Phil Rickman - The Cold Calling

Marcus advanced on him. ‘Turned the whole valley into a sodding film set . Everywhere I go, there you are doing one of your inane “pieces-to-camera” on the psychology of Neolithic person … as though the whole bloody Stone Age is your bloody backyard.’

‘Well,’ Falconer said. ‘At least my version of pre-history is based on knowledge, as distinct from wishful thinking. But I really don’t have the time to discuss the nonsense of ley lines with an old fart whose opinions are irrelevant anyway, so-’

‘Bollocks! You don’t really know any more than the rest of us. You’re just a bloody academic vampire. A leech . ‘

Marcus stopped, knowing he was losing it. Falconer was laughing.

‘Roger,’ the cameraman said. He looked about twenty-two, and petulant. ‘Just look at that sun, will you? We’re missing my shot . ‘

‘Oh dear !’ Marcus snarled. ‘You’re missing the little turd’s shot.’

Falconer stopped laughing. There was clearly a real possibility they wouldn’t be able to video him with the sun beaming out of his head. Not today, anyway. Oh bloody dear .

‘All right, old chap.’ The great man stretched a stiff arm at Marcus. ‘Run along. Out!’

‘Out?’ Marcus stood his ground. ‘Out of the district? Out of the country? Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘All right, I’ll tell you who I am.’ Falconer’s face hardened. ‘I am the owner of Black Knoll.’

There was a moment of ghastly silence as the words hit Marcus like an anvil and all the breath went out of him. Before disbelief set in.

‘Rubbish. That’s … rubbish. Balls. You … you can’t just buy an ancient monument. Even you.’

‘Of course I can. And the land it stands on.’

‘That’s impossible.’ Marcus felt weak. Couldn’t be true. The Jenkins brothers knew how much he wanted the Knoll. Knew he’d get the money together one day.

‘Contracts were exchanged yesterday at four p.m., in Hereford.’ Falconer pausing to savour the reaction. ‘The Jenkinses are very happy indeed at the thought of getting rid of a useless, scrubby little mound without having to sell the meadow as well. If you’d like to see the paperwork, Marcus, call in at my office at Cefn-y-bedd. On your way down.’

‘But …’ Marcus couldn’t summon the breath; his chest felt tight as a bloody drum. Wait till he saw the Jenkins brothers, fucking traitorous bastards. ‘ Why …?’

‘Because I like the bloody thing, Marcus. Because I want to study it in peace. Because the University of the Earth really ought to have its own ancient site, where my people can carry out their experiments uninterrupted by-’

‘Their experiments? This is a bloody shrine !’

Falconer passed a hand across his eyes, tottered theatrically. ‘Bacton, people like you astonish me. You have the credulity of small children . Anything bizarre, anything determinedly unscientific, like the fantasies of some deluded, pubescent brat back in the twenties-’

‘It’s people like you’ — Marcus brandished a finger at him — ‘who hounded that child out of the village.’

‘And one can only be thankful, Marcus, that there weren’t people like you around to canonize her.’

Marcus thought suddenly of Mrs Willis. Her recent, unprecedented tiredness, her headaches. His stomach went cold.

‘You don’t understand anything, do you? It’s a healing place . That’s why it was sited where it is. To channel solar energy.’

‘Sure, sure. Just one of the theories we’ll be putting to the test. Scientifically.’

‘With a view to disproving it. And meanwhile, what about the people who come up to draw on the energy?’ Marcus felt his lip tremble, picturing Mrs Willis making her way here in the dark, increasingly unsteady, but determined, knowing that the return journey would be so much lighter.

‘Balls,’ Falconer said. ‘I’ve never heard such complete balls.’

‘ Roger …’

‘I’ll be right with you, Patrick. Marcus Bacton is leaving. And he’s not coming back. In future — and I’m making this clear now, in front of witnesses — he’ll not be welcome on this site.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’d bloody love to stop us coming here, but you know you can’t, so-’

‘Oh, I can, Marcus. It’s not a public right of way. When we install our fence …’

‘Fence? Fence ?’ He’d bring Mrs Willis up here in defiance of the bastard, but how could he lift her over a fence? ‘You don’t know what you’re fucking doing …’

‘I’m fully cognisant of my legal position. Anyone wishing to visit Black Knoll will require permission which, in most cases, if we’re not working here, will be given. Between the hours of nine a.m. and six p.m.’

His narrow, allegedly handsome face flushed with triumph, Falconer waited for the significance of this to dawn, as it were, on Marcus.

‘You bastard,’ Marcus whispered. ‘You utter, crass bastard . ‘

Falconer flicked a contemptuous hand at him, walked off and went to stand by the burial chamber. ‘Too late, Patrick?’

‘Not if we’re quick,’ said the cameraman.

Marcus turned abruptly away so they wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes, his jaw quaking. Sensing his distress, Malcolm kept close to his legs as he made his way down from the Knoll.

‘He can’t,’ Marcus told the dog. ‘He fucking can’t . ‘

The rising sun full in his face.

For Annie Davies, the sun had come down and appeared to roll along the ground, between the hills, a great, glowing ball. Just rolling, in total silence. But also vibrating … shimmering.

‘And if that animal happens to shit on my land,’ Falconer called after him, ‘clean it up, would you? Old chap.’

The sky was boiling over .

A finger of lightning prodding almost languidly out of the deep, dark, sweating clouds as if it was attached to the arm of a vengeful god. There was a flock of sheep, several already struck down, a heavy tumble of bodies, milk-eyed heads flat to the plain .

A few yards away, the shepherd lay dead. His dog, back arched, howling a pitiful protest at the heavens .

Terror, death .

And only the great stones in their element. Whitened, as if they were lit from within by electric filaments, the stones exulted in the lightning .

Energy. The horrific energy of death .

The sky boiled over and yet it was cold. So cold .

All through the night, he cowered in terror on the plain as the frigid lightning struck and struck again, like a white snake .

Sister Andy had hardly slept, feeling close to feverish. And in the morning, when she ought to have been totally clapped-out, she felt stronger and years younger. There was a polish on the world. The colours were brighter.

Very much like the time when she herself was cured. What was this saying to her?

Don’t dwell on it . At the best of times, Sister Andy was ever a fatalist. It cannae last, hen .

Coming on nightshift, she dumped her bags in the office and went straight to find Jonathan.

‘So. How is he tonight?’

‘Your miracle?’ Jonathan beamed at her. ‘He wakes up. He looks bemused. He drinks half a cup of tea and he goes back to sleep. He’s fine. He’s restored all our faith.’

Andy shook her head, looked down at her hands. All worn and scoured, the texture of grade four sandpaper.

Something moved in mysterious ways.

‘He saying much?’

‘Not a great deal.’