings.

Sophie had appeared at her side. ‘What happened?’

‘Sophie, have you seen Jane?’

‘I’m sorry, no. Merrily, what did Michael say to you?’

‘Basically he sacked me.’

‘But he can’t just—’

‘He can.’

She looked for the puddle of blood left by Mrs Lyden’s nosebleed. It was hardly visible, carried off on many shoes into the darkness outside.

‘Don’t give in, Merrily.’ Sophie said. ‘You mustn’t give in.’

‘What can I do?’

Mick had melted away into the shadows. James Lyden, Bishop of Hereford, was alone, sitting on his backless chair, notes in hand, waiting for the choir to finish.

‘I don’t like that boy,’ Sophie said.

The choristers ended their plainsong with a raggedness and a disharmony so slight that it was all the more unsettling. The sound of scared choirboys? By contrast, James Lyden’s voice was almost shockingly clear and precise and confident: a natural orator.

‘A short while ago, when I took my vows, the Lord Bishop asked me if I would be faithful and keep the promises made for me at my baptism.’

‘You must stop him,’ Sophie murmured.

‘I can’t. Suppose it… Suppose there’s nothing.’

‘Of course,’ James said, ‘I don’t
remember
my baptism. It was a long time ago and it was in London, where I was born. I had no choice then, and the promises were made
for
me because I could not speak for myself.’

Sophie gripped her arm. ‘
Please
.’

‘But now I
can
.’ James looked up. Even from here, you could see how bright his eyes were. Drug-bright? ‘Now I can speak for myself.’

‘Don’t let him. Stop him, Merrily – or I’ll do it myself.’

‘All right.’ Merrily brought out the cross. It didn’t matter now what anyone thought of her. Or how the Bishop might react, because he already had. The worst that could happen…

No, the best – the best that could happen!

… was that she’d make a complete fool of herself and never be able to show her face in Hereford again. Or in Ledwardine either.

Untying the cloak at her neck, she began to walk up the aisle towards James Lyden.

As James noticed her, his lips twisted in a kind of excitement. She kept on walking. The backs of her legs felt weak.
Just keep going. Stay in motion or freeze for ever
.

Members of the remaining congregation were now turning to look at her. There were whispers and mutterings. She kept staring only at James Lyden.

Who stood up, in all his majesty.

Whose voice was raised and hardened.

Who said, ‘But, as we have all seen tonight, there is one who speaks more… eloquently… than I. And his name… his name is…’

‘
No!
’

Merrily let the cloak fall from her shoulders, brought up the wooden cross, and walked straight towards the Boy Bishop, her gaze focused on those fixed, shining, infested eyes below the mitre.

52

A Small Brilliance

L
OL WAS SEEING
himself with Moon down below the ramparts of Dinedor Camp. They were burying the crow, one of his hands still sticky with blood and slime… for him, the first stain on the idyll. He saw Moon turning away, her shoulders trembling – something reawoken in her.

‘Did you ever watch her charm a crow?’ Anna Purefoy asked. ‘It might be in a tree as much as fifty, a hundred yards away, and she would cup her hands and make a cawing noise in the back of her throat. And the crow would leave its tree, like a speck of black dust, and come to her. I don’t think she quite knew what she was doing – or was even aware that she was going to do it until it began to happen.’