Phil Rickman - The Chalice

Poor Jim Battle would have been sickened.

As the afternoon trailed dismally away, Verity Endicott sat in the deepest corner of the dining hall and welcomed the dark by inhaling it.

Dr Grainger had taught her how to do this. You breathed in, expanding the diaphragm, imagining the air inside your body to be of the same consistency and texture as the atmosphere in the room. And then you directed the smooth, dark air to the extremities of your body, to your hands and feet and along your spinal cord until the restful darkness filled your head. Finally, you exhaled through the mouth, sending some of your essence out into the room. A mingling.

Thus, Verity had taken her first tentative steps along the path to penumbratisation: fusion with the dark. Dr Grainger had spent hours with her over the past few weeks, refusing to take any payment because, he said, Meadwell was 'a real palace of shadows' in which it was a privilege to work.

He was an earnest, humourless man, and Verity seemed to be becoming rather dependent on him. On three occasions, they had meditated together in one of the upstairs rooms, sitting side by side on straight-backed chairs with their hands on their knees, a tincture of moonlight on the rim of a wardrobe. Here, Dr Grainger had instructed her in the techniques of tenebral chakra-breathing which, he said, would put her in tune with the dark physically, mentally and emotionally.

'There are five other stages after this,' he said, 'but it's gonna take you maybe a couple more weeks of nightly exercise before you're ready to move on up.'

Verity clung, with little confidence but certainly no misgivings any more, to the tenebral exercises. The house might be growing ever darker, but the real oppressor was Oliver Pixhill, whose undisguised intention was to dispense with her services, presumably seeing her as the final link with his despised father.

Dr Grainger was right. If she could not love the dark as he did, at least she might learn to live with it. It was her duty to stay, to resist all attempts to force her out. To hold out until…

Until when? Colonel Pixhill had always said she would know. Major Shepherd had said someone would help her, that she would not have to be a canary until she finally succumbed to the gases. All she was sure of was that the person coming to help her was not Oliver Pixhill.

She just couldn't get him out other head. He had never returned, but his sneers lingered. He obviously hated Meadwell too; had he inherited it, he would doubtless have sold it at once. Which was perhaps one of the reasons the Colonel had laid the foundations of the Pixhill Trust.

Verity felt very lonely. Day to day, she seemed to see only Dr Grainger. Wanda never telephoned; she was, it seemed, spending much of her time persuading influential people to support the campaign against the Bath-Taunton Relief Road. And was also, apparently, involved in setting up some sort of Christmas event uniting pagans and Christians in the person of Dr Liana Kelly, the liberal-minded new Bishop of Bath and Wells.

All fine and good in its way. This, surely, was what Glastonbury was about: a healing of ancient rifts. So was Christmas. It should be a time of rejoicing. But on the town streets there were few smiles to be seen. She missed very much the joviality of Mr Battle, with his sketchbook and his bicycle. And the careless elegance of Juanita Carey, even if she was always too busy to talk for long.

Such an unbelievable tragedy. In its wake and in the aftermath of the unpleasantness at Holy Thorn Ceramics, there seemed to be in the air of Glastonbury a cold hostility which Verity had never before experienced. Not what the holy town was about. It was as though Avalon itself- awful thought – was going the way of Meadwell.

At least Woolly looked cheerful, in orange trousers and a yellow jacket over a lurid Hawaiian shirt. But then he always looked cheerful; apart from that one suit, clothes like these were all he had.

His face was doleful though, today.

'Tis slipping away from me, Diane. I can feel it. They're taking over.'

He pulled a stool to the counter.

'Daft to complain. On one level, 'tis a wonderful job she's doing.'

'Dame Wanda?'

'Knows more famous folk than I even heard of, that woman. Actors, artists and such.'

'Yes, but Woolly, the sad fact is that when it comes to infrastructure, I'm afraid it's the kind of people Archer and my father know who really count.'

'Infrastructure. There's a clever word. You gonner use words like that in The Avalonian?'

'Certainly not,' Diane said. 'It's going to be simple and direct.'

'It's really gonner happen?'

'Of course it's jolly well going to happen.' Diane lowered her eyes. 'I think.'

She worked on The Avalonian every waking hour, even when she was in the shop, with the little laptop she'd borrowed from Sam. Studied the customers for people who might be recruited as correspondents. Preferably straight people. Well, as straight as you could find among customers at an Alternative bookshop.

'You know I'll help all I can,' Woolly said.

'I know. And don't think I'm not grateful, but there's a limit to how much you can help. Or at least be seen to help. You're a politician now.'

'Sheesh, do I look like a politician?'

'We have to be seen to be independent.'

In the window, a sign Sam had printed said, COMING SOON – THE AVALONIAN. She'd been a little worried about that; suppose people remembered the old hippy magazine and thought it was going to be the same sort of thing.

The phone rang. Diane never answered the phone in case it was her father. She waited for the answering machine to cut in, Juanita's voice still on it. There was silence, the caller not sure whether to leave a message.

'Er… 'tis Miss Diane I wanted.'

'I know that voice,' Woolly said. 'It's…'

'Tis Don Moulder here. I, er, I needer talk to Miss Diane .. 'bout… 'bout them hippies, look. I… right.'

The line was cut.

'Well, there's a man really at home with the new technology,' Woolly observed. 'You gonner call him back?'

'I might actually go and see him,' Diane said. 'I keep hearing rumours that he's gone sort of strange.'

'That's no rumour, my love'

'Apparently he's put up a huge cross on his land. I thought it might make a piece for The Avalonian. For the dummy. I mean he's not an Alternative person, is he?'

'You mean he's like a straight religious maniac. Yeah, I suppose so. I do admire what you're doing, you know. The way you've thrown yourself into it. At a time like this.'

'It's because it's a time like this,' Diane said.

Standing under the swinging sign of The George and Pilgrims, Joe Powys watched Diane Ffitch walking down from Carey and Frayne, hands plunged into her coat pockets, a beret plopped on tangled brown curls, a stiff-backed folder under her arm.

She smiled shyly. 'This is awfully good of you. Although, I mean, it might actually be OK. It might just make the journey.'

'Then again, it might fall off.' He went to unlock the Mini.

'Well. Yes. I suppose so.'

Returning to the inn tonight, Powys had encountered her in the car park. Sitting in her pink-spotted van with the engine running; it was making a noise like a small aeroplane.

Diane had said, Does this mean it's sort of broken?

It was only a hole in the silencer, but it looked like a very old exhaust system. Not safe to drive it to Bristol, especially at night.

Diane squeezed into the Mini, put her folder behind the seat. 'At least, there's a place at the hospital where you can go and get a cup of tea or something. While you're waiting.'

'Or,' Powys said, 'perhaps I could pop in and see her for a couple of minutes. Just so I can tell Dan something.'