Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘No thanks.’

‘Your commune’s been mentioned, anyway.’

‘It was never a commune. Nothing so formal.’

‘Can you tell me about it?’

‘I can tell you what I remember, but what I remember might have very little to do with what actually happened.’

‘Like that, huh?’

‘Very much like that, cocker.’

On the sunlit square, Merrily felt like a tourist. The last couple of nights were probably as long as she’d spent away from here since they’d moved in. You came back, it made you blink – the black and white houses and shops unexpectedly exotic in the Lucozade light of an autumn morning.

Or was that because she was afraid she was going to lose it all? Didn’t even feel safe in her own house any more.

Which wasn’t her own house. Which was the Church’s house. The Church, as represented, in her life, by the Bishop. The Bishop behind whose back …

She was alone on the square, a few people around the shops, none of them close enough to have to greet – God, had it come to this? She slid into the familiar sanctuary of the market hall, took out her mobile, switched it on to find it frantic with messages.

There was a bunch of calls from Lol, who was on his way to … where? She listened. She called him back at once. His phone was switched off, she left a message: ‘Lol, I don’t know what it’s best to ask Lord Stourport. This is getting messier than you could ever imagine. All I can say, just play it by ear, maybe don’t even mention Mary Linden, because I’ve only had that from one source which I … don’t entirely trust. I’m sorry.’

And then there was Sophie: two cautious call me back messages from her. Merrily called the gatehouse.

‘Are you alone?’

‘For the moment. Merrily, I need to apol—’

‘Doesn’t matter. I understand. Sophie, did you tell the Bishop that I’d finally concluded that Fuchsia had made it all up?’

‘Well, it’s certainly what he wanted me to tell him.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last night. When he arrived on our doorstep in a state of some agitation. He instructed me quite formally not to call you until he had. I gave him until nine-thirty then I began to leave messages. I’m sorry, Merrily, he’s still my boss, however … eccentric he’s become.’

‘Well, look, I’m back at the vicarage, and there’ve been some developments, which I’ll explain in due course.’

‘You sound upset.’

‘I’m OK. I’ll explain it face to face, when the Bishop’s not on your back or mine. You said he was agitated. Why? Like he was getting pressure?’

Sophie didn’t reply.

‘I’ll tell you something else. He suggested that the Duchy itself would be happier if I forgot all about the Master House. He indicated he’d had this from Adam Eastgate. It wasn’t true.’

‘I see.’

‘Who might be leaning on him, Sophie? Could it be Canterbury?’

‘I certainly haven’t taken any calls from Church House, but that means nothing. Ah—’

‘Who else? Come on, Sophie, who else can you think of with any influence over the Bishop? Who the Bishop might be intimidated by?’

Sophie said, ‘Perhaps I could call you back a little later, Reverend Longbeach.’

‘Oh.’

He was there. He’d walked in on her. Merrily killed the line and walked out on the other side of the market hall, emerging next to a grey car parked tidily in its shade.

She’d wanted to ask if Sophie knew – or could find out – who exactly had been tapped for information about Hereford deliverance … and her … and Jane. Who was the other minister consulted by the Duchy?

Well, obviously this described Huw Owen. But Huw would have told her. No way Huw would not have told her.

She’d call him anyway. She scrolled through the list on the mobile. She should call him now.

And then Merrily closed up the phone with a snap. Stood staring at the grey Lexus parked next to the market hall, noting, on the back seat, a lavishly labelled case of Italian leather. Siân Callaghan-Clarke’s gloves on the dash.

‘We were not kids,’ Lord Stourport said. ‘That’s too easy. We were young, voracious adults, the world spread out in front of us like a picnic. We had the power of youth. And that is a power, because it comes without responsibility except to yourself. Well, that’s commonplace now, that’s almost the norm – Crowley’s line, Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law , that’s every fucker’s motto now, nobody thinks twice. Back then, it was new and risky and seductive.’

Lol was quite fascinated by the way Stourport/Hayter would unconsciously switch from officer-class drawl to street-hard pseudo-cockney without a breath in between.

‘Actually, it was quite a sad time for a lot of them,’ Stourport said. ‘The hippie dream all gone to shit, with nothing to replace it, no real energy. Everybody seemed to be sprawled around, stoned and directionless. It never bothered me. I was quite happy to be stoned and directionless for a while.’

‘When was this?’

‘Seventy-three, seventy-four. I’d dropped out of Cambridge in disgrace but with a portfolio of music-biz contacts par fucking excellence, and a working knowledge of how to make money that would subsequently win the reluctant respect of even my old man – living here in faded splendour, buckets catching the drips, sitting in his overcoat in winter watching his black and white TV surrounded by old masters. Imagine the ignominy of having your heritage saved by the ill-gotten millions of the disreputable punk impresario son. Poor old bastard never recovered.’

‘How long’ve you been here?’

‘Fifteen, sixteen years. It was sudden, really. Ironically, living a warm, damp-free existence seemed to do for the old man’s health. But of course all this was still far into the future when we moved into the Master House.’

‘How did you find out about the house?’

‘Can’t remember. I mean, it was that time when bored young people of my generation would look up and go hey, let’s start again, let’s go out into the sticks, be pioneers. Ronnie Lane decamping to Shropshire, touring in a gypsy caravan, bucolic bliss – that was a myth as well, of course, even if you’ve got the money, if you have land it needs to be worked. Scores of idle freaks lying in the grass – a spade ? What’s that about?’

The man in the leather coat put his head round the door, looking pointedly at Lol, but Stourport waved him away.

Lol said, ‘Did you know anything about the history of the place when you took it? The Knights Templar?’

‘Robinson, I knew nothing about the Knights frigging Templar. Had a flat in London with my girlfriend at the time, Siggi, and we had a lot of parties which were – as we used to say – busted by the pigs, on no less than three occasions. It was getting tiresome, and my friend Pierre Markham – you know who I’m talking about?’

‘No.’

‘The merchant banker? Never mind. Anyway, it was Pierre who said why don’t we get a place in the country? Well, I’d been born in a place in the bleeding country, so the idea held no particular magic for me. Besides which, although I had plenty of readies, I didn’t really have a lump sum to put down on a property, but Pierre’s saying, “No, we lease somewhere” … That was Siggi and me, Pierre and his lady, and a guy called Mickey Sharpe who was basically our dealer, kept us supplied with whatever we needed. In quantity.’

He flung his leg back over the chair arm, lounging back, slowly shaking his head.

‘Actually, I remember now. What put us on to the Master House, it was just an ad in Country Life or The Lady . It didn’t actually say No Hippies, but it probably did no harm at all reverting to being The Hon. until the deal was done. Anyway, we move into this hovel – throw some money at it, scatter the sheepskins and the Afghan fucking rugs, set up the important item, this monster B&O stereo. And … it was summer and life passed in a bit of a haze. Mickey had a van, and he’d go off to London and come back with the stuff, early mornings, and we had a secret stash we called the Grotto of Dreams, as you did in those days.’