Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

Beaten over the head, garrotted, throat cut and then they chopped his dick off.

Oh, yuck.

Automatically, she glanced down to where his groin ought to be, where the body was bent.

And then Chrissie made a little involuntary noise at the back of her throat.

She glanced back at his face.

His twisted lips… leering at her now.

Her eyes flicked rapidly back to his groin, back to his face, back to his groin. She felt her own lips contorting, and she made the little noise again, a high-pitched strangled yelp, and she began to back off towards the door.

But she couldn't stop looking at him.

… what, no…

… penis… must have chopped it off. Part of the ritual.

Chrissie's hands began to tingle as they scrabbled frantically behind her back for the door-handle.

Get me out of here.

Far from being emasculated, the bogman, under his bubble, had the most enormous erection she had ever seen.

From Dawber's Book of Bridelow:

NATURAL HISTORY

Bridelow Moss is believed to be over four thousand years old, but there has been considerable erosion over the past two centuries and the bog appears to have been affected by pollution from industry twenty or more miles away, with much of the vegetation being destroyed and the surface becoming even darker due to soot-deposits.

Erosion is gradually exposing the hills and valleys submerged under the blanket bog, and many fragments of long-dead trees, commonly known as 'bog oak', have been discovered.

Because of the preservative qualities of peat, wood recovered from the Moss is usually immensely strong and was once considered virtually indestructible…

There was frost on the morning of the day Matt Castle was to be buried, and the heaped soil beside the prepared grave looked like rock.

The grave was in the highest corner of the churchyard, and the Rector could see it from the window of his study. A shovel was set in the soil, a stiff, scarecrow shape against the white morning.

Hans turned back to the room and to the kind of problem he didn't need, today of all days.

'I didn't know who else to come to,' the young farmer said, the empty teacup like a thimble in his massive hands. 'I've got kids.'

'Have you told the police?'

'What's the point?' The fanner wore black jeans and a tan leather jacket. He wasn't a churchgoer but Hans had christened his second child.

'If you've been losing stock…'

'Aye, one ram. But that were months ago. I told t'coppers about that. What could they do? Couldn't stake out the whole moor, could they? Anyway, like they said, it's not a crime any more, witchcraft.'

'Devil worship,' Hans said gently. 'There's a difference. Usually.'

'All bloody same to me. With respect. Like I say, it's not summat they warn you about at agricultural college, Vicar. Sheep scab's one thing, Satanism's summat else.'

'Yes.' Hans didn't know what to do about this. The man wasn't interested in counselling, sympathy, platitudes; he wanted practical help.

'So I've come to you, like.' His name was Sam Davis. This was his first farm. A challenge – seventy acres, and more than half of it basically unfarmable moorland, with marsh and heather, great stone outcrops… and the remains of two prehistoric stone circles half a mile apart.

'Cause it's your job, really, int it?' said Sam Davis, thrusting out his ample jaw. A lad with responsibilities. Two kids, a nervy wife and no neighbours. 'T'Devil. An' all his works, like.'

And there he really had put his finger on it, this lad. If this was not a minister's job, what was? Hans tried to straighten his leg. Some minister he was, took him half an hour to climb into the pulpit.

'Tell me again,' he said. "There was the remains of a fire. In the centre of the circle. Now… on the previous occasion, you actually found blood. And, er, the ram's head, of course. On the stone.'

'Just like they wanted me to find it,' Sam Davis said. 'Only it weren't me as found it, it were t'little girl.' He set his cup down in the hearth, as if afraid he was going to crush it in his anger.

'Yes. Obviously very distressing. For all of you. But you know… It's easy for me to say this, obviously, I'm not living in quite such an exposed…'

'Hang on now, Vicar, I'm not…'

'I know… you're a big lad and well capable of taking care of your family. The actual point I was trying to make is that it's easy to get this kind of thing out of proportion. Quite often it's youngsters. They read books and see films about Satanism, they hear of these ritual places, the stone circles… not in Transylvania or somewhere but right here within twenty miles of Manchester and Sheffield…'

'So you think it's youngsters, then.'

'I don't know. All I'm saying is it's often kids. The kind, if you saw them, you could probably tuck a couple under each arm.'

'Aye, well, like I say, it's not me… so much as the wife. I wanted to wait up there, maybe surprise 'em, like, give 'em a bloody good hiding, but…'

'I think your wife was right,' Hans said. 'Don't get into a vendetta situation if you can help it. It's probably a phase, a fad. They'll go off and find another circle in a week or two, or perhaps they'll simply grow out of it. You've told the police, and apart from the, er, the ram…'

'I've not told coppers about last night. Only you. There's nowt to see. Only ashes. No blood. No bits.'

'How far is the nearest circle from where you live?'

'Half a mile… three-quarters. But it's a tricky climb at night, can't do it wi'out a light, and wi' a light they'd see me comin'. Jeep's no bloody use either, on that ground.'

'So you saw the fire…'

'Bit of a red glow, that were all.'

'And your wife heard…'

'She thought she heard. Like I say, could've bin a sheep… fox… owl… rabbit.'

'But she thought it was…'

'Aye,' said Sam Davis. 'A babby.' 'There's a dragon,' the boy said, and his bottom lip was trembling. 'There is…!'

'Gerroff,' said Willie Wagstaff.

He'd been for his morning paper and didn't plan to bugger about on a day as cold as this, wanted to get home and put a match to his fire.

'You go an' look, Uncle Willie.'

This was Benjie, nearly eight, Willie's youngest sister Sally's lad. Tough little bugger as a rule. He had The Chief with him, an Alsatian, Benjie's minder.

Willie folded up his paper, stuck it under his arm. 'What you on about at all?'

'…'s a dragon, Uncle Willie…'s 'orrible…'

He was about to cry. Pale too. Cheeks ought to be glowing on a morning like this. Especially with having the day off school, to go to Matt's funeral.

Then again, could be that was at the bottom of this. Death, funerals, everybody talking hushed, a big hole being dug in the churchyard for the feller he called Uncle Matt. And Benjie trying to understand it all, seeing this great big dragon.

'All right,' Willie said, pretending he hadn't noticed the lad was upset. 'I'll buy it. Where's this dragon?'

'On t'Moss.'

'Oh, aye. And what were you doin' on t'Moss on your own then, eh?'

'I weren't on me own, Uncle Willie. T'Chief were wi' me. An' 'e dint like it neither.'

The big dog flopped his mouth open, stuck his tongue out and looked inscrutable.

'Gerroff,' said Willie. 'That dog's scared of nowt. All right, lead the way. But if you're havin' me on, you little Arab, I'll…' When the farmer had gone, Catherine came in with a mid-morning mug of tea for Hans, and he asked her, 'You hear any of that?'

'Bits.' His daughter sat on the piano stool. She was wearing a plain black jumper and baggy, striped trousers with turn-ups. 'Got the gist. What are you going to do about it, Pop?'

'Well,' said Hans, 'I don't really know. Obviously I don't like the sound of this baby business. And I'm not one to generalize about hysterical women. But still, I think if a child had gone missing virtually anywhere in the country we'd have heard about it, don't you?'