Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'GOD IS HERE,' he blasted. 'GOD IS HERE IN BRIDELOW. YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO A SPECIAL SERVICE AT EIGHT P.M. TO REDEDICATE THE CHURCH IN HIS NAME.'

Milly felt a terrible trepidation. Obviously none of the villagers would turn up. But what effect was it going to have, all these no doubt well-meaning but dangerously misguided people stirring up the atmosphere?

THIS IS AN OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT. BRIDELOW HAS TONIGHT BEEN FORMALLY REPOSSESSED BY THE LORD.'

'Heathens out!' someone yelled.

'Heathens out!'

From Dawber's Secret Book of Bridelow (unpublished):

MEN

What part have men really played in the history of Bridelow?

Not perhaps, if we are honest, a distinguished one, except for our late friend the Man in the Moss, who – we are told – gave his life for our community.

We have, I suppose, dealt with the more mundane elements: the business matters, employment, the sustenance of a measure of wealth – enough, anyway, to keep our heads above the Moss.

And we – that is, male members of the Dawber family – have acted as local chroniclers. Albeit discreet ones, for I am sure that if this present manuscript were ever to see the light of day our so-far hereditary function as the compilers of the dull but worthy Book of Bridelow would cease immediately to be a tolerated local tradition.

But as for the important things in life (and death), well, all that traditionally is the preserve of the women, and as far as most of the men have been concerned they are welcome to it. We are, in the modern parlance, a Goddess-orientated society, although the role of the Christian deity is more than politely acknowledged. (Thank You, Mother – and You too, Sir, is one of our phrases.)

However, men being men, there have been occasional attempts to disrupt the arrangement. And when a man is possessed of abilities beyond the normal and a craving for more, then, I am afraid, the repercussions may be tragic and long-lasting.

Macbeth pumped money into the coinbox, all the loose change he had.

A young female voice said, 'This is… hang on, I can't make it out… two four oh six, I think. I don't live here, I've just picked up the phone.'

Macbeth could hear a lot of people talking excitedly in the background. He said, 'Can I, uh, speak with Moira? Moira Cairns?'

'This is Bridelow Rectory.'

'Sure. I need to speak with Moira. Can you get her to the phone?'

'I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure we haven't got a Moira. We've got a Maureen. Would you like to speak to her?'

The glass of the phone booth was streaked with rain. It was going dark; all he could see were the lights of a fast-food joint over the road. Didn't even know which town this was. He'd just kept stopping at phones, ringing this number. First time anyone had answered.

The young female voice asked, 'Are you still there?'

'Yeah, yeah, I'm still here. Listen, ask around, willya? Moira Cairns, I… Chrissake, she has to be there.'

There was a long pause, then, 'I'm sorry,' the female voice said coldly. 'Your speech is profane. Goodbye.'

And hung up on him.

Hung up the fucking phone, just like that!

Macbeth raced out of the booth and across the street, bought a burger with a ten-pound note and got plenty of change. The burger was disgusting; after two bites he tossed it into a waste bin and took his change back to feed the phone.

He wasn't about to waste this number, all the time it had taken to obtain it. The call to the Earl, the waiting around for Malcolm Kaufmann, the blackmail.

'I called the Earl this morning, Malcolm. You remember the Earl? The man who asked if this Rory McBain, who was booked to entertain his guests, could perhaps be replaced by Moira Cairns? This coming back to you, Malcolm? The way the Earl was prepared to, uh, oil the wheels?'

This last item was a lucky guess, the Earl having denied any suggestion of making it worth Kaufmann's while.

None the less, it had gone in like a harpoon, spearing Malcolm to the back of his executive swivel chair.

'See, the longer it takes for me to find her, Malcolm, the more likely it seems I'm gonna have to reveal to Moira the extent of your co-operation in this, uh, small deception.'

At which Malcolm had pursed his lips and written upon his telephone memo pad a phone number. All he had. He swore it. Moira had phoned yesterday, left this emergency-only contact number, along with a message: no gigs until further notice.

'She done this kind of thing before?'

'All too often, Mr Macbeth.' On top of the coinbox, Macbeth had three pounds and a couple of fifty-pence coins. He dialled again.

This time it was a different voice, male.

Macbeth said, 'Who's that?'

'This is Chris.'

'Chris,' Macbeth said. 'Right. Listen, Chris, I need to speak with Moira. Moira Cairns. You know her?'

'Oh,' said Chris. 'You rang a few minutes ago. You were abusive, apparently."

'Je-!' Macbeth tightened his grip on the phone, calmed himself, 'I'm… sorry. Just I was in a hurry. It's kind of urgent, Chris. Please?'

'Look,' Chris said. 'We're strangers here. Why don't you speak to Joel? Just hang on.'

Macbeth fed a fifty-pence coin into the phone. Presently a different guy came on. 'This is the Reverend Joel Beard. Who am I speaking to?'

'Uh, my name is Macbeth. I was told I could get Moira Cairns on this number, but nobody seems to know her, so maybe if I describe her. She's very beautiful, has this dark hair with…'

'With a vein of white,' the voice enunciated, slowly and heavily.

Macbeth breathed out. 'Well, thank Christ, I was beginning to think I'd been fed a bunch of… what?'

'I said, what did you say your name was?'

'Macbeth. That's M… A… C…'

'Ah. That's an assumed name, I suppose. I'd heard you people liked to give yourselves the names of famously evil characters as a way of investing yourselves with their – what shall we call it – "unholy glamour".'

'Huh…? Listen, friend, I don't have time for a debate, but it's now widely recognised that the famously evil, as you call him, Macbeth was in fact seriously misrepresented by Shakespeare for political reasons and, uh, maybe to improve the storyline. He…' – shoving in a pound coin – 'Jeez, what am I doing? I don't want to get into this kind of shit. All I want is to talk with Moira Cairns, is that too much to ask? What the fuck kind of show you running there?'

A silence. Clearly the guy had won himself an attentive audience.

'The woman you're seeking' – the voice clipped and cold – 'has been driven away. As' – the voice rose – 'will be all of your kind. You can inform your disgusting friends that, as from this evening, the village of Bridelow, erstwhile seat of Satan, has been officially repossessed… by Almighty God!'

'YEEEESSSS!' The background swelled, the phone obviously held aloft to capture it, a whole bunch of people in unison. 'PRAISE GOD!'

And they hung up.

Macbeth stood in the rain washed booth, cradling the phone in both hands.

'Jesus Christ,' he said. Back in his hire-car, windows all steamed-up, he slumped against the head-rest.

Is this real?

I mean, is it?

The Duchess had indicated Moira had gone to this North of England village for the purpose of laying to rest the spirit of her old friend Matt Castle, whichever way you wanted to take that.

Whatever it meant, it had clearly left the local clergy profoundly offended.

But while Macbeth's knowledge of Northern English clerical procedure was admittedly limited, the manner of response from the guy calling himself The Reverend Joe-whoever and what sounded like his backing group was, to say the least, kind of bizarre.