Phil Rickman - The Wine of Angels

‘No.’

‘Except you, of course. Perverse kind of guilt.’

‘Ted was talkative,’ Merrily said grimly.

‘Agonizing over whether you’d wished it on him, to clear the way for your Calling. Ridiculous of course.’

‘Sean was a lawyer,’ Merrily said. ‘I was going to be one too. A barrister. We met at university. We were very idealistic. We were going to work for people who’d been dumped on but couldn’t afford proper representation. Batman and Robin in wigs.’

‘Very commendable.’

‘Sure, but most young lawyers start out like that. It doesn’t last. Certainly didn’t for Sean. He changed his mind, became a solicitor, joined a practice I didn’t care for, then went solo. As for me, I hadn’t even finished the first year before he got me pregnant. Sorry. Unchristian. Before I got pregnant.’

‘You could have resumed, though, couldn’t you? Something happened to turn you away from the law and, er, towards the Lord?’

‘Ted didn’t tell you about that?’

‘He didn’t tell me any of this. Look, let’s go in the lounge bar, get a couple of single malts, and—’

Merrily smiled and moved delicately past him through the double doors. ‘Goodnight, Dermot.’

Jane was aware of sitting in grass, in absolute darkness, wiping her mouth on a tissue she’d found in her jacket, her brain about six miles away and still travelling.

‘Oh God. Oh God. I’m dying.’

‘You ain’t felt nothin’ yet, honeychile.’ Colette’s smokey tone drifted comfortably out of the blackness at her side. ‘You wait till tomorrow.’

‘Where are we?’ Jane sat up.

‘Hey, nice one, Janey. Men these days are so particular about their clothing.’

‘I couldn’t help it.’

‘Don’t spoil it. Jesus, that was so funny. ’

‘You could have been raped.’

‘Those hairballs couldn’t summon a decent hard-on with a year’s supply of Playboys and a splint.’

‘Well, messed about then. Oh yuk.’ Her mouth and throat felt rank.

‘Yeah,’ Colette conceded. ‘Maybe messed about.’ She sounded very high, not fully in control.

‘Where are we?’

‘Where they won’t come.’

Jane put out a hand. Touched something cold and knobbly. ‘Come on, where are we?’

‘Relax. It’s a good place.’

‘It’s Powells’ orchard, isn’t it?

Orchard ... apples ... cider. She felt sick and closed her eyes, leaning back against the scabby tree trunk. Never again, never, never, never.

‘Yeah,’ Colette said. ‘It’s the Powell orchard.’

Jane took a gulp of clean night air. ‘Why’s this a good place? Why won’t they come here?’

‘They won’t come in. They’re shit scared, Janey.’ Colette raised her voice. ‘Scared of ... old Edgar. ’

A swish of bushes. Jane opened her eyes, looked up and couldn’t see any stars. She could make out the shape of Colette’s white dress now. Just the dress.

You see? They’re there, all right. Four brave country boys. You there, slimeball? But they won’t come any further. Because’ – her voice rising to a kind of whoop – ‘ we ... are under Edgar Powell’s tree!’

Jane sat up rapidly, inched forward on her bottom, away from the tree trunk.

‘The Apple Tree Man,’ Colette said. ‘The old king of the orchard. I often come here.’

‘On your own? ’

‘No, with the Cricket Club. Of course on my own!’

‘Aren’t you scared?’

‘You mean of the ghost of Edgar Powell? Well, actually— Hey, listen, all of you, listen – He’s been seen, OK? He has been seen. I heard some people whispering about it in the restaurant. Old Edgar Powell, the headless farmer. All aglow and hovering about nine inches off the ground.’

‘No. Stop it.’ Jane giggled and shuddered simultaneously. ‘You’re making that up.’

‘Sort of a grey light around him, from his feet to his neck. Situation is that his mind was going before it happened and he doesn’t know why he did it to himself. Doesn’t know he’s dead, probably. So he just walks around the orchard. He Walks. Plod. Plod. Plod. ’

‘Colette,’ Jane said. ‘Shut up. Would you mind?’

‘You believe in ghosts, Janey?’

‘No.’

‘Does the Reverend Mummy?’

‘I don’t know. But I do know the Reverend Mummy’ll be out of her mind with worry if she gets back and I’m not there, so I think we should get moving.’

Colette laughed.

‘It’s not funny,’ Jane said. ‘It’s her big working day tomorrow, up at five-thirty. She’s going to kill me.’

Colette said, ‘This grey light, it’s from his feet to his neck, did I just say that? Just his neck. No head. Now where could his head be? I know. Look up. Look up, Janey!’

Jane looked down. She didn’t want to think about Edgar Powell. Instead, she found herself thinking of Wil Williams, poor lush Wil, coming out here on a lovely spring morning to hang himself. Oh God ... a night in Suicide Orchard. Goosebumps started forming on her arms.

Colette said slowly, ‘You look up ... into the branches ... and maybe there’s this wizened old face. Grinning. Gappy old grin. Eyes like grey holes. Most of his chin blown away, though. In these very branches, just over where we are.’

‘Shut up !’

‘Go on ... have a look.’

‘Sod off.’

‘Just a little glance, Janey.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘You can look through your fingers if you want.’

‘I don’t want. I want to go home.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Don’t go all fractious on me, Jane. This is fun.’

‘It’s not.’ Jane hugged herself and tried to see the shapes of apple trees. Or anybody behind one. ‘They’re not here at all, are they? Dean Wall and Gittoes. They never followed us. They’ve gone to get cleaned up.’

‘I don’t know,’ Colette said. ‘Why don’t you take a chance on it? Get up and just walk away, and pray they don’t ... grab you!’

Jane screamed. Colette had seized her from behind. Her arms were very cold.

‘Go on, Janey! Edgar will protect you. He’ll put his old mac around your shoulders. Squeeze you tight.’

‘ Stop it! ’ Jane felt tears coming.

‘Look up. For me. Just look up, once. And then we’ll go.’

‘OK. There. Now can we—?’

‘You didn’t look up.’

‘I did!’

‘You didn’t, Janey,’ Colette said lightly.

‘All right!’

With Colette’s cold arms around her, Jane looked up.

THE KNOCKING ON the door had Lol rolling on to his side on the rug, where he’d been reading Traherne’s Centuries. Bringing his knees up, like an embryo in the womb – he was aware of that and ashamed, but he didn’t move all the same.

But what about his breathing? If you put your ear right up to the thinly curtained glass you’d surely be able to hear the ragged, terrified pumping of Lol’s lungs. He tried to slow his breathing; it nearly threw him into a coughing fit. He choked weakly.

At least you couldn’t see much through the curtains. He’d been outside and tested it out, creeping like a burglar through his tangled front garden. All you could see was the glow of the lamp, and that was OK, because people often left lamps on when they were out, for security. So he could be out, could be down the pub drinking with his mates. Except that if you knew Lol, you’d know he wouldn’t have any mates and was too shy to go in a pub on his own ... full of people he didn’t know ... but they all knew who he was. People laughing.