Phil Rickman - The Cure of Souls

‘Rare afternoon off,’ he said. ‘You were lucky to catch me. And my wife’s away, as it happens. The only parent here is me. A parent from my first marriage, that is. The youngsters live in France now, so I don’t see them very often.’

‘Perhaps we’ll come back when your wife’s at home.’ Sophie half rose. ‘It’s nothing terribly pressing.’

‘Unless it’s about Layla, of course,’ he said.

‘She’s with her mother?’ Merrily asked him.

‘I hardly think so. Her mother’s on a cruise around the Azores, with her sister, who was recently widowed, poor woman. Thing is, I don’t think of Layla as a child any more. And she’s my wife’s daughter, not mine. This is about Layla, yes?’

As he leaned forward, a medallion on a black leather thong swung out from his bare chest. It was clearly made of gold. Engraved on it was the symbol of a wheel.

‘Yes,’ Merrily said. ‘It’s about Layla.’

Sophie sank back in her seat, with a leathery creak that sounded like a cry of pain.

Jane said, ‘I remember Mrs Etchinson now. It was at one of the prize-givings. She was in a wheelchair. A guest of honour. Everybody was making a fuss over her and she was smiling so much that you thought it must be hurting her, all that smiling. And somebody said she used to be a teacher and she had MS, and I remember thinking, God, she’s so young .’

She flopped back into the soft leather and felt for Eirion’s hand and squeezed hard, as if to make sure she still could.

They were parked on the grass outside a farm shop overlooking the Ledwardine valley, the sunlit steeple of her mother’s church poking out of the surrounding orchards like a terracotta rocket.

‘Listen, Jane… that’s how they get these reputations,’ Eirion said. ‘They utter a curse and then something like that happens, and everybody conveniently forgets how many curses have been laid on people who go on to have completely trouble-free—’

‘It’s the fact that she could even do it!’ Jane could feel tears of anger coming on. ‘Wish illness and misfortune on someone.’

‘You never done that, in a fit of pique? Wish that someone would have a bad time?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t ever believe it’s gonna have any effect whatsoever, and then I take it back anyway in a couple of minutes. Or a couple of hours. Or before I go to sleep. Whereas Riddock, she believes, like, totally that she can do it… and then she does it. It doesn’t matter whether she gave Mrs Etchinson this awful degenerative disease with the grave-dirt in the envelope or whatever. The fact that she wanted to, that’s just as bad, isn’t it?’

‘It comes back on you, though, doesn’t it?’ Eirion said. ‘Karma.’

‘Allegedly. But not necessarily in this life.’

‘Sounds to me,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘like she needs this kid, Amy, as much as the kid needs her. You know what I mean? She lays a curse and somebody falls ill or dies or something, well… She isn’t really sure, is she? She might like to fantasize, but she knows that’s all it is. But when she sets up this spiritualism scam, then suddenly she’s getting what seem to be real messages from the Other Side.’

‘How?’

‘Trance? Automatic writing? Whatever it is, it’s proof to her that she’s got the power. She’s a medium, now, she’s a shaman. And maybe that’s never happened before, except with this young kid.’

‘Who’s so precious she drove her to attempt suicide?’ Jane said.

‘What do you want to do, then? It’s getting a bit late, if I’m going to get the car back before nightfall…’

‘You’ve got hours yet. But sure, by all means, drop me somewhere.’

‘To do what?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘There’s only one thing you can do. You can go home and lay the whole lot on your mum and leave it to her.’ Eirion nodded down at the valley. ‘Stop putting it off.’

‘She’ll probably be a bit gobsmacked to see us.’

‘Why do I doubt that?’ Eirion said.

What they told Allan Henry was that a teenage girl had tried to take her own life after being drawn into ouija-board experiments at school. The Deliverance service was trying to establish how widespread the craze was and whether other children were at risk or in distress. Merrily said finally that a number of kids had mentioned Layla Riddock as the girl presiding over psychic sittings at Moorfield High School.

Close as it was to the truth, the story sounded worryingly thin to Merrily, and foreboding arose just a second or so before Allan Henry got to work on it.

‘Well.’ He sat in a steel-framed swivel armchair, his left ankle resting on his right knee. ‘I didn’t know about this.’

‘It came out through the hospital where the child was taken.’ Sophie had evidently assumed responsibility for any necessary lying. ‘When a schoolchild takes a potentially lethal overdose, quite a lot of people start wanting to know why. In this case, as the parents are churchgoers—’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. What I didn’t know, Mrs Hill, was that the Anglican church had its own investigative branch.’

‘It’s not quite like that,’ Merrily said.

‘Because, you see, I find that very disturbing. Are the lay police also involved?’

‘Not yet,’ Sophie said.

‘ Not yet . I see.’

He was silent for a short while, during which Merrily became aware of a gilt-framed painting on the wall, high in the alcove to the right of the great fireplace. In glowing colours, style of Gauguin, it showed an unsmiling black woman, robed and veiled, with either a crown or an ornate halo over the headdress.

‘OK, let me get this entirely correct,’ Allan Henry said slowly. Neither the tone nor the pitch of his voice had altered, only the sense of laughter had gone. ‘On behalf of the Church of England, you are accusing my stepdaughter of psychologically abusing young children.’

The absolute accuracy of this left Merrily’s mind momentarily blank. She couldn’t meet his eyes and went on staring at the picture of the Black Virgin.

‘We don’t accuse people, Mr Henry,’ Sophie was saying. ‘We try to help them where we can.’

‘Mrs Hill… is it the Reverend Mrs Hill?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘You have to excuse me for feeling threatened, Mrs Hill. You two women arrive at my door like Jehovah’s Witnesses, with some assumed authority—’

‘Look,’ Merrily said, ‘it’s not about the individuals involved, it’s about the practice itself. And what it can release… psychologically, if you like. It might seem harmless, a game, though I don’t think it is. But this is certainly not a witch-hunt.’

As soon as the word was out she wanted to snatch it back, but it was too late. Allan Henry caught it in the air, like a fist closing over a fly.

‘ Witch-hunt ? Now that’s a very interesting term. The Church has a long history of persecuting minorities.’

‘I’m sorry… persecuting kids?’

‘Minorities, I said, not minors. If we look at the Romany culture, for instance, they’ve been subjected to the most appalling discrimination and persecution over the years, the world over, because of their customs, their lifestyle and, of course, their—’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘No, no, let me tell you about Layla. She’s a very serious young woman, very mature for her age, with a brilliant academic career ahead of her. And she has Romany blood. Which gives her a striking presence that some people find intimidating. And also certain abilities that some people can’t accept. Ignorance breeds prejudice. ’Twas ever thus, Mrs Watkins. Ever thus.’