The Wicker Tree (24 page)

The kitchen garden had been freshly planted where the young leeks had been harvested, and the soft loam was kind to her bare feet. Not so the gravel path that followed and led out to a wicket gate and some fields bordering some beech woods. Beth was relieved to be running on grass now, moving parallel with the extraordinary row of phallicshaped trees, which she had not noticed the evening before when arriving with Delia in the car. She made for the woods. There she could hide, she hoped, and think. She looked around as she reached the edge of the wood, but Beame didn't seem to be following her. Indeed, no one was in sight.

The great beech trees in the grounds of Tressock Castle had seen hunts in medieval times, when the town had been no more than a hamlet, in which the hunters, following French horns, were armed with bows and arrows and the dogs had been great shaggy Scottish wolf-hounds and talbots, breeds now as extinct as the feudal lairds that bred them. But a slim, shivering American girl, naked but for a terry towel wrap, would have been the rarest quarry they had ever seen.

Beth crouched amid a bed of tall ferns, resting her aching feet, which were grazed and sore from running on the old crumbling beech nuts that carpeted the floor of the wood. Never had she needed her God so desperately. Never had her faith in Him been so tested. She spoke to Him, a she always did, in the tone of someone who is half afraid that their listener is, if not slightly deaf, then perhaps distracted by His many other legitimate preoccupations. The God who noted every sparrow's fall was very hard for Beth to visualise.

Now her desperation cancelled any lurking disbelief she may have had. God simply had to help her and she prayed to Him in the fervent belief that He would not, could not, fail.

'Dear God,' she prayed aloud. 'Please don't forsake me. I am so afraid. Please give me courage. If I'm in mortal danger, and I know I am – then so is Steve. Please protect us both from all harm, dear Jesus. Amen.'

The sound of her own voice trailed away and the only noise that remained was the rustling of the beech leaves in the canopy above. She started to feel her courage returning. The desperate aloneness of her position was ridiculous. A mad butler had attacked her and a misguided cook had tried to help restrain her from escaping him, but that didn't mean that the whole world had gone crazy. In the town there must certainly be plenty of sane people who would come to her rescue, shelter her, call the police. Her hosts, the Morrisons, would surely be appalled and furiously angry if they knew what had happened to her. The sooner she reached them, the sooner she would be safe and could make sure Steve was safe too. But to make for the castle right now was out of the question. Feeling like a kid playing some weird hide and seek game, she moved cautiously among the beeches, always watching out in case someone in that obscene avenue of trees might be Mr Beame or the cook.

No one appeared except for a man in a small red truck with a crown and 'Royal Mail' written on the side of it, heading towards the castle. She knew that Lachlan was a big deal industrialist boss but if this was a royal truck, the driver should be someone she could trust. She had only to wait for him to come back. She waited, intending to run out and signal him as he approached the castle gates. But, disappointingly, having stopped at the castle's front entrance and presumably left his letter, message, whatever, he drove away down a second drive she had not known existed towards some outlying buildings, and on from there. By this time she had made her way half a mile through the woods, and parallel to the Willies Walk, until she reached the castle gates. She peered up the street and saw it to be completely empty, not a person and almost no cars and, eeriest of all, no sounds of human habitation, no noises whatever, except the distant cawing of the ravens in the ruined church belfry.

To Beth's enormous relief she saw that her prayer seemed to have been answered. For only thirty yards away was a cottage with a blue light outside its front door and a sign, clearly readable even from that distance: 'Police Station'.

STEVE SAW LOLLY coming toward him over the Laird's Hill. She was riding on terrain that she knew much better than he, and there were obstacles aplenty on the far, or northern, side of the hill. Still, he could now see his objective shimmering in the steamy atmosphere surrounding the island. The rocky throne was clearly visible through the haze. He realised that he was in danger of being cut off by Lolly. She was shouting at him:

'Steve! Stop! Stop! I've got to talk to you.'

She was wheeling just ahead of him. He had to pull Prince up so sharply that the horse reared up in protest.

'No way! Lolly, I mean to win this game and you're just trying to distract me. Ain't that right?'

'No, Steve. This is a trap. Ride for that silver birch wood down there. There's a track all the way to Probast. You'll be safe there. Just don't go near that damned island.'

The sound of fifty or more horses came thundering from the pine wood. In little more than a minute, they'd be breaking cover just behind Steve. He could see that they were unlikely to beat him to the island with the lead he already had. Yet what to make of Lolly's warning?

'Trap?' he shouted back at her. 'Part of the game, isn't it? Why are you telling me this? Ain't you, like, the decoy?'

Steve laughed out loud at the thought she might have been sent just to distract him. Well she sure as hell had distracted him the day before in that pool. But not today.

The horses he'd heard in the wood were now bursting out into the open. Seeing them, Lolly turned her horse toward the birch wood. She shouted to Steve: 'Follow me! Ride, man, ride! It's your only chance.'

Steve hesitated; calculated that the group coming out of the pine wood behind him would be all round him in no more than a minute or two if he stayed where he was. He ignored what he felt sure was a deliberate trick by Lachlan in sending Lolly to distract him. The Laird had never denied that all this was a game. Obviously one that the Tressock folks took very seriously, but a game all the same. The throne on the island remained the goal. He rode straight at it.

Prince didn't like the steam much when they reached the river bank opposite the island. Looking round, Steve could see that the group coming from the pine wood still had a way to ride before they caught up with him. Lachlan and Delia's group was still half a mile away,

following the twisting Sulis River route.

Steve dismounted and led Prince through the stream. Safely on the other side, the horse was content to graze while Steve tried out the odd-shaped throne. It certainly was not comfortable to sit upon, so he stood in front of it in his version of a triumphant pose. He had won. The game was over. After the game, Lachlan had said yesterday evening, came the feast.

The hunters were starting to arrive. The ones who had emerged from the pine woods first, then the contingent that had gone round the back of the Laird's Hill and, finally, Lachlan and Delia with those who had taken the Sulis River route. Steve thought he would wait for Lachlan to open the proceedings to celebrate the Laddie's victory, whatever they might be. Everyone else seemed to be waiting for that, too. For there was a strange lack of chatter amongst those on the other side of the steamy Sulis, just a few muffled voices and the sound of the horses moving around. The only other noise, and it wasn't a pleasant one, was the cawing of the ravens circling overhead.

Nearly the whole crowd was now standing staring at him through the mist. Lachlan and Delia were among the last to dismount. It was as the Laird came forward, leaving Carl to tether his horse, that Steve decided to speak.

'So what took you guys so long? I hope you brought something to eat, because I'm starving.'

There was quite a pause before Lachlan responded. It was as if he was waiting till he had the attention of the whole crowd. He spoke now in the deep sonorous tone that was almost his singing voice.

'Laddie, you are a prince among men. A king. We all salute you.'

To Steve's astonishment the whole assembly joined Lachlan in bowing deeply to him. Steve didn't care for this. He didn't like it at all. It was weird. Worse than weird. Far-out creepy.

'You will give your life,' Lachlan went on, 'so that a new generation of our community will be born blessing your name. Babies will be named after you. Hallowed be your name. And now we will sing the song – hymn, if you like – that you and Beth taught us.'

Religion for Steve was a simple thing. You believed in God and Jesus and a whole lot of stuff in the Bible that you could get by handily without knowing or remembering, as long as you were prepared to tell one of those pestering folks that did the polls that you believed every goddone word. Before coming on this mission he had learnt about the Old Testament from an-easy-to-assimilate strip cartoon book. He'd learnt the list of the prophets by heart. Ezekiel was his favourite. Combative as hell was old Zeke. Right now Lachlan was talking religion and none of it made sense. But it didn't have to make sense to Steve, because this was their religion, not his.

They were indeed starting to sing that hymn that Beth had sung for them and for which he, Steve, had handed out the words with the other pamphlets. The sound of the whole mass of them singing the hymn was pretty impressive. He wished Beth was there to hear them sing:

'Would you be free from your burden of sin?

There's power in the blood

There's power in the blood

Would you o'er evil a victory win? There's power in the blood of the lamb.'

He'd tied Prince's reins loosely around an old tree stump. Now, suddenly, the horse was dragging at it with his ears flat back on the side of his head like he was real scared of something. Steve went to reassure him. He had a natural sense of how to comfort animals, particularly horses. He'd talk to them real quiet and stroke their noses. They just loved that, some of them. The hymn went on and it was getting nearer. The whole lot of them were coming to join him on the island. For some reason this terrified poor old Prince. Maybe it was all those pesky black birds, cawing and swooping. Well, you couldn't love all animals the same and those birds were real creepy and dirty. They seemed to get more excited as the folks came walking, wading, sloshing through the river towards him. Maybe because they were expecting some more of those pinkies Jack had been feeding them. But he couldn't see Jack. There were most of the other familiar faces: Lachlan, Delia, Carl, Donald Dee, Danny, Paul, Dawcus, Anthea, the gal from the stables, but no Lolly. Of course she could still be playin' the dumb game. That made him smile. Some of those little old girls were up to their busts in that steamy water, but they looked like they didn't even notice.

He had tried not to think back to the magical time with Lolly in that water because it was sinful, but now it came back to him, as he waited for all those folks to join him. The wonder of it, it was like the real, heavenly, everlasting bliss they talked about in church… how else could you describe it? No need to describe it. He could still almost feel it…

Their faces were getting close now. He had never seen expressions like that before except, yes, once – in an old photo his grandaddy had of a lynching. It was the flash of memory that showed him that picture again that at last told him the truth. Steve had time to give one great shout, one terrible cry of disbelief, as they fell upon him. He tried to fight them off. Using his fists, kicking and wrenching himself away from them. But they were already tearing his clothes off him, dozens of hands, hundreds of hands, clutching, ripping, stripping…

'NOooooooooooooooooo!' he roared, with the last breath left to him.

On the flank of the Laird's Hill, Lolly heard his terrible cry and watched until it was all over and the human maggots had devoured everything but what was left for the ravens. She had never felt such anguish in her life, such gut-rending pain. Watching was the punishment she felt she had to inflict upon herself, because, although Lolly didn't believe in good and evil, she had a keen sense of what offended the gods. She knew that her gods were as good at punishment as the god of the Jews, the Christians and the Muslims. Was it because her gods loved Steve, as she did, that they were offended by what was happening? Was that why she alone seemed to know of their displeasure?

As a joyous pagan, Lolly herself had feasted on those kings-fora-day, the Laddies, in the past, but devouring the man she loved was a gift she could not have brought herself to give the gods. She dried her eyes and rode aimlessly to and fro, while down by the Sulis the satiated citizens of Tressock prepared for the feast that must follow the rite. Their May Day's Eve Saturnalia would soon take place, and continue until May Day dawned. In the past, no May Day's Eve would have been complete without Lolly to urge everyone on to duplicate her endlessly imaginative excesses. But the Goddess, who had always inspired her, seemed to have deserted her now. She felt as dry and as cold and as withered as a once rich, juicy fruit that has barely survived a harsh winter and clings still to its tree or vine.

Certainly Lachlan was content that his priestly duty had been well discharged. As was the custom, at the height of the devouring he held up his bloody hands to heaven and shouted in his enormous voice:

'Oh blessed Sun!'

This was the cue for all but the frantically excited ravens to raise their faces heavenward.

'Oh blessed Sun,' Lachlan repeated. 'Our ancestors feared that one terrible winter day you would set in the western sky, leaving us in perpetual night. Yet you shine on us still. Oh glorious sun, accept our sacrifice and make us fruitful once again. We pray that soon we may hear the laughter of children in our midst once more.'

DAISY AND BEAME had known each other well for over twenty years and yet they had never been intimate. To use one of the police forces' favourite euphemisms: intimacy had never taken place between them. Although in days gone by the two of them would have been the twin peaks of authority below stairs, as they used to say, ruling over a small army of kitchen staff and footmen between them, by the beginning of the twenty-first century the running of Tressock Castle had been streamlined. Dozens of necessary tasks or duties had been given to part-timers or completely outsourced. Their relationship now was a little like that of two veterans who, having seen their staffs decimated, were loyally carrying on the battle to serve the Morrisons by other means.