Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

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Remains of an Altar: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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In 1934, the dying composer Sir Edward Elgar feebly whistled to a friend the theme from his Cello Concerto and said, "If you're walking on the Malvern Hills and hear that, don't be frightened. It's only me." Seventy years later, Merrily Watkins—parish priest and Deliverance Consultant to the Diocese of Hereford—is called in to investigate an alleged paranormal dimension in a spate of road accidents in the Malvern village of Wychehill. There, Merrily discovers new tensions in Elgar's countryside. The proposed takeover of a local pub by a nightclub owner with a criminal reputation has become the battleground between the defenders of Olde Englande and the hard men of the drug world—with extreme and sinister elements on both sides. And as the choral society prepares to stage an open-air performance of Elgar's Caractacus at a prehistoric hill fort, the deaths begin.

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Coming out with this kind of stuff cold was, Merrily often thought, the hardest part of the job. Sometimes you could almost feel the derision on your skin.

‘How extraordinary, Mrs Watkins. And did the civilized Mr Devereaux witness this apparition?’

‘We haven’t yet discussed it in any depth. But it seemed to me that a Requiem Eucharist for two people who’d recently died on the road would be a calming influence, as well as bringing together the local community in a spiritual way. I think I’m right in saying that Islamic theology accepts that social and atmospheric disturbances can be caused by various discarnate … presences.’

‘Oh, very much so. Very much so.’ Mr Khan stood up and moved to the window. ‘So this has absolutely nothing to do with the murder of my employee Mr Wicklow.’

‘Not directly,’ Merrily said. ‘But I’m sure he’ll be very much in our minds.’

He smiled. ‘What diplomacy.’

‘It seems he was a violent man, Mr Khan.’

‘Yes, apparently he was. But still a man. And still, in the end, a victim. Who is mourned. Look…’

Mr Khan beckoned her and she walked over to the window. Down in the courtyard, a man was adjusting the driving seat of a bright orange sports car with an ENGLAND sticker in the rear window. Two women looking on, the older one clutching a tissue.

‘His family?’

‘They’ve been here most of the day, to attend the opening of the inquest and collect his personal possessions – his car, his clothing, his jewellery. His mother’s taken it very badly. He was her only son.’

Merrily said nothing, wondering about the mothers of dead junkies whose habits had been fed by Roman.

‘Perhaps I was naive,’ Mr Khan said, ‘in watching my head doorman walk out onto the hills with his knapsack and his binoculars and being gratified by his seeming appreciation of the natural world. It’s been a sobering experience for all of us.’

He turned away from the window.

‘And you don’t really believe me, do you, Mrs Watkins? You don’t believe I knew nothing about Roman’s enterprise. Perhaps you even think I’m involved in it myself.’

Hadn’t been expecting that.

‘Well…’ She went back slowly to her chair. ‘I don’t think you’re naive. Not all your regulars like to keep going all night unassisted. It’s a chemical culture. If you were widely known for taking a hard line against drugs, this wouldn’t be considered a very cool venue, would it?’

Khan gave Merrily a sharp look which, she thought, was close to conveying respect.

‘I’ll tell you one thing.’ He sat down again and prodded the newspaper on his desk, opened at ‘ THIS CARNAGE WILL GO ON…’‘This is a quite ludicrous exaggeration. A couple of weeks ago, I made a point of parking my own car in Wychehill early on a Sunday morning to see for myself the alleged havoc we were wreaking. No one, in the course of an hour and a half, seemed to stop there, and there was no noise. And although we sell alcohol, like any other country pub, I’m aware of no drink- or drug-related convictions, so far this year, that are connected with Inn Ya Face. And the traffic police do target us – they’d be foolish not to.’

Merrily chanced her arm. ‘But not the drug squad?’

‘Why are you—?’ He spread his arms. ‘Mrs Watkins, why are you pursuing this? The police aren’t. The media are still calling Roman’s death some sort of ritual murder. The police have been inclined to view it as an extreme reaction to something considered … culturally alien to the area. While you … is this a holy war?’

‘Do you know DCI Howe well?’

Khan’s eyes narrowed, for just an instant, and then he smiled.

‘She’s a fine officer. Her record on community relations is impeccable.’

‘Clearly going right to the top,’ Merrily said.

And wondered what their relationship was, Annie Howe and Raji Khan. He’d surely be an informer to die for.

‘I do hope so,’ he said. ‘The police service needs more people like Annie.’

‘And I hope you’ll be able to attend the service.’ She stood up. ‘Erm … if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get into this business?’

‘This murky business?’ He laughed, a yelp of delight. ‘This world of gangland rivalry and territorial wars? Mrs Watkins, you have such a … a darkly romanticized view of the nightclub scene.’

‘I tend to watch a lot of trash TV. To unwind from the pressures of the job.’

Raji Khan came around the desk.

‘I shall tell you why, rather than how – despite coming down from Cambridge with a moderately acceptable second – I got into this business. I came into it, Mrs Watkins, because I absolutely love it . I love it to death … the music, the atmosphere, the milieu … have loved it since escaping from my dormitory at fourteen, with a friend, to attend my very first rave on a hillside in Wiltshire. Electrifying. Pure, ecstatic, naked vibration . You leave everything behind … your mind, your body, your— I’m sorry, was that your generation – acid house, drum-’n’-bass – or did you miss out? Do you know what I’m talking about? Or are you persuaded, like Mr Holliday and his cohorts, that we are demonic?’

‘Well, I…’

‘I am a Sufi,’ Raji Khan said. ‘Music is a sacred form to me. I tell people that Inn Ya Face has been transformed from a common drinking den into a temple of sound.’

‘Yes.’

Two wires connecting in Merrily’s head with an almost audible fizz.

‘Have I said something, Mrs Watkins?’

‘Mmm, I think you have. Have you got something on tonight?’

‘Of course. It’s Friday. We have an old friend of mine, the good Dr Samedi.’

‘From Kidderminster? Jeff?’

Khan looked startled.

‘He was hired for a party in our village, a couple of years ago. With his voodoo hip-hop show. He still doing that? Not so famous then, of course.’

‘My, my,’ Raji Khan said.

He escorted her to the car park. Roman Wicklow’s family had gone. Two white vans were arriving.

‘Well,’ Khan said, ‘I’m not sure whether I shall be able to attend your requiem . But I do hope that you can help to stop the carnage.’

40

Netherworld

All Jane wanted was to leave, go running back to the vicarage, bar the doors and spend the night slapping tin after tin of white paint on the Mondrian walls. But Lol said that leaving now would only make it worse, like they actually did have something to hide, so she just kept walking round and round the little front parlour like a caged tiger – hamster, more like – ending up face-down on the sofa, beating the cushions in blind despair at a world where the scum always came out on top.

And at the bottom of it all, like a cold stone in her gut, was the knowledge that this was all so totally her fault . This half-arsed venture had been cursed from the start, and the curse was spreading and, of all the people she never in her life wanted to harm, of all the people who didn’t deserve it…

Lol was always tethered to his past, that was the problem. He’d stretch it just so far and then something would send it snapping back, old rope twisting itself into a new noose.

After the disgusting Pierce had gone, Lol had sat at the desk assuring her that this was really not a problem, and the kind of people who’d believe someone like Lyndon were the kind who were not worth worrying about.

But he must be worried, terribly worried about the damage Pierce could do, with a word here and a word there, scattered like rat poison over all the places he went in his capacity as a democratically elected member of the Herefordshire Council. Democratically elected, Lol said, because nobody could be bothered to stand against him.

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