Phil Rickman - The Chalice

'All I wanted', said Banks, when they caught him up, 'was for Diane to withdraw my article. Not to initiate a witchhunt. I wish I'd known this when I saw her last night '

'Matthew, when did you see her?'

'Must have been before eight because Safeway was still open. Oh, and then I saw her again. With Jenna Gray.'

Juanita's hands began to throb; the gloves felt too tight.

Powys said. 'Where was this, Mr Banks?'

'From my… my friend's window.'

'You mean Mr Seward? What were they doing? Where did they go? This is very important, Matthew.'

'Well, I think they got out of a car. I wasn't paying much attention. Juanita, do you… do you think I should inform the Bishop?'

'What?' Juanita was making let's-get-out-of-here eye movements at Powys.

'About the Thorn. Should I tell him about the Thorn?'

'Well, his mob owns the Abbey. What do you think, Powys?'

'Whatever,' Powys said. 'Unless I've misunderstood the guy, he'll probably just send one of his minions to the nearest nursery for another one.'

The bloody idiot,' Juanita said when they parted from Banks at the Gatehouse. 'How could she do this?'

The sleet was coming harder, looking thicker and whiter. A Christmassy crust was forming on the sawn up sections of tree behind the barricades around the market cross.

'Banks has this intermittent thing going with an antiquarian bookseller called Godwin Seward. Seward's flat is more or less opposite Wanda Carlisle's house.'

'Where The Cauldron meets,' Powys said. 'But let's not jump to conclusions.'

'You sound like Banks. If I want to jump to conclusions…'

'How confident are you about facing this woman'' He looked at her hands.

'I'm not afraid.'

'I never thought you were. That's not what I meant, just think a slanging match at this stage…'

'All I want is Diane out of there. At this stage.'

'Obviously,' Powys said. 'But what if she doesn't want to come?'

Hello, are you awake?

'I think so. A little.'

Comfortable?

'I think so.'

Let me moisten your lips.

It felt sweet on her lips. Her head felt very heavy. So did her eyelids, and yet they fell softly, like petals.

'It's very dark. I thought it was morning.'

Don't worry. Let me tell you a story. Yes? About a baby? Whose mother died when she was born?

'That's me. It's my story,' Diane whispered. She had to whisper. It was dark and she didn't want to waken the other patients.

That's right. Your mother died when you were born. She was actually dying when you were born.

'She fell downstairs.'

No, my dear, she was pushed downstairs. Everybody knows that.

'I don't understand.'

She did see you. She opened her eyes and saw you before she died. Did you know that?

'No.'

Lie back, now. Your lips are very dry. Drink some of this. Put your head back.

'Which hospital is this? Your uniform…'

Head back now… open your mouth… there. Relax. You're going to be fine.

'Did you know my mother?'

Like you, I didn't meet her until she was dying. I was your age then. Perhaps a little younger. I was an assistant midwife at the Belvedere. There were two of us. We put you in your mother's arms.

'Oh.'

She died holding you.

Diane knew she was crying.

Didn't you know that?

'No, I… it's so beautiful.'

She bleeds. We have put you in your mother's arms as she bleeds. Do you remember? Her arms around you. And she bleeds and bleeds. And her arms grow cold.

The petals of her eyelids floated like waterlilies on pools of tears.

You are lying in her dead arms. We leave you there in those dead a rms. Until other arms encircle you.

Powys let the knocker fall twice, the sound tumbling away into the slender Georgian house.

The barbed tower of St John's soared above the surrounding roofs, almost shockingly close to this discreet but hardly modest pagan temple.

Nobody answered the knock. Powys glanced at Juanita for guidance.

'Try again.' She was tense. 'They've got to be here. Where else would they be?'

'You OK?'

Stupid question. She looked close to fainting, her face taut as parchment. It was a lovely face but not iridescent, not mesmeric. He wanted to take her home, come back alone. Smash a window with a brick, storm the place. Drag Diane out of there. Get them all the hell out of this increasingly unholy town before they, too, like Jim Battle, like Woolly, fell under the malaise.

Powys raised the knocker again. This time, when it fell back on the metal plate, the door glided eerily open. 'Of course,' Juanita said. 'Electronic.'

She followed him into the hallway. There was nobody waiting for them He saw closed doors and…

'Bloody-hell. What's that?'

In a corner, a tangle of dead branches rose sombrely from a black tub. The branches were wound with holly and mistletoe and there was a circle of small stones on the carpet around the tub.

'I suspect it's… what you might call a Solstice tree,' Juanita said.

On the topmost sprig, where the silver yuletide fairy would be expected to perch, a large, white mushroom sprouted flabbily.

'It's obscene.'

'…'s pretty, isn' it? 'S extremely… pretty.'

'God!' Powys found himself clutching Juanita's arm. One of the doors had opened; the shape which hung there was as white and moist as the mushroom. '

'She wore her druidic white robe with gold edging. It hung open, exposing a black satin shift. There was a huge gold tore around the neck, glittery slippers on the feet, a sheen of perspiration on the face.

'Who're you?' She was obviously pissed as a newt.

'Wanda,' Juanita thought rapidly. 'I'll come straight to the point. We're looking for Diane. You remember Diane?'

'Diane Fortune?' the Druid giggled. 'Oh gawd, Diane bloody Fortune.'

He should have recognised her; she was, after all, famous.

'That's right,' Juanita said tensely. 'Diane Fortune.'

The eyes unclouded for a moment. 'You're not Diane Fortune. I know who you are. You're that woman from the bookshop. Anita. Been away, haven't you? Something happened to you, what the hell was it? Come and tell me about it. Is this man with you?' She peered at Powys. 'Do I know you, darling? Think I'd've remembered. 'Stonishingly few shaggable men in this town. Place is full of new men, show 'em your tits and they offer to do the washing-up.'

Dame Wanda cackled.

Juanita adjusted a glove with her teeth. 'Wanda,' she said very deliberately, 'may I present J.M. Powys, the writer… and bastard son of John Cowper Powys. J.M., this is Dame Wanda Carlisle.'

And whispered to Powys, 'Go with it. We have to make her talk. Put your hand up her robe if you have to.'

She was drowning.

In a red tide.

Thick, salty wetness in her mouth. She awoke in terror from a long, long, long sleep, with blood in her mouth.

Breath bubbling through blood.

Blood drying on cold arms.

She said, 'Please… Have I been in an accident?'

What makes you think that?

'I feel… I can't feel…'

No, lie down. You 're all right. You're fine. No, you haven't been in an accident.

'But I… No. I don't remember.'

But I'm sorry to tell you, my dear, I'm very sorry to tell that you were attacked.

'I… I don't remember.. I don't remember what…'

You were – be calm – you were raped, Diane.

'NooOOOOO!'

Diane. Be calm, my dear. Give me your arm.

'D'you know what I thought?' Wanda Carlisle demanded. 'D'you know why I took a short while opening the door? Thought it was little fucking Verity. My goddess, what a bore that woman is. Come in, come in. Solstice felishi… felicitations. Have some mulled Bowermead plonk. Dreadful piss.'