Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

She came forward, stumbling over the dusty hem of her dress, coming up very close to Lol and peering at him. Contact lenses, Merrily thought.

‘Pardon me,’ the woman said to Lol, ‘I don’t want to appear … but I think I know who you are?’

He took a pace back. Occasionally he was recognized, usually by someone who’d bought a Hazey Jane album nearly twenty years ago and was mildly pleased that he hadn’t killed himself like Nick Drake. He never relished it.

‘OK…’ The woman gazed hard at Lol. ‘Listen, I may have this totally wrong, but see, I’m not so stupid. I was expecting an old guy in a big hat with like a black bag, and it’s no business of mine, really, but you should know that some people in this place are just a little crazy.’

‘How so?’ Lol said.

‘Not so simple. Like, you’re talking about something, you know, sacred?’ She looked down and brushed a leaf from her dress. ‘I’m sorry. This is not my place. But there’s something here that must never be parted, you know what I’m saying? Like, you can walk out on the hills at twilight and you can sense his nearness. It’s a strange and awesome thing.’

‘Yes,’ Lol said. ‘I can imagine it would be.’

‘So, like, you know, I mean no disrespect here, but the whole idea of exorcizing this … wonderful, magical thing – from the Malvern Hills, of all places – that’s gotta be a bone of contention, right?’

This was the third time they’d stood outside a front door getting no response, but Merrily had heard the radio playing inside the house and she kept her finger on the bell.

It was still more than a minute before the door opened and Spicer stood there, unsmiling, in jeans and a black clerical shirt.

‘A word, Syd.’

He stared at her without expression, then looked at Lol. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, as if he’d been dealing with one of those household tasks he performed privately to prove he had no need of outside help.

‘ Why didn’t you tell me?’

She’d pulled down the zip of her fleece to reveal the collar, show him she was kitted out this time.

Spicer said, ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘I realize local loyalty is a good thing,’ Merrily said, ‘and crucial for a parish priest, I accept that. But there’s also the question of loyalty between people who share a … a calling? So you give me half a story, set me up to appear in front of the entire parish—’

‘It won’t be the entire parish. It won’t even be half the parish. Who’s your friend?’ he asked again.

‘This is Lol Robinson. He’s standing in as witness, back-up, second opinion. All the roles normally filled by the particular parish priest who’s requested assistance. If the parish priest can be bothered.’

‘I’m sorry, Merrily, I just assumed you’d prefer to check things out on your own.’

‘No, you didn’t. You just didn’t want, for some reason, to reveal the alleged identity of the alleged presence.’

‘Look,’ Spicer said. ‘The people out there who wanted an exorcist called in, I thought it was down to them to explain exactly why. I just went through the motions. I told you I had reservations, but I didn’t think it was right to spell them out to you before you’d had a chance to check out the situation for yourself.’

‘Maybe you wanted me to come back this evening to hear the music, just to underline it a little?’

‘I didn’t know you’d be coming back at all before the meeting. That’s why I set it up. For God’s sake, Merrily—’

She turned away in frustration. The evening sun threw an unearthly light on Herefordshire Beacon so that it looked like a cake aflame on a hot-plate.

‘I mean … Elgar?’ She swung back to face him. ‘ That Elgar?’

Oh shit, surely not this one? Please don’t let it be this one.

The late sun was bleeding into a false horizon of cloud, an old tractor coughing and retching across a field somewhere.

Jane standing in Virgingate Lane, radiating dismay.

She’d looked up Councillor Pierce in the phone book. The address was given as Avalon , which had been kind of promising: anyone who’d named his house after the legendary land of apples in the west, where King Arthur had been laid to rest, must have some kind of a soul.

Yeah, well…

There obviously had been apple trees here, in the days when Ledwardine was almost entirely surrounded by productive orchards. In fact, you could see a few of their sad stumps in the shaven piece of former field through which a tarmac drive cut like a motorway intersection, all the way to the triple garage.

Half a dozen cars were parked along the drive, which was actually wider than Virgingate Lane itself, where all the cottages were old and bent and comfortably sunk into the verges.

The extensive dwelling at the top of the tarmac drive was built of naked, glistening bricks, the colour of a Barbie’s bum. It had a conservatory, a sun-lounge, three fake gaslamps.

Jane could hear music and faint laughter from the house.

Great .

The plan had been to maybe encounter Councillor Pierce in his garden, casually ask him about the Coleman’s Meadow project and then perhaps educate him a little on the subject of leys and natural harmonies. He couldn’t turn her away, could he? He was a politician. She’d be able to vote for him next time. Or not.

It was clear from all the cars, however, that Councillor Pierce was hosting a dinner party or something. Bollocks .

Stupid idea, anyway. Jane felt deeply self-conscious now, standing there in her white hoodie like some shameless stalker. Unlikely that she’d gone unobserved from inside.

As if in confirmation of this, security spotlamps came blasting on below the broad pink patio which surrounded the house like a display plinth. Jane saw the hulk of a plundered cider-press with a slate plaque attached to the stone wheel. The plaque said – inevitably – AVALON.

Maybe it was irony. Sod it, anyway. She turned away from the horror. Maybe she’d just write a letter of protest to the planning department, with a copy to the Hereford Times who wouldn’t print it. Sod them all.

‘Excuse me!’ A man behind her. ‘Excuse me … you looking for anyone in particular?’

Jane turned. Two guys in middle-aged leisureware – polo shirts, chinos, golfing shoes kind of kit – were strolling down the drive towards the nearest car, a gold Lexus. One of the guys beeped open the car doors and balanced a beer can on the roof.

Jane was starting to shake her head, walk away, when one of the pinkening clouds over Avalon reminded her, somehow, of the bird-of-prey profile of Lucy Devenish. She sighed.

‘You’re not … Councillor Pierce?’

The guy with the car keys grinned, opening one of the rear doors.

‘How far would it get me if I said I was?’

‘Excuse my friend, he’s an oaf,’ the second guy said. ‘Did you want to see Lyndon?’

‘Erm … Well, you know, not if he’s like, you know, busy.’

Both of them laughed. The guy with the keys pulled a black leather briefcase from the Lexus.

‘You think Lyndon will be too busy to see this lovely young thing, Jeff?’

‘Lyndon is a man always mindful of his civic duties,’ the other guy said. ‘Follow us, if you like.’

‘No, really,’ Jane said, ‘it’s not urgent or anything. I can—’

‘No, no, you can at least come and have a drink. You’ll be quite safe. My colleague’s in Social Services.’

They laughed. The cloud formation that had looked for a moment like Lucy Devenish had broken up.