Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Daft buggers.' Ernie squinted through the rain.

Macbeth was watching a haze of light rising from the tree, as if someone had set fire to it. But the flames, instead of eating the wood, had risen through it, like one of those phoney log- effect gasfires.

The light had risen above the tree and its boughs looked to be clawing at it, as though to prevent it escaping, and the Moss itself seemed to rise in protest. Macbeth felt a thickening tension in his gut.

Mouth dry, he watched the haze of light spread out like a curtain and then hover over the Moss, maybe six or ten feet from its surface.

'This is… unearthly.'

The light was drifting towards the edge of the Moss, towards the hulk of a building near the peat's edge.

'All things are natural,' Ernie Dawber said with a tight-jawed determination. 'If some are… beyond our understanding.'

'What's that place?' Thought he was hearing distant screams.

'Back of the pub,' Willie said. 'That's th'owd barn back of the pub, where we used to rehearse wi' Matt.'

'The light's over it. The light's hanging over the roof.'

Ernie Dawber said, 'I don't think I can see it any more.' Moira Cairns put down the guitar and turned towards the door.

Two of them.

The mosslight on the two tombstone speaker cabinets either side of the door.

Both of them standing in the entrance with the cabinets either side of them.

John Peveril Stanage and the girl, Therese.

'So kill me,' Moira said simply.

'You know we can't,' Therese said. 'Not until you give him back.'

Moira reached to the table and turned the lamp on to them. Not much energy left in it now but enough to show her neither of these people was wet. Had they been inside the inn all the time? Had they been expecting her? Or was this merely the nearest vantage point for the Moss?

'Who are those people out on the Moss, then?' Moira asked. 'With the devil tree.'

'Do you know, m'dear,' he said, 'I can't actually recall any of their names.'

She remembered him so well now. The dapper figure, the white hair rushing back from his grey-freckled forehead like breakers on an outgoing tide. The cherub's lips. A man as white as the bones tumbling from the walls.

'I can't believe,' she said, 'all the trouble you've gone to. Getting to know Matt inside out, all his little compulsions. What are we looking at here? Years?'

'We don't have time for a discussion,' Stanage said. 'We want you to release him. You can't hold him for much longer, you simply don't have the energy.'

Moira said, 'Where's the Man? Made a big mistake, there, you know, John. You stole him away, you took responsibility for him. You took responsibility for the vacuum. The Moss'll no' wear that. Was an old guy in the village tonight, he'd figured out the way to square things with the Moss was another sacrifice. Maybe that was right.'

'It was absolutely right, m'dear,' Stanage said with a sudden smile. 'Saw to that on the very stroke, I believe, of midnight. When the Beacon of the Moss was extinguished, so was someone's life. A young, fit, active life… a jolly good replacement for the Man, if I say so myself.'

'Who?' Moira felt her face-muscles tightening, also her stomach.

'Why… just like the original sacrifice… a priest. The Triple Death – a blow, a slash – and a fall. And then gathered up and offered to the spirit of the Moss – our spirit. All square, m'dear. All square.'

'The Reverend Joel Beard? You killed the Reverend Joel Beard?'

'And consigned him to the Moss. Well, hell, sweetheart, don't sound so appalled. No friend of yours, was he? He struck you, word has it.'

'I suspect he mistook me for your friend,' Moira said. She let her gaze settle on Therese. Worryingly young. Black hair, perhaps dyed, sullen mouth. And the cloak. Her cloak.

'This is the wee slag, then, is it, John? Doesny look a lot like me. Did she wear a wig before she got hold of the real thing?'

'She's angry enough, Moira,' Stanage said less cordially. 'Don't make it worse.'

'She's angry? With me? Aw, Jesus, the poor wee thing, ma heart goes out. She's no' satisfied with ma hair now? Would she like to cut off ma leg? Would that make her happy, you think, John?'

Therese hissed and uncoiled like a snake and took a step towards Moira. Stanage laid a cautionary hand on her arm. Emerging from his dark sleeve the hand looked as white as an evening glove.

'This is futile,' Stanage said abruptly. 'Leave us, Tess. Would you mind awfully?'

'I can take her,' Therese spat. 'She's old. Her sexuality's waning. She can't hold him. I can take him from her. Watch me.'

'Tess, darling, no one is questioning your lubricious charms, but I suspect this is not about sex. Leave us.' Steel thread in his voice. 'Please?'

Therese gathered up her cloak and left without another word. Stanage closed the door and barred it. Moira instinctively moved into a corner of the ruptured settee, clutching the electric lamp to her breast.

'Right. Bitch.' Obviously a man who could shed his charm like an overcoat that'd become too heavy. She became aware of a scar about an inch long under his right eye, a souvenir from Scotland.

And he was aware she was looking at it.

The barn seemed to shift on its foundations, and there was a crunch and a series of flat bangs. She didn't let her eyes leave him; she knew what it was: books falling over as a shelf collapsed. The shelves were all makeshift, held up by bricks.

Neither of them had moved.

'Don't make me angry,' Stanage said.

'We seem to be a little short of bones in here,' Moira said. 'That affect your performance, does it? Books just don't respond so effectively. Maybe you just don't have that same affinity. I borrowed one of yours from ma wee nephew one time. Thought it was really crap, John. Lacked authenticity, you know?'

John Peveril Stanage was tightening up inside, she could tell that, could feel the contractions in the air. Mammy, help me. Mammy, wherever you are, I'm in really heavy shit here, you know?

'You want me to sing to you, John? Would that help your concentration?'

She began to sing, very softly.

…for the night is growing older and you feel it at your shoulder…

She could feel Matt Castle at her shoulder, a wedge of cold energy.

And more.

'Shut up,' Stanage said.

Could smell the peat in him now.

Pulling the blue plastic lamp between her breasts until it hurt. Feeling the shadow behind her, huge and dense and pungent with black peat. Don't turn around. Don't look at him.

But John Peveril Stanage was looking. Stanage was transfixed.

All at once there was complete quiet. The rain,' Macbeth said. 'The rain stopped.'

Damn futile observation; everybody here could tell the rain had stopped.

He found he was in the middle of a crowd under the smiling snatch people called Our Sheila; been so busy watching the weird lights on the Moss he hadn't noticed the Mothers returning. Without their stones.

One of them standing next to him, shaking out her hair. 'Where's Moira?' It was Milly.

'She's not with you?' Cold panic grabbed his gut. 'You're telling me you haven't seen her?'

'We couldn't wait for her. We had thirteen stones to put down. Cathy's had to take two.' Milly glanced around. 'Cathy not back yet?'

'Listen…' Macbeth grabbed her shoulders. 'Moira told Dic she'd gone to… meet the Man. I figured that meant she was part of your operation.'

Milly shook her head. 'I'd be terrified to meet the Man. I don't know, Mungo. I really don't know what she meant. I'm sorry.'

'You all right?' Willie demanded.

'Tired. Exhausted. We've done all we can. Willie. That's the most I can say. I doubt it'll be enough.'

'Oh.' Mr Dawber, looking out across the Moss. 'Oh, good God.'