Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

‘Got him now,’ Jane said. ‘I think. White Jaguar?’

‘That’s the boy.’

‘Came round a corner once, had Irene in the ditch. He’s insane.’

‘Not insane enough he don’t know the value of land,’ Gomer said. ‘Ground rent on the village-hall site, that’s peanuts, see – only public-spirited gesture Gwyn Twigg ever made. Mabbe owed somebody on the parish council a favour. Anyway, word is, Stu’s been talkin’ serious to one o’ the supermarket chains.’

‘You mean with a view to … ?’

‘Only one suitable site for a supermarket in Ledwardine, they reckons. Only it’s got a village hall on it.’

This didn’t take a lot of thinking out. The village hall was 1960s and a bit run down. Not exactly a listed building.

Jane said, ‘So if there was a new village hall … like one that was built somewhere else … ?’

‘Or a posh new leisure centre with playin’ fields, what’d need a bigger site. Mabbe a greenfield site, outside the village kind o’ thing. If you had some’ing like that…’

‘Stu could flog the village-hall site to the supermarket and clean up. And we’d have a big flash superstore dominating the bottom of Church Street like a … a shrine to commercialism.’

‘Ar. Some’ing like that. You wanner take a guess who Stu’s accountant is, Janie?’

‘Wow.’ Jane lurched forward against her seat belt. ‘You are kidding .’

‘Open secret, girl. Like I tole you, startin’ off thinkin’ your local councillor’s bent always saves a bit o’ time.’

‘Gomer, that is just so—’

‘En’t even the whole story, girl. Supermarket chain, they got a limit, kind o’ thing – what I mean is, a place needs to have a partic’lar head o’ population to make it worthwhile movin’ in. And Ledwardine’s borderline. Needs mabbe a hundred or so new houses to qualify. See where I’m goin’ yere?’

‘Luxury … executive…’ Jane lost her breath ‘… homes.’

‘It’s a start.’

‘That’s—’

‘And it don’t stop there. I been talkin’ to Jack Brodrick, see. Jack was a surveyor with the ole Radnorshire Council. He d’reckon Coleman’s Meadow’s a key strategic move . Strategic, see. His word. What it means is this: you got housing on Coleman’s Meadow, you gets to put a road through the ole orchard as was. Which opens up the whole of the east side o’ Ledwardine. And then you’re off , and big time, Janie. More new estates up the back of Ole Barn Lane, out towards the bypass, and all the way to…’

Gomer gave Jane a sideways glance and crushed out his ciggy.

Jane pictured it. The back of Old Barn Lane? That would take the housing to…

‘The bottom of Cole Hill, from the other side?’

‘Sure t’be.’

‘Which would mean … with Coleman’s Meadow built on, Cole Hill would be totally boxed in.’

‘’Course, this is only what Jack Brodrick reckons.’

‘ Christ, Gomer! ’

‘Shrewd ole bugger, Jack, mind.’

‘Pierce is quietly stitching up the whole village! We’ll be like … like a new town.’

‘Looks that way.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘I don’t know, Janie. It’s all guesswork, ennit?’

‘It’s not.’ Jane leaned back against the passenger door, her head out of the jeep, as if this would blow away the images of black and white houses crushed by an avalanche of pink brick.

Gomer drove on towards the Ledwardine turning.

‘ Is it? ’ Jane screamed against the slipstream.

‘Mabbe not,’ Gomer said.

As Gomer slowed for the Ledwardine turn, Jane checked her mobile, found the message from Mum. So what was new? Maybe Mum and Lol would be home by the time she got in. Anyway, she didn’t want to call back now. There was just too much to say. And she was too angry.

They came into the village. Ledwardine in the smoky dusk. The black and white houses timeless and ghostly in the fake gaslight from the square and the orange and lemon light spilling from the diamond-paned windows of the Black Swan. No neon.

Outside the Swan, the high-powered cars and SUVs of smug diners. A few young guys of fourteen or so with lager cans on the square.

Imagine it in five years, with twice the population.

Two ways it could go: either a refuge of the rich with high gates and burglar alarms and suspicion and unfriendliness. Or teeming streets, vandalism, drunkenness, fights, burglaries and gutters full of infected needles and crack pipes.

Not that there was anything new about all that, even in Ledwardine. In centuries past, the gutters would probably have been overflowing nightly with blood and vomit. And, like … well, everybody got drunk sometime, it was just…

… Just that the kind of mass drunkenness you got in the cities now was symptomatic of something scary: an almost suicidal hopelessness seeping through society. Jane had done this really heartfelt essay on it for the school magazine. The attitude was: the world is made of shit, the politicians of all three major parties are clueless tossers on the make, the country’s already more than halfway down the toilet, so if you don’t get pissed tonight, tomorrow could be too late.

There’d been times when she’d felt that way herself, obviously. And although she hadn’t used the words pissed or shit in the essay, it had still been censored. Good old Morrell. Good old Rob . Maybe it was time to leave, make her own way. Somehow.

‘Home, is it?’

‘Huh? Sorry, Gomer, I was…’

‘You wanner check if the vicar’s back, Janie?’

Gomer had stopped the jeep at the edge of the market square, engine clattering.

‘Actually, Gomer, I wouldn’t mind – like, now there’ll be nobody about – checking out Coleman’s Meadow? See if they’ve taken the fence down or anything.’

‘They en’t gonner do that, girl.’

‘Only … I feel bad about just going to ground all day. Not having the courage of my convictions.’

‘Wisest thing. You hadn’t got no proof.’

‘Yeah. And now we have. Can you take me back to Mrs Kingsley’s in the morning? Get those pictures photocopied?’

‘I’Il do that.’

‘You’re a star, Gomer.’

But still tomorrow morning seemed a long way off. What if – call it paranoia, but anything could happen in this sick world – what if Mrs Kingsley had changed her mind? What if Lyndon Pierce and Gerry Murray had found out and persuaded her to hand over the photos, and by tomorrow morning they were ashes?

‘Best to stay away from the meadow, I reckon, Janie. Don’t invite no trouble till you’re ready for it.’ Gomer pulled the jeep onto the square, switched off the engine. ‘I’ll come over the vicarage with you. If they en’t back, mabbe get some chips?’

‘Brilliant. See, all I was thinking … maybe more protesters might’ve turned up. I’ve got this fantasy of … like one of these old peace camps? Where people come and occupy the site?’

‘Got new laws to prevent all that, now.’

‘They’re stifling everything spontaneous, aren’t they? Free speech. Whatever happened to that?’

‘En’t gonner stifle me, girl,’ Gomer said. ‘Too old to be stifled, see.’

They walked across the square and under the market hall. It was around ten p.m. and the only light was in the northern sky – a strange light, with swirls of white, like cream in dark coffee.

There were no lights in the vicarage.

‘Chips then, is it?’ Gomer said.

‘Yeah, why not? My treat. You’ve done a great job tonight, Gomer. All we have to do now is make sure everybody knows … and about the leisure centre and everything. We’ve got to wake up the village.’