Phil Rickman - Midwinter of the Spirit

‘Or if they fancied watching an exorcism?’

Merrily sighed. ‘Unfortunately, yes. But I said the number allowed inside the church would be limited. And definitely no children.’

‘Would it be all right if we talked to a few of the locals? In areas like this, people hear things.’

‘Afterwards, though.’

‘We’ll ask them to hang on. And we’ll pay particular attention to anyone who doesn’t want to. I do feel quite strongly about it meself. It’s only wilful damage, but if they can do this, they’re capable of a lot of other stuff carrying stiffer sentences, you know what I mean?’

‘I had a chat with Inspector Howe.’

‘And your Bishop’s had a chat with our Divisional Super. It’s about community relations at the highest level.’

‘Ah, I’m sorry about that.’ The Bishop had been hard to pin down, and tonight’s ceremony had, in the end, been cleared with him on his mobile via Sophie.

‘Not that we wouldn’t be here anyway,’ Franny Bliss said, ‘but maybe not three of us. Still, get these lads, and even if we don’t get a line on the body in the Wye, we might get something else.’

‘Might get possessed, sarge,’ PC Jones said heavily.

‘Merrily’ll protect us, Dave. Won’t yer, Merrily?’

There was nothing essentially wrong with Christianity, Patricia said. It promoted a useful, if simplistic, moral code. But it was an import. When it was introduced, it was revolutionary and brash and sometimes brutal and crass. It trampled over ancient wisdom.

Jane saw Rowenna’s glance. None of the rest of the group knew her mother was a vicar. They thought she was a teacher. And they thought Jane was eighteen and working as a secretary.

Blinds were down over the window. A small brass oil lamp burned on a high table. Seven of them sat in a vague semicircle around Patricia, on mats and dark-coloured pillows. There was a faint scent, musty-sweet, perhaps from the oil in the lamp. It was mysterious but also cosy.

‘And Christianity has always been used as a prop for prejudices,’ Patricia continued, ‘creating the myth of the clovenhoofed devil and demonizing black cats, which were tortured and slaughtered in their hundreds.’

Jane thought about Ethel and seethed.

‘So many of these things are forgotten now,’

Patricia said. Patricia had the look of someone much older than she possibly could be, someone who’d been soaking up wisdom for like centuries . She was the elder of the circle and the others deferred to her. Jane wasn’t sure how many others there were in the group. They came from a wide area on both sides of the Welsh border. All women: a couple of old-hippy types – long skirts and braided hair – but mainly the kind you thought of as school-teacherish. Thank heavens none of their own teachers were here.

She and Rowenna were the youngest. The women called themselves ‘the Pod’, after the café itself.

Patricia was saying: ‘It’s the basis of many of our exercises that human beings are the central nervous system of the Earth. Thus we can receive impulses and also send them out. We can effect changes with our minds, and this is a responsibility not to be taken lightly.’

That was the definition of magic, wasn’t it? Effecting change with the mind – Mum’s lot would say that only God could effect changes. Which, from where Jane was sitting, was bollocks basically – all this Serving the Will of God stuff. Like the wholesale slaughter of black cats? The Spanish Inquisition?

But was the Pod a pagan thing? Because, OK, she was entitled to find her own spiritual path, but it would be better if it was like parallel to Mum’s. She wasn’t particularly looking for confrontation and heavy-duty domestic strife.

She just wished someone would explain simple things like that.

‘It’s about consciousness.’ Patricia looked suddenly at Jane, as if she’d picked up her thoughts, her uncertainty.

Jane shivered. She was a little scared of Patricia, with her smoky-grey dress and her tight, parchment-coloured hair. She wanted to ask exactly what Patricia meant by ‘consciousness’. But this was only their second meeting, and she didn’t want to seem stupid. The nature of consciousness was something on which she’d be expected to meditate – she was establishing a special corner for that in her sitting-room/study, next to a big yellow rectangle on one of the Mondrian walls. She’d bought a little incense-burner but hadn’t used it yet.

It was all a little bit frightening – therefore, naturally, wonderful.

Jane glanced up. Patricia was looking directly at her. In the gloom, Patricia’s eyes burned like tiny torchbulbs.

Jane gulped, suddenly panicked. Christ, she’d been rumbled. They’d found out that her mother was an Anglican priest. They thought she was some sort of Church spy. She looked across at Rowenna, but Rowenna was staring away into the darkness. The others were gazing placidly down into their laps. She didn’t really know any of them; Angela, the tarot lady, had not been present at either of the meetings.

Jane had expected all kinds of questions before she was admitted to the circle, but it hadn’t been like that. It was only when you got here and experienced the electric atmosphere – as if this little room was the entrance to an endless tunnel – that you instinctively wanted to keep quiet about yourself. At least, you did if your old lady was a vicar.

‘Don’t worry, Jane,’ Patricia said suddenly. ‘We’re here to help you.’ The woman smiled thinly.

The wind whined in the rafters and the flame of the oil lamp shrank back, as though it was cowering.

Cool!

The church was now lit by two oil lamps supported on brackets, three candles and a hurricane lantern on the central pulpit. It looked deceptively cosy. Huw Owen was there with a curlyhaired, jutting-jawed, youngish minister, who backed away from Merrily in her cloak, as if she was a vampire, throwing up his hands in mock defence.

‘Mrs Watkins, I beg forgiveness.’

‘From me?’

‘I’m Jeffrey Kimball, from Dilwyn. Major Weston approached me this morning, to perform the necessary, and I’m afraid I threw a tantrum and gave him your home number, which I looked up in the telephone book. It was pure pique on my part after that memorandum from the Bishop on the subject of Deliverance, and I’m sorry to have taken it out on you.’

‘I can understand your—’

‘To be quite honest, Mrs Watkins, I tend to object to more or less anything this particular bishop does. I do so hate blatantly political appointments of any kind. Absolutely everyone thought Hereford should have gone to Tom Armstrong – a canon at the Cathedral for five years before he went to Reading as Dean… Immensely able man… and they used a very minor heart problem as an excuse to give it to Hunter. I make no secret of my feelings, and I realize you—’

‘Happen you can save that till after, lad,’ Huw Owen said.

‘Oh.’ The Rev. Kimball let his arms fall to his sides. ‘Yes, of course. I should have thought.’

‘Merrily needs a bit of quiet,’ Huw said.

‘Yes, I shall leave you alone and go out to contemplate the moonlight on the snow.’

‘Aye, give us quarter of an hour, there’s a good lad.’

‘I know his type,’ Huw said as the latch dropped into place behind Kimball. ‘Gets to the age when the bishops are looking younger. How are you, lass?’

She hugged Huw. It was the first time they’d been together since the Deliverance course. He wore what looked like an airforce greatcoat and a yellow bobble-hat.

‘You all right for this, Merrily?’

‘Sure.’ She looked around, sniffed the air, could only smell disinfectant.