Phil Rickman - The Lamp of the Wicked

Or not. Maybe there was nowhere to go but deeper into your own delusions.

Jane turned the pillow over to the dry side.

Merrily remembered the parcel she’d left on the hall table, and went to fetch it. She was suspicious of parcels now. The Jiffy bag wasn’t light, and it bulged. Suppose it contained another few thousand pounds in used fifties.

She took it into the scullery and pulled it open under the Anglepoise.

There were three paperback books inside, all scuffed and with split spines: An Evil Love. Happy Like Murderers. She Must Have Known .

There was a note on yellow paper attached to one of the books with a paperclip.

EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW

ABOUT THE WESTS AND A LOT YOU’LL WISH YOU

DIDN’T. JUST IN CASE YOU WERE INTERESTED.

LET ME HAVE THEM BACK SOMETIME.

F.

‘Well, thanks, Frannie.’ Merrily put the books back in the bag. ‘Just what I bloody needed.’

She switched off the lamp and sat there in the blood red of the old electric fire and wondered where all this was going.

JANE SAID, ‘WHAT are you doing sitting here in the dark?’

Silhouetted in the doorway, with the creamy kitchen behind her, she looked so slight and vulnerable that Merrily wanted to rush over and hold her. The way you did sometimes, even in normal circumstances.

As if she’d sensed it and didn’t want it, Jane backed off into the kitchen.

‘Sorry.’ Merrily felt a cool wave of dismay. ‘Sorry, flower. I was on the phone, and the light just faded on me. What’s the time?’

‘Twenty to six.’

Merrily got up. ‘Things have been a bit… Maybe we could put some music on later?’ Code for a deep and meaningful chat.

‘Whatever.’

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah.’ The light, throwaway kind of yeah , carrying many times its weight of meaning. And now the damn phone was going again. Merrily glanced back to make sure she hadn’t switched off the machine by mistake.

‘Better get it,’ Jane said quickly. ‘Might be important.’

Merrily hesitated, and Jane turned away. Merrily sighed, went back and picked up. ‘Ledwardine Vic—’

‘Mrs Watkins!’ Cheery, booming male voice. ‘George Lomas, Lomas and Sons, Coleford. We haven’t done business before, but we’re burying a certain gentleman – if that’s the correct term in this instance – for Mr Tony Lodge and your good self.’

‘Ah, right. Erm… hello.’

‘You have Friday, I believe.’

‘As I understand it.’

‘And, unfortunately, Mrs Watkins, I have to tell you, as quite a number of people now understand it. Mr Lodge had hoped to keep it discreet by using ourselves, rather than one of the firms in Ross, but it seems someone’s let the cat out of the bag, and I had a phone call this afternoon from the local press.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Quite. Not what we want, under the circumstances. However, I’ve spoken to the parties concerned, including the Reverend Banks, and we have an alternative proposal to put to you, if it can be accommodated into your schedule. And that is Wednesday – the day after tomorrow. We’re suggesting late afternoon – very late afternoon.’

‘You mean under cover of darkness?’

‘I think it makes sense, Mrs Watkins. It had been arranged that Mr Lodge’s coffin should spend at least one night in the church prior to burial, so no one will be surprised to see a hearse arrive. We propose – and Mr Tony Lodge is somewhat reluctantly in agreement – that the funeral should be carried out as soon as possible. We expect there to be no more than five mourners.’

‘A clandestine funeral?’

‘That wouldn’t exactly be my choice of word but, under the circumstances… well, Mr Banks is certainly in agreement. It means that Mr Lodge will be safely interred before anyone can… cause problems.’

‘You’ve been warned of problems?’

‘Not if it’s dealt with on Wednesday evening and arrangements remain confidential. Could we say five-thirty?’

‘Well…’ There really wasn’t an alternative, was there? ‘OK.’

‘Splendid,’ said Mr Lomas.

When she put down the phone, it rang again, under her hand.

‘Damn.’ Merrily picked up. ‘Led—’

Sophie said, ‘I was just doing my final check on the e-mail, and there’s one you might just want to know about before the morning. Cherry Lodge?’

‘ Already? How long is it?’

‘Quite long. Merrily, I’ve already mailed it, but I thought I’d tell you in case you weren’t going to check your e-mails again until the morning.’

‘Fine. Thanks. Oh, sh— the computer’s gone down. It’s not working. I was going to ring up someone tomorrow. Oh God, look, under the circumstances I think I’d better come in and collect it.’

‘I could drive it over there if you’re tired. You sound tired.’

‘No, that’s ridiculous, I’ll come in. How’s the fog?’

‘Patchy. I’ll wait for you.’

‘No need.’

‘I’ll wait .’

‘OK, give me just over half an hour.’

When she’d put the phone down, Merrily went into the kitchen and found Jane at the farthest window, where the light was dim, looking out at dark nothings in the garden. The kid didn’t turn round.

‘Off to HQ, then.’

‘Sorry. Something I need to pick up.’ Merrily saw that Jane’s hair was flattened on one side, as if she’d been lying on it. ‘Erm… why don’t you come, too? We could call for some chips on the way back.’

‘I’ve got homework to wrap. Anyway, it always takes you longer than you think it’s going to, once you’re up there closeted with Auntie Sophie.’

‘No, I’ll be as quick as I can, honest. But if you want to get something to eat, meanwhile… or I could—’

Jane said, ‘Just go, Mum, huh?’

Desperately cuddling Ethel, Jane had thought about it for a long time, and it was her fault. No question, she was the guilty party.

she would call him.

A mature decision. You didn’t – because of your own weakness, your own inadequacy – just walk away like this from someone who was not only your first lover but also your best friend. Who you’d lain with and laughed about things with together. Who had virtually nicked his stepmother’s car last summer to drive you home from Wales on a whim. Who, also last summer, had been – face it – hurt for you, and almost very badly, in fact almost—

Jane clutched the edge of the refectory table with both hands, squeezing hard until she, too, was hurting. Ethel watched her, big-eyed, from the stone flags.

She should be able to understand why she was feeling like this, continually juggling rage and despair. Like, she’d read The Catcher in the Rye , about the kid in the 1950s making the shattering discovery that all adults were hypocrites. But this wasn’t the 1950s and she wasn’t a kid any more, and she’d known for years that all adults were total fucking hypocrites.

OK, maybe except for Lol. And Gomer. And Mum, who did her best.

And anyway, all these were people in the process of getting damaged.

Jane let go of the table, walked into Mum’s office, and snapped on the light. It was actually quite calm and plain in here. No awful Victorian Bible scenes. Just a blue-framed print of a painting by Paul Klee, which Huw Owen had once given Mum: irregular coloured rooftops under a white moon. On the wall above the desk, there was just one smallish cross, in oak. A paperback New Testament and a prayer book lay on the desk. There was a single bookcase in which the standard theological tomes were being gradually displaced by the kind of books that Jane herself used to borrow: paranormal stuff.