Phil Rickman - The Chalice

Verity had been aware, at one stage, of someone coming in and muttering about some problem on the street, and one person – she thought it was Councillor Woolaston – had left quietly. But the interruption had been soon forgotten as Dr Grainger's audience moved towards First-stage Tenebral Symbiosis.

Now Dr Grainger was sitting on the edge of the platform talking to a couple who'd stayed behind. 'Why, sure,' he was saying nonchalantly. 'just take out the bulbs first then you won't be tempted to rush for the switches.'

'Let's go,' said Verity. Who, precisely because it had all been so seductive, was wishing she hadn't come. Dr Grainger was a very persuasive person, especially in the dark, but there was darkness and darkness, and she couldn't help feeling that Meadwell's dark was not the kind one might 'bond' with.

'Fine,' said Dr Grainger. 'Good luck.' He raised a hand to the departing couple, slipped down from the platform, and then – to Verity's horror – Dame Wanda was upon him. She didn't bother to introduce herself, assuming, as she assumed with everyone, that he would recognise her and be flattered by her attention.

'Dr Grainger, I should like you to meet a friend of mine who is, desperately, desperately in need of your help.'

The man in black smiled patiently.

Verity backed away. 'Oh no, really…'

'Verity, do not dare move.' Wanda turned again to Dr Pel Grainger and said apologetically, 'I am afraid my friend needs saving from herself.'

From where Jim stood, leaning on his bike, the lights of Glastonbury were too bright tonight, harsh with instability.

At the tree-hung entrance to Wellhouse Lane, he paused, feeling cold without his overcoat. Without his hat.

Go on. It'll be all right after the first few hundred yards, there's nothing to be afraid of. They've gone. The travellers have all gone.

Never thought this would happen to him. Never thought he could feel fear in this place of ancient spirit. But there was nothing to be brave for now. Not anymore.

He kept thinking back to yesterday – only yesterday, it seemed like another life, another incarnation – when he was sitting in Juanita's parlour, looking through his Laphroaig (the colour of dusk) at the woman whose skin was like the warmest, softest dusk you could imagine.

There was so much hope then. Well, not really, but you could kid yourself. You could believe in miracles.

And now there was no hope, and he had only himself to blame, doing what he'd always sworn to himself he would never do (stick to the banter, keep it light, never, never let her know for sure).

His hands felt clammy on the rubber of the handlebars. He'd seen what had happened in High Street, briefly assessed the situation – wouldn't have raised an eyebrow- in Bristol – and edged quietly out of the picture. Hated rubberneckers and voyeurs and all this counselling nonsense.

You should never interfere in people's private tragedies.

Private tragedy.

His own had come in the very second that Griff Daniel had burst back into the bar to spread the good news about the man smashing the windows of the hippy shops.

He hadn't meant this to happen. Hadn't come out tonight with the least intention of making a suicide flight.

But something had got to him. Something – whatever had made Griff Daniel so manic – set Jim off.

He'd been watching Juanita's eyes so closely. He knew precisely what he was doing, feeling strangely detached – in reality, probably as unstable as young Tony. And he knew that she knew where it was leading: Jim Battle burning all his boats, with a ninety-nine to one chance of total annihilation.

But that one per cent. The intoxication of running a wild, death-or-glory bet, the odds almost too high, for she was so beautiful and he was nearly twenty years older, twenty buggering years, and never bad been what you'd call much of a catch, as bloody Pat would point out every other week.

Juanita, Juanita.

If he'd been a knight he'd have swum the moat for her, scaled the buggering tower. If he'd been a young man he'd have simply swung her on to the back of his bike and pedalled for the border. If he'd been a dog, he'd have lain down at her feet, rolled over and wagged his tail.

Better to be a dog than poor, buggering Jim Battle. Better a dog and get the occasional tickle, have his fur brushed.

He pushed his bike past the last house in Wellhouse Lane. The Tor was on his right. Somewhere. He couldn't see the bastard thing. Maybe – God forgive him for even considering this – maybe Griff Daniel was right about the weird little hill, the hill of dreams, the hill of obsession. Maybe they'd all be better off without it.

And he would rather…

Jim swallowed this thought and went on pushing, feeling cold sweat in the small of his back, as though he was leaking like an old and rusting sump, listening to the tick, tick of his bike chain, following the bleary beam of his battery-powered bike lamp.

Only the mystery. Only the mystery could save him now.

And yet mystery could betray you. He remembered the heat of bodies around him, the strength of the hands holding him down, exposing his throat. And he would rather…

Jim squeezed his eyes shut, trying so hard to summon the dusk, bring the old mellow warmth into his chilled, sagging body. No good. It wouldn't come.

He would rather…

…rather have had that moon-bright sickle slice slowly through the skin and the sinew and the bones in his neck than to have seen the quick flickering of relief in Juanita's eyes when Griff Daniel burst into the bar.

Don Moulder had been up late doing his VAT return, last minute as usual, and it was while he was locking up for the night that he heard it.

Would've figured it was no more than his imagination – doing his VAT always made him a bit paranoid about people coming after him – if both sheepdogs hadn't heard it as well and started to whimper.

'Lord preserve us,' muttered Don Moulder.

It came again: the echoey groaning and grinding of a clapped out old gearbox, some distance off. One of the dogs crept between Don's legs. 'Oh aye, that's right,' Don growled. 'You go'n hide yourself, bloody ole coward.'

When Shep joined Prince under the table, Don scowled at then and went to the boot cupboard where he kept the twelve-bore. 'Got to protect me own stock, then?' He glanced up at the plaster between the beams. 'Forgive me, Lord, but I knows not of a better way to deal with these devils.'

Don decided to say nothing to the missus, who'd been in bed an hour and was most likely well asleep by now. Shots'd wake her, mind, if it came to that.

Warning shots only, more's the pity. You blasted away at the beggars these days, professional rustlers or not, and they'd be straight down the police station, figuring to nobble a God fearing farmer for damages, due to the trauma they'd suffered. Bloody ridiculous; got so's a man couldn't defend his own property no more. Well, Don Moulder played by the old rules: thou shalt not pinch thy neighbour's ox, nor his ass nor his best Suffolk ram, and if thou triest it thou gets what's coming to thee, mister, and no mistake.

Shrugging on his old Barbour, Don let himself out. He was halfway across the yard, gun under an arm, lamp in hand but switched off. when he had another thought.

Knackered ole gearbox noise. Lord, suppose it's…Them…?

They'd paid him for three, four nights – via the Hon. Diane, bless her – then cleared off halfway through the first. All right, their decision, no pressure from Don Moulder. But what if they'd come back to claim the rest of their time? How did he stand there? Hadn't given 'em no money back, not a penny; still he hadn't been asked, and there was nothing on paper.