Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'I know… I'll feel so much better afterwards.'

'Shut up. Join hands. In a circle. Around the body.' It was not a rape; she was a whore, and a heathen whore. When he plunged into her, he found her as moist as black peat and packed just as tightly around him.

Light into darkness.

Not to be enjoyed. It was necessary.

'Whore,' he gasped with every breath. 'Whore… whore… whore…'

Lifting his head to seek out her eyes, looking for a reaction, searching for some pain in them.

'Whore.' Saw her mouth stretched into a static rictus of agony.

'Wh…' Tighter still around him.

And dry.

'… ore…'

Dry as stone.

No.

Too late; he thrust again. Into stone.

The pain was blinding. Immeasurable. The pain was a white-hot wire driven through the tip of his penis and up through his pelvis into his spine.

His back arched, his breath set solid in his throat. And he found her eyes.

Little grey pebbles. And her mouth, stretched and twisted not in agony but ancient derision, a forever grin. '…in the midst of death we are alive..

'… WEAREALIVE!'

('Go on… two handfuls… stop… not on his face…shine the light… there…')

'Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not sleep, but we shall be changed. In a moment. In the twinkling of an eye. At the last trump -for the trumpet shall sound. And the dead shall be raised.'

'… AND THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED!'

('OK, now fill in the grave… quickly, quickly, quickly…')

'Dust to dust, to ashes, to earth.

'DUST TO ASHES TO EARTH!'

('Now stamp it down, all of you. Together…')

'And the dead shall be raised corrupted… and we shall be changed.'

'… WE SHALL BE CHANGED.'

('Douse the lights. Douse them!')

Another hard, white day, and she didn't like the look of it. It had no expression; there was a threat here most folk wouldn't see.

Not good weather, not bad weather. Nowt wrong with bad weather; you couldn't very well live in Bridelow if you couldn't put up wi' spot or two of rain every other day or a bit of wind to make your fire smoke and your eyes water. Or blizzards. Or thunder and lightning.

But this was no weather. Just cold air at night and a threat.

Everything black or white. Black night with white stars. White day with black trees, black moor, black moss.

Cold and still. Round about this time of year there should be some colour and movement in the sky, even if it was only clouds in dirty shades of yellow chasing each other round the chimney pots.

Shades. There should be shades.

Ma Wagstaff stood in her back kitchen, hands on woollen-skirted hips.

She was vexed with them cats too. She'd washed their bowl, first thing, and doled out a helping of the very latest variety of gourmet cat food Willie'd brought her from that posh supermarket in Buxton – shrimp and mussel in oyster sauce. And the fickle little devils had sat there and stared at it, then stared at her. 'Well, that's it,' Ma growled. 'If you want owt else you can gerout and hunt for it.'

But the cats didn't want to go out. They mooched around, all moody, ignoring each other, looking up at Ma as if was her fault.

Bad air.

As Ma unbent, the cat food can in one hand, a fork in the other, her back suddenly creaked and then she couldn't stand up for the pain that started sawing down her spine like a bread knife.

Then the front door went, half a knock, somebody who couldn't reach the knocker. As Ma hobbled through the living room, the white light seemed to be laughing heartlessly at her, filling the front window and slashing at the jars and bottles.

The door was jammed and opened with a shudder that continued all the way up Ma's spine to the base of her skull.

'Now then,' Ma said.

On the doorstep was her youngest grandson with that big dog of his. Always went for a walk together before school.

Benjie said nowt, grinned up at her, gap-toothed, something clutched in one hand.

'Well, well,' said Ma, smiling through the agony. 'Where'd you find that?'

'Chief found it,' said Benjie proudly. 'Jus' this mornin', up by t'moor.'

'Ta.' Ma took the bottle and fetched the child in for a chocolate biscuit from the tin. The bottle wasn't broken, but the cork was half out and the glass was misted. The bit of red thread that hung outside for the spirit to grasp was soaked through and stuck to the bottle.

"Ey!' Benjie said suddenly. 'Guess what.'

'I'm too owd for guessin' games, lad.'

'Bogman's bin took!'

'Eh?'

'It were on radio. Bogman's bin stole.'

'Oh,' said Ma, vaguely, 'has he?'

The child looked disappointed. 'Are you not surprised?

'Oh, I am,' Ma said. 'I'm right flabbergasted. Look, just get that stool and climb up theer and fetch us biscuit tin. Me owd back's play in' up a bit.'

Ma held up the bottle to the cruel light. Useless.

'Will it still work?' asked Benjie innocently, arms full of wooden stool. Ma had to smile; what did he know about witch-bottles?

'Would it ever've worked, lad?' She shook her head ruefully, wondering if she'd be able to stand up straight before teatime. 'That's what I keep askin' meself.'

Fine lot of use she was. She ought to be out there, finding out exactly what they were up against – even if it killed her – before two thousand and more years of care and watchfulness came to ruin.

Oh, she could feel it… mornings like this, everything still and exposed.

She looked down at young Benjie, chomping on his chocolate biscuit. It will kill me, she thought. I'm old and feeble and me back's giving way. I've let things slip all these years, pottered about the place curing sick babbies and cows, and not seeing the danger. And now there's only me with the strength inside. But I'm too old and buggered to go out and find um.

It'll come to me, though, one night. Ma thought, with uncustomary dread. When it's good and ready.

But will I be? Joel Beard awoke screaming and sweating, coughing and choking on the paraffin air.

He sat on the edge of the camp bed, with the duvet wrapped around him, moaning and rocking backwards and forwards in the darkness for several minutes before his fingers were sufficiently steady to find the candle on its tray and the matches.

He lit the candle and, almost immediately, it went out. He lit it again and it flared briefly, with a curious shower of sparks, before the wick snapped, carrying the flame to the metal tray, where it lasted just long enough for Joel to grab his cross, his clothes and his boots and make it to the door.

On his way through the tunnel to the steps, he knocked over the paraffin heater, with a clatter and crash of tin and glass, and didn't stop to set it upright.

At the top of the steps he was almost dazzled by the white dawn, awakening the kneeling saints and prophets, the angelic hosts and the jewel-coloured Christs in the windows.

Deliverance.

He dressed in the vestry, where he found a mildewed cassock and put that on over his vest and underpants. But he did not feel fully dressed until his cross was heavy against his chest.

The air in the nave felt half-frozen; he could smell upon it the bitter stench of autumn, raw decay. But no paraffin. And the cold was negligible compared with the atmosphere in last night's dungeon.

He unbolted the church door, stood at the entrance to the porch breathing in the early morning air – seven o'clockish, couldn't be certain, left his watch in the dungeon, wasn't going back for it – and he did not look up, as he said, 'You're finished, you bitch.'

And then went quickly down, between the graves, to the gardener's shed, up against the perimeter wall.

The shed was locked, a padlock through the hasp. He had no key. He shook the door irritably and glared in through the shed's cobwebbed window. He could see what he wanted, a gleaming edge of the aluminium window-cleaning ladder, on its side, stretching the length of the shed. He also saw in the window the reflection of a face that was not his own.