Phil Rickman - The Cure of Souls

‘I mean, how badly has she been affected? She saw the… lightform?’

‘My wife…’ He turned away, shoulders hunched. ‘Won’t talk much about it. When the hacks were here, we had to virtually manufacture some suitable quotes for her. Maybe she thinks it’ll all just go away.’

‘You mean she’s not so scared…?’

‘As me? Probably not. Obviously, neither of us likes the darkness – it’s the kind of darkness you have to fight . And you lose. In here, a two-hundred-watt bulb’s like a forty. Bills’ve been horrendous. But Stephie – perhaps she just doesn’t believe Stewart would harm her. Also, more of a religious background than me. Catholic, lapsed. But it doesn’t go away. Not like…’

Merrily smiled.

‘I’m sorry, didn’t mean to be insulting. I was raised in the C of E.’

‘All I meant about your wife,’ Merrily said, ‘is that I think she should be here too, when we do whatever we do. As a blood relative of Mr Ash.’

‘Well, she will be… She’ll be here tonight.’

‘Mr Stock,’ Merrily said, ‘if I could just make a point here. Unless you really think that for some reason it’s important for this to be done at night, I don’t necessarily think that’s a good idea. I think it might be better for all of us’ – better for the Bishop, too – ‘if we said some initial prayers, perhaps a small requiem service for Mr Ash. Without delay.’

‘ Now? ’ He didn’t quite back away.

‘By daylight, anyway. Personally, I always think there’s an inherent danger in making this all too—’

‘Serious?’ Almost snapping.

‘Sinister. I’ll probably need the book, but we can dispense with the bell and the candle.’

She could almost see his thoughts racing, something almost feverish in his eyes. Did he have plans to involve the media? Had something already been arranged for tonight?

He unfolded his arms. ‘All right. I can call Stephie at work. Maybe she can take time off. How long will the exorcism take?’

‘That might be too big a word for what we do. Not very long, I shouldn’t think. Best to keep things simple. Oh – and I’d also want to ask the vicar if he’d like to join us. Two ministers are better than one in this kind of situation and it’s usual to involve the local guy when possible.’

‘St John?’ Hint of a sneer. ‘He won’t want to know, tell you that now.’

‘I’d like to ask him, anyway, if that’s all right with you.’

He shrugged. ‘Your show.’

‘Yours, actually. And your wife’s. And it would actually be helpful to have a few other people who knew your wife’s uncle. Is there anyone you think—?’

‘Oh no!’ Both hands went up. ‘ Definitely not! I don’t want local people in here, I’m sorry. We don’t exactly have any close friends in the area. I’d rather this wasn’t talked about.’

‘But you went to the press .’

‘I was desperate. I’ve told you, I felt threatened. I didn’t know who I could trust, especially after the vicar refused to help us. Bottom line is I don’t want any of those people in here. All right?’

‘OK. Erm, another point – at a service of this kind, we need to draw a line under the past. A big element is forgiveness. I think that means we’re looking for some kind of reconciliation between you and Stewart, which of course has to be initiated by you.’

He laughed. ‘I’d guess that for Stewart one of the best things about death would be never having to see Gerard Stock again. But… you know best.’

‘Well, I don’t really know anything for sure,’ Merrily said. ‘We’re assuming Mr Ash is what you might call an unquiet spirit.’ Huw Owen would call it an insomniac . ‘Our fundamental purpose has to be to guide him away from whatever’s holding him down here towards a state of—’

‘Look!’ He put his hands on his hips, faced her. ‘Is this going to, you know, tell us anything?’

‘I’m not a medium, Mr Stock.’

‘What if Stewart’s… spirit, whatever you want to call it, is unable to rest because it wants to get a message across? Like, for instance, that his killer’s still out there.’

‘Ah.’ Merrily looked down at the flags. Around her shoes she could now make out the outline of what might have been a stain. Hidden agenda coming out at last? ‘Who’s the killer, then, in your view?’

‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said.

‘Because you don’t know. Or maybe you’ve got ideas?’

‘I’ve got ideas. However, I might be open to legal action were I to share them with you, Mrs Watkins.’

‘OK. What’s the actual time now? I’m afraid I came out without my watch.’

He held his wrist up to the light. ‘Just after ten minutes to ten.’

God, was that all? She needed breathing space, prayer space.

‘Look, I’ll call her now,’ he said. Something seemed to have lifted inside him. ‘Daytime. Yes. I should’ve thought of that. Daytime’s much better.’

‘And meanwhile I’ll go down to the church, talk to the vicar and change. See you back here in… an hour, or less?’

‘Yes. Fine. Thank you.’

They went back through the living room, the former hop-store, where any extra light not blocked off by the barns was absorbed by drab leathery furniture – Stewart’s, probably. By the back door, Merrily turned, looked up at Stock.

‘Could I just ask you – what do want this to achieve? I mean you personally?’

He wasn’t ready for this one, didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he went to open the door for her, and the day came in like a golden cavalry of angels.

‘I want things to be normal,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

She drove up to the minor road leading to Knight’s Frome and was almost through the village before she realized that it was the village. The church was out on the edge, the other side of the river; the white house nearby could only be the vicarage. No car outside.

She pulled on to the verge, about fifty yards away from the church, took off her jacket, threw it over the passenger seat, lit a cigarette and checked her mobile for messages.

Just the one. ‘ Merrily. Sophie. I’m afraid I can’t raise the vicar, but Bernard says go ahead without him. He’ll clear up any political debris. Which I suppose means I shall .’

Right, then. Merrily switched off the phone and put out her cigarette. As she was climbing out of the Volvo, she saw, through the wing mirror, a rusting white Astra pulling in about twenty yards behind.

It was already hot, and not yet ten-fifteen. A single cloud powdered the sky over the church, which was low and comfortably sunken, with a part-timbered bell tower. Pigeons clattered in what had once been a hedge surrounding the vicarage.

From the car boot, Merrily pulled her vestment bag and a blue-and-gold airline case containing two flasks of holy water. She’d knock on the vicarage door, on the off chance someone was home. If not, she’d change in the church, always assuming it was open. Slinging the bags over her shoulder, she bent to lock the car. As she pulled out the key, there were footsteps behind her, a quiet padding on the grass. She turned quickly, wishing she hadn’t locked the car.

She froze.

The mirage was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans and those same round, brass-rimmed glasses. She was aware of the bird-song and the laboured chunter of a distant tractor as they stood and stared at one another for two long seconds.

He shuffled a little, nodded at the Radiohead motif on her chest. ‘So, er… what did you think of Kid A ?’

‘Erm…’ Stunned, she put down the vestment bag, adjusted the plastic strap of the airline case. She swallowed. ‘Well… you know… it kind of grew on me. Parts of it.’