Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Nay,' Willie said. 'Moss'll have shifted. Besides, there were no beacon in them days.'

'You mean there was no church clock. The beacon was a real beacon on the hill where the church now stands. And the Moss was more like a lake. Water to reflect the light.'

Willie stood up. 'Look, Mr Dawber, we'll forget you ever sad all this if you will.'

Mr Dawber put on his hat. 'I'll leave you two for a bit. Perhaps you might summon the Mothers, what's left of them as are well enough to come out on a night like this, and have a chat about it.'

"Hey, come on,' Willie said. 'Get some sleep, Mr Dawber. We'll see you tomorrow, have a proper chat. All right?'

'No, I'll not sleep. I've a few things to sort out. Few private things to burn. Letters and such.' He looked at his watch, it's ten to nine now. I'll be back for you soon after eleven.'

Milly shrank away from him. 'Mr Dawber, you don't seriously…'

'I do,' he said sternly. 'And it's got to be tonight. Tonight has the power. The word is Samhain, Millicent, although I realise the Mothers have gradually dropped the old terminology. And on a practical level, the Moss is swollen with rain; when it goes down, things will be absorbed again, taken in.'

'Mr Dawber,' Milly Gill whispered, 'don't do this to me. Please.'

'Perhaps, before I return, something'll have happened this night to make you see the sense of it. Ma dead? That young lad up on the moors? How many do you want? Where, for instance, is…?' He pulled down his hat. 'Never mind.'

He turned round at the door, and a broad smile was channelled through the wrinkles, from the corners of his mouth to his eyes, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

'I'm not unhappy, tha knows. Be a lovely thing.'

Mr Dawber turned the key in the double lock and unbolted the front door to the fierce rain and the night.

'You been there before? The house?'

'Mmmm.'

' I suppose,' Chrissie said, 'I should be flattered. It's possibly our first official date.'

'What did you say?' His eyes flicking over to her then back to the road, quick as the windscreen wipers.

'You haven't been listening to anything I've been saying, have you?'

'Of course I have.'

'Doesn't matter. You're obviously preoccupied.'

She hadn't wanted to come with him anyway, being actually in the process of trying to lose his attentions without losing her job. Even if he had been comparatively spectacular in bed of late.

'Did you say something about a date?'

'I said it was possibly our first official one. Where we're actually seen together without a collapsible coffin between us. I was being flippant, Roger.'

'You're here as my assistant,' he said coldly.

'Oh, thanks very much. You'll be paying me, then.'

Actually, there was no real need to be especially nice to him. No way he could get her fired, knowing what she knew about him and his dealings behind the scenes with the man they were going to meet.

'What a bloody awful night,' she said. Now they were up in the hills it was coming down so hard the wipers could hardly keep up. 'I wonder what witches do when it's pissing down.'

'What?' Almost a croak.

'Witches.'

'What about witches?'

'It's Hallowe'en. I was wondering what witches do when it's raining this hard. Whether they call it off. Or do it in the sitting room. Can't dance naked in this, can you? Well, I suppose you could. You're on a pretty short fuse tonight, Roger.'

'No, 'I'm not,' he snapped.

'Why don't you just tell me what's bothering you. Apart from the usual, of course.'

He didn't reply.

Sod this, Chrissie thought. 'Anyway, it was my understanding that your friend John Peveril Stanage lived in Buxton or somewhere. Why, pray tell, is he holding his Hallowe'en party in Bridelow?'

'Look.' It was too dark to see but she could tell his hands were throttling the steering-wheel. 'It's not a party. It's just a gathering. A few drinks and… a few drinks.'

'But not a party.' She was starting almost to enjoy this.

'And the reason it's In Bridelow… the Bridelow Brewery's been bought by Gannons Ales, right? And it now emerges that Stanage has been a major Gannons shareholder for some years and recently increased his holding, oh… substantially. Is now, in fact, about to become Chairman of the Board.'

'I suppose he's got to do something with all his book royalties and things. Apart from setting up bogman museums.'

Roger didn't rise to it, kept on looking at the road, what you could hope to see of it. 'Seems Shaw Horridge – that's the son of the original brewery family – is about to become engaged to Stanage's niece. They own Bridelow Hall. Which is where we're going.'

'I'll probably be underdressed,' Chrissie said, putting on a posh voice, 'for Braidelow Hawl.'

If it was that innocuous, why was Roger so nervy?

'Where's your wife tonight?'

'Working.'

'How are things generally?'

'So-so.'

'Everything all right in bed these days?'

'Chrissie, for Chr-' He hurled the car into low gear and raced up a dark, twisty hill.

'No clammy, peaty feelings any more?'

'What the hell's the matter with you tonight?'

'What's the matter with you?'

When they crested the hill she saw a strange blue moon. 'What on earth's that?'

'It's the Beacon of the Moss,' Roger said in a voice that was suddenly tired. 'Look, I'm sorry. Sorry I ever got committed to Stanage. I admit I'm in too deep, all right?'

She saw the bog below them. In the headlights it looked like very burned rice-pudding.

'It's as though he owns a piece of me,' Roger said. 'Bought me just as surely as he's bought Gannons Ales. I mean, last weekend, when I went to London… Chrissie, I didn't go to London. I was at Stanage's place.'

'In Buxton?'

'In Buxton, yes. That's where… Look, I'm a scholar, an academic, not religious, not impressionable. I'm basically a very sceptical person, you know that.'

Chrissie stifled it. 'Absolutely.' She allowed herself a deep, deep breath. 'But tell me this: who gave the bogman a penis?'

Roger slowed down for the causeway across the Moss. He seemed to slump on the wheel; she could have sworn she actually heard him gulp.

'I did.'

Ha!

'I used a piece of gut, what they thought was part of the duodenum.' He sounded relieved to be telling someone. 'Moulded with peat and something Stanage gave me… a… a stiffening agent.'

How ridiculously sleazy it sounded. Hadn't done much laughing, though, had she, when she saw the thing lying there projecting its bloody great menacing cock into the lights?

Actually, it was pretty sick.

They set off very slowly across the causeway. It seemed to be raining harder than ever here.

'Why?' she said. As if she really didn't know. Scholar. Academic. Sceptic. Not impressionable. Ha.

'He insisted it'd… you know… do the trick. Said I'd obviously become very close to the bogman, and the bogman had – this sounds very stupid – power. And I should use it.'

'You didn't laugh in his face because you needed him.'

'No! I didn't laugh because… because he isn't a man you can laugh at. You'll know what I mean when you meet him. Look, do you really think I'd go discussing my private difficulties with… well, with anyone? I mean, my bloody wife's a doctor, and I couldn't talk to her about it. Of course, I did think things would be different with you.'

'Because I was a bit of a slag, I suppose. And not very bright in comparison with Doctor Mrs Hall. And because I was impressed with this big glamorous archaeologist who was on telly a lot, and flattered.'

'No, of course not, what do you think I…?'

'Stick to honesty, Roger, you were doing very well. So you discussed your little… problem with Mr Stanage.'