Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

She was alone in the Field Centre and there was nobody apparent outside. 'Now, look,' Chrissie said, 'this is not on. This is not bloody on.'

It was going dark out there.

The soft noise came again, like a heavy cushion – an old-fashioned one, with brocade – being tossed on to a sofa.

Bravely, Chrissie slipped off her shoes and moved quietly to the metal door.

Should she check this out? Dare she?

Although she'd never been in there alone, she knew where there was a key.

She put her ear to the door.

There was silence. Shaw's Porsche was coming up the drive, black as a funeral – did it have to be a black one? She could tell by the speed that it wouldn't be stopping at the house but continuing up to the brewery. There was a new link road for the brewery lorries, so they never grumbled past the Hall these days, and no local vehicles, except for Shaw's Mercedes and his Porsche, ever laboured up from Bridelow any more.

So the Hall, sealed off from both the brewery and village, irrelevant now to both, might as well not exist.

'Nor me,' Liz Horridge whispered into the empty, high-ceilinged room with its bland Regency-striped wallpaper and its cold, crystal chandelier. 'I've become irrelevant to everybody.'

Even Shaw – famous mother's boy – had quite casually replaced her in his life. Always away at meetings, in Matlock, Buxton, Sheffield, London even. Or with his girlfriend, the mysterious Therese.

With whom Shaw appeared obsessed. As well he might. The girl was far too beautiful for him – at thirty-one, he was at least ten years older, losing his hair, conspicuously lacking in style despite his costly education. But being seen with Therese (Therese Beaufort, no less) had done wonders for his confidence, and his lifelong stutter had virtually disappeared.

Her delight had turned to a damp dismay. Years of speech therapy, of love and patient coaxing at the fireside. And what was it that finally killed Shaw's stutter?

Sex.

She could weep. Had wept.

And wept and wept.

Last week he'd made her position quite appallingly clear. If I were you, Mother,' he'd said in passing – everything Shaw said to her these days appeared to be in passing – 'If I were you, I'd be off. Out of here. Somewhere warm. The Channel Islands. Malta.'

She clung to the sofa. 'But I don't want a holiday, Shaw.'

'No, not a holiday. I mean, for good. To live. Why not? It's warm, it's civilized. And absolutely everyone would want to come and stay with you.'

'What are you saying?

Shaw had smiled affably and dashed off to his 'meeting'.

Every day since, she'd sat here, by this bay window, and listened to his voice in her head saying so smoothly, without a hint of impediment, Somewhere warm. The Channel Islands, Malta…

And envisaged Therese Beaufort, in some slinky designer costume, drink in hand, languid in this window, gazing out on her property.

Liz Horridge thought she could see old Mrs Wagstaff waddling up the main street of Bridelow towards the church. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe she just needed to see the old girl.

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

Three decades ago, in the crowded parlour full of bottles, two cats on the hearth, Ma Wagstaff cradling Liz's head. Sleeping in the little bedroom. If he comes to you… scream. Don't matter what time.

And now, Perhaps I'll drop in. Wouldn't you like that?

You can't. She'll stop you.

Things change. Barriers weaken.

She looked out at the village, willing it closer. She'd give anything to be able to shatter that damned glass screen before it all went black. Well, look at it this way – there was no way anyone could have got in there without her or Alice knowing about it. Therefore there was no one in there, except for… well, yes.

The spare key was filed in the third filing cabinet. Under K, for key.

The problem was, suppose something was amiss in there? Suppose a rat or something had got in? Suppose something electrical had malfunctioned, threatening the bogman's welfare? And therefore Roger's. And hers.

Tentatively, she unlocked the third filing cabinet and located the key. It was smoky-coloured steel, about four inches long.

Who would Roger blame if something had gone wrong with the bogman, his future? Who was in charge of the office in Roger's absence?

Filed under B was a second and longer key for the double lock to the inner room, the specimen room, the bogman's bedroom.

She just rather wished, as she pushed in the first key, that she hadn't acquiesced so readily to Alice's 'request' to leave early.

Chrissie slipped on her cardigan. It would be cold in there, wouldn't it? Mustn't get the shivers, that would never do.

The metal door opened with a soft vacuum belch.

'Sorry to intrude,' Chrissie said softly.

Behind the door was a small hallway where two new Portacabins had been pushed together. This was where the white coats were kept, and there were a couple of lavatory cubicles and a washbasin. Then there was another, unlocked door leading to an anteroom with a desk. And then the innermost metal door- with a double lock through which minions like her and Alice were not supposed to venture.

So there couldn't possibly be anybody in there.

Anybody else.

She'd been in there a couple of times, but only with Roger and not for very long. So she knew what he looked like, no problem about that.

The second key turned easily, twice, and Chrissie walked into an almost complete but alarmingly pleasant darkness which hummed faintly.

She didn't move. Apart from the hum, it was very, very quiet. Nothing scurried away. She'd left the door open behind her to allow a little light in there, but the velvety darkness absorbed it all within a yard or two of the opening and she had to fumble about for switches.

It was not cold. This was it. Well, of course, this was why it seemed so pleasant. The temperature was controlled to body heat. Bog body heat. He'd apparently been freeze-dried and then maintained in a controlled environment. She rather hoped he was packed away or at least covered up with something.

… do you touch him much?

Chrissie's hand found a switch, and the lights came on, flickering blue laboratory light, white on white tiles.

Mortuary light. Chrissie tensed, breathed in sharply.

But, of course, she was right. There was absolutely nobody here.

Nobody else.

… of course I touch him. He feels like a big leather cricket bag. You should pop in sometime, be an experience for you.

Actually he was rather smaller than the cricket bags Chrissie had seen when her ex-husband used to play.

He was lying on his table in his heat-regulated bubble, looking like somebody who'd spent far too long in a solarium.

Yes, he had a lovely tan.

Still hard to think of him as an actual corpse. He was too old. But still, ancient as he was, when you thought about it, he was probably in a better state of preservation than Chrissie's late grandad was by now.

Chrissie laughed at her stupid self.

She leaned over the bogman, curled up under his plastic bubble.

'All right then, chuck?'

She wondered what he'd sound like if he could reply, what language he spoke. Welsh, probably. She looked around. There were a couple of wires, naked rubber, emerging from the bottom of the container. Pretty primitive. The British Museum boffins would probably have a fit.

But nothing seemed amiss.

'I'll leave you, then,' Chrissie said. She tried to see his face. His nose was squashed, like a boxer's. There were whiskers around his contorted lips, which were half open, revealing the brown stumps of his teeth.

There was a fold in the side of his neck, a flap, like another lip. She thought, God, that's where they cut his throat, poor little devil.