Crybbe (AKA Curfew) (105 page)

         
'You're beyond me.' He was getting
impatient. And nervous. He was face to face with the man who'd smashed his life
and all he wanted to do was get out of here. Call an ambulance, anonymously.
Man with a broken back. Tried to hang himself. Take him away.

         
Yet there were things he had to know.

         
'Look . . . I mean . . . For Christ's
sake,
why?
Is your mother behind
this?'

         
'What?'

         
'Jean Wendle.'

         
Andy laughed. It wasn't a very strong
laugh, suggesting his breathing was not, after all, unaffected. 'There's no
blood link between Jean and me. She's my spiritual mother, if you like. It's a
concept you wouldn't understand.'

         
'Which of you is the descendant,
then?'

         
'Listen . . . Jean had been studying
Wort for years, right? There's almost . . . this kind of Michael Wort Society.
Very exclusive, Joe. Not for the New Age morons. Not for the wankers. Not for
the . . . authors of popular trash books. Not for the . . . the fucking
popularisers.
For the Few. And now . .
.'

         
Andy began to cough.

         
'I can't feel that,' he said. 'I can't
feel it in my guts, you know?'

         
'And now . . . what?'

         
'The New Age.' He gave a short, wheeze
of a laugh. 'Suddenly this . . . worldwide movement dedicated to throwing
esoteric knowledge at the masses. Max Goff - millions of pounds to . . .'

         
'So you hijacked Goff?'

         
'Well put. Yeah, I hijacked Goff. He
loved me. In all kinds of ways.'

         
'To provide the money and the psychic
energy you needed to condition Crybbe for the Second Coming of Black Michael.'

         
Andy grimaced. 'Let's get this right,
there was no Second Coming. We were just completing Michael's plan. I've had
access to all his papers since I was sixteen, and to the people who could
explain what it all meant. And then it got to the stage where I knew more than
any of them. We were completing the plan. Patching up the damage John Dee did.
Also, removing the Preece problem and altering the psychic climate.'

         
'Stirring things up. Emotional
conflict. Anger, bitterness and confusion.'

         
'We awoke the place,' Andy said, 'from
centuries of sleep. An unhealthy, drugged sort of sleep. Psychic Mogadon, self
administered. I've been planting little time bombs, like . . . OK, I took a job
for a few months, teaching art at the local high school. I wanted a girl. I
wanted to take a girl living in Crybbe and
turn
her. There was a perfect one - I mean, this happens, Joe, there's always
somebody there who fits, and she was entirely perfect. I worked with this kid
over a year. I taught her to paint, I mean
really
paint . . .'

         
'In your studio. In the wood.'

         
'Sure. I taught her the arts. The real
arts. You give them a little at that age, they become quite insatiable. She was
a natural. She can make paintings that become doorways . . . But that's
something else. Also, I used her . . . to penetrate the Preece clan. And in the
heart of the Crybbe household, I - well, Michael and I - we created the most
wonderful little monster, a creature entirely without heart, dedicated to
destruction. In the heart of the Preece household. Again, ripe for it. Warren
Preece. Maybe you'll meet him. Everybody ought to meet Warren.'

         
'You're a scumbag, Andy,' Powys said.
         
'So kill me,' Andy said quietly.

         
There was silence in the little
well-like cell, its ceiling jaggedly open to the attic.

         
'You still got that bread knife? Kill
me. Cut my throat. It's that easy. Even Warren managed to cut Max Goff's throat
tonight, with a Stanley knife.'

         
'What?'

         
'You didn't know about Max? He was
killed in the public meeting during a power cut. It was quite beautiful. And
perhaps the most beautiful thing of all is that when this is all over, who's
going to get the blame for this orgy of destruction? The New Age movement.
You've got to laugh. Warren says that. Got to laugh.'

         
Powys said coldly, 'You're insane.
Your brains have turned to shit. I'll get you an ambulance.'

         
'No, you'll kill me, Joe.'

         
'Like I said, I wouldn't trust you
dead.'

         
'You'll kill me. Look, you're
squeamish about knives, use the rope. Strangle me. No hassle. I'm weak, I'll go
easy. It'll just look like I hanged myself and the rope broke.'

         
He'd almost forgotten the noose still
hanging loosely around Andy's neck. Hesitantly, he walked across, began to
remove the rope, trying not to touch Andy's skin. 'Just in case you're lying
about not being able to move your arms. Hate you to try and do it yourself.'

         
Andy grinned, white teeth exploding
through the beard.

         
'Do it!'

         
'No.'

         
'OK, something you didn't know. Rose,
right? Poor spiked little Rosie. And the baby was spiked too, yeah? Your baby,
Joe?'

         
Powys shook his head. 'I've got past
that. I don't want to kill you for that. I'm happy you're going to be a
paraplegic or a tetraplegic. I hope your breathing degenerates, you'll be even
safer in an iron lung.'

         
'It wasn't your baby, Joe.'

         
His hands froze on the rope.

         
'I'd been fucking Rose quite
intensively for several months. I've always found I can get any woman, any man
... I want. Part of the Wort legacy, if you will. Also, it was my understanding
that, come bedtime, the great visionary writer's creative imagination would
tend to go into abeyance, and so . . .'

         
Powys wrenched down the noose, jerked
Andy's head back, slammed the knot tight into the back of the neck. Andy
grinned up at him; even the whites of his eyes were almost black.

         
Abruptly, Joe Powys let the rope go
slack and pulled the noose over Andy's head.

         
'I'll get you an ambulance,' he said.

CHAPTER III

Gomer
couldn't get near the church, least not within thirty- yards. Not much he could
have done, though, anyway. Be a long time before that ole place saw another
service. If ever. Roof mostly gone, windows long gone. Still some flames -
plenty of wood in the nave, pews and stuff, to keep them well-nourished for
some hours yet - but the worst was over. The stone walls would stay up, and so
would the tower, even it wasn't much more than a thick chimney by now.

         
'Bugger-all use fetchin' the fire
brigade,' Gomer concluded.
         
'Burned 'imself out, see.' He turned
to his companion; no way of hedging round any of this. 'Pardon me askin' this,
but your Jonathon - was 'e gonner be cremated anyway, like? 'Cause, if 'e 'ad
to . . .'

         
'Gonner be buried. And he still will
be, whatever's left.'

         
They'd come upon Jimmy Preece sitting
on the low part of the churchyard wall watching the fire. The digger had
crunched out of the wood and there the old feller was, hunched up, knotted and
frazzled like a rotting tree stump, sounding like it was gonner take Dyno-Rod
to clear his lungs. And it was clear, straight off to Gomer that nothing
happening tonight would have been a mystery to Jimmy Preece.

         
'Who done this, Jim?' he asked bluntly.
'And don't give me no bull.'

         
Arnold the dog limped over to Jimmy
Preece and stood there, watchful. Jimmy Preece leaned down, hesitated for several
seconds and then patted him. Arnold wagged his tail, only twice and just as
hesitant, and then plodded off. Gomer had the feeling this was a very strange
thing, momentous-like and patting a dog was only pan of what it was about.

         
'I'm glad,' the Mayor said, to nobody
in particularly. 'Wish I was dead, but I'm glad. Couldn't go on, see.'
         
'What couldn't?'

         
'You're not a Crybbe man, Gomer, is
the problem.'
         
'Well, hell, Jim, I'm only a few
miles up the valley, born an' bred.'

         
'Not a Crybbe man,' Jimmy Preece said
firmly. Gomer was near fuming.

         
'Who done it, Jim? Too late for all
that ole crap. Just bloody spit it out.'

         
Something gave. Jim's grimy face
wobbled and what had looked like a smear of thick oil down one side of it
gleamed in the firelight and didn't look like oil any more. When he opened his
mouth the words oozed out in a steady stream.

         
'Same one as run your bulldozer in the
wall, same one as slashed my face, same one as left me to suffocate, same one
as . . . as done for Jonathon.'

         
The Mayor looked away. 'Pretended I
was dead, see - didn't take a lot o' pretendin' Wanted to close the ole door to
the tower, keep the fire out, last duty, see. Then I was gonner lie down. Next
to Jonathon.'

         
Gomer saw Minnie Seagrove trying to
climb out of the digger and held up a hand to tell her to stay where she was.

         
'Couldn't do it,' Jimmy Preece said,
studying his boots now. 'Not got the guts. Fire too hot. Ole body sayin', get
me out o' yere. Ole body allus wins.'

         
'Where is 'e, Jim?' Gomer had no
doubts who they were talking about any more. 'Where is e? Dead?'

         
'That's all I got left to hope for,'
said Jimmy Preece. 'But I reckon we've long ago given up all rights to hope. In
Crybbe.'

         
'Jim . . .' Gomer feeling sorry for
him now, town falling apart, family collapsing round his ears. 'I'd like to
'elp.'

         
The Mayor stared for a long time into
the ruined church before he replied.

         
'You reallv wanner do some'ing,
Gomer?'
         
'What I said.'

         
'Then get rid of all these bloody
stones for me. Do it before morning, while every bugger's otherwise engaged,
like. Whip 'em out. Make it like so's they was never yere, know what I'm
askin'?'

         
'Tall order,' said Gomer. 'Still . . .
Only I don't know where they all are. Seen a couple around, like.'

         
'I'll tell you where they are. Every one
of 'em.'

         
'Might mean goin' on people's
property, though, isn't it? Trespassin'.'

         
'Depends on what you thinks of as
other people's property, isn't it?'

         
'Course, if it was an official council
contract, like . . .'
         
'Consider it an official council
contract,' said Jimmy Preece wearily.

They
carried Alex into The Gallery, Joe Powys and the capable looking guy who'd
introduced himself as Col Croston.
         
He was quite a weight.

         
'Obviously too much for his heart,'
Col said. 'And it was a hell of a big heart. How old was he?'

         
'Old,' Fay said distantly. 'Pushing
ninety.' She sniffed. 'Pushed too hard.'

         
Alex had still been lying on the
cobbles when Powys had stumbled uncertainly into the square, seemingly bringing
the lights with him - the power was back. He'd walked past Wynford Wiley and
Wiley had hardly glanced at him. Guy Morrison had nodded and said nothing. He'd
gone directly to where Fay sat, close to the steps of the Cock, guarding her
father's body like a mute terrier. 'I thought you were going to be dead, too,'
was all she'd said, and then had laughed - unnaturally, he thought, and he
wasn't entirely surprised.

         
They put Alex on the only flat, raised
surface in The Gallery, the display window, under mini-spotlights. He looked
peaceful, laid out with pictures. 'He'd hate that,' Fay mumbled. 'Looking
peaceful.'

         
'Don't suppose,' Col Croston said,
'that there's much I can say, is there? The awful thing is, nobody will ever
know what he achieved in the last few minutes of his life. Even I can't begin to
explain it, and I was there. And I know . . .' He broke off, looking
uncharacteristically lost. 'I don't know what I know, really. I'm sorry.'