Phil Rickman - Crybbe

It is dark, isn't it? Careful now. Mind you don't trip over the kerb or the end of your shroud.

Do tell me, won't you, if you're feeling tired.

Jolly good.

As Joe Powys drove, on full headlights, into the lane that slipped down beside the church, he formed an image of Crybbe as an old and poorly built house riddled with damp. Periodically new people would move in and redecorate the rooms: bright new paint, new wallpaper, new furniture. But the wet always came through and turned the walls black and rotted the furniture.

And eventually people stopped throwing money at it and just tried to insulate themselves and their families as best they could. It wasn't much fun to live in, and the people who stayed there were the ones with few prospects and nowhere else to go.

And that was the basic socio-economic viewpoint.

Trying to explain the supernatural aspects in terms of rising damp was more complicated.

If only he could speak to the shadowy figure who, in the late 1500s, had attempted to install, just above ground-level, an effective damp-proof course.

Let's assume this man was John Dee, astrologer at the court of Queen Elizabeth I.

Powys braked hard as a baby rabbit shot from the hedgerows, into the centre of the road and then stopped, turning pale terrified eyes into the headlights.

He switched off the lights, and the rabbit scampered away

Just for a moment, Powys smiled.

There's a portrait. John Dee in middle age. A thin-faced man with high cheekbones. Watchful, but kindly eyes. He wears a black cap, suggesting baldness, and has a luxurious white beard, like an ice-cream cone.

In Andy's notes, Dee (if it is he) gives only graphic descriptions of experiences, like the visit of the spirit (Wort?) in the night.

Perhaps somewhere Dee has documented the action he took to contain the rampant spirit after Wort's death.

Dee never seems to have been very wealthy. Towards the end of his life he was virtually exiled to the north, as warden of Christ's College, Manchester. With Elizabeth dead and James on the throne – James who was in constant fear of Satanic plots and clamped down accordingly on all forms of occultism – the elderly Dee was forced to defend himself and his reputation as a scholar against various accusations that he practised witchcraft. Ill-founded accusations, no doubt, but these were dangerous, paranoid times.

So what would the penurious Dee do if contacted by old friends or relatives in Crybbe with tales of hauntings and oppression by dark forces invoked by the late Sir Michael Wort?

He drove past the turning to Court Farm and could see no lights between the trees. No lights anywhere. He might, out there, be twenty miles from the nearest town. It was like driving back in time, or into another dimension

To Percival Weale,

Merchant of Crybbe

My Dear Mr Weale,

It was with much sorrow that I received your letter informing me that our mutual associate, Sheriff Wort continues to torment the town from a place beyond this life.

It has long been apparent to me that the ethene layer is so dense upon the atmosphere along the border of Wales and

England that it may not always be so comfortable a place of habitation…

And did Dee, old, impecunious and in constant fear of arrest, appeal to Percy Weale to make financial provision for the curfew to be rung (so that the most dangerous hours of darkness might remain peaceful) and to assign some long-established local family to the task?

And being unable to travel to Crybbe himself, did he vaguely suggest that if the malignant spirit were to be controlled it was essential for the stones to be removed, the Tump walled in and the spiritual energy level to remain low.

And you must warn the townspeople to continue with their lives but not to expand the town to any great extent and, above all, to offer no challenge to the spirit. And, as for the hand and any other of his limbs or organs that should come to light, no purpose will be served in their destruction. You must take these and enclose them in separate and confined places – I would suggest within a chimney or fireplace or beneath a good stone floor – where they may never be exposed to the light or the air. This is far from satisfactory, but my knowledge does not extend to more. Forgive me.

Powys drove between the gateposts of Crybbe Court and felt the house before he saw it, a dark and hungry maw.

He thought, Hand? What hand? I don't know anything about a hand.

Get your act together, Powys.

He thought about Fay and started to worry, so he thought about Rachel instead, and he looked up towards the house and felt bitterly angry.

Better keep to the path, I think, my dear. Somewhat safer, in the dark.

Not that they take much care of this path, or indeed the church itself, never much in the way of civic pride in Crybbe. Poor Murray's got his hands full.

Ah. Now. I know where we're going.

We're going to your grave, aren't we?

Now, look, before you say anything, I'm sorry it had to be down at this end – not exactly central, I realise that, another few yards in fact, and you'd be in the wood. But it's surely shady on a warm day, and you never did like too much sun, did you? I suppose you spent most of your life in the shade, really, and… well, you know I always had the impression that was how you wanted it to be.

I know, I know… the flowers. I keep forgetting, memory isn't what it was, as you know. You bring a few flowers with the best of intentions, and then you forget all about them and the next time you come they're all dead and forlorn and there are stalks and seed-pods everywhere, all a terrible mess, and I do understand the way you feel about that, of course I do.

Hello, who's this?

Oh, Grace, look, it's young Murray.

No, don't get up, old chap.

Well, er… it's a lovely night, isn't it?

Yes. Indeed.

What's that?

Cain and Abel?

I'm sorry… I'm not quite getting your drift. What you're saying is, Abel killed Cain?

Well, not in my version, old son, but I suppose you modernists have your own ideas.

Abel killed Cain, eh?

Well, if you say so, Murray, if you say so.

Arnold was not at all happy about being left in the Mini. Joe Powys had pushed back the slide-opening driver's window several inches to give him plenty of air, and he stood up on the seat and pressed his head through the gap and whined frantically.

'I can't take you,' Powys said. 'Please, Arnold.' He'd left the dog a saucer of water on the back shelf. Poured from a bottle he kept in the boot because the radiator had been known to boil dry.

Knowing full well that he was doing all this just in case, for some unknowable reason, he didn't get back.

'Good boy,' he said. 'Good boy.'

He locked the car and moved quickly, uncomfortably away. He didn't want to be here. He felt he was in the wrong place, but he didn't trust his own feelings. He trusted Jean Wendle's feelings because Jean was an experienced psychic and a Wise Woman, and he was just a writer; and when it came to dealing with real life, writers didn't know shit.

The Mini was tightly parked in a semi-concealed position behind the stable-block. Powys carried a hand-lamp with a beam projecting a good fifty yards in front of him. It was probably a mistake; he should be more surreptitious. What was he going to do – stand amid the ruins of the wall, pinning Andy in the powerful beam as he cavorted naked in the maelstrom of black energy?

'It all sounds,' he said aloud into the night, 'so bloody stupid.'

Earth mysteries.

Book your seats for a magical, mind-expanding excursion to the Old Golden Land.

A fun-filled New Age afternoon. A book of half-baked pseudo-mystical musings on your knee as you picnic by a sacred standing stone, around it a glowing aura of fascinating legend. As he moved uncertainly across the field towards the Tump, it struck him that it was past ten o'clock and there'd been no curfew. Well, it was late last night, too. Took old Preece longer to make it to the belfry.