Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

Cathy looked at Moira's cigarettes on the chair-arm. 'How long's it take to learn to smoke?' She waved an exasperated hand. 'Forget it. Oh, this place is no fun any more. Atmosphere's not the same. People not as content. I've been home twice since the summer and it's struck me right away. Maybe that's the same all over Britain, with this Government and everything. But Bridelow was always…'

'Protected?'

'Yeah. And now it's not. I mean, somebody like Joel would never have got away with what he's done – ripping down that kid's cross. And Our Sheila… I mean, we've had these religious firebrands before, maybe even my old man was a bit that way when he first arrived, but… something calms them down. Ma Wagstaff used to say it was in the air. Shades. Pastel shades. You know what I mean?'

The old Celtic air,' Moira said. 'Everything misty and nebulous. No extremes. Everything blending in. You can sense it on some of the Scottish islands. Scotch mist. Parts of Ireland too. Maybe it was preserved here, like the bogman, in the peat.'

Cathy said, 'You're not going to rest until I tell you, are you?'

'And I do need to get to bed, Cathy. I feel terrible.'

Cathy sighed. 'OK. They stole the bogman back. They buried him in Matt Castle's grave before Matt went in.'

'Jesus,' said Moira. 'Who?'

'We're not supposed to know. But… everybody, I suppose. They're all in it. They've done it before. A few bits of bodies have turned up in the Moss over the years, and that's what they do with them. Save them up until somebody dies. And curiously, somebody always does – even if it's only an arm or a foot turns up – somebody conveniently snuffs it so the bits can have a Christian burial. Well… inasmuch as anything round here is one hundred per cent Christian. But this body… well, it's the first time there's been a whole one.'

'And the council discovered it, didn't they? So no way they could keep this one to themselves.'

'And then the scientific tests, revealing that this had been a very special sacrifice.'

'The triple death.'

'Mmm.'

'So Ma Wagstaff and Milly Gill and co. and… Willie? Is Willie in this?'

'Willie used to be a carpenter.'

'He did too.'

'And he's good with doors and locks. And then there's that mate of his, the other chap in the band…'

'Eric.'

'He works for a security firm now, in Manchester. The same firm, as it happens, that was hired to keep an eye on the Field Centre.'

'Bloody hell.' Moira slumped back in her chair, it's beyond belief. It's like one of those old films, where everybody's conspiring. Whisky Galore or something. So the body's back home, in Bridelow soil.'

'It didn't go completely right. Milly says that right at the last minute Ma started getting funny feelings about it going in Matt Castle's grave.'

'I'm no' surprised.'

You've got to purify yourself. Of course.

'So she made up this witch bottle to go in Matt's coffin. It's got rowan berries in it, and red cotton and… the person making up the bottle has to pee in it.'

Moira said, 'Rowan tree, red thread / Holds the witches all in dread.'

'What?'

'It's a song,' Moira said.

'Well, it's the wrong way round. Mostly it was the witches themselves who use the bottles, to keep bad spirits at bay. The spirits are supposed to go after the red berries or something and get entangled in the thread. It's all symbolic.'

'So she wanted to save Man from evil spirits?'

Or maybe she wanted to save the bogman from something in Matt.

'I don't know,' Cathy said. 'I'm the Rector's daughter. I'm not supposed to know anything. We turn a blind eye.'

'But the bottle never got in the coffin, did it?'

'I don't know.'

'The supposed contaminant remains.'

'I don't know, Moira.' He stood at the edge of the grave looking down. Forcing himself to look down.

Sometimes when he prayed he thought he heard a voice, and the voice said. You have a task, Joel. You must… not… turn… away.

Sometimes the voice called him Mr Beard, like the voice on the telephone, a calm, knowing voice, obviously someone inside the village disgusted by what went on here.

One day, Joel hoped, he would meet his informant. When he encountered people in the street or in the Post Office, he would look into their eyes for a sign. But the women would smile kindly at him and the men would mumble something laconic, like 'All right, then, lad?' and continue on their way.

He stepped back in distaste as a shovelful of grave-soil was heaved out of the hole and over his shoes. Surely they had to be six feet down by now. He wondered whether, if they kept on digging, they would reach peat – the Moss slowly sliding in, underneath the village.

Insidious.

He looked over his shoulder and up, above the heads and umbrellas of the silent circle of watchers, at the frosty disc of the church clock, the Beacon of the Moss.

The false light. The devil's moon.

Perhaps that had to go too, like the pagan well and the cross and the monstrosity above the church door, before the village could be cleansed.

'More light, please.'

One of the policemen in the grave.

'You there yet?' The Inspector, Ashton. 'Swing that light 'round a bit. Ken, let's have a look.'

'Deeper than we expected, sir. Maybe it's sunk.'

'That likely, Mr Beckett?' The light swept across the verger's face.

'Aye. Happen that's what… happened.' Alfred Beckett's voice like crushed eggshell.

Ashton said, 'Right, let's have this one out, see what's underneath.' Ernie Dawber had returned after dark from his weekly mission to the supermarket in Macclesfield, bringing back with him a copy of the Manchester Evening News, a paper that rarely made it Across the Moss until the following day.

The front-page lead headline said.

MASSIVE HUNT FOR BOGMAN

A major police hunt was underway today for the Bridelow bog body – snatched in a daring raid on a university lab. And a prominent archaeological trust has offered a?5000 reward for information leading to the safe recovery of The Man in the Moss.

'We are taking this very seriously indeed,' said…

'Oh, dear me,' Ernie Dawber said to himself, the paper spread out on the table where he was finishing his tea – toasted Lancashire cheese. 'What a tangled web, eh?'

Trying to keep his mind off what the doctor'd had to say. Well, what right had he to complain about that? Least he'd got a doctor of the old school who didn't bugger about – while there's life there's hope, medical science moving ahead at a tremendous rate; none of that old nonsense, thank the Lord.

Might just drop in and see Ma Wagstaff about it. Nowt lost in that, is there?

The doorbell rang.

Ernie didn't rush. He folded up the Manchester Evening News very neatly, preserving its crease. If it was Dr Hall, he didn't know what he'd say. As an historian he was glad the experts had got their hands on this particular body, been able, with their modern scientific tests, to clarify a few points. But equally Ma Wagstaff, with her instincts and her natural wisdom, had been right about putting the thing back.

Thank God, he thought, pulling at his front door, for instinct. All too aware that this was not something he himself possessed. Bit of psychological insight perhaps, now and then, but that wasn't the same thing.

So it had to be done, putting the bogman back in Bridelow earth. Commitment fulfilled.

All's well that ends well.

Except it hasn't, Ernie thought, getting the door open. It hasn't ended and it's not well. Lord knows why.

'By 'eck,' he said, surprised. 'And to what do I owe this honour?'

On his doorstep, in the rain, stood four women in dark clothing – old-fashioned, ankle-length, navy duffle coats with the hoods up or dark woollen shawls over their heads. A posse from the Bridelow Mothers' Union, in full ritual dress. Could be quite disconcerting when you saw them trooping across the churchyard against a wintry sunset. But always a bit, well, comical, at close range.