Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

‘I’m sorry, Merrily, I just assumed you’d prefer to check things out on your own.’

‘No, you didn’t. You just didn’t want, for some reason, to reveal the alleged identity of the alleged presence.’

‘Look,’ Spicer said. ‘The people out there who wanted an exorcist called in, I thought it was down to them to explain exactly why. I just went through the motions. I told you I had reservations, but I didn’t think it was right to spell them out to you before you’d had a chance to check out the situation for yourself.’

‘Maybe you wanted me to come back this evening to hear the music, just to underline it a little?’

‘I didn’t know you’d be coming back at all before the meeting. That’s why I set it up. For God’s sake, Merrily-’

She turned away in frustration. The evening sun threw an unearthly light on Herefordshire Beacon so that it looked like a cake aflame on a hot-plate.

‘I mean… Elgar?’ She swung back to face him. ‘ That Elgar?’

Another Sphere of Existence

Oh shit, surely not this one? Please don’t let it be this one.

The late sun was bleeding into a false horizon of cloud, an old tractor coughing and retching across a field somewhere.

Jane standing in Virgingate Lane, radiating dismay.

She’d looked up Councillor Pierce in the phone book. The address was given as Avalon, which had been kind of promising: anyone who’d named his house after the legendary land of apples in the west, where King Arthur had been laid to rest, must have some kind of a soul.

Yeah, well…

There obviously had been apple trees here, in the days when Ledwardine was almost entirely surrounded by productive orchards. In fact, you could see a few of their sad stumps in the shaven piece of former field through which a tarmac drive cut like a motorway intersection, all the way to the triple garage.

Half a dozen cars were parked along the drive, which was actually wider than Virgingate Lane itself, where all the cottages were old and bent and comfortably sunk into the verges.

The extensive dwelling at the top of the tarmac drive was built of naked, glistening bricks, the colour of a Barbie’s bum. It had a conservatory, a sun-lounge, three fake gaslamps.

Jane could hear music and faint laughter from the house.

Great.

The plan had been to maybe encounter Councillor Pierce in his garden, casually ask him about the Coleman’s Meadow project and then perhaps educate him a little on the subject of leys and natural harmonies. He couldn’t turn her away, could he? He was a politician. She’d be able to vote for him next time. Or not.

It was clear from all the cars, however, that Councillor Pierce was hosting a dinner party or something. Bollocks.

Stupid idea, anyway. Jane felt deeply self-conscious now, standing there in her white hoodie like some shameless stalker. Unlikely that she’d gone unobserved from inside.

As if in confirmation of this, security spotlamps came blasting on below the broad pink patio which surrounded the house like a display plinth. Jane saw the hulk of a plundered cider-press with a

slate plaque attached to the stone wheel. The plaque said – inevitably – AVALON.

Maybe it was irony. Sod it, anyway. She turned away from the horror. Maybe she’d just write a letter of protest to the planning department, with a copy to the Hereford Times who wouldn’t print it. Sod them all.

‘Excuse me!’ A man behind her. ‘Excuse me… you looking for anyone in particular?’

Jane turned. Two guys in middle-aged leisureware – polo shirts, chinos, golfing shoes kind of kit – were strolling down the drive towards the nearest car, a gold Lexus. One of the guys beeped open the car doors and balanced a beer can on the roof.

Jane was starting to shake her head, walk away, when one of the pinkening clouds over Avalon reminded her, somehow, of the bird-of-prey profile of Lucy Devenish. She sighed.

‘You’re not… Councillor Pierce?’

The guy with the car keys grinned, opening one of the rear doors.

‘How far would it get me if I said I was?’

‘Excuse my friend, he’s an oaf,’ the second guy said. ‘Did you want to see Lyndon?’

‘Erm… Well, you know, not if he’s like, you know, busy.’

Both of them laughed. The guy with the keys pulled a black leather briefcase from the Lexus.

‘You think Lyndon will be too busy to see this lovely young thing, Jeff?’

‘Lyndon is a man always mindful of his civic duties,’ the other guy said. ‘Follow us, if you like.’

‘No, really,’ Jane said, ‘it’s not urgent or anything. I can-’

‘No, no, you can at least come and have a drink. You’ll be quite safe. My colleague’s in Social Services.’

They laughed. The cloud formation that had looked for a moment like Lucy Devenish had broken up.

It wasn’t exactly a pool party or a barbecue. That is, there was a pool and a barbecue behind the house, but neither was in use. However, one of those extraterrestrial-looking patio heaters was working, and seven people – four men, three women – were spread over a couple of hardwood tables, with drinks. Papers on the table seemed to be architect’s plans.

‘So what would you expect of a new community centre, Jane?’ Lyndon Pierce said.

He handed her a glass of white wine. He didn’t seem to recognize her, which was probably a good thing. He’d asked her name, and she’d just said Jane and left it at that.

New community centre?

‘So, like, what’s wrong with the old community centre?’

‘That’s precisely what’s wrong with it.’ Lyndon grinned. ‘It’s old.’

Lyndon was quite a lot less old than she’d imagined. Maybe thirty. Gelled black hair and a plump mouth. Tracksuit bottoms and a Hawaiian shirt open over a red T-shirt. Not too gross yet, but he probably would be in a couple of years.

‘Chance of a National Lottery grant, you see, Jane,’ one of the chino guys said. ‘We’ll be holding a public meeting to let the people of Ledwardine have their say. We’re drawing up a list of options for them.’

‘What if the people of Ledwardine don’t want a new community centre?’ Jane said.

Lyndon Pierce looked at her like he didn’t understand the question. Beyond the swimming pool, the view was across a couple of darkening fields towards Ledwardine square. Lights were coming on in the Black Swan, the church steeple fading back into the evening sky like another sphere of existence.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lyndon said. ‘Cross purposes, I think. We were just all having an informal chat about the new community centre, look, but you wanted to talk about…?’

‘Coleman’s Meadow,’ Jane said.

‘Oh. Right. Actually, Jeff’s in Planning, he might be able to help you on that one.’

Jeff said doubtfully, ‘Well, I’m afraid they’ll probably be fairly pricey, if you’re…’

Jane could tell he was trying to work out if she was old enough to be getting married or setting up home with someone. It was almost flattering. She took a sip of wine, thinking hard. She’d just stumbled, unprepared, into what seemed to be an out-of-hours gathering of top council people. When would she get another chance like this? Probably never.

OK.

‘I think you’ve… got this wrong…’ Trying to keep her voice steady. ‘ I wouldn’t live in Coleman’s Meadow, if the alternative was, like, a cardboard box in Jim Prosser’s shop doorway.’

Eyebrows went up. A thin woman of about Mum’s age gave Jane a hard look.

‘Because, like, Coleman’s Meadow is a very important ancient site which should be protected,’ Jane said. ‘I’d have thought somebody might’ve noticed that.’

Nobody was smiling much now.