Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘Not up to the time I left. Eric Davies – that was a respectable job. But afterwards, perhaps inevitably, she made friends with the other girls.’

‘How many girls were there at the time?’

‘Three, I think. A very informal arrangement by then. My mother really was more of a herbalist, and the demand for herbs was increasing – from middle-class people by then, able to pay more, alternative health becoming quite an industry. She was still furious, though, when two of the girls took the Stourport shilling.’

‘And Mary?’

‘My mother always claimed she didn’t know about that until it was too late.’

‘I would have thought maybe she would’ve offered to get rid of Mary’s baby?’

‘Oh no.’

‘She’d stopped doing that?’

‘No, she was still doing it. She simply wouldn’t tamper with a foetus conceived at the Master House. Call it superstition.’

‘I’m not getting this.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.’

‘But the tradition … that didn’t end.’

‘It altered. My mother became ill. I nursed her over the final weeks – all over very quickly, as it always used to be before the medical profession became part of the drug culture. During that time I fielded seven phone calls from hesitant men. Two of whom I felt so sorry for that I … Well, what was I supposed to do ?’

‘A warm heart under that bluff exterior?’

‘You can’t embarrass me, Watkins. Rural needs are essentially different to urban needs. No verge-crawling in the Land Rover. Extreme discretion is crucial, and there’s a certain mutual respect. Wasn’t going to dress up, mind. Take me as you find me.’

‘Literally?’

‘God, you’re prurient. It was nothing where I couldn’t pretend I was milking a cow.’

‘So Mr Hinton, the other day …?’

‘All sorted. Safely delivered. Delia, I think he’s called her. It’s not a major enterprise or anything, I think I’ve supplied seven in two years. A comfort, for mild-mannered chaps lacking in social skills. In one case, because of the cost, one was shared between two brothers.’

‘I see … do I?’

‘Delia – she and her sisters, the point about them is that they’re not impossibly beautiful. They don’t pout . They’re not Hollywood . The fantasy in these parts, it’s the girl in the T-shirt behind the counter at Hay and Brecon Farmers. You know what I mean? Sometimes, the outlet I deal with, I’ve actually provided them with photographs to work from – from the local papers.’

Jumbo’s Michelle, he really loves her, see , Gomer had said. Wouldn’t swap her for a top o’ the range quad bike. Had her reconditioned twice. Jumbo weighs seventeen stone, mind …

‘Mum?’ Jane’s head came round the door. ‘You going to have them by the fire or what?’

‘No, I think we’ll come into the kitchen, flower, if you want to get some plates down.’

‘OK.’

‘Rubber dolls?’ Merrily said. ‘Inflatable girlfriends? That’s why you won’t go to the police?’

‘How could I?’ Mrs Morningwood easing Roscoe’s head from her lap. ‘Seriously, how could I? All right, it’s mainly the inflatables now, nothing illegal there, but they’d start excavating.’

‘I think you could handle it. The identity of rape victims—’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, this is Garway Hill . Besides, even if they believed me after they discovered what they would very quickly discover … it isn’t just me, is it?’

‘You’re worried about the clients.’

‘It would be like a bomb under the hill. Don’t get me wrong, Watkins, I don’t fear personal exposure, but the handful of shy, vulnerable men throughout South Herefordshire, Monmouthshire, the Black Mountains, whose private lives would be taken apart, who’d would be subjected to the most degrading—’

‘OK, I understand.’

And as they went through to the kitchen, she finally did understand.

She was asking for it, of course. Been asking for it for years, the old slag.

Generations, even .

‘Besides,’ Mrs Morningwood murmured in the hall, ‘what he intended was to kill me. Don’t you think?’

OBVIOUSLY, JANE KNEW there was something she wasn’t party to. At one stage, washing the dishes, she looked at Mrs Morningwood and then tentatively grinned at Merrily.

‘I hope Siân was still here when you got back.’

‘Erm, no. She’d gone.’

‘Pity. I was only explaining to her why it was so essential we should have a big vicarage. Like because of the, you know, damaged people you had to bring back sometimes?’ Sheepish smile for Mrs Morningwood. ‘Sorry.’

‘Damaged,’ Mrs Morningwood said tonelessly. ‘And yet somehow still alive.’

And, perhaps sensing the need for a mother and daughter to talk in private, she went off – quite unsteadily, Merrily noticed, still worried – to the bathroom.

‘Mum,’ Jane said when she’d gone. ‘There’s something I have to tell you about, and it’s not going to—’

‘Shirley West?’

‘Oh.’

‘Siân told me.’

‘As an example, presumably, of why your daughter would be unlikely to make it as a private eye.’

‘That was the encouraging bit. I’m now going to tell you the rest. In absolute confidence. Just sit down for a minute.’

Even summarized, the story of Shirley’s obsession made a sad sense. More than twelve years since Fred West had hanged himself while awaiting trial, a core of unexplained evil still hung in the air like an invisible planet. Shirley’s story was not so ridiculous. Might not even be an illness.

‘Well,’ Jane said, ‘I’m quite glad she’s certifiably insane. I mean, it helps, doesn’t it?’

‘That’s typically selfless of you, flower.’

‘So, you know … what will you do about her?’

‘I think Siân’s going to handle it herself. With some psychiatric support. Makes sense for me not to be involved. I think … Siân was proving something to me. She didn’t need to do that.’

‘Yeah. She’s not quite what I imagined.’

‘From my comprehensive character assassination? She’s made me feel a little wanting in the generosity-of-spirit department.’

‘Maybe she’s changed. Or maybe she’s just seen another side of you.’

This kid was getting so smart she could scare you sometimes. Merrily sighed.

‘She has principles. Moral fibre.’ She tapped a teaspoon against an open palm. ‘Perhaps it’s time I got some.’

‘Along with five more parishes?’

‘Yeah, well … who knows? Jane, look, go and hang around in the hall, will you, in case Mrs Morningwood needs any help?’

At the door, Jane looked over her shoulder.

‘She wasn’t in a car crash, was she?’

‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Huh.’

‘Look, I need to make a phone call, and it might take a while. You’ll have to talk among yourselves. Numerology, Renaissance cosmology …’

In the scullery, the sermon pad was still open to the word B A P H O M E T. She tore off the page and screwed it up very tight. Looked at the mobile and then – why fry your brains for these bastards? – picked up the big black bakelite receiver.

‘I need some help,’ she told Huw Owen. ‘Badly.’

‘Sycharth.’ Mrs Morningwood smiled thinly. ‘I ought to have known.’

‘How would you?’ Merrily said. ‘He’d want to keep it very quiet that he’d been spending quality time at the old family home. Certainly wouldn’t want the Grays to know … or would he?’

‘Newtons. Still the Newtons, then.’