Crybbe (AKA Curfew) (35 page)

   
The Mayor's eyes were watery as
raw eggs. 'You're not allowed, take it from me, Gomer, that's a fact. Been
there for centuries, that wall. He'll have a protection order on 'im, sure to.'

   
'Balls,' said Gomer. 'I was
told he was Victorian, no older'n that.'

   
'Well, you was told wrong,
Gomer. See, I don't want no argument about this. No bad feeling. Just want you
to know that we, that is me and Jack and several other prominent citizens of
this area, includin' several farmers and civic leaders, would prefer it if the
wall stayed up.'

   
Gomer couldn't believe it.

   
'Just 'ang on, Jim, so's I gets
this right. You're sayin' if I falls that thing, then . . .'

   
Jimmy Preece tightened his old
lips until his mouth looked like a complicated railway junction.

   
'You bloody well knowed why I
was yere, di'n't you?' said Gomer. 'You knowed exac'ly.'

   
'I been invited,' the Mayor
said sadly. 'That Goff, 'e phoned me up and invited me to watch. Silly bugger.'

   
'So what you're sayin', if I
brings him down, that wall you'll . . .'

   
'I'm not sayin' nothin',' the
Mayor said firmly. 'I got no authority to order you about, and I don't intend .
. .'

   
'Oh no, Jim, you're only bloody
threatenin' me! You'n sayin' if I starts workn' for Goff, then I don't get no
work nowhere else around yere. Right?'

   
Gomer levelled a grimy forefinger
at the Mayor. 'You bloody stay there! Don't you bloody move! I'll get a
witness, an' you can say it again in front of 'im.'

   
The Mayor said calmly, 'You
won't find no witnesses in this town as'll say I threatened you, Gomer, 'cause
I 'aven't. You can do what the hell you likes for Mr Goff.'

   
' "Cept pull that wall
down, eh?'

   
' "Cept pull that wall
down,' the Mayor agreed.

CHAPTER V

What have you got to lose?' Rachel had asked him, and he wondered about
this.
   
The cottage was on a little grassy
ridge, overlooking the river. Rachel told him Max had been so taken with the
little place he'd thought of spending nights here himself until work on the
stable-block was finished. But, with extra builders, overtime, bonuses, it
looked as if the stables would be habitable within the next few days. And Max
had to spend a long weekend in London, anyway.

   
'So it's yours,' Rachel said,
if you want it.'

   
It had only four rooms.
Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and this small, square living-room, with a
panoramic, double-glazed view downstream.

   
'A writer's dream,' Rachel said
non-committally.

   
'Furnished, too,' Powys said.

   
'It was a second home. The
first thing Max's agent did was acquire a list of local holiday homes and write
to the owners offering disproportionate sums for a complete deal, basic
furniture included. Just over a third of them said yes within two days -
boredom setting in, wouldn't it be nice to have one in Cornwall instead? Then,
out of the blue, here's Fairy Godfather Goff with a sack of cash.'

   
'And you say he's in London for
the weekend?'

   
'That's the plan,' Rachel said.
'But - you may be glad to hear, or not - I'm staying.'

   
Powys kissed her.

   
'Mmm. I'm staying because
there's a public meeting to organize for next week. The people of Crybbe come
face to face with their saviour for the first time and learn what the New Age
has to offer
them.'

   
'Should be illuminating. You
think any of them know what New Age means?'

   
'J.M., even
I
don't know what it means. Do you?'

   
'All I was thinking, if it
involves having big stones planted in their gardens, country folk can be a tiny
bit superstitious, especially stones their ancestors already got rid of once.'

   
Rachel perched on the edge of a
little Jotul wood-burning stove. She licked a forefinger and made the motions
of counting out paper money. 'Rarely fails,' she said. 'And if they're really
superstitious, they can always move out and sell Max the farm for . . .'

   
'A suitably disproportionate
sum,' said Powys. 'It's another world, isn't it? So, er, you'll be on your own
this weekend.'

   
Rachel moved a hip. She was
wearing tight wine-coloured jeans and a white blouse. Max suggests I move out
of the Cock and into the stables.'

   
'But nobody'll be there to know
one way or the other, will they?' Powys had been quite taken with the
reproduction brass bed upstairs.

   
'There's Humble, in his
caravan. He doesn't like me.'
   
'Does he like anybody?'
   
'Debatable,' said Rachel.

   
'I'm sure we can work something
out. What's the rent on this place, by the way?'

   
'I think it's part of the
advance against royalties. There'll be an agreement for you to sign. This gives
you a small - small to Max, but not necessarily to you - lump sum as well. If
you don't finish
The Book of Crybbe
he gets the cottage back. He also reserves the right to install standing stones
or other ritual artefacts on your lawn.'

   
'Rachel, luv, help me. What do
I do?'

   
'My advice? Take it, but ask
for a bigger lump sum. He won't double-cross you. He's a very determined man.
The town does not know what's hit it. Not yet. I'd feel better if you were here
as some sort of fifth column. He'll listen to you.'

   
Powys shook his head, bemused.

   
Perhaps you've come here to find some manner of redemption.
   
Perhaps.

   
All he had to do was make one
phone call and Annie would dive on the chance of taking over Trackways for an
unspecified period. Just her and Alfred Watkins and an ever-broadening
selection of New Age trivia. It might even start making a reasonable profit.

   
Rachel said, 'One more thing.
If you'd like a word processor, please specify the make and model, to match
your existing software.'

   
Powys thought about this, chin
in hands, patched elbow on the pine dining-table. 'New ribbon for the
Olivetti?'

When they reached the Tump, they split up, for the sake appearances. It
was 7 p.m. The rain was holding off, but the evening was very still and close,
the sky hanging low, looking for trouble.

   
Rachel looked around and saw
quite a big semi-circle of people, many more than had been at the lunch.

   
Word had got around that
something was going to happen. Word very soon got around in this town, she'd
found.

   
'What's going on, Ms Wade?'
Jocasta Newsome was posing dramatically against the lowering sky in a
glistening new ankle-length Barbour, conspicuously more expensive than
Rachel's.

   
'Max is going to get rid of the
wall around the Tump.'

   
'Oh,' said Jocasta,
disappointed. 'That's all?'

   
'It's a major symbolic
gesture,' Rachel said patiently.

   
'Is that a television camera?'

   
'They're making a documentary
about Max.'

   
'Oh.' Jocasta brightened.
'That's ... er ... oh, Guy Morrison, isn't it? I think he's rather good, don't
you?'

   
'Yes, excellent,' Rachel said
absently. 'Excuse me.'

   
She'd seen Fay on the edge of
the field, with the dog still on the end of a clothes-line. Fay looked forlorn
in a royal-blue cagoule that was too long for her. She wore no make-up and her
hair was damp and flattened.

   
'I know,' she said. 'Don't tell
me. He's here.'

   
'Do you mean Guy? Or the Offa's
Dyke man?'

   
Fay raised both eyebrows.
'Surrounded, am I?'

   
'I'm sorry about this. Fay, I
really am.'

   
'They rang me,' Fay said.
'Offa's Dyke rang and said, don't bother with it, we're covered. I think
they're trying to edge me out.'

   
'Ashpole's a tedious little
man.'
   
'Poisonous,' Fay said.

   
'Fay, look, perhaps there's
something . . .' If she could somehow turn Max round, fix it so he'd only talk
to Fay. Most unlikely.

   
'Not your problem, Rachel, if I
can't function here. Tempted to blame it on the town, but that's the easy
answer, isn't it?' Fay grinned, if you really want to do something, I suppose
you could suggest Ashpole might get some terrific actuality of the wall coming
down if he stood directly beneath it . . .'

   
She wound the end of the
clothes-line more firmly around her hand. 'Come on, Arnold, we'll go down by
the river.'

Max Goff was on the summit of the Tump. He had a microphone on a long
lead. The dripping trees were gathered around him.

   
Crouched under a bush, Guy
Morrison's cameraman was shooting Goff from a low angle. It would look very
dramatic, this apparition in white against the deep-grey sky and the black
trees. On his knees next to Goff, as if in worship, Guy's soundman held a
two-foot boom mike encased in a windshield like a giant furry caterpillar.

   
There were two big speakers on
the roof of a van at the foot of the mound.

   
'This has been a dramatic and
tragic week,' said Goff.
   
'Yeah, not too bad for level,' the
soundman said.
   
'It fucking better be, pal,' the
assembly heard, 'I'm not saying it again.'

   
Behind the speaker van, Powys
smiled.

   
Guy Morrison said, 'I'm not
pleased with him, Joe. He dropped this on me without any warning at all. A
spontaneous idea, he said. He's got to learn that if he wants spontaneity we
have
got
to know about it in
advance.'

I have always disliked the
Tump for some reason.

   
Powys thought, What does the
wall mean, Henry? Why is there a wall around it?

   
He scrambled across the field,
away from the crowd, unable to shake the feeling that perhaps getting rid of
the wall was not the best thing to do - but wondering whether this feeling had
been conditioned by Henry's misgivings about the mound.

   
Halfway across the field he saw
the hub-cap from Henry's Volkswagen, glinting in a bed of thistles. It reminded
him that his own car was still parked in a layby alongside the road at the end
of this field.

   
Henry's journal was in the car.

   
Bloody stupid thing to do.
Anybody could have nicked the car, gone off with the journal.

   
Behind him Goff's voice boomed
out of the speakers. 'I'm glad-ad that-at so many of you were able to come
today-ay.'

   
Powys moved swiftly through wet
grass towards the road. He reached it at a point about fifty yards from the
layby. The white Mini was there; it looked OK.
   
'Is that your car?'

   
A lone bungalow of
flesh-coloured bricks squatted next to the layby, and at the end of its short
drive stood a stocky, elderly woman in a twinset and a tartan skirt, an
ensemble which spelled out: incomer.

   
'Yes, it is,' Powys said,
taking out his keys to prove it; unlocking the boot.

   
'You arrived just in time,
dear, I was about to report it to the police.'

   
'Yes, I'm sorry, I got
delayed.'

   
Actually, I was beaten up and
then went to bed with a woman I'd never seen before but whose voice I'd heard
on my answering machine, but you don't want to hear about all that.

   
Henry Kettle's journal lay
where he'd left it, on top of the spare tyre.