The Chalice (66 page)

      
All around lay rubble and uprooted dead bushes, their whitened
branches like bones. Verity was beset by the disturbing sensation of Dr Grainger
and Ms Castell hacking into Colonel Pixhill's grave. How dare this woman
speculate about the Colonel's state of mind?

      
'Please leave.'

      
Dr Grainger kicked away a slab of concrete dislodged by his
spade.

      
'I don't think so,' he said. 'This is important to me now.'

Juanita's head twisted on
the pillow. Her hair felt damp on her neck. She could hardly focus on the thin
red line slicing Jim's painting in half on the wall opposite the bed.

      
'I'm going to call a doctor,' Powys said He sounded scared.
That made it worse She was frightened for Diane and he was scared for her.

      
'No. Have you got that? You know what a doctor would say. And I'm
not. I'm not going back. Just been overdoing it, I need a rest. And the worry ...'

      
A glass of still spring water stood on the bedside table, a red
and white striped straw in it. She tried to sit up and take a sip. She fell
back.

      
Powys held the glass for her 'I'm not leaving you like this.'

      
'You've got to.' She tried to smile 'Besides, you know how
badly you want to know about the missing Pixhill stuff

      
'It'll wait.'

      
'It won't wait. None of this will wait.'

      
'OK, if you won't see a doctor, what about Banks?'

      
'I'd rather die, if you don't mind.'

      
'Christ, Juanita ... '

      
'He's an old woman. He'll fuss around. OK, OK, call him. He's
in the index.'

      
She closed her eyes. Patches of grey and black coalescing.
      
Last
transition ... disillusion and decay ... draught of death.

'Hey ... will you look at
this?' Dr Grainger squatted down. 'It's iron and there's some kind of a symbol
here, if I can just…'

      
'Get out,' Verity said icily.
      
'... get this slab of concrete out
the way ... Come check this out, Eloise. You know how the lid of the Chalice Well
has these interlinked circles symbolising the conjoining worlds? See, what
we're looking at here...'
      
Verity flew at him.

      
The way Stella, the little cat, had flown at her from the
cupboard on the night of the Abbot's Dinner. Unfortunately, she didn't have the
claws for it; her housework blunted nails raked ineffectually- at his tight
black shirt. She felt a wrench from her hip and stumbled.

      
'Verity, for Chrissakes, what the fuck is the matter with you?
 
The spade fell back into the beaten-down bushes
behind Dr Grainger. Verity was aware of Eloise Castell drifting mildly away,
watching the struggle with that same supercilious, unconcerned smile on her thin
face.

      
'Please go!' Verity was on her knees in the dirt. 'Please leave
at once.'

      
'Verity c'mon, listen to me.' Grainger put his hands on her
shoulders, holding her away from him, holding her down. 'Hear me out.'

      
'I don't want to know. I'm grateful for all your help. With
the darkness. Please send me a bill.'

      
Her hip was aching abominably now but he wouldn't let her
rise.

      
'Verity, listen up My studies are entering a new phase extending
naturally into the psychic ecology of caves and tunnels, and ancient wells are
an aspect of the subterranean
tenebral network I had neglected to consider. Until Eloise here made some
connections for me. Now, if you think that the, ah, ambulant shade of Colonel
Pixhill is gonna be offended, then we'll respect that. We'll replace the covering.
Later. After we check it out.'

      
He was very strong. Verity couldn't move.

      
Ms Castell was kicking at the crumbled concrete with her
cowboy boots. 'Pel, ve are vasting time. Maybe I fetch Oliver.'

      
'Verity,' Dr Grainger persisted with his well-honed soothing
intensity, 'nobody appreciates more than I do the kinda stress you've been
under. What the—?'

      
'Psychic ecology, eh?' The bushes parted. A man stood there.
Subterranean psychic network. Wow.'

      
The man wandered down from the bushes, a black and white dog
at his heels.

      
'Sorry, I was just passing, couldn't help overhearing. Any
chance you could decode this impenetrable jargon for me.

      
Dr Grainger's grip on Verity's shoulders eased. She scrambled
up.

      
'You see ... I may be wrong here, but it sounded like... you
know... complete bollocks.'

      
He stepped down to the Meadwell plinth He was quite a young
man, although his hair was grey. The dog did not follow him. It stopped at the
edge of the bushes and growled. It had only three legs. The young man smiled.

      
'Bugger me, it's Pel Grainger, isn't it? Sorry, Doctor Grainger.
That would be, I think, an honorary postal doctorate from somewhere like the
University of Nerdsville, Indiana, right?'

      
'Who the fuck are you?' Dr Grainger picked up the spade.

      
'I'm the, um, earth-mysteries correspondent of
The Avalonian
. I'll be reviewing your book.'
The young man shook his head. 'Serious bullshit, Pel, but you don't need me to
tell you that.'

      
'You better watch your mouth ...'
      
'Or you'll attack me with the
spade?'
      
'Pel,' said Ms Castell. 'We go.'
      
Dr Grainger started forward.
      
'Pel,' snapped Ms Castell.
      
Dr Grainger snarled and hurled the
spade to the ground.

Grainger and his partner
walked back to the garden and down the path to the gate. Neither of them looked
back.
      
Powys pushed some slabs of concrete
back over the
well cover
with his shoe, waiting until
they were off the premises before stepping down into a clump of dead thistles,
stark as brown pylons.

      
He was glad to be away from Pixhill's well. As for Arnold - he
wouldn't go near it.

      
'Thank you.' The little woman, Verity Endicott, smiled
hesitantly. 'Thank you for your help.'

      
'It was a pleasure,' Powys said honestly.
      
'Would you like a cup of tea,
perhaps?'

      
'I would love a cup of tea. I, um, I was coming to see you. I
knocked on the front door, but everybody seemed to be up here, so ... He
grinned apologetically, 'I slipped over into the field, came round the back
way.'

      
He followed her back towards the house. 'You seem to be
acquainted with Dr Grainger's work,' Miss Endicott said.
      
'A little.'

      
The doorway of Meadwell was like a fissure in an ancient tree.
She vanished into it like an elf. He followed her.

      
Arnold didn't. Arnold shuffled around on the path, looking
uncomfortable.

      
'OK,' Powys said. 'What's wrong?'

      
Arnold's first peculiar reaction had been when they turned
into the Meadwell drive. Two yew trees meeting overhead, gnarled, full-bellied
trees knotted with parasites.
      
And Arnold had started to pant.
When the house came into view, with its weathered stone, mullioned windows and leafless
creepers like torn fishing nets on the rocks, the dog had begun to whine. He'd been
OK once they got into the field, but he wouldn't go near the well.

      
Dowser's dog. Arnold used to go out with Henry. Dogs like to
please. Sniff out drugs or dead bodies. Arnold was attuned to less physical
items. Well, all dogs were psychic to an extent; just that Arnold had learned
to tell you what most dogs would be surprised you didn't already know about.

      
'We'll discuss this later,' Powys told him, then picked him
up, and carried him into the house. 'You don't mind dogs,
 
Miss Endicott?'

      
'I love all animals.' A note of sadness there.
      
They entered the darkest room you
could imagine in daylight. Stone walls like a castle. Corners which disappeared
into black shadow. He made out a huge inglenook like the maw of hell. A long,
oak table. He stopped. This would just have to be the table where they'd laid
out Colonel Pixhill.

      
'Please sit down,' Miss Endicott said. 'I'm sorry, I don't even
know your name.'
      
'Powys.' He put Arnold down on the
flagstones, 'Joe M. Powys.'

      
At that, Miss Endicott seemed to freeze. Her woodland mammal's
eyes were startled and then confused. He saw that the skin around the eyes was
doughy, suggesting exhaustion. Her dry, puckered lips formed the word Powys.

      
But only a thin ribbon of breath emerged. At that moment,
Powys could almost swear the shadows in the room were moving. How could shadows
move without light? He could never live here; he'd be constantly walking into
the darkest comers just to reassure himself there was nothing there that really
moved, always scared that there would be something - grisly shadow-teeth
closing on his fingers.

      
'Powys?' said Miss Endicott. Her small eyes coming slowly to
life, like the valves in an old radio.
      
As Arnold screamed.

      
It was a sound Powys had never heard from Arnold, nor from any
dog. 'Hey.' He bent down and grabbed at him. Arnold's head came up, his ears
flat, his eyes bulging with fear and a kind of fever; when Powys reached for
him he lunged and snapped, his teeth clicking together in the air, once, like a
mousetrap.

      
And then skittered away, his three sets of claws scraping
frantically at the flags until he reached the oak door and began to hurl
himself at it, as if he wanted to smash his own skull, break his own neck.

FIVE

Pre-ordained

'Don't do this. Woolly,'
Sam said. Whatever you got in mind, don't do it.'

      
At Woolly's shop, he'd found Hughie Painter and his brother
Gav helping to board up the broken window.
      
Woolly was loading stuff into his
Renault, Looking uncharacteristically dowdy in dark jeans, a green waterproof jacket.
He'd cut off his pony-tail, shaved his head at the front. He looked older and
unhappy.

      
'Where you gonner go?' Sam planting himself' between Woolly
and the Renault's raised back door.

      
'Well, first off,' Woolly said, 'I'm going to the cops. To confess.'
      
'To what?'

      
'To whatever they wanner charge me with, man. Get it over,
that's the main thing. Then I'm off to walk the line. Park the car some place,
take my bags and my tent. Walk the line and think. Maybe when I get back, somebody'll've
nicked the car, save me some hassle, 'cause I don't really wanner see that car
again.'

      
Sam shook his head, mystified. 'Sorry, Woolly. Slight
generation gap problem here. Walk the Line - is this some old Johnny Cash
reference I wouldn't understand?'

      
Woolly smiled. 'Sam, man ... the St Michael line. I need to
think. I need to walk until I'm shagged out, camp out by the line and pray
something sorts itself out. People don't wanner see me. I'm bad news, no
getting round that.'

      
'No,' Sam said. 'You're wrong. Completely. You're the best
councillor we ever had. 'Sides which, you'll die of exposure out there. Look ...
Here's Hughie - he's got kids. Mr Fertile. Yet, here he is, nailing boards
across your window. Hughie, come on, is Woolly gonner weather this one or isn't
he?'
      
'Ain't that simple, Sammy,' said
Big Hughie. 'My first reaction, I'm angry. I think why'd he do that? Is his
brain even working? Then I think, well, he's a friend, he's a good guy. Best councillor,
as you said, we ever had. Besides which, it could've been any one of us.'
      
Hughie brushed sawdust from his
beard.

      
'What other people're gonner think, though, in the final
analysis, I can't say. There's a lot of shit going round right now, Sammy , lot
of extremism. So, well ... maybe Woolly does need to get away for a while.'