Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

Wherever she goes, that young woman, she's bound to be touched with madness.

Yeah, yeah, can't say I wasn't warned.

But there is a point at which you actually get to questioning yourself about how much is real. Or to what extent you are permitting yourself to be absorbed into someone else's fantasy.

But not unwillingly, surely?

Well, no. Not yet.

Truth is, it's kind of stimulating.

The time was 5.15. Macbeth left the car and returned to the diner across the street, on the basis that one sure way of restoring a sense of total reality would be another attempt to consume a greasy quarter-pound shitburger and double fries. About an hour ago, before leaving Glasgow, he'd found a Sunday-opening bookshop where he bought a road atlas and a paperback.

He laid the paperback on his table next to the shitburger.

The cover showed a huge cavern full of stalactites and stalagmites. The angle of vision was roof-level, and way down in the left-hand corner was a small kid with a flashlight.

The book was called Blue John's Way. From inside the title page Macbeth learned it had been first published some thirty years ago, and this was apparently the seventeenth paperback impression.

On the inside cover, it said,

THE AUTHOR

John Peveril Stanage has emerged as one of the half- dozen best-loved children's writers of the twentieth century.

Basing his compelling stories on the history, myths and legends of the Peak District and the southern Pennines, of which he has an unrivalled knowledge, he has ensnared the imagination of millions of young readers the world over.

Mr Stanage's work has been translated into more than fifteen languages and won him countless awards.

Not over-enlightening, and there was no picture. But then, Macbeth thought, the guy didn't exactly look like a favourite uncle; maybe the publishers figured he'd scare the readers.

But then again, that was obviously part of his intention, if Blue John's Way was typical.

A quote on the back from some literary asshole on the London Guardian said the book conveyed a powerful sense of adolescent alienation.

The bookseller had told Macbeth a growing number of adults were hooked on Stanage's stories for kids; apparently he was becoming a minor cult-figure, like C. S. Lewis.

'In America, I'm told,' the bookseller said, 'his books aren't even marketed as children's fiction any more.'

'That so?' Macbeth, whose reading rarely extended beyond possible mini-series material, had never previously heard of Stanage. 'He live down in – where is it? – the English Peak District?'

'He's publishing under false pretences if he isn't.'

You got any idea precisely where?'

A shrug. Negative.

This morning, under pressure, the Earl had admitted to Macbeth that he personally had been unfamiliar with the work of Moira Cairns until a member of The Celtic Bond steering committee had drawn his attention to it. Yes, all right, forcefully drawn his attention…

'So it was Stanage who was insistent Moira should be hired for this particular occasion?'

'He was keen, yes…'

'How keen?'

'He's a great admirer of her work.'

'Tell me, Earl, why is Mr Stanage on your steering committee?'

'Well… because he's a great authority on an aspect of Celtic studies- the English element – which is often neglected. And because he's… he's very influential.'

And also rich, Macbeth thought. That above all. The crucial factor. The reason you're taking all this shit from me, Earl, the reason you deigned to accept this call at all.

Macbeth propped the paperback against a sauce bottle and re-read the blurb.

John Clough is an unhappy boy growing up fatherless in a remote village in me Northern hills.

He has never been able to get on with his mother or his sisters who live in a strange world of their own, from which John, as the only male, is excluded. At weekends, he spends most of his time alone in the spectacular limestone caverns near his home, where he forms a special bond with the Spirits of the Deep.

With the Spirits' help, John discovers the dark secret his mother has been hiding – and sets out to find his true identity.

Macbeth went back to the counter, ordered up a black coffee and opened up the road-atlas.

'How long you figure it would take me to get to… uh… Manchester, England?'

'Never been, pal. Five hours? 'Pends how fast you drive.' Last night Macbeth had called his secretary in New York to find out how seriously they were missing his creative flair and acumen. His secretary said he should think about coming home; his mom was working too hard. Which meant his mom was working them too hard and therefore enjoying him being out of the picture.

So no hassle.

Five hours? A short hop.

But they claimed Moira had been given an assisted passage out of town. The woman you're seeking has been driven away.

So she might no longer be in that area.

But she would not be the easiest person to get rid of if she still had unfinished business.

Macbeth was getting that Holy Grail feeling again. The One Big Thing.

What the fuck… He climbed back into the Metro, started up the motor.

'Right, let the dog see the rabbit. That the photo, Paul? Ta.'

'Got to be him, Sarge.'

'Not necessarily, lad, all sorts come out here purely to top umselves. I remember once.. 'It is, look…'

'Aye, well done, lad. Never've thought he'd have got this far in last night's conditions, no way. But where's the gun?'

The body lay face-up in the bottom of the quarry, both eyes wide as if seeking a reason from the darkening sky.

'Hell fire, look at state of his head. Must've bounced off that bloody rock on his way down. You all right, Desmond?'

'Just a bit bunged-up, Sarge. Reckon it's this flu.'

'Hot lemon. Wi' half a cup of whisky. That's what I always take. Least you can't smell what we can smell. Hope the poor bugger shit hisself after he landed.'

'What d'you reckon then?'

'Harry, if you can persuade your radio to work, get word back to Mr Blackburn as he can call off the troops, would you? And let's find that gun, shall we? I don't know; be a bloody sight simpler if we hadn't got his missus bleating on about him charging after Satanists.'

'Haw.'

'Ah now, don't knock it, Desmond. If you'd seen some of the things I've seen up these moors. All right, more likely poor sod'd been trying to find his way back home, terrible bloody conditions, gets hopelessly disorientated, wandering round for hours – what's he come, six miles, seven? – and just falls over the edge. But this business of intruders, somebody'll want it checked out, whoever they were, whatever they was up to…'

'Or if they even existed.'

'Or, as Paul says, if they even existed, except in the lad's imagination. I'd let it go, me, if we find that gun. Accidental, and you'd never prove otherwise, not in a million years. What we supposed to do, stake out the entire moor every night till they come back for another do?'

'Poor bugger.'

'Aye. Glad we found him before it got dark, or we'd be out here again, first light. Well, look at that, what d'you know, it's starting raining again, Desmond.'

'Yes Sarge.'

'Hot lemon, lad, my advice. Wi' a good dollop of whisky.' Oh Lord, we're asking you to intercede, to help us sanctify this place, drenched for centuries in sin and evil. Oh Lord, come down here tonight, give us some help. Come on down, Lord… shine your light, that's what we're asking… come on…'

'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'

'Yes, and into every murky corner, come on…'

'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'

'Through every dismal doorway…'

'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'

'Into every fetid crevice…'

'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'