Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

‘Oh dear.’

‘Quite.’

‘You’re assuming he’d just picked up the package at the Royal Oak.’

‘If you only knew how hard I’d tried to come up with a better explanation.’

‘And are the police planning to do anything about this? Raid the Oak?’

‘I think that would be an embarrassingly fruitless exercise, don’t you? Something like this, you only get one chance, and I’m waiting for firm intelligence. I gather there’s a meeting on in Wychehill, at which the problem of the Royal Oak is likely to be raised.’

‘Yes, it’s – tomorrow. Isn’t it?’

‘It’s tonight, Merrily.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘I’m a detective. We were planning to look in, on an unofficial basis, but I’m told that would now be rather obvious.’

‘Look, I’ve got to leave for a christening in a couple of minutes and then I was hoping to have a serious discussion with my only child when she gets in from school. What are you looking for?’

‘Well, certainly something more than general rowdyism and weeing over walls. Like if illegal drugs were coming into Wychehill itself? Must be a few likely teenagers there. If we were to receive a serious complaint from a parent or two… Something I can dangle in front of Howe. I’m looking for a lever, Merrily.’

‘I’m a vicar, Frannie.’

‘And a mate,’ Bliss said. ‘I hope.’

After the christening of Laurel Catherine Mathilda and a brief appearance at the christening tea in the village hall, Merrily walked up to the market square under an overcast, purpling sky, and decided to wait for the school bus.

She looked up towards Cole Hill, but you couldn’t see it from here, although you could from the church. Wished she had time to investigate this ley line for herself. Leys… well, they were something she still wasn’t sure about. They could never be proved actually to exist, but they had… a kind of poetic truth. They lit up the countryside.

And if Jane had found a way of lighting up the countryside without drugs…

Best not to get too heavy about her taking a day off school. As long as she didn’t make a habit of it.

Merrily looked down into Church Street, at Lol’s house. Wished she could light up the countryside for him. Under the shadow of middle age, he was understandably uncertain about his future. Set for stardom at eighteen and then robbed by bitter circumstance of what should have been the glory years. Too old, now, to be the new Nick Drake. His comeback album was selling reasonably well, he’d done gigs supporting Moira Cairns and the two old Hazey Jane albums had been remastered. But it still wasn’t quite a career.

Now he was writing material for the second solo album. It wasn’t going well. Although he didn’t say much, she could feel his fear sometimes.

She turned, as the school bus drew up on the edge of the square and some kids got off.

And Jane didn’t.

Merrily’s heart froze. Stupid. This didn’t automatically mean she’d skipped school again. Sometimes Eirion picked her up. However…

She went straight home and called Jane’s phone from her own mobile. Jane’s was switched off. She left a message: call now. Put the mobile on the sermon pad and then sat down and rang Joyce Aird in Wychehill.

‘I’ve caused a lot of trouble, haven’t I?’

Merrily was cautious. ‘In what way, Mrs Aird?’

‘I had a visit…’ Her voice sounded unsteady. ‘I was told this could bring us the wrong sort of attention and I’ve done the community a great disservice. I’ve lived here more than twenty years, Mrs Watkins…’

‘Asking for me to come and look into…? That ’s the disservice?’

‘I only did what I thought was best.’

‘This is Mr Holliday, is it?’

‘It’s what we’ve become, I’m afraid. It’s all about how it looks. Doesn’t matter what the truth is any more.’

‘Matters to me.’

‘You don’t live here, Mrs Watkins. It’s not a nice place to live any more. Nobody’s friendly.’

‘Is that since these ghost stories-?’

‘I feel I’m becoming a prisoner in my own home. Locked doors and drawn curtains and… and the lights on all night. That’s what it’s come to. I can’t be in the dark. And I love my bungalow. I love the view… I did love it. Now it feels so isolated. I was going to give it till next year, but I’ve been thinking I’d better put the house on the market in the summer.’

‘Do you have anywhere to go?’

‘Back to Solihull, I expect. I should’ve moved back when my husband died. It’s never the same on your own, though I do love my sunsets.’

‘I’m really sorry, Joyce, but I don’t think you should jump to-’

‘Anyway, don’t you worry. If they don’t want you, there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?’

‘I’m sorry… I’m a bit confused here. I’ve had a message on the answering machine from Mr Holliday, who obviously doesn’t want me… but I’m not sure it’s his decision to make.’

‘He said the Rector was going to tell you.’

‘ Tell me?’

‘Not to come to the meeting. That they don’t want you.’

‘I see,’ Merrily said. ‘Would this… have anything to do with the late Sir Edward Elgar?’

‘We haven’t to use that name, Mrs Watkins. That’s what I’ve been told.’

What Remains of Reason

Inside, the huge parish church of St Dunstan was as plain and functional as Syd Spicer’s kitchen. Its Gothic windows were puritanical plain glass, diamond-leaded, and the light on this overcast Midsummer’s Eve was cruelly neutral, showing Merrily how dispiriting it must be for Spicer on Sunday mornings, his meagre congregation scattered two to a pew and less than a quarter of the pews filled. Like a village cricket match at Lord’s.

But, as Wychehill didn’t have a community hall, the church accommodated the parish meetings, so maybe its ambience would confer stability, calm, wisdom, dignity.

Or not.

‘They found drugs in that car, you know.’ Leonard Holliday – she’d recognized the voice at once – was on his feet across the aisle: crimped gunmetal hair, neat beard. ‘ Did you know?’

Holliday must have police contacts. Maybe Masonic?

‘No, I didn’t know,’ Preston Devereaux said wearily. ‘I have a business to run. I don’t have much time for gossip.’

‘Ecstasy tablets, Chairman. They say one can buy them like sweeties at the Royal Oak.’

OK, maybe his contacts weren’t that good.

‘And you know why the district council, as the licensing authority, will not act against that place?’ Holliday jabbing a forefinger at nobody in particular. ‘You know why they won’t shut it down – and I can disclose this with some authority, having worked in local government for forty years, and damned glad to be out of it…’

‘Mr Holliday-’

‘The reason they will not act, Chairman, is that, as with so many tourist areas, the level of government grant-aid is now, to a large extent, dependent on the council and the tourism bodies being able to prove that they are attracting a sufficient number of black and Asian visitors. This is a fact. And these… music nights at the Oak are seen as especially attractive to that particular-’

‘ All right.’ Preston Devereaux banging his gavel. ‘As most of you seem to be members of the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group, I don’t think we need to complicate matters by going further into this issue tonight.’

He was at a table set up at the foot of the chancel steps, the chair next to him empty. The chancel was large and unscreened, its choir stalls in a semicircular formation, like a concert hall. More like a concert hall, in fact, than a place of worship, and as stark as a Welsh chapel.