Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'I didn't intend to. Well, obviously. He just seemed to know. He looked at me… into me, almost. Smiling faintly. As if he'd decided to find something out about me that I didn't want him to know. And then he said, "Try something for me, would you?" Sympathetic magic, he called it. I knew if I didn't give it a go, he'd know somehow. And if anyone saw it, I'd just blame the students. But then…'

'But then it started to work,' Chrissie said. Or something did. Probably the power of suggestion.

'As you know,' he said.

'You must have been half-dismissive and half-elated. And half-frightened, I suppose. I know that's three halves, but I'm not very bright, as we established. God almighty, Roger, what have you got yourself into?'

'He's… a strange man. His knowledge is very extensive indeed. But, yes, there is something I can't say I like.'

'Some of his books are very weird, Roger.'

'I haven't read his bloody books.'

'You should.'

'Just keep your mouth shut when we're there, that's all.'

'At the party?'

'It's not..:'

'What is it, then?'

Roger drove up off the causeway, past the entrance to the big stone pub, The Man I'th Moss, and into the main village street. Halfway up the street, greasy light seeped out of a fish and chip shop, but it seemed to have no customers; not surprising in this weather. The blue moon turned out to be shining out of the church wall – must be a clock with a face each side of the steeple. But no hands, no numerals. How strange.

The clock lit up the inside of the car and Roger's bearded face. Chrissie began to feel uneasy.

'Come on, then, Roger.' As if the blue clock was lighting him up for interrogation. 'What else are you hiding?'

'Yes.' He turned right before the church, back into darkness. 'I'll tell you. Stanage says he can get the body back.'

'Oh, yes. Who from?'

'I don't know.'

'How?'

'I don't know.'

'What do you know?'

'He says we should all get together, those of us who've been close to him.'

'Him?'

'Him.'

Chrissie lit a cigarette. 'Turn 'round,' she said.

'What?'

'Turn the fucking car 'round, Roger, I'm not having anything to do with this.'

He stopped the car abruptly in the narrow road and it skidded into the kerb. The rain drummed violently on the roof and splashed the dark windows. It was savage and relentless, like a thrashing from God.

'Chrissie, please…'

She blew smoke in his face.

He choked back a cough. 'Chrissie, I don't want to go on my own.'

'Grow up, Roger.'

'Listen, I'm just a little bit scared too, can't help it. If only for my… for my reputation.'

'Well, naturally.'

'But I can't not go, can I? And say goodbye to everything… make him, you know…'

'Make him what?'

'Angry,' he said pathetically.

She couldn't see his face; she didn't want to. She gritted her teeth. 'Turn it 'round, I said.' Lay off, eh, Frank?'

'I wanna know. Come on, he can't just fucking show up, middle of the night, and not tell us why. Don't want no more fucking mysteries in this place. Had it up to here with fucking mysteries.'

'Go home, Frank, you've had too many.'

'Too many what? Listen, fart-face, you're not my fucking foreman no more. Not your pub, neither. What's your name, mate?'

Macbeth had had too many bad experiences of telling his name to guys in bars. 'Kansas,' he said. 'Jim Kansas.'

'… kind of fucking name's that?'

'Frank, if you don't go home…'

'Aye? Go on. Finish sentence, Stan. What you goin' do if I don't go?'

'I shall pick up that big bottle of Long John,' said Mrs Lottie Castle, appearing in the doorway, 'and I'll use it to bash out all of your front teeth, Frank Manifold. That's for starters. Out!'

'It's raining,' Young Frank said.

And he giggled. But he went.

Macbeth started to breathe again.

'Sorry,' the barman Stan said to him. 'Everybody seems to be on edge tonight.' The other guys in the bar were draining their glasses, coming to their feet. 'We'll leave you to it, Lottie, I think. Shut the place, I would. You'll get no more custom tonight. Not in this.'

Now Stan looked meaningfully at Macbeth. Lottie said, 'He's staying.' Stan nodded dubiously and didn't move. 'He's an old friend of Matt's,' Lottie said. 'Couldn't make it for the funeral.'

'Right.' Stan accepted this and shrugged into his overcoat. 'Night then, Lottie. Good night, Mr Kansas.'

Macbeth was curious. This woman didn't know him from Bill Clinton and here she was letting her regular customers and the help go and him stay the night. Normal way of things, the woman being a widow, this would've been no big surprise, he had to admit. But she was a very recent widow. Also, she didn't seem to have even noticed what he looked like.

She looked tired. Drained. Eyes swollen. She dragged out a weary smile.

'Mr… Mungo. I've located Willie Wagstaff. He doesn't know where Moira is, but he says he doesn't mind talking to you if you don't keep him too long. He's at his girlfriend's – that's the Post Office. About a hundred yards up the street, same side.'

'Right. Uh, what did you…?'

'I told him I thought you were all right. I hope you are.'

Macbeth said, 'Mrs Castle, what's going on here? Just why is everybody on edge? Who're all these people at the Rectory?'

'Ask Willie,' she said. 'And just so you know, he used to play the drums in Matt's band, so he's known Moira a long time. Do you want to borrow an umbrella?'

'Thanks, I have a slicker in back of the car. What if I'm late?'

'I'll still be up,' Lottie Castle said. 'Whatever time it is. Just hammer on the door.' Lottie bolted the door behind him, top and bottom. Then she went through to the back door and secured that too.

She put on some coffee, partly to combat the rain noise with the warm pop-pop-pop of the percolator.

Earlier she'd pulled through a three-seater sofa from the living room that never got lived in. There was a duvet rolled up on the sofa.

Tonight's bed. Would have been, if she'd been alone in the pub. She'd put the American in Bedroom Three, the one Dic used when he was here. Soon as he'd left yesterday she'd changed the bedding, aired the room. It was just across the passage from her own.

Were bad dreams somehow stopped at source when you were no longer alone in the building?

That, of course, would depend on whether they were dreams.

On the refectory table was a local paper with the phone numbers of two estate agents ringed, the ones that specialised in commercial properties. Give that a try first, see if anyone was interested in a loss-making pub, before resorting to the domestic market.

Former village inn. Full of character. Dramatic rural location. Reduced for quick sale.

Well, did she have a choice? Was there any kind of alternative?

Lottie poured coffee, strong but with a little cream which she left unstirred, thin, white circles on the dark surface, because black coffee was apt to make her think of the Moss.

She left the cup steaming on the table, stood in the centre of the room for a moment with her sleeves pushed up and her hands on her hips.

'Matt,' she said, 'you know I didn't want to come, but I didn't complain. I supported you. I gave up my lovely home.'

Strange, but all the time he was dying he never once allowed a discussion to develop about her future. But then, they never actually talked about him dying; just, occasionally, about him being ill. And he obviously wasn't afraid; he was just – amazing when you thought about it – too preoccupied.

'You were always a selfish bastard, Matt,' she said.

Standing on the flags, hands on hips, giving him a lecture.

Don't see why I should feel ashamed, do you?'

Feeling not so unhappy, because there was someone to wait up for.