The Chalice (55 page)

      
Also - face it - he was very curious to meet Juanita Carey
and, after what had happened to her van, there was a fairly good chance Diane
would not be here tonight.

      
'You a friend of hers?' the nurse in the burns unit had asked
him. Not waiting for an answer. 'Do you think it might be possible to talk a
bit of sense into her?'
      
Oh.

      
Mrs Carey glared at him. She was fully dressed, which was a
slight surprise. Long skirt full of exotic colours. Low cut, sunny lemon top.
Bright orange moccasins. Copious, dark hair down below her shoulders. Skin
aglow,
      
Iridescent.

      
The bed between them, her eyes like distant warning lanterns.

      
He became aware of the way her arms were hanging unnaturally
away from her like the arms of a dress shop mannequin plugged in at the
shoulders the wrong way round. The hands frozen like a mannequin's but not with
that fashioned abandon; they were both curled arthritically and as colourful in
their way as the skirt

      
'Um, Joe Powys,' he said. 'Dan Frayne sent me.'

The awful energy something
like this generated. The town would be alive with it all night.

      
The sick mythology was already taking shape. Sam had heard one
teenage girl telling another that the baby had been taken away in two shoeboxes.

      
'I can't believe it,' Hughie Painter said. Not the most original
remark tonight. 'It's just ... Could've been one of mine, you know?'

      
Not very original either. Sam watched two coppers taking measurements
and photos. The container lorry - car parts for Swindon - had been pulled out
of the market cross monument. Council blokes checking out the stonework in case
it was in danger of collapse.

      
'Think he'll be charged?'

      
'Woolly? I dunno.' Hughie was still looking quite white. 'Can
you be done for slamming on your brakes without warning? Maybe.'

      
'If half these people had their way, the poor little bugger'd
be hanged.'

      
'He didn't help himself,' Hughie said severely. 'You heard
what he said when he got out of his car.'

      
'I didn't hear it. I was told. Every bugger's probably been told
by now. So with Woolly's past, everybody naturally assumes he was doped up to the
eyeballs. This'll finish him, Hughie. Who's gonner vote for him now?'
      
'Good news for your old man.'

      
'Yeah. Good news for Glastonbury First all round, once the
weeping's over.'

      
'Aye. Well.' Hughie sniffed. 'I'm off home now, Sammy. Going
to count my kids.'

      
Sam nodded and walked into the road, single-lane traffic going
through sluggishly now. Counting his kids. A lot of mums and dads would be
doing that tonight. Even Alternative mums and dads with a shelf full of
meditation tapes and a cannabis plant in the greenhouse. Why did he think that even
Hughie Painter, father of three, might well think twice about voting for Woolly
again?

      
The fucking irony of it, though. The great anti-traffic evangelist.
Slamming on in the middle of the rush hour for a bus that nobody else managed
to see. Just swerving out into the centre of the road. The driver of the lorry
behind him pulling the other way to avoid smashing into the back of Woolly, and
the lorry going out of control and crunching through the Christmas tree, the
people and the pram, smack into the side of the market cross.

      
Neither of them could've been going very fast. Not in the town
centre, in the rush hour. But they didn't have to be.

      
Const... ance...

      
Ah, Jesus, was he going to hear that every time he walked past
here, like the shriek was imprinted on the fabric of the street?

      
Constance Morgan. Four months old. Hardly aware she had a life
before it was gone. Her mother, now in danger of losing a leg, was Kirsty
Morgan.

      
Nee Cotton.

      
Daughter of Quentin Cotton.

      
So the chairman of Glastonbury First loses his grandchild, gets
his only daughter crippled in an accident caused by ...
      
'I can't believe this,' Sam hissed.

''
Scuse
me,
squire, would you mind?'

      
A bloke wanted to set up a black tripod. Sam moved back, thinking
it was a police photographer, until the bloke slid a big video camera into the
top of the tripod and a white light came on, revealing a woman in a sheepskin
coat, very short blonde hair. Tammy White from BBC Bristol with a big boom
microphone in a furry cover.

      
'What about we do it here, Rob?' Tammy White said.
      
'Can you get the lorry in?'

      
'Yeah, if the two of you come out a bit. That's fine. That'll
do.'

      
Sam stepped into the doorway of the Crown Hotel as the camera
light shone bright as day on the face of Archer Ffitch.

      
'Sorry to put you on the spot like this,' Tammy White said in
a low, non-interviewing voice. 'They'll only use about half a minute, but I need
to cover myself. Is that all right?'

      
'Anything you require, Tammy,' Archer said smoothly. 'It's a
pretty difficult situation for me, but you've got your job to do.'

      
'I'm recording,' the cameraman said. 'In your own time, Tammy.'

      
Tammy White straightened up, held the microphone between her
and Archer, just above waist level.

      
'Mr Ffitch, this is obviously a terrible thing to happen, particularly
in the week before Christmas. What are your feelings?'

      
Archer said, 'It is
the
most appalling tragedy. People ...
children
... gathering for this joyful occasion - the lighting of the Christmas tree ...
My heart goes out to the family.'

      
'And you saw what happened?'

      
'I was returning from the station when we were held up. It had
happened only minutes before and there was tremendous chaos. The driver was
trapped in his cab, the poor mother was semi conscious, and I don't think
anyone realised at that stage that there was a pram underneath.'

      
Archer's voice faltered. Sam saw his jaw quiver. Sam's fists
clenched.

      
Tammy White said, 'Now, you're one of the supporters of the
plan for a Central Somerset relief road which many people are objecting to …'

      
'Tammy,' Archer held up a restraining hand. 'This is not the
time to make political capital. I realise that many
local
people will be saying that, if such a road existed,
commercial traffic of this size would not be passing through Glastonbury.
Personally, I would rather not comment at this stage especially as the leader
of the campaign against this road is tonight being questioned by police in
connection with the incident.'

      
'This is the second death in just over a month connected with
traffic congestion in the town. The other involved a fire, which emergency services
couldn't reach because of New Age travellers' vehicles on the approach road to Glastonbury
Tor. You've initiated a campaign to limit access to the Tor. Do you think
that's a related issue?'

      
Tammy made a face at the clumsiness of her question, but
Archer was straight in there.

      
'I think what both these tragedies are telling us is that this
is a town which has been getting seriously out of control. I think we have to
calm down, consider whether we believe Glastonbury has been going in the right
direction and then take steps to ensure the town is run for - and
by
- normal, decent, law-abiding people.'

      
Meaning, Avalon out, Woolaston out. Sam felt like rushing out
there, making a scene, giving them some real footage for their programme.

      
'Thank you.' Tammy nodded to the cameraman to wind up.

      
'Got all you wanted?' Archer asked obligingly as the camera
light went out.

      
'Fine. Unless you've got any views about the Bishop's meet the
pagans mission on Thursday.'

      
'Silly man,' Archer said. 'Off the record, of course.'

      
'Also off the record,' murmured Tammy, 'the word is that not
every member of your family a backing your Tor scheme'

      
Archer smiled. 'Diane'

      
'Just talk. As yet.'

      
'Look, strictly off the record,' Archer said awkwardly, 'we've
all been terribly worried about Diane, who's in a ... particularly delicate
state ... you remember she was at that awful fire? Plus, she's been working
non-stop on this, ah, hippy magazine thing from early in the morning until late
at night.'

      
'Must be a problem for you,' Tammy said ambiguously.

      
'Oh lord, yes.' Archer's expression was no longer visible. 'She's
given us a few headaches in her time, you must have heard about all that,
Tammy.'

      
'Well, you know...'
      
 
'God knows, we help her all we can. Try to
help her. Ha ha.'

      
Sam was so blind furious he could have smashed his fist into the
wall. The two-faced git. So smooth, so deft. Tossing his sister to the pack
like a fox cub.

      
Mad, restless energy was pumping through Sam's body. No way he
could go home, sit there with a can of lager and a sandwich and wait for the
slimy turd to come up on the box. No way he could go to any pub in this town
tonight and listen to the gloating gossip about how Councillor Crackpot had
helped kill an innocent little baby.

      
Archer and Tammy and the cameraman were moving away. 'Really,
very good of you to talk to us at a time like this, Mr Ffitch.'

      
'Archer, please. Probably be seeing a good deal more of each
other in the months to come. Do you and your colleague have time for a drink?'

      
Sam watched them walk away from the mess of Magdalene Street.
Wanted to scream at Archer's broad, dark back, like a hooligan.

      
No good.

      
He decided to go alone to Bowermead Hall, climb a few fences,
jump a few streams, figure out how to sabotage the forthcoming Pennard Hunt.

EIGHT

Scorched Earth

The case was very light, as
though it contained nothing but discarded bandages and stale hospital air. Joe
Powys carried it out to the car.

      
Outside, she seemed to wilt. Her blue three-quarter-length,
belted coat looked too big for her; her gloves too small. She shouldn't be
wearing gloves at all, according to the young doctor called George, who'd said
to Powys, 'I hope you know what you're taking on, mate.'

      
Because she couldn't use either of her hands, Powys had signed
her out. The little nurse called Karen had said, stone-faced, 'I hope you're
proud of yourself,' and George, who had a half-grown beard, said, 'This is very
silly, Mrs Carey.'
      
Trying to sound grown-up. 'You're
going to have a lot of pain, you know.'

      
Juanita had looked raw and frayed. 'For reasons I can't discuss,
I'd be in a lot more mental anguish if I didn't get out. Can you get my case,
Karen? Do I have a coat?'

      
'Juanita, does this have something to do with that woman?
Sister Dunn?'

      
'Look, Karen, please, just leave it, all right? Think of the extra
bed. Sorry. I really am grateful for everything you've done.'

No longer iridescent,
Juanita Carey stood shivering in the hospital carpark, looking at the filthy,
dented white Mini. And at the black and white dog with enormous ears and three
legs
      
'Um... Arnold,' Powys said.

      
Juanita instinctively put out a gloved hand to the dog, then
drew back.
      
'It's OK,' Powys said. 'He likes
all women.' Before he noticed that she was afraid of patting the dog because of
her hands. That she was afraid to touch anything.