The Cure of Souls (6 page)

‘Mum?’ Behind Merrily, the scullery door opened. Jane stood there in jeans and a yellow sleeveless top, summery but somehow waiflike, a bit forlorn. ‘Look, I’m going to get the bus into Hereford, OK?’

Merrily held up a hand, signalling for the kid to hang on until she was off the phone. ‘Sorry, Dennis…’

Dennis Beckett lowered his voice.

‘It was still quite a long time before anyone answered. I was about to hang up when the mother came on, rather abrupt until she realized who I was. Whereupon she simply burst into tears. An eruption. As if she’d been holding it back for days. You know… “Thank God you’ve called. Thank God. I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know what”… No, in fact, her actual words were: “I don’t dare to think what’s got into her.” ’ He paused.

Jane scowled, threw up her arms in exasperation and walked out.

‘ “Got into her”?’ Merrily said cautiously.

‘Her own words. The child’s being generally… not herself. She’s normally a quiet, studious, demure sort of girl. A
nice
girl. Been taken to church every week since she was about seven. Suddenly, she’s exhibiting signs of a distinct… aversion.
Claiming she’s not well on Sunday mornings – headaches, this sort of thing.’

Merrily thought about Jane. ‘Being generally difficult? Mood swings? Emotional?’

‘I gather.’

‘How old?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Well…’ Merrily tapped her pencil on the desk, remembering similar phases. ‘No need to get too carried away about that. Unless—’ An obvious thought had struck her. ‘Could she be pregnant?’

‘
What?
Oh… I see what you mean.’ He was silent for a moment, thinking it over. ‘Well, she… seemed to me to be a very
young
fourteen. She was wearing her school uniform, which in itself is a rather uncommon sight these days, out of school hours.’

‘True.’ Half of Jane’s school clothes seemed to have vanished by the time she reached home.

‘Let me tell you the main thing,’ Dennis said. ‘It seems Amy had been brought along to Holy Communion precisely because her parents were getting worried about her spiritual health. In the old-fashioned sense.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’

Dennis hesitated and then sighed. ‘Meaning they’re now asking for something I would not personally be happy to undertake,’ he replied eventually.

As Merrily went into the kitchen, Ethel the cat looked up at her from a sun-pool on a deep window sill. No sign of Jane; the kid must have gone back up to her apartment in the attic. Merrily went back into the scullery, stared at the phone for a few seconds and then picked it up and rang Sophie at the gatehouse.

‘I’m just following procedure here, Soph.’

‘Do we
have
a procedure?’ The Bishop’s lay secretary, servant of the Cathedral and posher than the Queen, would be in her office next to the Deliverance room, from where she also dealt with the admin side of Merrily’s business.

‘We have a rule. There’s only one situation where we have a rule,’ Merrily said, ‘and this is it.’

‘I see.’ A tiny pause, a vacuum snap – Sophie uncapping her gold Cross fountain pen. ‘What would you like me to tell the Bishop? We’re talking
major
exorcism?’

‘Won’t be an exorcism at all, if I can help it. I suspect they don’t know quite what they want, apart from some reassurance. I’m just informing the Bishop, according to the
rule
.’

Jane appeared in the doorway. ‘What?’ She saw the phone at Merrily’s ear and rolled her eyes.

‘Sorry, Sophie, I’ve just got to ask Jane something before her very limited patience snaps.’

‘I am sixteen,’ Jane muttered. ‘As you keep telling me, I have all the bloody time in the world.’

‘You know a kid called Amy Shelbone?’

Jane blinked. ‘Know the name. Probably.’

‘I think she goes to your school.’

‘She does?’

‘Not in your class, then?’

‘No, she… I guess she’s probably in the fourth… or the third year. Something like that.’

‘OK.’ Merrily nodded. ‘Thanks, flower.’ Worth a try, but kids in a lower form were pond life. ‘Sorry, Sophie.’

Jane didn’t leave. Merrily frowned at her. ‘You’ll miss the bus.’

‘So like, what’s this Amy Shel… thing done?’

‘Go,’ said Merrily.

She waited until she heard the front door slam. Her dog collar lay in the centre of the pale blue blotter, glowing in the sunbeam. Sophie would disapprove of her discarding it simply because of the heat. The women’s ministry had been hard-won; it was like some ex-suffragette not turning out for the polls because it was raining.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘I think you can assume she’s gone now,’ Sophie said. ‘But you may wish to check the room for listening devices.’

Sophie would also disapprove of Merrily asking the kid about Amy Shelbone, but Merrily knew it would go no further. It had reached the stage, with Jane, where there was a certain trust, forged out of experience. Jane was sixteen; there wasn’t such a huge age-gap between them. They told each other almost everything. Didn’t they?

She sat for a while at her desk, looking down the garden towards the apple trees. She was thinking about Father Nicholas Ellis, the fundamentalist zealot who had interpreted the term
cure of souls
all too freely, administering exorcism like doctors prescribed antibiotics, without ever consulting the Bishop.

But at least Ellis had certainty, a complete faith not only in God and all His angels, but in himself as the approved wielder of an archangel’s broadsword. How he must have despised her.

Merrily put on her dog collar.

Ellis had crossed the line, big-time. She was never going to do that, God help her. Nor was it up to the priest to decide who was genuine, who was misguided, and who was trying it on.

She knelt by the side of the desk, under the window, put her hands together, the backs of her thumbs against the centre of her forehead. She closed her eyes, let her thoughts fall away. The sunshine through her eyelids made her feel washed in a warm orange glow. It felt good.

Too
good. Merrily moved into shadow, facing the white-painted wall of four-hundred-year-old wattle and daub, and prayed for perception.

Since Dennis Beckett had first told her about Amy Shelbone, she’d been thinking, on and off, about the occasion she’d thrown up in church herself – her own church, on the fraught night of her installation as priest in charge. Churches were powerful places; they sometimes amplified emotions, might well have an emetic effect on stored-up stress. It didn’t necessarily mean any kind of
invasion
.

However, this was at Holy Communion, and a dramatically adverse reaction to the presence of the sacrament was… something that needed to be looked into.

After a few minutes, Merrily picked up the phone and called the number Dennis Beckett had given her for the Shelbones, in Dilwyn.

There was no answer.

T
HE FIRST TIME
Lol saw Gerard Stock, he thought the bloke must have some kind of status here, that maybe he was the original owner of the whole place, including the stables and the pigsties.

This was perhaps because Gerard Stock kind of
swaggered
.

It was not a word Lol recalled ever mentally applying to anyone before. Stock walked like he was shouldering his way through a crowd of people who didn’t matter, to get to somebody who did. This looked odd, because he was all alone on the track which crossed the hay meadow. No bushes, no banks of nettles, no cows; nothing but lush, knee-high grass in a valley smouldering with summer.

It was eleven-thirty in the morning, and Stock was heading their way.

Prof was not glad to see him. ‘The sodding countryside. You get more privacy in Notting Hill. He wants to know who you are. He always has to know who everybody is, the bastard. He’s obviously seen you walking around here and he thinks you might be someone of significance.’

‘Obviously hasn’t noticed my car, then.’

Lol was standing, with a mug of tea and a slice of toast, at the window of the studio anteroom-cum-kitchen, which had once been a pigsty and now possibly looked even more of one.

‘This guy…’ Prof drained his mug, added it to a pile of
unwashed crockery beside the sink. ‘I ask myself, should I have to cope with guys like this any more, my time of life? The business is top-heavy with the bastards, always has been. They know
everybody
– shared spliffs with Jerry Garcia, toured with Dylan, played jew’s harp on the cut that never made it onto
Blood on the Tracks
… which, of course, is how come their name was tragically omitted from the sleeve. These guys…’ Prof palmed his stubbly white chin. ‘These guys are losers the likes of which I hoped that by moving out here I should never have to encounter again.’

‘So who exactly is he, Prof?’ Lol saw a man who was not that much taller than he was, but wide and powerful. A man swaggering like he owned the place, but not hurrying. A man wanting them to know he was coming.

Prof snorted. ‘For my sins, my nearest neighbour. He lives, with his distressingly younger wife, in a converted hop-kiln somewhere over there where I’ve never been. He walks over here two, three times a week, in case maybe I got Knopfler or Sting hanging out.’

‘A… hop-kiln.’ Lol had fallen asleep thinking of a woman in a hop-yard near a kiln, then had dreamed of her, and then had awoken this morning thinking
Did that really happen?

‘Very sought-after, these old kilns, apparently. So how come such a loser is able to buy one? Answer: he didn’t. It was an inheritance, and not even his own. His wife’s uncle left it to them. What kind of man
was
this uncle to bequeath this leeching bastard to the community?’

‘Nice guy, actually,’ said the man who was sitting on the floor below the window, his back against the whitewashed bricks, mug between his knees. ‘Though he went a little strange, I suppose, before his death.’

Prof turned on him. ‘And you… when you were selling me on this place, did you mention the proximity of this freeloader, this
ligger
, even once?’

‘You weren’t interested in the neighbours.’ Simon St John, bass-player, cellist and vicar, had known Prof for many more
years than Lol had. ‘As long as they don’t have noisy kids or barbecues, you’re never remotely interested in your neighbours.’

‘Life’s too short for neighbours,’ Prof said gruffly. ‘Whatever time I got left, I want to spend it laying down good music in my own place, at my own pace. Is that too much to ask?’ He glared down at Simon. ‘You knew him well, this uncle?’

‘Prof, I buried him.’ Simon lifted pale hair out of his eyes. ‘But before that, he used to come and see us periodically. He was interested in the history of the church. He was interested in most things local.’ He turned to Lol. ‘You’ll see his books in various shops in Bromyard. Local books, full of pictures – photos. Old ones and new ones he took himself, but he did them in sepia, so they looked like old ones.
An Illustrated Guide to the Frome Valley, Past and Present
and
The Hop-grower’s
Year. They’re still selling very well. I think Gerard’s quite annoyed because the income from those books was left to another niece.’

‘And all they got was the house,’ said Prof. ‘Poor little bleeders.’

‘Stewart Ash was his name – the uncle,’ Simon said. ‘Good bloke. What happened to him seemed really shocking, obviously, especially in a close community like this. But in my own defence, Prof, I have to say that when I first told you about this place I hadn’t yet met friend Gerard.’

Prof snorted.

‘Both times I called at the kiln – making my initial pastoral visit, as we do – he appeared not to have heard me knocking.’ Simon flicked a wrist. ‘Naturally, I assumed he was of a reclusive disposition. And not exactly a Christian.’

‘Reclusive? Jesus, nah, you were wearing your bloody uniform – no wonder he wasn’t answering the door. The bastard thinks you’re collecting for the organ fund, and he doesn’t have any money, and of course that’s the very last thing these hustlers are ever going to admit – their private capital’s always tied up in some big-deal promotion they can’t tell you about just yet.’

Lol wanted to ask what had happened to the uncle that had so shocked the community, but there wasn’t going to be time for that. He saw Gerard Stock push through the gate, leaving it open behind him, and cross the yard. Stock’s thinning hair was slicked straight back and he had a beard that was red and gold, fading to grey where it was trimmed to a small, thrusting wedge.

And Lol was still not sure what the bloke actually did.

‘See, if there was a whole
bunch
of neighbours’ – Prof spread his hands – ‘it might not be so bad. But this guy on his own, with the wife at work all day – oh yeah, it might be
her
inheritance, but
she
goes to work while he hangs around here, supposedly engaged in renovation but actually pissing the time away and getting in what remains of my hair. I tell you, if you live in the sticks and you have just the one neighbour, it’s like I would imagine being in prison and sharing a cell. As you’ll find out when I go.’

Lol smiled. Prof kept saying
when I go
like he was expecting imminent death. In fact, he was going to Abbey Road studio to produce the long-awaited fourth solo album by his old friend, the blues-guitar legend Tom Storey. Lol had agreed to mind the studio while Prof was away – knowing this was Prof’s way of forcing him to work on his own solo album, which was
not
long-awaited, not by anybody.

There was a knock on the back door. Just the one. Prof jabbed his thumb towards the passage.

‘And if you ever do let Stock in here when I’m gone, you don’t permit him to play a chord or touch a knob on that board, that clear? Not for my benefit I’m saying this, but for yours, because if your album eventually starts to sell in any quantity, he’s gonna swear blind he co-produced it. Am I right, Simon?’

Simon rose languidly to his feet. He wore well-faded jeans and a collarless white shirt. ‘You know me, Prof. I must never allow myself to think the worst of people.’