Crybbe (AKA Curfew) (78 page)

   
'Except that it could though,
couldn't it? It could all be crap.'

   
'And we're just two weirdoes
from Off trying to make a big deal out of something because we don't fit in.'

   
'And if it's not - not crap -
what can we do about it?'

   
'Excuse me, sir." Denzil
was standing by their table, low-browed, heavy-jowled. He picked up their empty
glasses.

   
'Thanks,' Powys said. 'We'll
have a couple more of the same.' Glanced at Fay. 'OK?'

   
Fay nodded glumly.

   
'No you won't,' Denzil said.
'Not with that dog in yere you won't.'

   
'I'm sorry?'

   
'Don't allow no dogs in yere.'

   
Powys said mildly, 'Where does
it say that?'

   
'You what, sir?'

   
'Where does it say, "no
dogs"?'

   
'We never 'ad no sign, sir,
because . . .'

   
'Because you never had no dogs
before. Now, this is interesting.' Powys tried to catch his eye; impossible.
'We're the only customers. There's nobody else to serve. So perhaps you could spell
out - in detail - what this town has against the canine species. Take your
time. Give us a considered answer. We've got hours and hours.'

   
Powys sat back and contemplated
the licensee, who looked away. The bar smelled of polish and the curdled essence
of last night's beer.

   
'No hurry,' Powys said. 'We've
got all night.'

   
Denzil turned to him at last
and Powys thought. Yes he does . . . He really does look like a malignant
troll.

   
'Mr Powys,' Denzil said slowly.
'You're a clever man . . .'

   
'And we . . .' said Fay, ' . .
. we don't like clever people round yere.' And collapsed helplessly into
giggles.

   
Denzil's expression didn't change.
'No more drinks,' he said. 'Get out.'

It was getting so dark so early that Mrs Seagrove decided it would be as
well to draw the curtains to block out that nasty old mound. Ugly as a slag-heap,
Frank used to say it was.

   
The curtains were dark-blue
Dralon. Behind curtains like this, you could pretend you were living somewhere
nice.

   
'There,' she said. 'That's
better, isn't it, Frank?'

   
Frank didn't reply, just nodded
as usual. He'd never had much to say, hadn't Frank. Just sat there in his
favourite easy-chair, his own arms stretched along the chair arms. Great capacity
for stillness, Frank had.

   
'I feel so much safer with you
here,' Mrs Seagrove said to her late husband.

CHAPTER II

Like an old castle, the church was, when the light was going, with the
tower and the battlements all black.
   
Something to
really
break into. Not like a garage or a school or a newsagent's.
Magic, this was, when you got in, standing there in the great echoey space,
shouting out 'fuck'
and 'piss'.

   
When you broke into a church,
there was like an edge to it.

   
Sacrilege. What did it mean?
What did it really mean? Religion was about being bored. They used to make him
come here when he was a kid. Just you sit there, Warren, and keep it shut until
they gives you a hymn to sing . . . and don't sing so bloody loud next time, you
tryin' to show us up?

   
So when he stood here and
shouted 'fuck' and 'piss', who was he shouting it at? His family, or the
short-tempered ole God they didn't like to disturb by singing too loud?

   
Tonight he didn't have to break
in; nobody'd bothered to lock the place after he'd done the window in the
vestry, when he'd been up the belfry and then doled out this plate of dog food
on the altar.

   
Still couldn't figure why he'd
done that. Tessa's idea, she'd given him the can. Next time she'd have to
explain. He was taking no more orders, not from anybody.

   
Warren ground his teeth and
brought his foot back and slammed it into the side door, wanting to kick it in,
anyway. Because it was a rotten old door that'd needed replacing years ago.
Because he wanted to hear the latch splintering off its screws.

   
Because he wanted Jonathon to
know he was coming.
   
Me again, Jonathon. You don't get no
peace, bro, till you're in the ground.

   
There was a real rage in him
tonight that just went on growing and growing, the more he thought about that
bastard Goff and the way he'd tricked him. Warren could see right through the
layers of blubber to the core of this fat phoney. The
real
reason he'd had a nice letter sent back to Warren with the
tape was he didn't know how Warren's grandad stood the question of Warren being
a professional musician - for all Goff knew the old git could've been
'supportive', as they said. And the old git was the Mayor, and Goff couldn't
afford to offend
him
.

   
Warren got out his Stanley
knife,
the
Stanley knife, and
swaggered up the aisle to the coffin, saw its whitish gleam from this window
over the altar that used to be stained glass, only the bloody ole stained bits
blew out, once, in a gale, on account the lead was mostly gone, and they filled
it up with plain frosted glass like you got in the windows of public lavs -
typical that, of the cheapo bastards who ran the Church.

   
Anyway, what was left of the
white light shone down on reliable, steady, trustworthy ole Jonathon.

   
Saint
Jonathon now.

He flicked out the blade, felt his lips curling back into tight snarl as
he sucked in a hissing breath and dug the point into the polished lid, dagger-style,
and then wrenched it back getting two hands to it, one over the other.

   
Sssccccreeeeagh!!!!!

   
Remember me, Jonathon?

   
I'm your brother. I was there when you died. Maybe you don't
remember that. Wasn't a chance I could very well miss, though, was it? Not when
that feller sets it up for me so nice, chucking the old gun in the drink -
couldn't go back without that, could you bro'? Couldn't face the ole man . . .
steady, reliable, ole Jonathon lost the bloody family heirloom shooter. Didn't
see me, did you? Didn't see me lying under the hedge on the other side of the
bank? Well, people don't, see. I'm good at that even if I don't know nothing
about farming and I'm a crap guitarist.

   
Always been good at not being seen and watching and listening.
And you gets better at that when you know they don't give a shit for you, not any
of the buggers. You learn to watch out for yourself, see.

   
Anyway, so there you are, wading across the river, getting closer
and closer to my side. Hey, listen . . . how many times did the ole man tell us
when we were kids: never get tempted to cross the river, that ole river bed's
not stable, see, full of these gullies.

   
See, you might not remember this next bit, being you were in a bit
of trouble at the time, like, bit of a panic, churning up the water something
cruel And, like, if you did see me, well, you might still be thinking I was
trying to rescue you, brotherly love, all that shit.

   
Might've thought I was trying to hold your head above the water.
Well, fair play, that's an easy mistake to make when you're floundering about
doing your best not to get yourself drowned.

   
Anyway, you failed, Jonathon.

   
Gotter admit, it's not often a bloke gets the chance like that to
drown his goodie-goodie, smart-arse, chairman of the Young Farmers' brother, is
it?

   
Worth getting your ole trainers soaked for any day, you ask me.
   
Gotter laugh, though, Jonathan. Gotter
laugh.

It was quite impressive inside. Late nineteenth century perhaps. High-ceilinged,
white-walled. And a white elephant, now, Guy thought, with no proper council
any more.

   
He was watching from the entrance
at the back of the hall, while Larry Ember was doing a shot from the stage at
the front. People were pointing at Larry, whispering, shuffling in their seats.
Real fly-on-the-wall stuff
this
was
going to be, with half the punters staring straight into the lens, looking
hostile.

   
'Make it quick, Guy, will you,'
Col Croston said behind a hand. 'I've been approached about six times already
by people objecting to your presence.'

   
Catrin said, 'Do they know who
he is?'

   
'Stay out of this, Catrin,'
said Guy. 'Col, we'll have the camera out within a couple of minutes. But as
it's a public meeting, I trust nobody will try to get me out.'

   
'I should sit at the back, all
the same,' Col said without opening his mouth.

   
'Look!' Larry Ember suddenly
bawled out at the audience, leaping up from his camera, standing on the
makeshift wooden stage, exasperated, hands on his hips. 'Stop bleedin' looking
at me! Stop pointing at me! You never seen a telly camera before? Stone me,
it's worse than little kids screaming "Hello, Mum." Pretend I'm not
here, can't yer?'

   
'Maybe you
shouldn't
be yere, then,' a man shouted back.

   
'Sorry about this,' Guy said to
Col Croston. 'Larry's not terribly good at public relations.'

   
'Better get him out,' Col said.
'I'm sorry, Guy.'

   
'I suspect we're all going to
be sorry before the night's out,' Guy said, unknowingly blessed, for the first
time in his life with the gift of prophecy.

   
A hush hit the hall, and Guy
saw Larry swing his arms, and his camera, in a smooth arc as though he'd
spotted trouble at the back of the room.

   
The hush came from the front
left of the hall, occupied by members of the New Age community and - further
back - other comparative newcomers to the town. The other side of the hall,
where the Crybbe people sat, was already as quiet as a funeral.

   
The hush was a response to the
arrival of Max Goff. Only the trumpet fanfare, Guy thought, was missing. Goff
was accompanied. An entourage.

   
First came Hilary Ivory, wife
of the tarotist, carrying her snowy hair wound up on top, like a blazing white
torch. Her bony, nervy husband, Adam, was way back, behind Goff, even behind
Graham Jarrett in his pale-green safari suit. There were some other people Guy
recognized from last Friday's luncheon party, including the noted feminist
astrologer with the ring through her nose and a willowy redhead specializing in
dance therapy. There were also some accountant-looking men in John Major-style
summerweight grey suits.

   
Max Goff, in the familiar white
double-breasted and a velvet bow-tie, looked to Guy like a superior and faintly
nasty teddy bear, the kind that wealthy American ladies kept on their bed; with
a pistol inside.

   
Would you turn
your
town over to this man?

   
Guy watched Goff and his people
filling the front two rows on the left, the chamber divided by its central
aisle into two distinct factions. Old Crybbe and New Age, tweeds against talismans.

   
He felt almost sorry for Goff;
this was going to be an historic fiasco. But he felt more sorry for himself
because they weren't being allowed to film it.

Alex drained his cup in a hurry and bumped it back on its saucer, hand
trembling slightly.
   
Exorcism. Oh God.

   
'Well, obviously, I was supposed
to know about things like that. Been a practising clergyman for damn near
three-quarters of my life. But . . . sometimes she was ... in my bedroom. I'd
wake up, she'd be sitting by the bed wearing this perfectly ghastly smile. Couple
of seconds, that was all, then she'd be gone. Happened once, twice a week, I
don't know. Fay came down to stay one weekend. I was in turmoil. Looked awful,
felt awful. What did she want with me? Hadn't I done enough?'

   
Jean put on her knowing look.

   
'Yes,' Alex said, 'guilt again,
you see. A most destructive emotion. Was she a product of my obsessive guilt -
a lifetime of guilt, perhaps?'