Phil Rickman - The Secrets of Pain

The prayers had been for… serenity, Merrily supposed, restoration of balance, and the God had been Julian’s God, without whose warmth and gentility the human race would never have survived. Mother God.

And the energy had come, unequivocally, from the full moon.

Mother Goddess.

A female thing.

Up yours, Mithras.

She’d walked away feeling the terrifying rightness of it, thinking that when things were calmer she’d have to tell Jane what she’d done.

Felt obliged.

And there was something else for Jane. When she’d rung Neil Cooper, as promised, to tell him about the possibility of Mithraic remains at Brinsop, he already knew. The police had asked for someone to come along when they excavated the temple and surrounds to see what was there.

Merrily had also told Neil about Jane and university. Why Jane was reluctant to go and thereby miss the excavation of Coleman’s Meadow. Neil said he’d talk to the guys hired for the dig to see if they could use somebody to make the tea and stuff. Probably not a gap year but maybe a gap six months, on peanuts pay.

Earlier today, Jane had been palely determined: I will go to university. I’ll work like hell, get the grades and go as far away from here as I can. I’m no good for this place, I’m a bloody liability .

Like that. She’d come round.

Resurrection of Christ. Resurrection of Ledwardine. Resurrection of Jane.

At key moments in the Julian meditation, Merrily would hold in her head an image of the crucifixion stain on the wall of Brinsop Church.

If it all fell flat – and she’d know – then last night had been the first signs of a dangerous eccentricity, and it might be time to think about getting out of the job.

The vestry door was ajar, the way it was never left any more. The smell of mud and sweat came to her. Merrily froze. The voice at her shoulder was not a voice you wanted to hear, alone, in the dimness.

‘A few minutes of your time, please, Mrs Watson.’

The energy-saving bulbs in the vestry sputtered in nervous dawn-like tints as he shut the door.

‘Lock it,’ he said.

He wore a black woollen hat, hiking gear, a pack too lightweight to be a Bergen. Just another long-distance walker, although the sweat suggested he’d been running and the mud spatters suggested it hadn’t been along established footpaths.

Across the room, from which there was no easy escape, Merrily didn’t move. On one side of her a table with prayer books, on the other a carousel of ‘Beautiful Ledwardine’ postcards. Above her, a window that didn’t open.

He said, ‘Just do it, please.’

‘Byron…’ Keeping her eyes on him, her voice low. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d really rather not be in a locked room with you.’

He smiled, revealing all the black lines in his teeth.

‘Want your help, that’s all.’

‘I really don’t think so.’

Perhaps she should have been afraid, but she was just annoyed. About everything. He didn’t seem to notice.

‘Do you know what Power of Attorney means?’

‘I do, actually. Studied law for a year, before… life took over.’

He reached into an inside pocket, lifting out a long buff envelope.

‘I want to give you Power of Attorney.’

‘Over what?’

‘Disposal of my property. Which is not inconsiderable these days. All the land, all the buildings, the bungalow, all paid for. Also a small apartment in Hereford. Surprising how much money you can make in a short time, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’m a vicar.’

He didn’t smile.

‘If I appeared irritated with you, back at the cop shop, it was only because I could see you catching on. Picking up on too many things, joining too many ends. But then, your religion and mine do have a lot in common.’

‘Not really, Byron. Ritual murder might be a point of contention.’

He didn’t seem to hear.

‘Of course, you’re also part of the problem. Women priests and guys like that nancy who was filling in for you today. But I did come away admiring you, the way you put your finger on the worm in the apple. Now…’ He extracted the contents of the envelope. ‘I had this done some while back. I’ve always been tidy that way. Had a bloke in mind to expedite things, but we fell out. Go on… read it.’

Merrily moved to pick up the paper, never taking her gaze off him, and backed off with it.

THIS GENERAL POWER OF ATTORNEY is made this day of by COLIN JONES of The Compound, Brinsop, Herefordshire.

I APPOINT MERRILY WATKINS of The Vicarage, Ledwardine, Herefordshire, to be my Attorney in accordance with Section 10 of the Powers of Attorney Act 1971

IN WITNESS whereof I have hereunto set my hand the day and year first before written

SIGNED as a Deed and delivered by the said COLIN JONES in the presence of: ‘This authorizes you to act in my name. Sell all the property and see that the proceeds are distributed, fifty-fifty, to the people I shall name to you.’

She said, ludicrously, ‘You got my name right.’

‘I always knew your name. Legal stuff, you don’t make mistakes. I’m going away, Mrs W, and wish to dispose of my property meaningfully. I shot a man. As you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘Be pictures of The Compound in all the rags. TV, the Net. Truth is, it was as good as over when they killed Farmer Bull. Bloody Kenny. What a mistake he was.’

‘Because he wasn’t a soldier. Because he had no discipline.’

‘Kenny was the worm in the apple. Hanging out with that clown from The Octane Show, appearing on promotional videos. Fame and fortune. That was never what this was about.’

‘But Kenny didn’t kill Farmer Bull. Or-’

‘He let it happen. He was doing stuff on his own, taking men through the degrees. Stuff I didn’t know about. At first, when you take a civilian through the degrees, you think it’ll change them. Nah. Not in the right way.’

‘It changed you.’

She was thinking, Some men win at snooker and some at poker, too…

He sat on the edge of the table.

‘I was responsible. You accept that, then you take action. Mithras doesn’t forgive. Couldn’t exactly fire Mostyn when he owned half the company. Better there was an accident. Not here. Somewhere remote. Beacons, maybe. Just biding my time. Another mistake. Unless you take immediate action…’

He pushed the form towards her. His fingers touched hers, briefly; she looked up into his lined face. Part of him was watching her, impassive, beyond stimulation. She felt that another part of him was already going away, something receding.

‘I still don’t understand why me.’

‘Don’t have many choices. I believe you won’t double-deal. And you know the people concerned.’

‘It needs another signature. A witness.’

‘Someone here you can trust? Preferably not your boyfriend.’

Whose life he might have saved. He just might.

‘Byron, there are several people I can trust. None of whom I’m prepared to expose to a man who I have every reason to think may have a gun with him.’

He grinned, turned his back on her. When he turned around again, it lay across the palm of his big, leathery hand.

‘The Glock.’ He placed it carefully on the table, pushed it towards Merrily. ‘I may ask for it back before I leave.’

She didn’t touch it. They both knew she could pick it up, point it at him and call the police. Always assuming it was loaded, and somehow, she thought, it would be.

Byron placed the pistol in the centre of the table, took a stack of prayer books from the pile and arranged them around the Glock on four sides, finally placing one on top.

‘You got a phone on you?’