Phil Rickman - Midwinter of the Spirit

‘But to get back to Sholto – that’s your name for him, is it?’

‘That, my dear clergyperson, is his name.’

‘You know his history? Some things about him?’

‘There’s nothing I don’t know about him. He’s a randy sod sometimes, and a frightful lounge lizard, but very, very charming. A look of Ronald Colman, but I suppose you’re too young—’

‘No, I’ve seen some of those old films. And you… have seen him, I take it.’

‘What a stupid question.’

‘And the other residents?’

‘Well, I can’t speak for all the hags. Sholto’s quite choosy – won’t pinch the flabbier old buttocks.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t look like that, girl. He was a man of his time. Men used to pinch bottoms.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Merrily was feeling cramped on the stool. ‘But what exactly are we talking about here? Who… what exactly do you think Sholto is?’

‘What do I think he is?’ A vaguely malevolent elf now, white light spearing from her glasses. ‘What do you think he is?’

An imprint? An insomniac? A volatile? This is the terminology of the Deliverance Age, Miss White .

‘I’ll tell you what he isn’t , Mrs Clergygirl.’ A finger wagging, the face narrowing, and the eyes almost merging behind the glasses. ‘He isn’t doing any harm. So you should go away and forget about him. In this museum of memories, Sholto is necessary.’

Merrily drank more whisky to moisten her mouth. ‘Would you mind if I had a cigarette?’

‘Certainly I would! Pull yourself together. If you don’t realize the importance of willpower in your job…’ Miss White’s neck extended, birdlike. ‘What is the matter with you, child?’

Willpower .

Merrily went cold. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Something was trying to stop me administering the blessing. That was you, wasn’t it? Exercising your… willpower .’

‘Oh, what nonsense!’ Miss White sniffed, delighted.

‘Please,’ Merrily said wearily, ‘no more bullshit, Athena.’

A self-satisfied smile escaped beneath a little portcullis of teeth. ‘Why don’t you just ask yourself… What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Merrily.’

‘Well, ask yourself, Merrily, was what you were doing appropriate? Was it polite?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Did you ask permission? No, you didn’t. It was like a police raid: the way they always go in at dawn and bash someone’s door down. It’s disgraceful – we’re not criminals, even if we are in prison. And what has Sholto done wrong?’

‘Well, he… he’s dead. He shouldn’t be here.’

Miss White’s magnified eyes glowed.

She’s mad , Merrily thought. ‘Look,’ she said reasonably, ‘shouldn’t he be free to move on? That’s what matters. And what keeps him here – that matters, too. Because if what keeps him here is only—’

‘The undying pull of the flesh, one presumes. Perhaps we’re part of his karma. Broke a lot of young hearts in his time, I’d guess. Now all he has to amuse him is a bunch of raddled old bags with their tits round their waists. For him, that’s Purgatory, to use your terminology. But we’re all of us far too old to be corrupted. Sholto is needed here to feed people’s fantasies. He’s not only harmless, he’s essential, and that’s an end to it. I’ll keep him in order, don’t worry. You can tell Thorpe you’ve got rid of him. Now… let’s examine your own problem, which I would guess is a good deal less benign. What are you carrying around with you?’

‘What?’

‘Look at you, all hunched up against the cold. You’re cowering.’

Merrily instinctively straightened as best she could on her camping stool.

‘Oh, stop it! You’re cowering inside . You can’t hide that from me. Come here.’

Merrily found herself standing up.

‘Come and sit on the bed. Come on, I’m not going to touch you up!’ Athena White slid from the bed and leaned, in her tubular robe, over Merrily, peering closely into her eyes. ‘Ye gods, you are buggered up, aren’t you?’

Merrily’s legs felt suddenly quite weak.

‘Don’t struggle,’ Miss White said.

‘This is not right.’

‘It’s not right at all. Look at me – no, focus on me, girl. That’s better. I want to see the inner person. I feel you’re normally quite strong, but he’s certainly depleted you.’

‘Who?’

‘You tell me. Go on. Tell me his name.’

‘I don’t know what you—’

‘Tell me his name: that ball of spiritual pus that’s attached itself to you. What is his name ?’

‘Denzil Joy.’

‘That’s better,’ said Miss White.

BY 9:30, JAMES Lyden and his band had been ejected from the cellar studio in Breinton Lane. Lol got out of there, too, before Denny’s rage could do some damage. By the time the band had been packed into their Transit in the driveway, he was making his excuses – there was someone he needed to call.

Which was true.

‘You can do it from here, man.’ Denny’s bald head was shining with angry sweat.

‘I can’t.’ Lol was backing away out of the drive, pulling on his army-surplus jacket. No way he wanted to discuss this with Denny until he had some background.

‘You…’ Denny was stabbing at the fog. ‘You know more than you’re letting on. Where’s this come from? What’s this crow shit?’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘And you can tell that fucking Lyden he’s finished!’ Denny bawled after him down Breinton Lane.

The Transit van had reversed, and was alongside Lol now, James’s Welsh friend, Eirion, at the wheel. It stopped.

‘Mr Robinson,’ Eirion shouted, ‘for heaven’s sake, what have we done?’ He sounded shocked and frightened.

‘Get your cocking head back in here, Lewis,’ Lol heard James say lazily. ‘The old man will sort it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Eirion said, as the van pulled away. Lol wondered what his chances were of talking to Dick before James did.

‘How old are you, Merrily?’

‘Thirty-six.’

She sat at the bottom of the bed, feeling a little unconnected, slightly not-quite-here. She felt guilty because that was not unpleasant. Maybe the whisky…

Or not?

‘When I was your age, I knew nothing,’ Miss White said. ‘Indeed, I knew very little even when I retired from the Civil Service. You would have been only a child then. I, however, was very high-powered in those days, or so I thought. In reality I knew nothing. It was only when I left London that I began to study in earnest.’

She unlocked one of the cupboards, threw open its double doors.

Merrily thought: Oh… my… God …

Books. Hundreds of books – many stored horizontally on the shelves, so as to stuff more in. Madame Blavatsky, Rudolph Steiner, Israel Regardie, Dion Fortune: recent paperbacks wedged against yellowing tomes on meditation, astrology, the Qabalah. If the other cupboards were similarly stocked, there must be several thousand books in this attic.

A lifetime’s collection of esoteric reading. A witch’s cave of forbidden literature. You wouldn’t have prised Jane out of here this side of breakfast time.

‘They know I have books in my cupboards,’ Miss White said, ‘but I rather imagine they consider me a subscriber to the lists of Messrs Mills and Boon.’

Merrily thought how wary she herself used to be of Jane’s guru: the late folklorist, Lucy Devenish. God only knew what this old girl got up to when the lights were out.