Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

If all goes well, it'll be The Reverend Cathy soon. And in a few years, all things being equal, Bridelow will have its first woman minister. Oh, aye. You can count on it. You really think the Archdeacon won't give us his full backing in ensuring that the lass is appointed? By 'eck, lad, we've got enough dirt on that bugger to buy his soul off him, and we're not afraid to use it!

Makes you think though, doesn't it. Another giant step for mankind in little Bridelow: probably the first official Anglican clergy person (as we'll have to say) equipped to serve both God and the Goddess.

By 'eck. Could've given Macbeth twenty-five years at least, this bastard, his face white as a skull, white as the skulls that tumbled from the walls in the Earl's Castle so long ago, in another time, another life.

But so goddamn strong. His hands so hard, so tight around Macbeth's throat that Macbeth figured one finger must have been driven, nail first, through the skin, through the flesh and up his windpipe where it had lodged and swollen to the size of a clenched fist.

He fought to breathe, but there was no air left, not anywhere in the world.

Stanage's eyes had receded into his skull as he thrust Macbeth's head down under the water once, twice. Second time he came up, Macbeth's eyes were popping too far out, probably, for eyelids to cover, and he was seeing nothing through the black water. Only his inner eyes saw everything, with a helpless clarity:

… this is how it happens, this is how you drown.

His lungs hard as concrete, his whole body filled up with peat.

… gonna be preserved. For all time. For ever.

'I remember you now,' he heard Stanage saying. 'Scotland, yes? An American. Followed the Cairns creature around like a bloody lamb.'

Stanage must have known the last question, the one Macbeth couldn't speak, the one which even his blacked-out eyes could no longer convey.

He said, almost gently, 'She died.'

And Macbeth stopped resisting, surrendered to the limitless night.

'Bloody unfortunate, really. Didn't want her dead at a crucial stage. But it'll be OK, I suppose; she won't be doing much yet. They're very bewildered, you see, m'boy. At first. It can take about three days – well, weeks, months, years in some cases. Oh, she was doubtless better prepared than most, but however developed they are, it's three days, minimum, 'fore they can do damage.'

Stanage wore a black jacket over a white shirt. The shirt was spotless; suddenly this was the worst thing, a spiritual travesty; Macbeth, dying, felt sick at the injustice of it.

'Caught her unawares, I think, when it came, m'boy. Even though she certainly did have a spirit. Damn well caught me unawares on one occasion, as you saw. Bitch. But the Scottish business, that was really…'

Forcing Macbeth under the dark water again; this time no struggle, get it over…

But Stanage brought him up again.

'… just a small clash of egos, in comparison. Small clash of egos. This, though… this is a splendid shake-up. Past and present, worlds colliding…'

Macbeth's eyes cleared a moment; he saw a big yellow grin.

'… roof coming in, I was expecting it, threw myself under a table. Central beam – oak beam – came down on her. If she'd had all her hair – ironic, really – I wouldn't have seen it happen. Not in quite such exquisite detail… crrrrunch. Like an eggshell.'

Eased his grip a fraction, so that a thin jet of air entered Macbeth's lungs. He used it.

'Motherfucker.'

Stanage laughed. 'What? Lord, no. You ever see my mother?'

Closed up Macbeth's throat.

'Fucked a sister or two. That was fun. For a while. Strengthens the old family ties. Goodnight, m'boy. Don't suppose your passing will cause much of a vibe on the ether.'

Last thing Macbeth saw, with gratitude, was some dark shit on Stanage's shirt.

Must've sprayed it out with 'motherfucker'. From Dawber's Secret Book of Bridelow (unpublished): They haven't found his body and happen they never will.

Peat preserves.

Oh, aye, it does that. But how much of what peat preserves should be preserved?

It's not natural, that's the problem. Dust to dust. All things must pass. All things must rot. For in rotting there's change. That's the positive aspect of physical death. All things must change.

Nothing changes much in the peat; so peat, in my view, works against natural laws. Living on the edge of it, Bridelow folk have always been aware of the borderline between what is natural and what isn't.

This is not whimsy. But all the same, I've had a bellyful, so I've decided, on balance, that I won't die here. Happen my soul'll find its way back, who can say? But, the Lord – and Willie Wagstaff – decided one rainy night that the peat was not for me, so I'm taking the hint and I'll pop me clogs somewhere else, thank you very much.

Also, to be realistic, I think I need what time's left to me to do a bit of thinking, and I reckon Bridelow is too powerful a place right this minute to get things into any sort of perspective.

So.

I'm off to Bournemouth, owd lad.

Don't you dare say owt. And don't anybody panic either; when I say Bournemouth, I mean Bournemouth – I've a cousin runs a little guest house up towards Poole Harbour. Your Cathy says she'll come and see me and bring Milly, and they'll try their hand at a spot of the old Bridelow healing. 'Doctors!' Cathy says. 'What do they know?'

Aye. What do the buggers know?

We'll see. He could taste the peat on her face. Nothing ever tasted as good. He wanted to believe it. He didn't.

Wherever she goes, that young woman, she's bound to be touched with madness.

He thought, If we're both dead maybe I got a chance this side.

'I…'

'Don't talk. Not if it hurts.'

There was light in the sky; this time maybe the real thing: dawn.

All Souls Day.

His ass was wet. Everything was wet.

No.

The Duchess said. Now, who is the white man?

'No!' Macbeth screamed. 'Fuck you. Duchess!'

'She won't take too kindly to that.'

'No,' he said. 'Please. No tricks. No more tricks.' He opened his eyes. Shut them tight again. 'Stanage, you motherf-'

'He's gone. Believe me. He's the other side. He can't get across. Whether he's alive or dead, he can't get across.'

Macbeth opened his eyes. Kept them open. Kept staring and staring.

'Eggshell,' he said. 'Said her head was smashed like an eggshell.'

'Whose head?'

'Yours? When the roof came in?'

'I hope not,' Moira said, putting a hand for the first time to the remains of her hair. She wrinkled her nose. 'But I sure as hell kept bloody still underneath that beam until he'd gone. Can you walk? I mean, can you stand up?'

Macbeth leaned his back against the wall and did some coughing. Coughed his guts up. Felt better. Not a whole lot better, and the way his goddamn heart was beating…

He got his eyes to focus on her.

'Are you real?'

'Do I no' look real?'

Her slashed hair was in spikes. Her face was streaked with black peat and blood. He couldn't tell what she was wearing except for peat.

'Uh… yeah,' he said. 'I guess you look real. 'And I… Did we come through this?'

'Come on,' Moira said. 'We need to move.'

Holding on to each other, Macbeth still feeling like he was dream-walking, they made it back across the forecourt to where the peat came no higher than their thighs.

And then Moira's plastic lamp went out, which seemed to bother her a lot. 'Just hang on, Mungo, thing's coming to pieces.'

'That's OK.' His brain felt like it was muffled. Mossy. 'We don't need a light any more. Sun's here. Someplace.'

Figured that even if she walked away from him at the top of the street, even if she walked away for ever, he had all the light he'd ever need.