Phil Rickman - The Chalice

'It was calling out,' Diane whispered. 'To those who are close to it.'

'Diane, listen to me' Juanita sat down next to her on the bed. 'I hate what Archer and Griff are planning as much as anyone. And I'll fight it on freedom of access grounds. We can't have them putting Britain behind bars. But if you start putting two and two together and getting sixteen…'

'Juanita, I know this in my heart. It called me back.'

Juanita said gently, 'Colonel Pixhill thought it had called him back too, and he wasted the rest of his life trying to work out why and never did, just went bonkers.'

But Diane wasn't even listening. She wouldn't even look at Juanita. just gazed at the walls, at Jim's picture, anything.

'I was thinking, Why me? I'd concluded that it wasn't me at all it wanted, it was Nanny Three. Violet. Dion Fortune. I thought Ceridwen could perhaps explain it, if… you know… if they could get through to her. But now I know it is me.'

'No, Diane…'

'Because Archer's the threat. To the Tor and all the magic of Glastonbury. Avalon out. Don't you see? It wants me because I'm Archer's sister. It wants me to stop him.'

'Sure. Fine. As long as…'

'And you were right, Juanita. With The Avalonian. It was meant. You have a purpose too.'

'Well thanks. Thank you very much, Diane.'

There was a long, fraught silence, Diane staring hard at the picture on the wall. Then she said, 'That's the same picture, isn't it? The one you've had for ages.'

Diane had gone pale. She looked close to fainting. It was ridiculous. She shouldn't go dashing about, working herself into a state. People carrying too much weight around, there was always a danger.

'I'll make some tea,' Juanita said.

'No.' Diane didn't move. 'Why's it gone dark? 'The sun-line in the picture. Why's it gone dark, Juanita?'

'I'll ring him again.' Trying to sound calm, but her too-thin, nervous fingers prodding at the wrong numbers. She held the phone up to the light, began again.

And the phone rang and rang and the old bastard didn't answer.

Juanita pulled feverishly at her cigarette. There was a time when she didn't actually need to smoke. Didn't need the wine. Never over-reacted.

The breeze tossed some rain at the window like a handful of pebbles.

'OK. How did you mean?' Her voice limp. 'How did you mean it had darkened?'

Diane swallowed. 'That red fine. Like a red-hot wire. It had gone black. It was a black line. It was like a thin cut bleeding… black. All over the painting.'

'Why can't I see it?'

'I can't see it now. These things don't last.'

Juanita started to shake her head, wrapped her arms around herself, began to pace the room, staring down and rocking.

'Diane, you'd… OK, listen, you'd come in off the street, into a darkened shop, darkened hallway, and then you burst into a lighted room…'

'Juanita, sometimes you've got to trust me.'

Juanita blinked. 'Look, OK, 'I'll go over to Jim's. Check him out. You stay here. Stay by the phone, just in case.'

'You're not going on your own.'

'Well, you're not coming.'

'Juanita, I can be frightfully stubborn. You are not going on your own. If I have to get the van going and follow you.'

Juanita told her why it was impossible. She told her that her friends, the Pilgrims, were back. Not all of them. Maybe half a dozen. But back. They'd be spread all over the hill.'

'Oh.' Diane became very still. 'In that case, there're a few things I need to ask them. About Headlice.'

Juanita's calves ached: varicose veins, was it, now?

Your time is close, woman. It'll happen sooner than you dread.

Diane said, 'I'll get the van.'

'No. OK. We'll take the Volvo.' Juanita was sweating. Her posh, grey jacket felt like rags.

Hot sweat, cold sweat, menopause, hag.

St John's church tower was watching them from above, unfeeling behind its lagging of rain and night.

Juanita pulled car keys from her shoulder bag, gripped them until the jagged edges bit into her palm.

'Listen. OK. Just listen.' Facing Diane over the bonnet of the Volvo. 'We go directly to Jim's. We don't stop for anybody. Is that understood?'

Diane nodded; Juanita didn't trust her. She pulled the old Afghan coat out of the boot, dragged it on. The rain was relentless as they drove into Chilkwell Street – a few cars parked, a little light traffic. Small town, rainy night.

Halfway up Wellhouse Lane, they came to the first vehicle. The old Post Office van. 'You agreed,' Juanita snapped. 'You agreed we don't stop. I don't care who you recognise, we keep going.'

Then the hearse.

'Mort,' Diane breathed.

'Shut up.'

Dim lamplight in some of the buses and vans. A few people plodded from one to another. Metallic music rattled the Volvo's windows.

'It's them, it's Mort's hearse.'

'I don't care if it's Storming Norman's bloody tank, we're not stopping.'

'I don't think I want to anymore.' Diane actually seemed a little scared.

'Good.' Juanita trod on the gas, eased forward past the hearse. And then collapsed on the brake…

'What the hell?'

… as a grey cliff-face arose in their path.

The motor coach was in the middle of the road. Not moving. No lights. The Volvo stalled. Juanita wound down the window in rage, and screamed at anybody, 'What do you think this is, the municipal dump?'

Laughter came like breaking glass.

'Stay!' Juanita hissed at Diane. 'Just don't move an inch.'

She slammed out into the road. There was a group of people, or it might have been people and bushes; it didn't move.

What if he's here? With his sickle. Gwyn ap Nudd. In his animal mask. Juanita tasted oil and wanted to run away, but she made herself speak to them.

'Excuse me. We need to get past.'

'Can't be done, lady.' A calm voice, unhurried. 'You're gonna have to turn back.'

All she could see was a tall grey figure and a cigarette end too small to fizz in the rain. Did whoever it was recognise her from the other night? Did they all recognise her?

'Mel's bus broke down, OK? We can't fix it tonight. You gotta go back. There's another way. Wherever you're headed, there's, like, always another way, lady.'

'Not to where we're going. I don't get this. What are you guys doing back here?'

'Lady, we are the army for Avalon. Public meeting, yeah? About the road? We're the public.'

'Can't you just reverse it down the hill?'

'It's fuckin' clapped. Don't you listen? We'll get it seen to when the morning comes.'

'I do like your coat.' A cruel, female cackle. 'My granny had one like that.'

Juanita was preparing an acid reply when she saw that Diane was at her side.

'Mort? Are you there?'

'For Christ's sake, what did we agree, Diane? The road's blocked, anyway. One of their buses broke down.'

'Mort!' Diane cried out shrilly. 'Where's Mort?'

'Shiiiit,' one of the female travellers drawled from the darkness. 'We got bleedin' Fergie?'

'Rozzie? Is that you? It's me. Di… Molly. It's Molly F-f-Fortune.'

'She on about?'

'Interbreeding, it is,' the man said. 'Been poking their cousins for centuries. All got brains the size of fuckin' walnuts.'

The mild rain between them was as dense and muffling as a velvet curtain. Diane shouted, 'Mort, we have to talk. I know you're there, I've seen the hearse.'

'It's my hearse, darlin'. Paul Pendragon at your service. There's nobody called Mort. And, listen, you shouldn't be here hassling us, you should be down at that meeting. Got to stop this fuckin' road, ladies. You come down with us, we'll look after you.'

'Diane, come on.'

'She yours, lady?'

'Diane, will you…?'

'Why did you leave?' Diane screamed. 'Why didn't you take poor Headlice to hospital? Why did you let him die? Why'd you leave him?'