Phil Rickman - The Secrets of Pain

‘Taliban.’

‘Among others.’

Syd sat up, drank some tea, leaned back again, pushing out his feet to the fire. He’d once told Merrily that there was a harsh kind of mysticism at the heart of the SAS. Something to do with the miracle of survival against immeasurable odds. Ninety per cent training and preparation, nine per cent luck and one per cent something you’d call on at breaking point. The lantern in the storm.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Syd said. ‘First rule – don’t throw the Big Feller in their faces.’

Merrily nodded. It made sense.

‘Always a surface cynicism about all things religious,’ Syd said. ‘Which is healthy. But, in the end, these are not ordinary soldiers. They live by a very strong faith. Faith in themselves, faith in their mates. There’s also what you might call a monastic quality, and if a particular kind of inner spark is allowed to go out, they’re open to a certain creeping disillu- Shit! ’

Syd jerked his feet back from the hearth. His socks were smouldering. He stamped his feet lightly on the edge of the hearth, then rubbed them together and carried on talking.

‘If you come over too evangelical, you’re well stuffed. But you do have to come over like a priest, not a mate. They’ll always respect an expert.’

‘This mean you sometimes have to go abroad with them, Syd?’

‘You make your own decisions on where you might be needed.’

‘I mean, how dangerous is it for a priest? Stupid question?’

‘Frustrating more than dangerous. If threatened, for instance, you must never resist or exercise violence. You go willingly into captivity. And no shooters. What’s kind of amusing, if you go on exercise with the boys, they don’t like to think you’re getting off with light kit, so they give you a cross to carry, size of an old Heckler and Koch nine-mil.’

‘And if it’s touch and go, lad,’ Huw said, ‘wi’ a crazed Taliban warlord?’

Syd let his chin sink into his chest, peered up, coy.

‘Every SAS chaplain worth his kit knows thirty-seven ways to kill with a wooden cross.’

There was a silence. The elephant in the room had a big D tattooed on its hide. Merrily sipped her tea, looking for an approach.

‘Why did you want to do it?’

‘It was the right time. Iraq, Afghanistan. War, but not the kind of war people care about. You hear a lot about the dead, but not much about the damaged.’ Syd put a thumb to his head. ‘Up here, you know? The NHS got no answer to that – not much of one, anyway.’

‘You think you can help?’

‘In a small way. Makes me feel more useful than… you know…’

‘A parish.’

‘It’s still a parish. Except this is one where I can see the point of it.’

‘You’re based at Credenhill?’

‘Army villa, fully equipped.’

‘On your own?’

‘For the present. However, Emmy’s no longer at college. On account of being four months pregnant.’

‘Oh.’

‘Nah…’ Syd sat up. ‘It’s good. This is the good thing. She gets married beginning of May – to a boy who’ll soon be a baby barrister, how perfect is that? Then Fiona moves back in and we get to think about a future.’

‘Well.’ Merrily smiled. ‘Things do turn around, don’t they?’

‘Told you it was OK to smoke in church.’

He wasn’t smiling, he was wearing a smiley mask. He didn’t seem frightened, though. He seemed in control.

Right, then…

‘So, Syd… you’re here because you have a deliverance issue related to your SAS ministry?’

‘Blimey.’ Syd stretched his arms over his head. ‘Is that the time?’

There wasn’t a clock in here and probably insufficient light to see his watch. Syd was on his feet.

‘Samuel Dennis Spicer.’ He yawned. ‘Church of England. As was. Goodnight, all.’

The logs had reddened and collapsed into glowing splinters, the air outside fallen to near-stillness. Merrily stood up and went to the window. Across the valley, clouds had cleared and the hills were moon-bleached, but you couldn’t see the tip of Pen-y-fan the way you could from the chapel.

‘Of course,’ Huw said from the sunken chamber of his chair. ‘You’re a woman.’

‘We all have our cross to bear.’

‘They don’t have women in the SAS.’

‘You’re saying that’s why he won’t talk to me?’

‘He’s back in the army, his ministry’s governed by the buttoned-up bastards in the MoD. Not that he said much to me, either.’

‘An evil. What do you think that might be? As I recall, that’s not one of his words. He doesn’t do melodrama. But, yeah, I can see why you might think he’s scared. He’s a bit manic, isn’t he?’

‘You’re hardly going to see him trembling or keep running to the bog.’ Huw sat up, reached down to the hearth for the pot and poured more tea. ‘But, aye, that fact that he’ll say nowt to you more or less confirms it. It is Regiment-related. So very much on your patch.’

‘Although it has moved since Syd was a soldier.’

In Syd’s time, the Regiment had still been based on the southern edge of the city where it had been established during World War Two by an army colonel, David Stirling. The camp known ever since as Stirling Lines. Still producing highly trained commando units, parachuting in to operate behind enemy lines. That famous motto: Who Dares Wins.

Strangely, in the city, it had been more anonymous. The townsfolk part of a conspiracy of silence. But now it had moved a few miles out, to the former RAF base at Credenhill. Now everybody knew where to find the SAS: out in the sticks, with a high fence and armed guards.

Merrily came away from the window.

‘Topographically they’re in the county and in the diocese. But not part of either. The SAS are a little island of their own.’

‘So if Spicer has a problem involving a spiritual evil he has to deal with it himself. Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘In what way?’

‘He does one day on a deliverance course and thinks he knows enough to wing it on his own?’

‘Mmm. See what you-’

Merrily’s mobile was chiming in her bag. The kid had always chosen her moments.

‘Where are you?’

‘In the pub.’

‘I’m assuming not on your-’

‘With Lol. And Danny Thomas.’

‘Good. Listen, flower, I’ve got a bit of a problem.’

Telling Jane why she’d be spending the night at Huw’s rectory.

‘Jesus,’ Jane said. ‘Gormenghast?’

‘So when you get in, maybe you could ring and assure me that all the doors are locked, things like that. Or you could even stay in Lol’s spare room…’

‘And become the subject of evil gossip? I’ll be… fine.’

Hesitation?

‘You sure?’

‘Wind’s dying down. A few slates gone in the village, that’s all. You want me to take a walk round the vic-?’

‘No! If there’s nothing obvious from inside, just-’

‘You want me to hang on in the morning, till you get back?’

‘No, get the bus. I’ll call you anyway, about eight.’

‘OK.’

‘And get Lol to see you home and check-’

‘That there’s nobody around. Yes. I will. I’ll do that.’

Now that was wrong. Normally it would be, Don’t be ridiculous, this is Ledwardine.

‘Owt up, lass?’

‘Don’t know.’ Merrily dropped the phone into her bag; maybe she was overtired. ‘You think when they’re officially adult, it’s going to be easier. That they’ll be more restrained. But the only real difference is that now they can do things. Shake foundations.’

She told Huw about the Ledwardine henge issue – indications of a Bronze Age earthwork around the village, concealed for centuries by apple orchards. It was clear that elements inside Hereford Council would prefer that nothing was found on land they hoped to develop, thus turning Ledwardine into something approaching a town. Jane – obsessed with ancient sites, planning a career in archaeology – was furious. And Jane was eighteen. Jane could vote and express opinions.