Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

The trees were higher now, but not yet high enough to obscure the soaring stone walls of the brewery, four storeys high, an early Victorian industrial castle, as proud and firm in its setting as St Bride's Church.

She hated it now.

You could not see the brewery from the drawing room. But with all the trees nearly bare again, Eliza Horridge, from her window seat, could see the village in detail. She supposed she'd always preferred autumn and winter for this very reason: it brought her closer to Bridelow.

The sad irony of this made her ache. On the night the redundancies had been announced, she'd gone – rather bravely, she thought – down to the post office to buy some stamps which she didn't need. She'd just had to get it over, face the hostility.

Except there hadn't been any. Nobody had screamed Judas at her, nobody had ignored her or been short with her.

But nobody had said a word about the jobs either. They didn't blame her personally. But Liz Horridge blamed herself and since that night had never been back into Bridelow.

Self-imposed exile in this warm and shabby-luxurious house with its pictures and memories of Arthur Horridge.

Self imposed; could go out whenever she wanted. Couldn't she?

She snatched up the phone on its second ring to wrench her mind from what it couldn't cope with.

'Yes?' The number was ex-directory. There were too people down there with whom she could no longer bear to speak.

'Yes? Hello? Is that you, Shaw?'

Something told her she was in for a shock, and her eyes clutched at the view of the village for support, following the steep cobbled street past the pub, past the post office, past the line of tiny stone cottages to the churchyard.

'Liiiiz…' Mellifluously stretching the word, as he used to, into an embrace. 'Super!' Shattering her.

'Thought I saw you last week, m'girl, in Buxton. Was in a wine bar. Thought you came up the street. No?'

'Couldn't have been,' she scraped out. 'Never go…'

'Thought you sensed me… turned your head so sharply.'

'… to Buxton.' Her voice faded.

'And looked at the window of the wine bar, with a sort of sadness in your eyes. Couldn't see me, of course.'

She stared down at the village, but it was like watching a documentary on the television. Or a soap opera, because she could identify most of the people and could map out the paths of their lives from their movements, between the post office, the pub and the church.

'… perhaps it wasn't you, after all,' he said.

She could even hear their voices when the wind was in the right direction. And yes, it was a lot like the television – a thick glass screen between them, and she was very much alone, and the screen was growing darker.

'Or perhaps it was you as you used to be. Those chestnut curls of yore.'

Her hand went automatically to her hair, as coarse and dry now as the moorland grasses. She grabbed a handful of it to stop the hand shaking.

'One wonders,' he mused. 'Your hair grey now, Liz? Put on weight or angular and gaunt? I'd so much like to see.'

'What do you want?' Liz croaked.

'If you were with me, I suppose you'd keep in trim, dye your hair, have your skin surgically stretched. Probably wouldn't work, but you'd try. If you were with me.'

'How dare you?' Stung at last into anger. 'Where did you get this number?'

He laughed.

She felt alone and cold, terribly exposed, almost ill with it. 'What are you trying to do?'

He said, 'How's dear old Ma these days? Is she well?'

She said nothing.

'Perhaps you don't see her. Or any of them. The word is you've become something of a recluse. All alone in your rotting mansion.'

'What nonsense,' she said breathlessly.

'Also, one hears the Mothers' Union isn't as well supported as it was. Sad, secular times, Liz. What's it all coming to? Silly old bats, eh?'

'They had your measure,' Liz said, with a spurt of spirit. 'They saw you off.'

'Oh, long time ago. Things change. Barriers weaken, old sweetheart, I've been thinking, why don't we meet up?'

'Certainly not!'

'Love to be able to come to Buxton, wouldn't you? Love to be smart and sprightly and well-dressed. Give anything to have those chestnut curls back. Perhaps it was you after all, sitting in your emotional prison and day-dreaming of Buxton. Perhaps that's what I saw. Perhaps you projected yourself. Ever try that, Liz? Should do. Could be a way out – send the spirit, give the body the bottle to go for it. Perhaps I'll drop in on you. Like that, would you?'

'You can't! They won't let you!'

'Times change, m'girl, times change.'

'What do you mean?'

'Will you tell dearest Ma I called?'

She said nothing.

'Of course you won't. Don't see her any more, do you? You don't see any of them. Do you… Liiiiiiz?'

'Leave me…!'

She crashed the phone down, and she and the phone sat and trembled.

'Alone,' she said, and began to weep.

'I thought perhaps I might leave early,' Alice said. 'I've got a check-up at the dentist's in Buxton at six and I've got some stuff to pick up at Boots, and I don't like the look of the weather. Is that all right?'

'Suppose so,' Chrissie said, bending over the filing cabinet. Roger had arrived mid-morning, seeming preoccupied, and had not even mentioned their lunch-date, just sloped off to some appointment. Now Chrissie would have to check everything, switch off the lights and lock up.

'You don't mind being alone with…' Alice giggled. '… him?'

'Couldn't be safer,' Chrissie said. 'Rog… Dr Hall was telling me he hasn't got one.'

'Hasn't he?' Alice was putting her stuff away in her calfskin sandbag. She flicked a card across the desk at Chrissie. 'See, there's my appointment.'

'What for?'

'The dentist's. Just to show you I'm not making it up.'

'I never thought you were making it up, Alice, OK?'

'Why hasn't he got one?' asked Alice without much interest. She was a good ten years older than Chrissie, had grown-up kids and a big house. Didn't need the job but Chrissie supposed that in Alice's circle it was nice to say you worked for the University, even if it was only as a number two secretary in an overgrown Portacabin outside Congleton.

Chrissie said, 'Part of the ritual, apparently, when he was sacrificed.'

'I suppose that would be quite a sacrifice for a man,' said Alice, pretending to shudder.

'Actually, it's possible they just cut it off after he was dead.'

'I see.' Alice shrugged into her sheepskin coat. Hard luck, Chrissie thought. Now you'll never know how big they were in pre-Christian times.

Alice took her car keys out of her bag, stuck the bag under an arm. 'So it's all right then, if I leave now?'

'Yes,' Chrissie said. Yes, yes, yes! she screamed to herself.

But when Alice had gone, she decided it wasn't all right. Bloody fat-arsed cow got away with too much. Spends most of the day experimenting with this disgusting sea-green nail varnish, then pisses off to sprawl on the sofa and moan to her husband about how overworked she is.

Chrissie picked up the dentist's appointment card which Alice had left behind. It looked authentic enough, if you didn't happen to know Alice's eldest daughter was a dental receptionist.

It was 4.30. A dim grey afternoon, with all the lights on. She couldn't herself go in case somebody (Roger) rang, or one of the research students came in to raid the files.

She stared across the office at a double-locked metal door.

Just me and you, chum, and you've got no dick.' Chrissie laughed.

Under the laughter, there was a soft noise from behind the metal door.

Chrissie breathed in hard. 'Who's that?'

There was silence.

Yes, that was it – just a soft noise. Not a thump, not a clang. She looked around and over her shoulder. The room had three desks, seven filing cabinets and two big metal-framed bookcases. It was garishly lit by fluorescent tubes and the windows had Venetian blinds. Between the blinds she could see the deserted college playing-fields and, beyond, the tops of container-lorries on the motorway.