Phil Rickman - The Lamp of the Wicked

She paused, looking around for Jane, who would occasionally slip in at the back, without making a thing about it. No sign of her today. No surprise.

‘My own feeling, for what it’s worth, is that angels are a layer of creation, an aspect of divinity, of which we should be aware. Or more aware. And if we ever have reason to think that an angel has intervened for us, then maybe we shouldn’t just say “Oh, it was meant,” we should spend some time thinking: Why ? Why me? Why now?’

What Merrily was thinking right now was that all this sermon had told its listeners so far was that this vicar hadn’t yet worked out where she stood on angels. Or, indeed, on Jenny Box, probably the parish church’s biggest benefactor since the Bull family ran out of spare cash.

She looked into the congregation, perhaps for some guidance on how far to take this, and caught a movement from the bottom end of the nave: Frannie Bliss walking quietly through from the porch.

Frannie Bliss?

But, like several others, Bliss must have left before the after- service tea and coffee – either that or she’d imagined him. Jenny Box didn’t stay, either, but then she never had; she probably considered the serving of refreshments to be misuse of a holy sanctuary. On this one, Merrily would always disagree; this was about giving and sharing and opening up, not taking people’s money.

Sometimes, people would want to discuss aspects of the sermon, but not today. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to disclose a personal angelic encounter. Outside, after everyone had gone, only James Bull-Davies hung around in the churchyard.

It was a James kind of day: stiff, blustery. He angled over, hands behind his back, stared moodily at a windfall apple that had landed on a grave.

‘This Box woman.’

Merrily drew her woollen cape over her surplice, tilted her head to one side, curious. Pulled prematurely from the Army on the death of his father, James had reluctantly shouldered what he perceived to be his family’s burden of responsibility for the village. Lately, however – under the influence of Alison, no doubt – he seemed to have shrugged much of it off, coming to church alone, avoiding the traditional Bull pew, generally adopting a neutral stance on parish issues.

‘Don’t like to interfere, Mrs Watkins.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As you know.’

‘How’s Alison?’

‘Fine.’ He flicked a brittle wafer of lichen from the eighteenth- century headstone opposite the porch. ‘Met the husband, have you?’

‘Husband?’

James folded his arms, looked down at his shoes. He had on a checked shirt and a mud-coloured tie under the old tweed jacket he wore like battledress. ‘Encountered the guy in the Swan, Friday evening. Up here for the weekend. Works in London.’

‘I’ve never met him.’

‘Worried man.’ James gazed over Merrily’s head towards the lych-gate. ‘No one wants a wife playing away.’

Merrily blinked. She got a sudden flashback of James at the height of his crisis, drunk on the square, Alison trying to haul him into the Land Rover. Mistress , he’d called her. And then whore . Ownership. But Alison had been cool about all that.

‘Another man?’ Merrily said. ‘ Here? ’

‘Good Lord, no.’ James snorted. ‘Gord, Mrs Watkins. Gord! ’

‘What?’

‘Has its place, religion – the Church. Always accepted that, as you know. Part of the framework. More of these newcomers we can bring into the fold the better.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Fanaticism, however… something else entirely.’

‘Oh, I see. You mean God is the… the other man.’ She smiled. Church, for James, was a local obligation, a necessary hour of faint tedium on a hard pew smelling of polish. Echoes of public school. James’s school had had masters. When the idea of a woman priest-in-charge had been mooted for Ledwardine, he’d apparently been the first to object. She’d kind of thought that was in the past.

‘Find this amusing, do you, vicar?’

‘James,’ she said, ‘He’s my boss.’ He sniffed. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s not awfully warm here. Do you want to come back to the vicarage? Sit down with a cup of tea and—’

‘No…’ He shook his head quickly. ‘No time, sorry. I just… This is simply the gypsy’s warning, all right? I’m strongly suggesting you keep that woman at arm’s length, if you know what’s good for you. Sorry… don’t mean that to sound like a threat.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Simply that Box told me some things. Guy’d had a few drinks, so I’m treating most of it as confidential. However, presume you know she’s been in psychiatric care?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, there you are.’

‘But…’ Merrily thought of Lol. ‘We do try not to hold it against people. “Let the loonies come unto me,” sayeth the Lord, “and I shall…” ’

‘Mrs Watkins,’ James said wearily. ‘I realize that taking the piss out of me has become a little hobby of yours, but—’

‘What’s he like?’

‘What?’

‘Mr Box.’

‘Oh.’ He considered. ‘My height, perhaps an inch or two taller. A little older than her, but not appreciably. Keeps himself fit.’ He avoided Merrily’s eyes, inspecting the oak frame of the porch, as if the Bulls still paid for its maintenance.

Yes,’ she said, ‘but what’s he like ?’

‘Ex-journalist. Businessman now, handles her shops. Says he does all the work, she wanders round, tweaks a few things. Don’t know these shops myself… decor .’ Saying it like you’d say blue movies . ‘Smoothish type.’

‘Is he still here?’

‘Wouldn’t know. We were only introduced on Friday. Guy’d drifted into the Swan for a few drinks because he was a little tired of sitting there watching his wife reading her Bible and mouthing psalms.’

‘He told you that?’ Behind him, in the churchyard, Merrily saw a tiny tendril of smoke rising.

‘Not in so many words. Conjecture. Look, vicar, I don’t know the ins and outs of it. Never been anyone’s idea of a marriage- guidance counsellor, thank Gord.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘But if Box is blaming anyone’ – James dropped his hand from the oak – ‘then I’d say he’s looking in your general direction. And that’s a bit more than conjecture.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, I… I…’ James glared down towards the lych gate, as though wishing he was out of it. ‘Woman’s got a bit of a crush on you, after all. Pretty common knowledge in the village.’

‘ What? ’

‘Ah… wrong word, as usual. Sorry. Still… big thing, women getting ordained. More underneath all that than any of us suspected. And you yourself – all this cross-waving, holy-water – I’m simply saying you’ve probably become a… what’s the word?’

‘If you mean role model—’

‘Icon?’

‘Bloody hell , James.’

‘Wrong word too, is it? Shut your mouth, James.’

‘Bloody hell.’

She was shocked, couldn’t look at him. As they walked out under the lych gate, she glanced back down the crooked alley of

graves to where she’d seen the smoke. Gomer Parry was sitting in his usual spot on Minnie’s grave, a roll-up in his mouth.

‘Poor old Parry.’ James had followed her gaze. ‘Never bloody rains, eh? They buried his nephew yet?’

‘Next week. After the opening of the inquest.’

‘Bad show. Didn’t notice him in church. Having problems with the old faith, you think?’

Merrily said nothing. Gomer always went to Minnie’s grave when he had something to work out. Along with Minnie, he’d buried both their watches, with new batteries. Gomer’s was one of the old kind which, despite the batteries, still ticked loudly. Sometimes, he’d said, he thought he could still hear it. Helped him think.