Phil Rickman - The Lamp of the Wicked

‘Cheeky besom.’ He found the lighter and lit her cigarette. ‘This woman we’re going to see, this is the woman whose septic tank…?’

‘… Started it all.’ The tiered skyline of Ross appeared, part- floodlit, across the dual carriageway and the Wye: the Herefordshire Riviera. Behind it was Howle Hill, the Forest, the dark country. ‘And as we don’t want to scare her, you can stay in the car.’

Mrs Jenny Box, née Driscoll said, ‘You’re not expecting her back soon at all, are you, Jane?’

‘Well, she said she—’

‘Thought not.’

Driscoll sat with her white scarf around her shoulders and the cup of weak tea Jane had made in front of her on the refectory table.

Not quite the soft touch that Jane had expected.

In fact, knowing the woman’s background, why had she expected a soft touch at all – Driscoll having come over from Ireland, worked with the hard cookies of the fashion world, the flash cynics in television. Having been married, for years, to Gareth Box.

Jane sat across the table, uncomfortable. Why hadn’t she just told the woman that Mum was out and offered to pass on a message? Instead of thinking this could be heaven-sent and saying what Gareth Box had said: she can’t be long, I suppose. Do you want to come in and wait? Getting her into the house, just the two of them, a cosy chat. This woman: Mum’s… lover?

Would-be! Would-be lover!

Oh Christ, get me out of this.

‘So, is there something you wanted to say to me, Jane?’

This soft-spoken, soft-eyed, soft-skinned woman, sitting with her soft hands, one over the other, on her lap. This very feminine woman. Very feminine, like Mum. Wasn’t one of them supposed to be kind of… butch?

Something she wanted to say? She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘The Archangel Uriel.’

‘And what about her?’ Jenny Box asked gently.

‘ Her? ’

‘Of the four principal archangels, Uriel is the only one sometimes perceived as female. In works of art mainly.’

‘Oh.’

‘You don’t know too much theology, do you, Jane?’

‘I know quite a lot about angels, actually. But that’s not proper theology anyway. The Bible doesn’t have very much to say about angels. And certainly not Uriel, who only shows up in the book of Esdras, in the Apocrypha – which is like a bit iffy.’

‘The Bible’s been censored more times than you or I will ever know,’ said Jenny Box. ‘Uriel’s the Divine Fire, an energy of light and summer. Of warmth. And so can only be female. Which, I suppose, was one reason she was pushed out of the picture for so long.’

Jane found she was clasping and unclasping her hands under the table. She pulled them apart. ‘So like this would be the Uriel you’re supposed to have… over the church?’

‘She told you about that?’ No expression. Not bothered.

‘She tells me everything. We’re very close. She…’ Jane hesitated. Sod it. ‘She told me about the money, too.’

‘Ah yes,’ Jenny Box said, ‘the money. Doesn’t everybody always get so excited about money?’

‘I mean, like… was it you who brought it?’

Mrs Box raised a faint eyebrow. ‘An anonymous gift is an anonymous gift, Jane. ’Twas always my feeling that all donations to the Church ought to be anonymous. Nobody can buy admission to Heaven, can they now?’

‘You’re pretty slick, really, aren’t you?’ Jane said.

Jenny Box laughed. ‘Years around TV. So hard to shed. All right, where’s your mother, really?’

Jane shrugged awkwardly. ‘Ross, I think.’

‘Underhowle?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I hoped to speak to her about that. I read all the papers. I’ve been up in London and I read all the papers on the train coming back. That’s more important than she could know – maybe what her whole life’s been leading up to, you know?’ She smiled at Jane. ‘Yes, I’m sure you do.’

‘No.’ Jane felt a slow seepage of anger. ‘No, I don’t know, actually.’

‘Oh? I thought you said she told you everything.’

‘But not as much as she tells you, evidently.’

The eyebrow went up again, like a goldfish flicking its tail.

‘You never really saw an angel at all, did you, Mrs Box?’ Jane said. Because at this stage of the game there was really nowhere else to go.

Mrs Pawson’s arms were down by her sides, stiff. Lol saw the knuckles tighten on her small, white fists. Oddly, he found he was starting to like her. She didn’t seem neurotic, she was really quite strong. She probably would have got along quite well in the country, in normal circumstances.

They were waiting in a carpeted, cream-walled passageway, people passing them on the way to dinner.

Mr Robinson, I’m not usually a wilting violet, and if I thought this might have helped someone I would have told the police. I would have made a full statement. But, as you said, he’s dead. Lodge is dead, and… oh …’

They’d both seen the discreet glint of the cross at the entrance to the passage, and Lol’s heart did what it always did when he saw Merrily for the first time, after…

He said, ‘I’ll go, shall I? Leave you to it.’

Mrs Pawson looked embarrassed. ‘No, don’t. This is becoming surreal.’

Merrily smiled, held out a hand. ‘I’m Merrily.’

A man and a woman had come out of a room to the right, and Mrs Pawson looked in through the door. ‘This is empty now. Let’s go in here.’

They followed her in, Lol shut the door behind them. It was a residents’ lounge, narrow, with pink and gold Regency-striped sofas and the same extensive view as the one from The Prospect.

‘How is this really going to help anyone?’ Lisa Pawson said.

Merrily walked to the window. ‘Wonderful view.’ There was a floodlit terrace and, in the middle distance, the lights of the traffic on the bypass. She turned to Mrs Pawson. ‘I get the feeling we’ve both had slightly disturbing experiences with Roddy Lodge. I’m supposed to be conducting his funeral, and I suspect there’s quite a lot that needs to be laid to rest.’

Mrs Pawson was holding her blouse together at the neck, as if it had suddenly gone cold in the room. ‘I was teaching in comprehensive schools for fifteen years, and I’ve seen some very distasteful things. But this… I still don’t see how it would help you to know about it?’

Merrily sat down on one of the sofas, near the window. ‘If you had a missing relative – a daughter, a sister – wouldn’t you want to know whether there’d been another Fred West at work?’

‘I mean, in some places,’ Jane said, ‘there are legends of angels being seen. Like in the local folklore. And apparitions of the ‘

Virgin and all that. But, I mean… Ledwardine? Do me a favour.’

Immediately regretting the scorn, but it was too late now.

‘You don’t believe people see angels, Jane?’ Jenny Box said. ‘Depends what you mean by angels.’ ‘Oh, I think we all know what we mean by angels.’ ‘I think I know what you mean.’ ‘I’m entirely sure of what I mean. And what I saw.’

‘What I think is that you just saw Mum. You were looking for somewhere to live – like, that bit was probably true. You were looking for somewhere to live and to like… entertain yourself. Out of sight of the media and all the London gossips. And then you saw Mum.’

‘Eventually, yes.’

‘And you fancied her,’ Jane said.

Jenny Box didn’t move, but her eyes flickered. Jane was suddenly so choked up with horror at what she’d said, mixed with rage and hurt at the possibility of it being true, that she could hardly get her breath.