Crybbe (AKA Curfew) (12 page)

   
'Expect I dramatized it a bit,'
Alex said. 'But that's what it boiled down to. Seemed to work, as I recall. Don't
remember any come-backs, anyway. Why d'you ask?'

   
Although he wore the
regulation-issue black shirt and clerical collar, rather than a Kate Bush
T-shirt, young Murray Beech didn't seem like a real vicar to Alex. More like
the ambitious deputy head of some inner-city comprehensive school. He was on
the edge of one of Grace's G-plan dining chairs, looking vaguely unhappy about
the can of lager Alex had put unceremoniously into his hand.

   
'You see, the way you put it
then,' Murray said carefully, as though he were formulating a point at a
conference, 'makes it seem as if . . . you knew at the time . . . that you were
only going through the motions.'

   
'Well, that's probably true,
old chap. But who knows what we do when we go through the motions?' A sunbeam stroked
Alex's knees; the cat shifted a little to make the most of it. 'Do I
understand, Murray, that someone has invited you to perform an exorcism?'

   
'This appears to be the general
idea,' the vicar said uncomfortably. 'The central dilemma is, as you know, I'm
not into sham. Too much of that in the church.'

   
'Absolutely, old chap.'

   
'You see, my problem is . . .'

   
'Oh, I think I know what your
problem is.' Perhaps, Alex thought, it used to be my problem too, to an extent.
How sure of our ground we are, when we're young ministers. 'For instance, Murray,
if I were to ask you what you consider to be the biggest evils in the world
today, you'd say . . . ?'

   
'Inequality. Racism. Destruction
of the planet due to unassuageable ... I'm not going to say capitalism, let's
call it greed.' He eyed the
Guardian
on Alex's chair-arm. 'Surely you'd agree with that?'

   
"Course, dear boy. Spot
on. Look, Tolstoy, would you mind not sharpening your claws on my inner thigh,
there's good cat. So who wants you to do this exorcism?'

   
'Difficult.' Murray smiled
without humour. 'Difficult situation. It's a teenager. Lives with the
grandparents. Think there's some sort of - his mouth pursed in distaste -
'disruptive
etheric intrusion. In the house.'

   
'Poltergeist, eh? What have the
grandparents got to say?'

   
'That's the difficulty. I'm not
supposed to speak to them. This . . . person is rather embarrassed about the
whole thing. Having read somewhere that so-called poltergeists are often caused
by, or attracted to, a disturbed adolescent. You know that theory?'

   
'Rampant hormones overflowing.
Smart boy. In my day, of course, the vicar would just have told him to stop
wanking and the thing would go away.'

   
Murray said, 'It's a girl.'

   
'Oh.'

   
'She wants me to go along when
her grandparents are out and deal with this alleged presence.'

   
'Oh dear.' Alex opened his can
of Heineken with a snap 'You're right, my boy, it is a difficult one. Erm . .
.' He looked across at Murray, all cropped hair, tight mouth and steely
efficiency. 'Do you suppose this youngster might have something of a . . .
crush
on you?' Well, it wasn't entirely
beyond the bounds of possibility; there were some pretty warped kids around
these days.

   
'Oh, I don't think it's that,
Alex. That would be comparatively easy to deal with.'

   
'Glad you think so. What have
you said to her, then?'

   
'We had a long discussion about
the problems and insecurities of the post-pubescent period. Made more difficult
in this case because she has no parents to go to - mother dead, father in the
merchant navy. You see, I don't want to fail the kid. Because, you know, so few
people in this town ever actually come to me for help. Especially with anything
of a non-material nature - i.e. anything that doesn't involve opening jumble
sales. It's obvious most of them find me an institutional irrelevance most of
the time.'

   
'Wouldn't say that, old chap.'

   
'Wouldn't you? Oh, certainly,
they're always there on Sunday. Well, enough of them anyway. So no congregation
problems, as such, but . . .'

   
'That's what it's all about, old
son. That's the core of it, bums on pews.'

   
'Is it? Is that what you think?'
The dining chair creaked as Murray hunched forward, chin thrusting. 'Have you
ever looked out over
your
parishioners
and seen all the animation, all the commitment, of a doctor's waiting room or a
bus queue?'

   
Alex nodded. 'They're not
expressive
people in this town, I grant
you. Perhaps a chap like you ought to be working in a more happening situation,
as they say.'

   
Murray clearly thought so too.
But Alex could see the difficulty. He'd been lucky to get a parish this size at
his age, still in his twenties. Could be a key step on the way to the bishop's palace
before he turned forty if he made the right impression . . .

   
They heard footsteps on the
path, a key in the front door. Ah, here's Fay. Look, Murray, why don't we ask
her
about your problem? Used to be a teenage
girl herself not awfully long ago.'

   
'No!' Murray Beech jerked on
the edge of his dining chair. 'Not a word, if you don't mind, Alex. I don't want
this turned into a joke on the radio.'

   
'Good God, Murray, I hardly
think . . .'

   
'Please.'

   
'OK, if that's how you'd prefer
it. I say, what's wrong with old Chekhov?'

   
The cat had leapt on to the
chair-back next to Alex's shoulder, looking even less at ease than the vicar of
Crybbe.

   
'Dad,' Fay called from the hall.
'You haven't got Rasputin in there, have you? If you have, just hold on to
him.' There was a patter of paws. 'We may have a minor integration problem.'

   
The cat hissed in Alex's ear.

   
'I must go,' Murray Beech said,
putting the unopened can of lager on top of Grace's little nest of tables.

   
The door opened and a dog came
in, followed by Fay. The dog was straining on the end of a clothes-line. It was
a rather bizarre dog. Black and white, the size of a sheepdog. But with a
terrier's stance and enormous ears, like a donkey's.

   
The dog ignored Rasputin but
sniffed suspiciously at Murray Beech, as the vicar came to his feet.

   
'Sorry about this, Dad,' Fay
said. 'But you and Rasputin have to make allowances, show a little charity. Oh,
hullo Murray, I'm quite glad you're here.'

   
The dog ambled over to Alex.
'He's had a bereavement,' Fay said. 'Listen, Murray, do you know Mrs Byford?'

   
Halfway to the door, the vicar
stiffened. 'The Old Police House?'

   
'That's the one, yes. Is she
all right?'

   
'I'm sorry . . . What do you
mean, "all right"?'

   
Alex, patting the dog, observed
how inhibited Murray Beech became when Fay was around. Partly, he thought,
because of what she did for a living and partly, no doubt, because he couldn't
help fancying the arse off her. Open to that kind of thing now, too, since his
engagement had gone down the toilet

   
'This Mrs Byford,' Fay said,
'was throwing the most amazing wobbly. He' - looking at the dog - 'was howling
in his cell at the nick, and Mrs Byford was reacting as if it was the four-minute
warning or something. Really going for Wynford, the copper. "Get it
stopped! I'm not having it! I don't like it!" Way over the top."

   
'Perhaps she simply feels she
has a right to peace and quiet,' Murray said tightly.

   
'Living next to the cop-shop?
Drunks getting hauled in on a Saturday night? What the hell does she know about
peace and quiet?'

   
Murray shrugged. 'I'm sorry, I
have to go. I'll talk to you again, Alex.'

   
'Yes, call in any time, old
chap.'

   
When the vicar had gone. Fay
said, 'Creep.'

   
'No, just a duck out of water,'
Alex said, stroking the rigid Rasputin. 'He'd be far more at home in
Birmingham, preaching peaceful coexistence with Islam. Who's your extraordinary
friend?'

   
'Um, yes. I'm sorry to spring
him on you, but it all happened very quickly, what with this loopy woman -
definitely something wrong with her.' Fay knelt down and detached the clothes-line
from the dog's collar. 'He's called Arnold. He was Henry Kettle's dog. He seems
to have been in the car when it crashed. Must have got out through a window
afterwards. They found him this morning, sitting by the wreckage like the Greyfriars
Bobby. Breaks your heart, doesn't it?'

   
Arnold rested his chin for just
a moment on Alex's knee. There was a savage hiss from Rasputin. 'Poor old
chap,' Alex said. He thought the dog had strangely kind eyes. 'But he can't stay
here.'

   
Arnold glanced at Rasputin with
disinterest then padded away. Fay said, 'I was afraid, to be honest, of what
Wynford might have done to shut him up.'

   
'Oh, surely not.'

   
'I don't know, the police round
here are . . . different. Wynford had him in this concrete coal shed kind of
place. Hard door, no windows, no basket or anything. A metal bucket to
drink out of. Barbaric. So I thought, that's it, he's not staying here. Then
Wynford and I had this terrific battle.'

   
'Oh dear,' Alex said. 'Poor
chap.'

   
' "Oh, we has to let the
RSPCA deal with it. We has to abide by the Procedures." "Bollocks,''
I said. "Send the RSPCA round to see me." '

   
'No contest,' Alex said.

   
'Listen, that guy is seriously
weird. His features are too small for his head and they never alter. So I just
opened the shed door and walked off, and the dog followed me. Wynford's left
standing there, face getting redder and redder, like a pumpkin with a light
inside on Hallowe'en.'

   
Arnold was pottering around the
room, sniffing uncertainly, huge ears pricked.

   
'It's remarkable really, he doesn't
seem to have been injured at all, though I don't suppose bruises would show up
on a dog. Psychologically, though . . .'

   
'Yes, it's a damn shame. But
Fay . . .'

   
'. . . psychologically, he
could be in pieces.'

   
'But he can't stay here, Fay.'
Alex sat up, trying to look authoritative. 'Grace would have a fit. She wasn't
at all fond dogs. And neither's old Rasputin.'

   
'Dad' - Fay was wearing
that
expression - 'Grace is
bloody
dead
. Anyway . . .' She squatted down beside Arnold, and cradled
his black and white snout in her hands. Long black whiskers came out between
her fingers. 'If he goes, I go too.'

   
Canon Alex Peters took a long
swig of cold Heineken.

   
'Splendid,' he said.

CHAPTER VI

People kept looking at her.
   
This was not usual. Normally, on these
streets, even if you were greeted - 'Ow're you' - you were not looked at. You
were observed, your presence was noted, but you were not directly examined.

   
Maybe, she thought, it was the
dog. Maybe they recognize the late Henry Kettle's dog. Or maybe they'd never
before see a dog on the end of a thin, red, plastic-covered clothes-line that the
person on the other end was now wishing she hadn't adapted because, every time
the dog tugged at the makeshift lead, her right hand received what could turn
out to be third-degree burns.

   
'Arnold, for Christ's sake . .
.'

   
With Henry Kettle he'd appeared
ultra-docile, really laid back. Now he was like some loony puppy, pulling in
all directions, wanting to go nowhere, needing to go anywhere. And fast.

   
You had to make allowances. He
was disoriented. He'd had a bereavement. In fact, the worst thing that could
happen to a one-man dog had happened to Arnold. So allowances definitely were
called for. And one of the people who was going to have to make them was Canon
Alex Peters. In Fay's experience all this cat-and-dog incompatibility business
was grossly exaggerated. Even Rasputin would, in time, come around.