Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

‘Only I’ve heard nothing. Last night I barely slept. See, the one time Tim called me, Iwantedtofixhim a lawyer, he kept saying there was no need. He said it was crazy they could think he did it. He said they’d know that soon enough.’

‘Well, Winnie.’ Merrily sat down at the desk in the scullery. ‘Erm … I think there might be a need for a lawyer now.’

‘I have to know. I have to call his parents in France—What did you just say?’

‘Just that I think he may well need a lawyer. I’ve been trying to confirm the situation since last night but I’m not getting anywhere.’

She’d phoned Bliss, who’d come back to her late last night to say that Worcester were still holding Loste and studying lab reports, and that was all he could find out at this hour without inviting awkward questions.

‘So, like, how long can they hold a guy without a charge?’

‘No, look, Winnie, what I’m trying to say is—’

Merrily waved to Jane, hovering in the scullery doorway with her airline bag, meaning hang on . Jane raised a hand, smiled a worryingly wan kind of smile and was gone. Bugger .

‘—What I’m trying to say is I don’t know that there hasn’t been a charge, in the light of new forensic evidence. I—This is confidential?’

‘OK.’

‘I talked at some length to the officer heading the inquiry, and frankly, after what she told me, even I ’d have pulled Tim in for questioning. Even if it was only to have a look around inside his house. He comes across as a very strange person, Winnie, and he’s clammed up on them and that makes it look worse.’

‘And strange equals psychotic, right?’

‘No, but—’

‘Did you say you went into his house?’

‘With the police. I was asked to take a look at … some things.’

‘What things?’

‘Photographs, books…’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re trying to get a handle on him, find out exactly where he’s coming from.’

‘They had no goddamn right. You had no right.’

‘I tried to explain a couple of points, as best I could. I don’t think I was very successful. There was just too much I didn’t know. For instance, his background. I mean, how long have you actually known him?’

‘Background? Background could not be more respectable. Parents are both professional classical musicians. He was a music teacher at private schools, ending up at Malvern College. Played rugby for a local team. How respectable do you want?

‘This project of his,’ Merrily said. ‘The oratorio or whatever…’

‘OK.’

‘He was working on that when you met him? Or was that your idea?’

‘What’s that matter?’

‘We didn’t go into this yesterday, but when he saw what he … when he saw the figure he identified as Elgar, on his bike … I’m just thinking of the big picture in the hallway … Very much a presence in the house, you’ll agree.’

‘He’s a presence in Tim’s life.’

‘And obviously a presence, on some level, in Wychehill.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘It’s just that this seems to be the image of Elgar that Tim’s … carrying around with him. And it corresponds with the … with the apparition that people – Tim included – appear to have been seeing.’

‘What’s that have to do with getting him out of gaol?’

‘And you’re a writer, specializing in books on mysticism, psychic studies, healing … the occult? You said you were helping him with meditation exercises. To deal with his drinking and … maybe to reach Elgar’s level of creative inspiration. A man whose previous output, I understand, has been … fairly ordinary. So he’s living with Elgar’s music, images of Elgar, in a place steeped in Elgar. He’s immersing himself on a very intense level…’

‘You don’t even wanna get him out, do you? All you want is to cover your own ass with the cops for whatever reason—’

‘This has nothing to do with the cops.’ Merrily felt a headache coming on. ‘But if you want to deal with that first … oak trees? Acorns? Little oaks in pots, the sapling that’s going to be bigger than his house?’

‘A symbol.’

‘Of what?’

‘A symbol from the natural world that he could use for meditation. He was drinking too much, I was trying to use meditation to give him a focus. And also to make him more … receptive. Why are you asking me this stuff?’

‘Because the police are linking oaks to Druidism and Druidism to blood sacrifice and … you know?’

‘ Oh, Jesus God …’ Winnie’s voice was suddenly perforated with panic. ‘This is shit! This is so wrong .’

‘Is it?’

‘What?’

‘I mean, why is it wrong? Elgar wrote Caractacus about Herefordshire Beacon. Full of Druidism and magic and prophecy and people’s throats being cut on sacrificial stones.’

There was a gap before Winnie’s voice came back, the fissures hardening up.

‘What are you, Merrily? Some kinda fucking stoolie for the cops? Like I need to waste my time with a police snitch? I don’t think so, lady. I think I told you far too much already, and all you did was you gave it to the cops.’

‘That’s not—’

‘So from now on you can get off of my case, OK?’

‘Look, I’m just trying to—’

‘I’m gonna have a good lawyer I can’t truly afford go see Tim right now, and I don’t wanna hear from you again, so … like when we get him outta there you just stay the hell away from the both of us.’

‘Winnie, if you could just let me—’

‘Goddamn fucking stoolie bitch.’

The phone went down hard.

At the start of mid-morning break, the sixth-form common room was like a call centre, a whole bunch of them switching on their mobiles to, like, maintain the temperature of their love lives.

When Jane switched on hers, just to be sociable, not expecting anything from Eirion this morning, it went directly into its tune. And, not recognising the number, it was like…

‘Jane Watkins?’

‘Erm…’

‘Hi, Jane, this is Jerry Isles from the Guardian . I tried to leave a message on your voicemail yesterday – maybe you didn’t get it?’

‘Oh … did you?’

‘Never mind. Jane, I have to say it all sounds hugely fascinating. I used to be quite into leys a few years ago – we used to stay with friends in Cornwall, where you’re practically tripping over megalithic sites, so I’ve read Watkins, obviously, and this really brought it all back. Are you running the campaign on your own?’

‘Well … you know … me and a few friends, but—’

‘But it was your idea.’

‘Yes, only I’m not sure—’

‘You seem to be wearing school uniform on the picture. How old are you, do you mind?’

‘S—Eighteen.’

‘Good. And your parents know about it?’

‘My mother knows. I don’t have a father any more. She, erm … My mum’s cool with it.’

‘Well … I took the liberty of checking your map with the Ordnance Survey, and the line certainly seems to work. Who did the pictures?’

‘My … boyfriend.’

‘They’re good pix, on the whole. However, I think we’d like to do some of our own. We have a regular freelance photographer in your area, and the picture editor would like to send her along, if that’s all right with you. How about … are you free this afternoon?’

Through the plate-glass window beyond the tabletennis table, Jane could see Morrell in his shirt sleeves jogging across the quad towards the car park.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I mean this is really good of you, but I’m not sure I want to go through with it now.’