Phil Rickman - The Lamp of the Wicked

He took a breath. The air here smelled foul to him now.

He said to Fergus, ‘You said Roddy Lodge had blackouts more and more often. He must have had them in front of you a few times, maybe during… magical practices. Especially in this chapel – right under the pylon, right here in the middle of the hot spot. How long was he out of it, usually… five minutes, ten… longer?’

‘I never studied it,’ Fergus said distantly. ‘We tried to help him.’

Lol said, ‘Why don’t you take us through Lynsey’s last night? You were there.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re absolutely crazy,’ Fergus said. ‘Cola couldn’t—’

‘I know, Cola wasn’t there. I didn’t get this from Cola. She probably doesn’t even have an inkling…’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Fergus turned to the others. ‘What’s he talking about?’

Lol exploded. ‘Oh, you fucking do know. I get so pissed off with people like you… teachers, shrinks…’

He squeezed his eyes closed and heard Fergus saying, ‘What’s the matter with him? Is he on medication?’

Lol felt a merciful warmth, and when he opened his eyes Merrily was next to him, and she was holding his hand, pressing something hot and metallic into it, holding his hand closed over it, holding him together. He put his arm around her. He needed help. He instinctively knew the truth of it, but he couldn’t make that final leap.

‘Blackouts, huh?’ Sam Hall was rubbing his white beard. Lol remembered Sam on the night of the execution: … Shit coming off of the power lines. He’s gonna be disoriented by now. His balance’ll go completely, can’t they see that? Warning the police about what might happen. Empathizing with the man on the pylon.

‘Sam, help me,’ Lol said. ‘Roddy Lodge wasn’t a killer. He probably wasn’t a very nice man, especially in the end, but he didn’t kill this Melanie, and I really don’t think he killed Lynsey Davies, either. But when…’ He shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

Sam said, ‘You’re saying that when he came round from a blackout, resulting from heavy electrical bombardment, he might’ve thought he had. Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Lol breathed, and he felt the breath coming out of Merrily, too. ‘If you… I mean, if there were certain people who knew he’d often have blackouts in a certain situation…’

‘Say, like in here?’

‘They were coming more and more often, I think Mr Young just said. But if they were all ready for it – ready for the next one to happen – and there was another person among them whom they very much needed to kill…’

‘They’d wait till Roddy was out of it, and then do it.’ Sam Hall started to smile. ‘And when he came round, with the body at his feet, they’d say, “Jeez, look what you did, you crazy bastard.” ’

‘Or maybe they’d just go out and leave him to come round on his own and find it. He might not remember they’d even been here too.’

‘Are you both mad?’ Fergus Young cried, and Lol could hear the strain, the striving for effect.

‘I tell you, though,’ Sam said, ‘killing like this, by strangulation, not everyone’s capable of that. That is ultimate contact- killing. Intimate killing. I never did think Roddy Lodge could do that.’

‘But this isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?’ Huw Owen said, almost brightly. ‘This is all daft speculation.’ He looked at Fergus. ‘You meant what you said about being cleaned out, lad?’

Fergus glanced suspiciously from side to side. ‘What kind of set-up—?’ It’s entirely up to you,’ Huw said. ‘Nobody ever gets forced.’

Lol looked at Fergus – the head teacher, the golden-haired golden boy of Underhowle, the local hero, the man who wore the admiration of the community like a halo – and Fergus looked down at Huw and smiled ruefully.

‘Rather set myself up for this one, didn’t I?’ He shrugged. ‘All right. Do what you want.’

Huw shook his head regretfully. ‘Not me, lad. I’m too close to it.’ He turned, putting out an open hand in invitation. ‘Merrily?’

HUW MOVED RAPIDLY, setting up candles on the packing case and lighting them. Sam and Ingrid stood quietly with Lol against the wall, while Fergus prowled restlessly like an actor waiting to be auditioned, going over his lines. When Merrily caught his gaze once he smiled and shook his head. It’s a farce; we both know that .

‘Minor exorcism?’ Merrily murmured to Huw. ‘You reckon?’

‘Aye, but you can’t mess about. He’s not going to sit still for the whole bit. Have to compress it a little.’

‘Is he a Christian?’

‘Ask him. No, don’t bother. You’ll find out.’

‘Huw… You tricked him.’

‘He tricked himself,’ Huw said. ‘Now put the lights out.’

Merrily took off her coat, knelt at the packing case and prayed. The cold seeped through her alb, and it felt as though her back was naked. She was aware of Huw standing behind her, as if trying to shield the fragile candle flames from an unfelt wind.

She said the Lord’s Prayer, muttered St Patrick’s Breastplate and wondered what this spontaneous, makeshift ritual, without any of the important preliminaries, could possibly achieve. Was this Huw grabbing his last chance, while Fergus was relaxed enough – or hypocritical enough – to throw himself at the mercy of a God in whom he had probably never believed?

Huw whispered, ‘Call him.’

Merrily said, ‘Fergus.’

Huw and Lol had dragged over one of the rubber mats and then folded a dust sheet and laid it on top, Lol squeezing her hand and leaving something in it.

‘Where do you want me?’ Fergus said.

‘Might be as well if you just knelt. If that’s not too uncomfortable.’

‘I try to keep myself flexible, Merrily.’

‘Good.’

Fergus knelt. She stood. She still didn’t have far to gaze down on his open, bony face, his wide-apart brown eyes. Had he? Was any of this even conceivable? She saw how long and bony his hands were, knuckles like ball—

‘If you could move a little closer to the altar.’ She wanted it so the two candles lit the upper part of his face, so that she could see his eyes.

It was always going to be the eyes.

Very quietly, Huw was removing from the bag two items: the white diary of Lynsey Davies and a small picture, the miniature in its slender frame, and he was edging silently along the dust- sheeted wall towards the entrance. He could leave this to the lass.

He had to.

Huw crept away, to be on his own. He hadn’t eaten for more than a day now. He’d awoken at five a.m. in the dark, and had spent nigh on three hours in meditation at the window. His room had faced east – she were thoughtful like that, the lass – and before the dawn came he’d established inside himself a centre of calm to which periodically, during the day, he’d returned.

His head was light now, filled with this quiet incandescence that was still linked to his spine as he padded down the body of the chapel, arriving at the side of the door. Standing there with his back to a hanging dust sheet, looking down to the altar at the opposite end of the chapel where, between the shapes of the people gathered there, he could see the candlelight, as remote from him now as starlight.

He placed the diary on the flagstones at his feet and held the miniature for a few moments in both hands. Too dark to see it, but the image was clear to him. He could see the face of Donna Furlowe sketched by her mother in pale grey pastel on white paper, so that it was like an imprint on a sheet. Or a shroud.