Phil Rickman - The Chalice

Neither of them could've been going very fast. Not in the town centre, in the rush hour. But they didn't have to be.

Const… ance…

Ah, Jesus, was he going to hear that every time he walked past here, like the shriek was imprinted on the fabric of the street?

Constance Morgan. Four months old. Hardly aware she had a life before it was gone. Her mother, now in danger of losing a leg, was Kirsty Morgan.

Nee Cotton.

Daughter of Quentin Cotton.

So the chairman of Glastonbury First loses his grandchild, gets his only daughter crippled in an accident caused by…

'I can't believe this,' Sam hissed.

'' Scuse me, squire, would you mind?'

A bloke wanted to set up a black tripod. Sam moved back, thinking it was a police photographer, until the bloke slid a big video camera into the top of the tripod and a white light came on, revealing a woman in a sheepskin coat, very short blonde hair. Tammy White from BBC Bristol with a big boom microphone in a furry cover.

'What about we do it here, Rob?' Tammy White said.

'Can you get the lorry in?'

'Yeah, if the two of you come out a bit. That's fine. That'll do.'

Sam stepped into the doorway of the Crown Hotel as the camera light shone bright as day on the face of Archer Ffitch.

'Sorry to put you on the spot like this,' Tammy White said in a low, non-interviewing voice. 'They'll only use about half a minute, but I need to cover myself. Is that all right?'

'Anything you require, Tammy,' Archer said smoothly. 'It's a pretty difficult situation for me, but you've got your job to do.'

'I'm recording,' the cameraman said. 'In your own time, Tammy.'

Tammy White straightened up, held the microphone between her and Archer, just above waist level.

'Mr Ffitch, this is obviously a terrible thing to happen, particularly in the week before Christmas. What are your feelings?'

Archer said, 'It is the most appalling tragedy. People… children… gathering for this joyful occasion – the lighting of the Christmas tree… My heart goes out to the family.'

'And you saw what happened?'

'I was returning from the station when we were held up. It had happened only minutes before and there was tremendous chaos. The driver was trapped in his cab, the poor mother was semi conscious, and I don't think anyone realised at that stage that there was a pram underneath.'

Archer's voice faltered. Sam saw his jaw quiver. Sam's fists clenched.

Tammy White said, 'Now, you're one of the supporters of the plan for a Central Somerset relief road which many people are objecting to…'

'Tammy,' Archer held up a restraining hand. 'This is not the time to make political capital. I realise that many local people will be saying that, if such a road existed, commercial traffic of this size would not be passing through Glastonbury. Personally, I would rather not comment at this stage especially as the leader of the campaign against this road is tonight being questioned by police in connection with the incident.'

'This is the second death in just over a month connected with traffic congestion in the town. The other involved a fire, which emergency services couldn't reach because of New Age travellers' vehicles on the approach road to Glastonbury Tor. You've initiated a campaign to limit access to the Tor. Do you think that's a related issue?'

Tammy made a face at the clumsiness of her question, but Archer was straight in there.

'I think what both these tragedies are telling us is that this is a town which has been getting seriously out of control. I think we have to calm down, consider whether we believe Glastonbury has been going in the right direction and then take steps to ensure the town is run for – and by- normal, decent, law-abiding people.'

Meaning, Avalon out, Woolaston out. Sam felt like rushing out there, making a scene, giving them some real footage for their programme.

'Thank you.' Tammy nodded to the cameraman to wind up.

'Got all you wanted?' Archer asked obligingly as the camera light went out.

'Fine. Unless you've got any views about the Bishop's meet the pagans mission on Thursday.'

'Silly man,' Archer said. 'Off the record, of course.'

'Also off the record,' murmured Tammy, 'the word is that not every member of your family a backing your Tor scheme'

Archer smiled. 'Diane'

'Just talk. As yet.'

'Look, strictly off the record,' Archer said awkwardly, 'we've all been terribly worried about Diane, who's in a… particularly delicate state… you remember she was at that awful fire? Plus, she's been working non-stop on this, ah, hippy magazine thing from early in the morning until late at night.'

'Must be a problem for you,' Tammy said ambiguously.

'Oh lord, yes.' Archer's expression was no longer visible. 'She's given us a few headaches in her time, you must have heard about all that, Tammy.'

'Well, you know…'

'God knows, we help her all we can. Try to help her. Ha ha.'

Sam was so blind furious he could have smashed his fist into the wall. The two-faced git. So smooth, so deft. Tossing his sister to the pack like a fox cub.

Mad, restless energy was pumping through Sam's body. No way he could go home, sit there with a can of lager and a sandwich and wait for the slimy turd to come up on the box. No way he could go to any pub in this town tonight and listen to the gloating gossip about how Councillor Crackpot had helped kill an innocent little baby.

Archer and Tammy and the cameraman were moving away. 'Really, very good of you to talk to us at a time like this, Mr Ffitch.'

'Archer, please. Probably be seeing a good deal more of each other in the months to come. Do you and your colleague have time for a drink?'

Sam watched them walk away from the mess of Magdalene Street. Wanted to scream at Archer's broad, dark back, like a hooligan.

No good.

He decided to go alone to Bowermead Hall, climb a few fences, jump a few streams, figure out how to sabotage the forthcoming Pennard Hunt.

The case was very light, as though it contained nothing but discarded bandages and stale hospital air. Joe Powys carried it out to the car.

Outside, she seemed to wilt. Her blue three-quarter-length, belted coat looked too big for her; her gloves too small. She shouldn't be wearing gloves at all, according to the young doctor called George, who'd said to Powys, 'I hope you know what you're taking on, mate.'

Because she couldn't use either of her hands, Powys had signed her out. The little nurse called Karen had said, stone-faced, 'I hope you're proud of yourself,' and George, who had a half-grown beard, said, 'This is very silly, Mrs Carey.'

Trying to sound grown-up. 'You're going to have a lot of pain, you know.'

Juanita had looked raw and frayed. 'For reasons I can't discuss, I'd be in a lot more mental anguish if I didn't get out. Can you get my case, Karen? Do I have a coat?'

'Juanita, does this have something to do with that woman? Sister Dunn?'

'Look, Karen, please, just leave it, all right? Think of the extra bed. Sorry. I really am grateful for everything you've done.'

No longer iridescent, Juanita Carey stood shivering in the hospital carpark, looking at the filthy, dented white Mini. And at the black and white dog with enormous ears and three legs

'Um… Arnold,' Powys said.

Juanita instinctively put out a gloved hand to the dog, then drew back.

'It's OK,' Powys said. 'He likes all women.' Before he noticed that she was afraid of patting the dog because of her hands. That she was afraid to touch anything.

'Stupid ' she said. 'I had the physiotherapy, but told the shrink to sod off. You've got to deal with things yourself, haven't you? Is there somewhere I can get some cigarettes?