Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

And Willie shouted it too.

'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'

It was easy. It was just pulled out of you, like a handkerchief from your top pocket. Nowt to it.

At first he'd felt right stupid. Felt bloody daft, in fact, as soon as he walked in, wearing his suit, the only suit in the place, so it was obvious from the start that he wasn't one of them.

Not that this had bothered them. They'd leapt on him – big, frightening smiles – and started hugging him.

'Welcome, brother, welcome!'

'Good to see someone's been brave enough to turn his back on it all. What's your name?'

'Willie.' Gerroff, he wanted to shout, this is no bloody way to behave in church. Or anywhere, for that matter, soft buggers.

'Willie, we're so very glad to have you with us. To see there is one out there who wants to save his soul. Praise God! And rest assured that, from this moment on, you'll have the full protection of the Lord, and there'll be no repercussions because you'll be wearing the armour of the Lord's light. Do you believe that? Is your faith strong enough, Willie, to accept that?'

'Oh, aye,' said Willie. 'No,' Milly Gill had said flatly and finally, when Mr Dawber wanted to go. 'It's got to be you, Willie. Mr Dawber looks too intelligent.'

'Thanks a bunch.'

'You know what I mean. You look harmless. It's always been your strength, Willie luv. You look dead harmless.'

'Like a little vole,' said Frank Manifold Snr's wife Ethel in a voice like cotton-wool, and Milly gave her a narrow look.

'Just watch and listen, Willie. Listen and watch.'

'What am I listening for?'

'You'll know, when you hear it.'

What he'd heard so far had left him quite startled. They sang hymns he'd never encountered before, with a rhythm and gusto he associated more with folk clubs. He felt his fingers begin to respond, tried to stop it but he couldn't. Felt an emotional fervour building around him, like in the days when he used to support Manchester City.

It had started with everybody – there'd be over fifty of them now – sitting quietly in the pews, as Joel Beard led them in prayer.

But when the hymns got under way they'd all come out and stand in the aisle, quite still – no dancing – and turn their faces towards the rafters and then lift up their hands, palms open as if they were waiting to receive something big and heavy.

When the hymn was over, some of the younger ones stayed in the aisle and sat there cross-legged, staring up at the pulpit, at their leader.

'Some of you,' Joel Beard said soberly, 'may already have realised the significance of tonight.'

Joel in full vestments, leaning out over the pulpit, the big cross around his neck swinging wide, burnished by the amber lights which turned his tight curls into a helmet of shining bronze.

A bit different from downbeat, comfortable old Hans with his creased-up features and his tired eyes.

But no Autumn Cross over Joel's head.

No candles on the altar. All statuary removed.

And despite all the people in their bright sweaters and jeans, with their fresh, scrubbed faces and clean hair…

… Despite the colourful congregation and despite the emotion, the church looked naked and cold, and gloomy as a cathedral crypt.

Joel said, 'Every few years, the realms of God and Satan collide. The most evil of all pagan festivals falls upon the Lord's day. Tonight, my friends, my brothers, my sisters, we pray for ourselves. For we are at war.'

Bloody hell, Willie remembered, it's…

'It is Sunday,' Joel said quietly. 'And it is All-Hallows Eve.'

New Year's Eve, Willie thought.

Time was when they'd have a bit of a do down The Man. Except that always happened tomorrow, All Souls. Bit of a compromise, reached over the years with the Church. And a logical one in Willie's view. Imagine the reaction, in the days of the witch hunts, to a village which had a public festival at Hallowe'en. So they had it the following night, All Souls Night. Made sense.

Wouldn't be doing much this year, though. Bugger-all to celebrate.

'We have recaptured this church,' Joel Beard proclaimed, 'for the Lord.'

Sterilised it, more like, Willie thought, feeling a lot less daft, a lot more annoyed. Despiritualised it, if there's such a word.

'And it is left to us… to hold it through this night.'

'YES!'

Oh, bloody hell, they're never!

'PRAISE GOD!'

'We'll remain here until the dawn. We'll sing and pray and keep the light.'

'KEEP THE LIGHT!'

It's a waste of time, Willie wanted to shout. It's a joke. Apart from the Mothers doing whatever needs to be done – in private – Hallowe'en's a non-event in Bridelow. Just a preparation for the winter, a time of consolidation, like, a sharing of memories.

'I would stress to all of you that it's important to preserve a major presence here in the church.'

Nay, lad, give it up. Go home.

Joel said, if anyone needs to leave to use the toilet, the Rectory is open. But – hear me – go in pairs. Ignore all distractions. And hurry back. Take care. Make your path a straight one. Do not look to either side. Now… those who thirst will find bottles of spring water and plastic cups in the vestry. Do not drink any water you may find in the Rectory; it may have been taken from the local spring, which is polluted, both physically and spiritually.'

Willie was stunned. This was insane. This was Bridelow he was on about.

'And of course,' Joel said, 'we shall eat nothing until the morning.'

'PRAISE GOD!'

Willie slumped back into his pew next to a girl with big boobs under a pink sweatshirt with white and gold lettering spelling out, THANK GOD FOR JESUS! 'Have we been taken over, though?' Milly said. 'Have we lost our village? Gone? Under our noses?'

'Bit strong, that,' Ernie Dawber said with what he was very much afraid was a nervous laugh. 'Yet.'

They were in Milly Gill's flowery sitting room.

He'd set out for evensong, as was his custom; if there was a boycott it was nowt to do with him, damn silly way to react, anyroad.

She had caught up with him, suddenly appearing under his umbrella, telling him about the Angels of the New Advent. Time to talk about things, Milly said, steering him home, sitting him down with a mug of tea.

'You're the chronicler, Mr Dawber. You know it's not an exaggeration. You've watched the brewery go. You've seen people fall ill and just die like they never did before. You know as well as I do Ma didn't just fall downstairs and die of shock.'

'It's common enough,' Ernie said damply, 'among very old people.'

'But Ma Wagstaff?' Milly folded her arms, trying for a bit of Presence. 'All right? Who's taken the Man? Who's taken Matt Castle from his grave? Come off the fence, Mr Dawber. What do you really think?'

'You're asking me? You're in charge now, Millicent. I'm just an observer. With failing eyesight.'

'There you go again. Please, Mr Dawber, you've seen the state of us. We're just a not-very-picturesque tradition. What did I ever do except pick flowers and dress the well? And we meet for a bit of a healing – this is how it's been – and Susan says she can't stop long because of the child and it's Frank's darts night.'

'Young Frank needs a good talking to,' said Ernie.

'That's the least of it. They're all just going through the motions, and nothing seems to work out. It's like, we're going into the Quiet time – this is last midsummer – and Jessie Marsden has to use her inhaler twice. We can't even beat our own hay fever any more. It'd be almost funny if it wasn't so tragic.'

The image speared Ernie again. Ma showing him the Shades of Things and making him promise to get the bog body back. And him failing her, in the end. But need this be the end?

'Happen you need some new blood,' he said finally.