Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘I don’t think you’ll find it’s that uncommon nowadays. As for deliverance being a male preserve, just a few years ago, the whole ministry—’

‘ I think we have to look at all these things together – the interest in exorcism … the meditation … the pagan temple … and the near-Satanism practised by the daughter. And see what it adds up to. I think it adds up to a terrible danger.’

The silence was so absolute that Jane could hear her own breathing. Jesus, this was not a joke.

She made eye contact with Tom Bull, his bearded face openly malign. Jane thought of the green man and Baphomet, anger giving way to a kind of fear of the unknown. Fear for Mum, out there on the unknown border, Lol gigging somewhere miles away. Their little nucleus fragmented, and she was alone here, in this supposedly sacred place, this sanctuary, watching the poison dripping into the chalice.

Shirley West said, ‘I think before Merrily goes around encouraging people to open themselves up, she needs to take a good look inside her own family. Don’t you?’

And then Siân, who so far had been displaying a reasonable attitude to this insanity … Siân blew it.

‘You’d better tell me everything,’ she said.

OVER DINNER – RAIN rolling down the dairy’s main window, silent as tears of old grief – Merrily asked the Murrays how much they knew about the Grays and the Gwilyms.

‘Our friends either side of the great divide,’ Teddy said.

Lifting his wineglass, as if in a toast, his silhouette a magic-lantern show on the white wall behind him in the lamplight.

‘Not that you’d know it,’ Beverley said. ‘They sound exactly the same. Not as if the Gwilyms have Welsh accents, let alone speak Welsh. Well, certainly not … Oh, I never know how to pronounce that man’s name.’

‘Sycharth, Bevvie. We’re inclined to say Sickarth , but it’s Suckarth . Yes, it’s an odd thing. If someone lives just a few yards over the border in what might seem to be a very English part of Wales they become determinedly Welsh Welsh. Perfectly affable chap, though.’

‘Not that we see much of him,’ Beverley said, ‘since his business has become more Hereford-based. Rich enough now to have a farm manager.’

‘And his family owned the Master House,’ Merrily said.

‘Since medieval times, I believe.’ Teddy nodding. ‘I can certainly tell you something about that .’

His version tied in with Mrs Morningwood’s. As a result of the sudden death of the head of the family, the house had been sold around the turn of last century. The wife, embittered at the way she’d been treated over the years, had got rid of it almost before anybody noticed.

‘Causing an awful fuss, but there was nothing the Gwilyms could do,’ Teddy said.

‘But the Master House is in England.’

‘Well, yes, Merrily, but a part of England that seems to have been more Welsh, in its time, than many parts of Wales. In religious terms, particularly. Both early Welsh Christianity and Welsh Nonconformism in the nineteenth century have their roots hereabouts. And, of course, if Owain Glyndwr’s rebellion had been successful in the fifteenth century, the border would have been redrawn, putting this whole area in Glyndwr’s new, independent Wales. You do know about Glyndwr’s connection with this area?’

‘He’s supposed to have retired here, after his campaign collapsed.’

It had always seemed odd to Merrily that Glyndwr should spend his last years in the border area where he’d caused maximum damage, burning down most of the major castles. You’d have thought he’d feel safer in some Welsh heartland.

‘Hidden away, more like, with a price on his head,’ Teddy said. ‘A celebrity outlaw. His daughter, Alice, had married a Scudamore from Kentchurch Court, and they might have helped to conceal him. He was never caught, he just disappeared. There is a legend that he once hid out at the Master House – but, then, lots of places claim that connection.’

Beverley said, ‘It’s the sort of legend I imagine some of the Gwilyms liked to pretend was actual history.’

‘And they’ve been trying to … reacquire it?’ Merrily said. ‘I mean, the Master House?’

‘Periodically, yes. I’m not sure how bothered Sycharth is now.’

‘I heard he was totally hell-bent on getting it back.’

‘Well, you could be right.’ Teddy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. How are your plans going, as regards, ah …?’

‘Still thinking it would be good to get the Gwilyms and the Grays under that roof. Especially as it no longer belongs to either of them. No better time to heal old wounds.’

‘Would you like me to have a word?’

‘With?’

‘The Grays, at least. They come to church – Paul in a wheelchair now, poor chap. My feeling is that they were more than glad to get rid of that house. Whether you believe in some sort of spiritual malaise or not, they haven’t had much luck. The question is, will they come if the Gwilyms are going to be there? I don’t know. I’ll talk to them. I’ll do what I can.’

‘Thank you, Teddy.’

‘If I tell them someone from the Duchy of Cornwall will be there?’

‘I’ll try and talk to the land agent tomorrow.’

‘Not the, ah, Duke himself, presumably.’

‘At a rite of cleansing?’

‘Quite.’ Teddy smiled. ‘Although that would certainly bring both families out of their cupboards, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would also bring the Special Branch out of theirs,’ Merrily said. ‘And, on the whole, I don’t think my nerves would stand it.’

Earlier, sitting on a corner of the bed at The Ridge, with the bedside lamp on, she’d called Lol on spec, a bit surprised to catch him in.

‘I’ve been back all day,’ Lol had said patiently. ‘Last night’s gig was Brecon. Thirty miles?’

‘Of course … sorry.’

‘Old hippies and young soldiers, mainly.’

‘What?’

‘Brecon. It’s a garrison town. Plus a few girls who couldn’t have been born when Hazey Jane started.’

‘Groupies?’

‘In Brecon?’

The power of bad dreams. Merrily closed her eyes. Sometimes you could punch yourself in the mouth.

Lol said, ‘Been watching Canon Callaghan-Clarke familiarizing herself with the village landmarks: church, market hall, Black Swan, Gomer Parry …’

‘ I ’m sorry. Couldn’t even let you know we were getting her. Events … overtook.’

Lol had met Siân only once, last spring, during a tense and troubling evening in Ludlow Castle, when Siân had finally been exposed to the blurred reality of deliverance. Not a comfortable night, for any of them.

‘Not a problem,’ Lol said. ‘I kind of thought you’d wind up going. Under the circumstances.’

Not a problem? Why wasn’t it a problem?

‘Lol, I’m sorry, it’s … I’m still a bit tired. Got up feeling lousy and wound up having foot-reflexology. From this Mrs Morningwood. It was … strange.’

‘But it worked?’

‘Something worked. I think. It’s just knocked me out a bit. After some moments of rare clarity, I’m tired and confused again, but yeah, I feel better. Don’t knock it.’

‘Merrily—’

‘Never straightforward, this job. You turn over stones, things crawl out. You ever come across Lord Stourport?’

‘Lord …?’

‘Stourport.’

‘Well, we’ve obviously exchanged nods at various receptions,’ Lol said. ‘Buckingham Palace garden parties, that kind of …’

‘You’ve never heard of him, then.’

‘No.’

Merrily took a long breath and told him, in some detail, about Lord Stourport’s time at the Master House, his supposed connections with the music industry. About Mary Linden nearly thirty years go. It was good to talk about it, to bring it out of the dreamlike fug of the day.