Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

Mark thought for a moment of the woman, Jenny Weston, who had died with her own blood choking her heart. Her death had been sudden; she had been given no time to consider, no time to reflect on what she had done with her life, for good or for evil.

‘None of it is right,’ said Mark. At least Owen lifted his head now and met his eye. Owen’s face looked tired and drawn. The wind up here was making his eyes water. There was rain coming from the east — fat clouds were bouncing over the hills, and all the weight seemed to be in the sky.

‘Owen. .’

‘Yes, they seem just to have fallen asleep,’ said Owen. ‘But it’s not a sleep that has any comfort in it. Only nightmares.’

Mark peered at his face, seeking to understand more clearly what he was hearing in the Ranger’s words.

‘We’ll not let that happen, Owen,’ he said.

Owen just stared at him. And then he said something that made Mark wonder whether he had understood any of it at all.

‘Let me tell you, Mark,’ he said. ‘It’s always your body that lets you down, in the end.’

Diane Fry strapped on the scabbard for her extendable baton. Police officers called the baton an ASP, after the name of the manufacturer, Armament Systems and Procedures of Wisconsin, USA. It extended to sixteen inches when fully racked, and the handbook claimed it offered unparalleled psychological deterrence. Even closed, it consisted of six inches of heavy-duty steel. Most CID officers simply carried the weapon in their pocket, but on Fry’s build the bulge of the closed ASP was still noticeable. So she had bought a back pocket scabbard with a Velcro flap which stopped the baton falling out when she ran. On the other hip was the holder for her kwik-cuffs. When she put on her jacket, their outline was barely visible.

She considered her protective vest. But it was heavy and uncomfortable to wear for any length of time, and it gave her pains in the muscles in her back. She put it back in her locker.

Ben Cooper had said that they were supposed to protect people like Calvin Lawrence and Simon Bevington. But it was difficult for Fry to understand why. The two travellers weren’t part of the society that she served; they paid no taxes to help meet her wages. They were never likely to become members of the police liaison committee. Still, there was something about them that she didn’t understand, all the same. Against her own judgement, she was curious what it was that Cooper saw in them. His mind was a puzzle and frustration to her — she never understood what perverse instinct it was that made him believe so strongly in things that she couldn’t even see. Yet the need to understand him was like an irritating itch on her skin, a rash that she had to scratch. In this case, he was way off target. Lawrence and Bevington were on the wrong side of the law. Well, they were — weren’t they?

When she arrived at the quarry, Fry found a bored constable sitting in his car with half an ear on the radio, a chocolate bar in his mouth and his eyes on a fishing magazine. The windows of his car were streaked with rain on the outside, and steamed up on the inside.

‘Anything happening?’

‘Nope. Quiet as the grave,’ he said.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Taylor.’

The rain was getting heavier as Fry banged on the door of the van. The curtain behind the cab was pulled aside and light spilled out on to her face. Then the door slid open, and Cal stood on the step.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a few words.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘There’s something I want to know. I thought you and your friend might be able to help me.’

Cal eyed her suspiciously. ‘Leave us alone. We’ll be out of here by Monday morning. What’s the point of hassling us now?’

‘No hassle. Just a question.’

‘One question? OK, go ahead.’

Fry turned her jacket collar up against the water trickling on to her neck. ‘It’s wet out here,’ she said.

‘Yeah. It’s the rain that does it.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Is that the question? ’Cos the answer’s “no”.’

‘I can’t hear you, because of the rain in my ears.’

A voice came from inside the van, lazy and amused. ‘Hey, let her in, Cal. She sounds fun.’

Cal hesitated, but pulled open the door. Inside the van, Fry squeezed into a space next to the chest of drawers, sitting on a cushion that smelled of Indian spices. Stride watched her through the blonde hair that had fallen over his face. He smiled, like an Arab prince welcoming her to his tent.

‘Our last visitor. I hope you bring us luck.’

‘Yes, they’ll have you out of this quarry tomorrow.’

‘We know.’

‘If it were me, I’d be glad to leave. There’s nothing here. What sort of life can it be?’

‘You want to know what we do all day? Is that the question?’

‘Not really.’

‘We talk. We think about things. You could try it. It doesn’t hurt.’

‘You’re young. You should be out in the world enjoying life,’ said Fry. ‘This place is so empty and bleak.’

‘No. All you see is a landscape of rocks and heather,’ said Stride. ‘But the moor is a living thing. It has moods; it has desires.’ He grinned at Fry, and his voice hushed. ‘It has secrets .’

‘Stride’s right,’ said Cal. ‘The moor was here long before us. The Fiddler will still be playing long after we’ve gone.’

‘The who?’

‘The Fiddler. Don’t you know the story?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Have you seen the stones?’ said Stride. ‘Don’t you know what they are? Nine virgins, turned to stone for dancing on a Sunday. Punished for their sin. They desecrated the Sabbath with their dancing. But that single stone, outside the circle. . They say that’s the Fiddler, who played the tune for the dancers. He was turned to stone, too. But he wasn’t dancing. Do you think the Fiddler got justice?’

‘What nonsense.’

‘Is it? Don’t underestimate the power of nature. The spirits don’t forget.’

Fry was concentrating on the manner of the two travellers as much as on their words. She already knew she was never going to be able to ask the right questions, no matter how long she stayed here. There was something rehearsed about their performance that only reinforced her scepticism.

‘But what do you believe in?’ she said, voicing the real question that was on her mind.

‘Stride talks to the Fiddler at nights, sometimes,’ said Cal. ‘He tells him about things like that. The Fiddler knows the truth.’

‘The truth? And what truth is it you’re looking for?’

Stride only smiled. The smile became wider, and turned into a laugh that filled the van. He leaned forward, and laid a hand on Fry’s knee. She flinched, but was unable to pull back from his touch in the confined space. Stride’s hand lay still and steady, as if he were trying to calm her thoughts, to transfer some of his own contentment by direct contact.

‘How can you know the truth until you find it?’ he said.

For a moment he stared directly into her eyes, as if seeking a shred of understanding, willing her to share a bit of enlightenment. But she kept her face expressionless, resisting. Even Stride finally realized the futility, repulsed by the rigidity of her muscles beneath his hand.

Then Cal stepped in. ‘Stride believes there may be a vengeful spirit of the moors, driving intruders away.’

‘And what the hell does that mean?’ said Fry angrily.

Cal didn’t even seem to have heard. He looked at Stride, who was still staring at Fry and seemed to be attempting to drive his thoughts into her head by willpower.