Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

Merrily wondered how to get rid of Jane.

‘And other stuff,’ Jane said. ‘You thought much about the significance of the number nine, Mum?’

‘John Lennon always liked it. “Revolution Nine”, “Number Nine Dream”. Jane, I wonder if—’

‘In the Garway context. The Nine Witches of Garway. Why nine ?’

‘It’s three squared. The trinity?’

‘And the sacred number of the Druids. But the point is, the number nine was also a sacred number of the Templars. When they first started out in Jerusalem, there were supposed to have been nine of them. Which, when you think about it, is ridiculous. Nine knights to protect all the pilgrims in the Holy Land?’

‘Maybe it was just the nine senior knights, with a lot of armed underlings.’

‘Nah, symbolic. Gotta be. Also – get this – nine Templars were required to form a commandery – like at Garway? Plus the order was in existence for 180 years, which, like … one plus eight equals nine.’

‘Sometimes, Jane, I think that without the internet the world would be a happier and less confusing place.’

‘OK, I’ll skip some of the other examples and cut to the chase. The burning of Jacques de Molay. He died on 18 March – one and eight? In the year 1314, one … three … one … four. Do the math, as they say.’

‘It’s intriguing, Jane, however—’

‘And how long did he take to die?’

‘Nine minutes?’

‘Hours, actually.’

‘Ouch. And all this means …?’

‘It’s to do with cosmic correspondences. As above, so below.’

‘You don’t actually know, do you?’

‘Well, no, but if you put it all together, it’s like the landscape and the community of Garway was being primed for some sacred purpose. The number and the symbols that keep recurring. The astrological pubs. You could probably go into the church and find the numbers nine – and three, of course – reflected in all kinds of architectural features. They were, like, building something into the landscape?’

‘Like?’

‘Just bear it in mind. Nine witches, nine original Templars … maybe you’re looking at the need for there always to be nine people in the know. Nine people preserving the tradition.’

Merrily said, ‘Have either of you eaten?’

‘We were waiting for you, Mum. Do you want me to make something?’

‘I know we’re trying to stop doing this, flower, but why don’t you pop over to the chip shop?’

‘It’s peak time! There’ll be a queue a mile long!’

‘Chips,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Yes, I think I should quite like some chips.’

It was fully dark now. The light came from the fire and just one reading lamp. Quiet light. Merrily sat down in the armchair opposite Mrs Morningwood, who’d removed her sunglasses.

‘How do you feel now?’

‘I’m sore. What would you expect?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘But rested, thank you. I may go home tomorrow.’

‘We can talk about that later. Erm … I’ve been finding out some background. My friend Lol … has been to see Lord Stourport.’

‘Has he indeed?’

‘Which means I can now tell you quite a bit about the days before the police raid on the Master House. Only it’s … it’s a bit of a one-way street at the moment, isn’t it, Muriel?’

‘Don’t call me Muriel. Hate it. Sounds like a bloody librarian.’

‘I’ve had some background on you, too,’ Merrily said. ‘Hard to avoid it really.’

Mrs Morningwood shook her head gently; even this was clearly painful.

‘Just been talking to an old friend of mine,’ Merrily said.

‘In a community this centralized, Watkins, it would be surprising if you hadn’t.’

‘We didn’t talk much about you. But we could have.’

‘Who was this?’ Mrs Morningwood’s gaze was on the sweatshirt. ‘As if I couldn’t guess.’

‘This friend … I think he knows a lot more about you than he felt able to tell me.’

‘So go back and ask him.’

‘You don’t think he’d tell me?’

‘You can try.’

‘And, you know, I think I could probably persuade him.’

‘To tell you what? You think there’s some big secret? I’m the Pope’s secret love-child?’

‘The thing is,’ Merrily said, ‘I don’t want him to have to tell me. I don’t want him to feel he’s betrayed you.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think you do either.’

‘Although I do think he would tell me. I’m just trying to convey to you that I’m …’ Merrily held up a thumb and finger, minimally apart ‘… that close.’

‘Watkins … this is not about betraying me .’

‘The first time we met, you took a phone call from a Mr … Hinton?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You were obtaining something for him. At first – putting this together from what I heard – I thought maybe you were fixing up Thai brides for lonely farmers. Doing the paperwork.’

Mrs Morningwood laughed.

‘Then I heard about what your mother did, on the side. And there was something that Lord Stourport said to Lol. About country girls.’

‘Country girls.’ Mrs Morningwood sniffed. ‘She was livid about that. Do you know how much they were paid? Well, I suppose it wouldn’t sound very much in today’s money, but then … absolute fortune. Rural wages were a complete joke, even then. Farm labour one up from slave labour, and ordinary people would need two or three jobs to get by – many still do, of course, as you know. Ironically, it’s largely the farmers themselves now. Tragic.’

‘These were your mother’s girls.’

‘ Were . It all rather fell apart after that. I had to laugh. She’d been ripping those girls off for years. And my grandmother before her.’

‘The Morningwood heritage. How far does it go back?’

‘That’s it, really. Two generations. Before that, I imagine they were witches. Lived in a tiny little place over towards the White Rocks, I think it’s a sheep shed now. But, you see, Watkins, it was part of the rural culture … a necessary part of the culture.’

‘We’re talking about abortions?’

‘And the rest. My grandmother, who never married, raised three daughters on the profits of what, basically, was prostitution.’

‘She was doing it herself?’

Merrily trying for surprise, but once you knew, you knew.

‘And then, as she got older, began pimping for youngsters trying to earn enough money to make something of their lives. It was like …’ Mrs Morningwood’s mouth twisted at the thought, and her lip began to bleed again ‘… almost a gap year for some of them before they left the area, went to college, got themselves good jobs. Strong independent young women who’d learned how to … handle men.’

‘Can I get you something for that lip?’

‘Won’t die, Watkins. And when I say handle men, that was all it amounted to in most cases.’

‘You make it sound like an essential social service. Which I suppose …’

‘Well, isn’t it?’

‘Still?’

Mrs Morningwood sighed. A shift in terminology for the new millennium. Sex therapist specializing in rural needs. As a teenager, she’d grown – despicably, she said – to despise her mother. She’d gone to London, to work as a secretary for a theatrical agent – loose term, very loose. Had ended up working on what she described as adult magazines. Very adult. All very enlightening and destined to alter her opinion of her mother and her grandmother. Got married, not for long. Had been single again when the letter from Mary Roberts had finally reached her.

‘So was Mary …?’