Phil Rickman - Midwinter of the Spirit

Merrily gave up. ‘But this must never happen again.’

Jane shrugged.

‘All right,’ Merrily said. ‘No egg for me, thanks. My digestive system can just about cope with Marmite.’

‘Right.’ Jane brought the teapot to the table and sat down. ‘What’s disturbed it exactly?’

Merrily sighed a couple of times and watched the rain blurring the window. And she then told Jane about Denzil Joy.

Some of it.

Rain sheeted down on Dinedor Hill, the twisty road narrowing as they climbed.

Dick was clearly disappointed when they ran out of track for the massive Mitsubishi Intercooler Super Turbo-Plus he’d borrowed from Denny for the weekend. Dick was contemplating a move into four-wheel drive.

Lol unbuckled his seatbelt. ‘If you go any further, English Heritage’ll be down on you. It’ll be in the Hereford Times – “City Therapist Squashes Ancient Camp”.’

‘You may scoff. But I do feel it’s important to be a good citizen. We chose to come here – which confers responsibility.’ Dick braked and reversed into something satisfyingly deep and viscous. ‘Even to something that just looks like any other hill.’

‘You have no soul, Dick.’

Dick squinted through the mud-blotched windcreen. ‘Buggered if I’m staggering up there in this weather. What am I missing?’

‘Nice view over the city. For the rest, you need a soul.’

‘Imagination.’ Dick leaned back in the driving seat, allowing the glass to mist. ‘I have very little, thank goodness. The ancestors… Jung would have found plenty to go at, but I’ve never been particularly drawn to the idea of the collective-unconscious, race memories, all that. It sounds good, but… what do you think?’

‘I’m inclined to believe it. I’ve got a bit in common with Moon, I suppose.’

‘And you fancy her. Well, of course you do. Awfully sexy creature.’

‘Yes.’ Lol had been half expecting this. ‘She is.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Dick started ticking off plus-factors on his fingers. ‘You’re both on your own. I’m her actual therapist, not you, so no ethical barriers. Do find her attractive, don’t you?’

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘But you think she doesn’t fancy you – that it? Oh, I think she does, old son. I think she does.’

Lol felt awkward. ‘Maybe we wouldn’t be too good for each other. You don’t get to laugh much around Moon.’

‘Not a terrific sense of humour, no,’ Dick conceded.

‘Like, you want to make her happy, but you don’t somehow think she’d be happy being happy.’

And that was it really: you couldn’t help feeling that life with Moon was destined to end in a suicide pact.

‘Lol,’ Dick said, ‘I realize you’re a sensitive soul, but you don’t particularly need to think about psychology when you’re shagging someone, do you?’

‘Yuk,’ Jane said. ‘I mean… yuk !’

‘Quite.’

‘I mean, it’s awful, it’s tragic, and everything. But it’s also… really inconsiderate. I really think you should’ve walked out. Like, how were you to know these nurses weren’t lying? Nobody should have to make a decision like that, with the old guy’s clock running down the whole time.’

‘It wasn’t an actual exorcism. It wasn’t much at all, in the end.’

‘Sounds like that’s what the older nurse wanted, though. An exorcism.’

‘Possibly.’ The parts Merrily hadn’t mentioned included the scratching finger and other sensations. The subjective aspects.

‘Face it.’ Jane poured the tea. ‘It’s a crap deal, Mum. They send you in armed with a handful of half-assed prayers and platitudes which are supposed to cover all eventualities. You’re holding a duff hand from the start.’

‘Well, not—’

‘It’s like with these evangelical maniacs, where you like go along and you’re looking a bit off-colour and in about three minutes flat they’ve discovered you’re possessed by seventeen different demons and the next thing you’re rolling around on the floor throwing up. You could really damage people.’

‘It’s a bit more disciplined than that but, yeah, I know what you mean. It is a minefield.’

‘And it’s just useless liturgy . Like, with all respect, what real actual practical training have you had? It’s not like you’ve even done any meditation or yoga or anything. I mean… theological college? Does that even equal, say, two weeks at a respectable ashram?’

‘I think it possibly does,’ Merrily said, but wondering.

‘But you’re not really spiritually developed, are you? Not like Buddhist monks and Indian gurus and guys like that. Like, you can’t – I don’t know – leave your body or anything. You’ve just read the books. And yet they want you to mess with people’s souls.’

‘It’s supposed to be God who does the actual messing. That is, we don’t believe we have any special powers. We kind of signpost the way for the Holy Spirit.’

‘You ever ask yourself, if the Holy Spirit is so ubi… all-overthe-place and on the ball, why does it need a signpost?’

‘We have to invite the Holy Spirit in, you know?’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s one of the rules. Deep theology, flower.’

‘Bollocks,’ Jane murmured. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t let Hunter get away with this.’

Merrily paused with the mug at her mouth. ‘He’s the guv’nor.’

‘He’s a tosser.’

‘But I will call him. I’ll have a bath and a rest and then I’ll call him.’

‘Maybe Rowenna could get some of the SAS cross-country guys to elbow the flash git into a deep ditch,’ Jane mused. ‘Muddy his fetching purple tracksuit.’

The rain was battering the barn windows, and Lol was sure there was an element of sleet to it now. But Dick was all sunshine, like his row with the boy James had never happened.

‘Well, this is super.’ Clasping his herbal tea to his chest. ‘This is quite magnificent.’

And it was. The little barn was transformed. All the boxes had disappeared, everything put away, everything tidy. A bright coal-fire on the simple, stone hearth. Fragments of black pottery arranged on a small shelf. On the wall alongside the steps to the bedroom loft was a detailed pen-and-ink plan of, presumably, the Dinedor Iron Age community – round huts with stone bases and conical thatched roofs. Moon had made mysterious marks on it: dots and symbols – archaeologist stuff.

Ideal Homes show barn?

‘You were right and we were wrong,’ Dick told Moon. But he was smiling at Lol and the smile said: I was right and you were wrong .

Above the fireplace was a gilt-framed photograph of a smiling man leaning against a Land Rover. The man’s smile was Moon’s smile.

‘We thought you’d be a bit, ah, cut off up here,’ Dick said. ‘A bit lonely? But this is your place, Moon. What are you going to do?’

‘Well, I’m going back to work in the shop.’ Moon wore the long grey dress, freshly washed; without mud on the hem it looked like a hostess dress. Her very long hair was in a loose, lush plait. ‘For a while, anyway.’

‘Playing it day by day.’

‘I’m not an alcoholic, Dick.’

She didn’t smile. She hadn’t looked at Lol. He felt he’d betrayed her.

‘What I meant , Moon,’ Dick said, ‘is that you clearly no longer feel the need to hurry – rush from one experience to another. You’ve been away, you’ve been through all kinds of changes, and now you’ve returned to repossess your past. Your past, your place, firm ground – it must feel wonderful.’

Moon said nothing. Dick took this as agreement, and nodded enthusiastically. It was the conclusion he wanted, the neat outcome of a very singular case. He had her all packaged up in his head: at least an article for Psychology Today or whatever he subscribed to. Moon was getting better. Moon was taking responsibility for herself.