Phil Rickman - Midwinter of the Spirit

He thought for a moment. ‘OK, I’ve chosen.’

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’

‘Because little Jane doesn’t know where you are?’

‘Little Jane doesn’t bloody care.’

‘I think she does, Merrily. And it’s not my place to say so to a professional good person, but if you take this out on her before you’ve gone into it properly, you might regret it.’

‘You mean I should take steps to find out what she’s doing – and who with?’

‘I can… help maybe, if you want.’

‘Why are you doing this, Lol?’

‘A number of possible reasons.’ Lol stood close to her but looked across the river to the haze of misted lights on the fringe of the city. ‘You choose.’

Merrily sighed. ‘I can’t go to bed with you, you know.’ And, naturally, she looked soft-focus beautiful under the lamp. ‘Not the way things are.’

‘God,’ Lol said sadly. ‘He has a lot to answer for.’

‘It isn’t God,’ Merrily said.

‘Oh.’ He wanted to roll over the rail into the black river. ‘That means somebody else.’

‘Yes.’

She turned away from him and from the light. In the moment before she did, he saw her eyes and he thought he saw a flash of fear there, and he thought there was a shudder of revulsion.

But he was paranoid. Official!

‘I’ll take you back now,’ Merrily said.

JANE THREW OPEN the bedroom window, and the damned fog came in and she started to cough. It was like being with Mum in the scullery-office on a heavy Silk Cut night.

Down on the lawn the last rags of snow had gone. Snow was clean, bright, refreshing. Fog was misery. It was December today, so only three weeks to Midwinter, the great solstice when the year had the first gleam of spring in its eye.

Always darkest before the dawn. This, Jane thought, was like a midwinter of the spirit. She cleared her throat.

‘Hail to Thee, Eternal Spiritual Sun .

‘Whose visible symbol now rises from the Heavens.’

That was a bloody laugh.

‘Hail unto Thee from the Abodes of Morning.’

It had been so brilliant last night out in the garden. Maybe she was a night person. Maybe a moon person. And yet the bedtime exercise had not gone too well, the great rewinding of the day.

Before you go to sleep, make a journey back through the day. Starting with the very last thing you did or said or thought, then going back through every small event, every action, every perception, as though you were rewinding a sensory videotape of your day. Consider each occurrence impartially, as though it were happening to someone else, and notice how one thing led to another. Thus will you learn about cause and effect. This reverse procedure also de-conditions your mind from thinking sequentially – past, present and future – and demolishes the web of falsehood you habitually weave to excuse your wrong behaviour .

It was impossible to stay with it. You got sidetracked. You thought of something interesting and followed it through. Or something bad, like Mum being ill, which could plunge you without warning into some awful Stalinist scenario at Gran’s in Cheltenham: As long as your mother is in hospital, Jane, you are under my roof, and a young lady does not go out looking like THAT . Or you remembered seeing some cool male person and, despite what Angela had foretold, you were into the old dyinga-virgin angst. Rowenna never seemed prey to these fears; had she no hormones?

Gratefully, Jane closed the window. Mum had not looked too bad last night. Quiet, though: pensive.

‘You’re not OK! You’re not! You look like sh—’

‘Don’t say it, all right?’

‘It’s true.’

And, Jesus, it was true. That ratty old dressing-gown, the cig drooping from the corner of her mouth. A vicar? Standing on the stairs, she looked like some ageing hooker.

‘It’s the weather,’ Mum said.

‘It so is not the weather! Maybe you should see a doctor. I don’t know about exorcist; you look like completely bloody possessed .’

For a moment, Mum looked quite horrible, face all red and scrunched up like some kind of blood-pressure situation. And then…

‘STOP IT! Don’t you ever ever make jokes about that, do you hear?’

‘And, like whatever happened to the sense of humour?’ Jane backed away into the kitchen, teetering on the rim of tears.

They ate breakfast in silence apart from the bleeping of the answering machine: unplayed messages from last night. ‘Aren’t you going to ever listen to that thing?’ Jane said finally at the front door.

‘I’ll get around to it, flower,’ Mum said drably, turning away because, for less than half a second, Jane had caught her eyes and seen in them the harsh glint of fear.

No, please .

Standing desolate on the dark-shrouded market square, as the headlights of the school bus bleared around the corner, Jane thought, suppose it’s not flu, nor even some kind of virus; suppose she’s found symptoms of something she’s afraid to take to the doctor.

Oh God. Please, God .

The only time Jane ever reverted to the Old Guy was when it was about Mum.

Bleep.

‘ Merrily, it’s Sophie. I’m calling at seven o’clock. Please ring me at home .’

Bleep.

‘ Ms Watkins. Acting DCI Howe, 19.27, Tuesday. I need to talk to you. Can you call me between eight-thirty and ten tomorrow, Wednesday. Thanks .’

Bleep.

‘ This is Susan Thorpe, Mrs Watkins, at the Glades. Could you confirm our arrangement for tomorrow evening? Thank you .’

Bleep.

‘ Merrily, it’s Sophie again. Please call me. You must realize what it’s about .’

Bleep.

‘ Hello, lass. Time we had a chat, eh ?’

Merrily didn’t think so.

Lol said, ‘Viv, you know the Alternative Hereford – I mean, most of the people on that side of things.’

‘My love,’ Big Viv laughed throatily, ‘I am the Alternative Hereford. Just don’t ask me to point you to a dealer.’

‘What happens over that healthfood café in Bridge Street?’

‘Pod’s?’ Viv gave him a sharp look. He saw she had two tight lip-rings on this morning. ‘Well, they used to do a good cashewburger, then they got a different cook and it wasn’t so good. You won’t meet anybody there.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Lol shook his head gently. ‘I’m not looking to score anything chemical.’

He collected another hard look. ‘What then?’

‘I don’t know. Mysticism?’

‘You won’t score that either. Not at Pod’s.’

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

‘Wrong gender, Lol. It’s a woman thing there. I can put you on to a few other people, if you like, depending what you’re into. Wicca… theosophy… Gurdjieff…?’

‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ Lol said. ‘It involves a friend of mine. She thought her daughter might be involved in something possibly linked to Pod’s, and she’d like to know a bit about it. It’s a peace-of-mind thing.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Jane. Jane Watkins.’

‘Don’t know her.’ Viv went to sit behind the till. ‘All right, I went there a few times, but it got a bit intense, yeah?’

‘What was it into?’

‘Self-discovery, developing an inner life, meditation, astralprojection, occult- lite – you know?’

‘You manage to leave your body, Viv?’

‘No such luck, darling. The best teacher they had just dropped out, then they got very responsible. A bit elitist – no riff-raff, no dopeheads. Like an esoteric ladies’ club, you know? That was when I kicked it into touch. Life’s too short.’