Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

He turned off the wipers and the headlights; the rain spread molecules of blue light all over the windshield.

The sign had said Bridelow, so this had to be it.

Or rather, that had to be it.

The road carried on straight ahead and from here it looked likely to vanish after a few yards under the black water. Which was no way to die.

Macbeth finished his cigarette, slid the car into gear – still not used to gears – and then set off very slowly, headlights full on, thinking of Moira, how mad she was going to be when he showed up. Wondering what her hair would look like in the rain.

Moira Cairns: the One Big Thing. The later it got, the harder it rained, the more frightened Lottie became of the night and what it might hold.

Not that she was inclined to show this fear. Not to the customers and especially not to herself. Every time she caught sight of her face in the mirror behind the bar, she tightened her lips and pulled them into what was supposed to be a wry smile. In the ghostly light from Matt's lovingly reconstructed gas-mantle, it looked, to her, gaunt and dreadful, corpselike.

Lottie shivered, longed for the meagre comfort of the kitchen stove and its hot-plate covers.

'All right, luv?' Stan Burrows said. 'Want a rest? Want me to take over?'

Big, bluff Stan, who'd been the brewery foreman – first to lose his job under the Gannons regime. If she could afford it, it would be nice to keep the pub, install Sun as full-time manager.

And then clear off.

Lottie shook her head. He must have noticed her agitation. She thought of a rational explanation to satisfy him.

'Stan, it isn't… dangerous, is it? You know, with all this rain getting absorbed into the Moss. Doesn't flood or anything?'

'Well, I wouldn't go out theer for a midnight stroll.' Stan made a diving motion with stiffened fingers. 'Eight or nine foot deep in places. You might not drown but you'll get mucky. Still, I'm saying that – people have died out theer, but not for a long time. Don't think about it, best way.'

'Hard not to,' Lottie said. 'Living here.'

'Used to be folk,' said a retired farmer called Harold Halsall, 'as could take you across that Moss by night in any conditions. Follow the light, they used say. Beacon of the Moss. All dead now.'

'Fell in, most likely,' said Young Frank Manifold. 'Bloody place this is, eh? Moss on one side, moors on t'other, wi' owd quarries and such. Why do we bloody stay?'

Frank and his mates had spent the afternoon helping in the search for Sam Davis, found dead in a disused quarry just before dusk.

'Bad do, that, Frank.' Harold Halsall had picked up the reference. 'Used to be me brother's farm, that. Never did well out of it, our George – salesman now, cattle feed. Is it right that when they found yon lad's shotgun he'd loosed off both barrels?'

'Leave it, Harold,' said Stan Burrows, nicking a quick glance at Lottie. They'd spent nearly an hour discussing the Sam Davis incident before Harold had come in. Stan probably imagined that was adding to Lottie's nerves: the thought of being all alone here while whoever Sam had been chasing when he went over the quarry was still on the loose.

If it was only that… Lottie turned away.

'Tell you what.' Young Frank'd had a bit too much to drink again. More than one person had been saying it was time he went out and found himself another job. 'I wish I had a bloody shotgun. Fire a few off outside t'church, I would.'

Lottie groaned. Tonight's other topic of conversation.

'Soon bring that bastard out,' said Frank. 'Him and his children of God. Then I'd fill him in, good.'

'Don't think you would, Frank,' Stan Burrows said. 'He's a big lad, that curate. Once had trials for Castleford, somebody said. Nay, he'll quieten down. Let him get it out of his system. All he's doing's making what you might call a statement.'

'Twat,' said Frank.

'Don't rise to it,' Stan said. 'Best way. Mothers'll not…' Stan realised he'd uttered a word Lottie preferred not to hear in her bar. 'Aye,' he said. 'Well.'

It went quiet. Not sure what they were allowed to talk about. Be better for everyone, Lottie thought, when I've gone.

She heard running feet on the cobbles outside and the gaslight sputtered as the door was thrown open. The porch lamp showed up rain like six-inch nails.

All the lads looking up from their drinks.

'Jeez.'

He wore a sweater and jeans. He shook raindrops out of black, wavy hair. Lottie didn't recognise him.

'Wet enough for you?' she said. Nobody drove out for a casual pint at The Man I'th Moss on dark autumn nights, and he certainly wasn't dressed like a rambler.

'Wet enough for Jacques Cousteau,' he said and grinned, brushing droplets from his sweater. It was, Lottie noticed, a very expensive soft-knit sweater. Cashmere, probably.

Lottie laughed. 'What would you like?'

'Scotch,' he said. 'Please. Any kind. No ice.'

'Oh,' she said, surprised. 'You're American. Sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that.'

'Bloody hell,' Young Frank Manifold called over, 'I know visibility's bad out there, mate, but I think tha's missed the turn-off for Highway 61.' It began just like any normal hymn – well, normal for them.

Sort of hymn Barry Manilow might have written, Willie thought. Slow and strong, with a rolling rhythm and a big, soaring chorus, undeniably catchy. One of the Angels of the New Advent was playing the organ, backed up by a portable drum machine with an amplifier set up under the lectern. Willie couldn't prevent his fingers going into action on his blue serge knees.

Didn't reckon much to the words. Modern language, but humourless. No style.

He glanced at the girl in the Jesus sweatshirt. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused. She had a certain look Willie had seen before, but usually on people who were on something.

High. She was high on God.

As he watched, slow tears rolled down her white cheeks.

The hymn soared on. Joel Beard stood in his pulpit, apparently soaring with it, eyes closed and palms upturned. Willie thought of his mother, now lying in a chapel of rest in Macclesfield. How was he supposed to make funeral arrangements when the service would have to be conducted by this pillock?

The drum machine stopped and then the organ trailed away, but the voices went on, and the words were no longer trite, no longer actually made any sense. Were, in fact, no longer what you might call words.

Willie listened to the girl.

'Holia… holia… amalalia… awalah… gloria…hailolalala…'

He was bewildered. All around him voices rose and fell and rose and swelled, ululating together in a strange, enveloping coda.

Everyone singing different words.

'Ohyalala… holy… holy… malaya… amala.. '

He looked up at Joel, presiding Angel, and Joel was smiling, with his eyes closed.

For a while Willie closed his own eyes and was at once carried away on it, drifting, aware that his fingers were stretching, feeling as if they were coming directly out of his wrists, nerves extending. His fingers moved very lightly against his thigh, sometimes not quite touching it.

Something fluttering like a small bird in his own chest and rising into his throat.

'Mayagalamata…'

That was me.

Willie stopped, stood very still for a moment, opening his eyes and taking in the scene. All those upturned palms. All those eyes, closed or glazed.

He sighed and slid quietly out of the pew and down the aisle to the church door. It was bolted, but nobody heard him draw back the bolts and slip out into the teeming rain.

Standing in a spreading puddle at the edge of the porch, Willie looked up at where Our Sheila used to hold open her pussy. He closed his eyes against the cold dollops of rain.

'Speaking in tongues,' he muttered. 'Speaking, chanting, singing in tongues.'