Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

The streetlamps were black and iron, old gaslamps. Maybe a man would come around at night with a pole to light them.

Well, it was conceivable. Much was conceivable here.

Moira saw an old woman in a doorway; she wore a fraying grey cardigan and a beret: she was as much a part of that doorway as the grey lintel stones.

Peat preserves, Matt had said.

Peat preserves.

From Dawber's Book of Bridelow: RELIGION (ii) That Bridelow was a place of pre-Christian worship is beyond doubt. As has already been noted in this book, there are a number of small stone circles dating back to Neolithic times on the moor less than a mile from the village. The original purpose of these monuments remains a matter for conjecture, although there have been suggestions that some are astronomically-oriented.

As for the village itself, the siting of the church on a presumed prehistoric burial mound is not the only evidence of earlier forms of worship. Indeed…

'Steady Pop, just take it ve… ry steady.'

'No, leave me, please, I'll be fine, if I can just…'

'God, I never realised. How could you let it get to this and say nothing? How could you?'

Hans hissed, 'Shut up!' with a savagery that shocked her. He pulled away and ducked into the church porch, and Cathy was left staring at Our Sheila who was grinning vacuously, both thumbs jammed into her gaping vagina.

Cathy turned away and saw why her father had been so abrupt: a large man was bearing down on them, weaving skilfully between the gravestones like a seasoned skier on a slalom.

'Catherine!' he roared. 'How wonderful!'

'Joel,' Cathy said wanly.

'So. You've come all this way for Matt Castle's burial. And you're looking well. You're looking… terrific. Now.' He stepped back, beamed. 'Did I spot your esteemed father…?'

'In here, Joel.'

He was slumped on the oak bench inside the porch looking, Cathy thought, absolutely awful, the pain now permanently chiselled into his forehead. Joel Beard didn't appear to notice.

'Hans, I've been approached by two young chaps with guitars who apparently were among Matt Castle's many proteges in Manchester. They say they'd like to do an appropriate song during the service, a tribute. I didn't see any problem about that, but how would the relatives feel, do you think?'

Cathy's father looked up at his curate and managed to nod.

'I'll… Yes, we must consult Lottie, obviously. Perhaps, Cathy…'

Cathy said, 'Of course. I'll ring her now. And I'll come and tell you, Joel, OK?' Why couldn't the big jerk just clear off?

But, no, he had to stand around in the porch like some sort of ecclesiastical bouncer, smiling in a useful sort of way, his head almost scraping the door frame.

'Can we expect any Press, do you think? Television?'

Cathy said, 'With all respect to the dead, Joel, I don't think Matt Castle was as famous as all that. Folkies, no matter how distinguished, tend to be little known outside what they call Roots Music circles.'

'Ah.' Joel nodded. 'I see.' With those tight blond curls, Cathy thought, he resembled a kind of macho cherub.

'Staying the night, Catherine?'

'Probably. The roads are going to be quite nasty, I gather. Black ice forecast. In fact,' she added hopefully, 'I wouldn't hang around too long after the funeral if I were you.'

'Not a problem,' Joel said. 'I have accommodation.'

'Oh?' Damn. 'Where?'

'Why…' Joel Beard spread his long arms expansively. 'Here, of course.'

Hans sat up on the oak bench, eyes burning. 'Joel, I do wish you wouldn't. It's disused. It's filthy. It's… it's damp.'

'Won't be by tonight. I've asked the good Mr Beckett to supply me with an electric heater.'

'Hell,' Cathy said. 'Not the wine-cellar.' It was a small, square, stone room below the vestry where they stored the communion wine and a few of the church valuables. It was always kept locked.

'Ah, now, Catherine, this is a latter-day misnomer. The records show that it was specifically constructed as emergency overnight accommodation for priests. Did you know, for instance, that in 1835 the snow was so thick that the Bishop himself, on a pastoral visit, was stranded in Bridelow for over two weeks? When he was offered accommodation at the inn he insisted he should remain here because, he said, he might never have a better chance to be as close to God.'

'Sort of thing a bishop would say,' said Cathy.

'Ah, yes, but…'

'And then he'd lock himself in and get quietly pissed on the communion wine.'

Avoiding her father's pain-soaked eyes, but happy to stare blandly into Joel Beard's disapproving ones, Cathy thought, I really don't know why 1 say things like that. It must be you, Joel, God's yobbo; you bring out the sacrilegious in us all. The digital wall-clock in the admin office at the Field Centre said 14.46.

'Er…' Alice murmured casually into the filing cabinet 'as it's Friday and Dr Hall's not likely to be back from that funeral and there's not much happening, I thought I might…'

'No chance,' Chrissie snapped. 'Forget it.'

Alice's head rose ostrich-like from the files. 'Well…!' she said, deeply huffed.

Done it now, Chrissie thought. Well, bollocks, she's had it coming for a long time. 'I'm sorry, Alice,' she said formally, 'but I don't think, for security reasons, that I should be left alone here after dark.'

Alice sniffed. 'Never said that before.'

'All right, I know the college is only a hundred yards away and someone could probably hear me scream, but that's not really the point. There are important papers here and… and petty cash, too.'

She'd caught one of the research students in here when she returned from lunch. The youth had been messing about in one of the cupboards and was unpleasantly cocky when she informed him that he was supposed to have permission.

'Nothing to do with him, of course.' Alice smirked. 'Because you're not silly like that, are you?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Him! In there. The one with no… personal bits.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Chrissie mumbled, head down so that Alice would not see her blush. How stupid she'd been the other night, thinking…

'It was just a thought,' Alice said. She opened the bottom drawer of the smallest filing cabinet and brought out her make-up bag.

… when obviously it couldn't have been… what you thought. You were just more frightened than you cared to admit, going in there on your own…

'Going anywhere tonight?'

… it was just the way the thing was lying, and the projecting… item was just some sort of probe or peg to hold it together…

'What? Sorry, Alice…'

'I said, are you going anywhere tonight?'

'Oh, I thought I'd have a night in,' Chrissie said. 'Watch a bit of telly.'

She didn't move. She was still aching from last night. Roger had taken her to dinner at a small, dark restaurant she'd never noticed before, in Buxton. And then, because his wife was on nights, had accompanied her back to her bungalow.

Roger's eyes had been crinkly – and glittering.

His 'stress', as experienced at the motel, had obviously not been a long-term problem. Gosh, no…

'I wonder,' Alice said, 'if Mrs Hall will be with him at the funeral.'

'I think he likes to keep different areas of his life separate,' Chrissie said carefully. Lottie said, shaking out her black gloves, 'To be quite honest, I wish he was being cremated.'

Dic didn't say anything. He'd been looking uncomfortable since the undertakers had arrived with Matt's coffin. For some reason, they'd turned up a clear hour and a quarter before the funeral.

'I don't like graves,' Lottie said, talking for the sake of talking. 'I don't like everybody standing around a hole in the ground, and you all walk away and they discreetly fill in the earth when you've gone. I'd rather close my eyes in a crematorium and when I open them again, it's vanished. And I don't like all the flowers lying out there until they shrivel up and die too or you take them away, and what do you do with them?'