Phil Rickman - Crybbe

He didn't even know the circumstances.

All he knew was that Jimmy Preece had the blind support of an appreciable number of large, uncompromising, tough looking men and, if anybody made an attempt to leave, the situation was likely to turn ugly.

Not – looking at Max Goff sprawled in his own blood – that it was particularly attractive as things stood.

Every so often, people would wander over to Col, some angry, others quite sheepish.

'It doesn't make a lot of sense, now does it, Colonel?', Graham Jarrett argued, sweat-patches appearing under the arms of his safari suit. 'A man's been murdered, and all we're doing is giving his murderer time to get clean away.'

'Not if he's in this room we aren't,' said Col very quickly.

Jarrett's eyes widened. 'That's not likely, is it?'

'Who knows, Mr Jarrett, who knows?'

Graham Jarrett looked around nervously, as if wondering which of the two or three hundred people it might be safest to stand close to. The main exit was still guarded by large uncommunicative farmers.

'Can't be long now, anyway,' Col said. 'I'd guess the Mayor's already been in touch with the police.'

No chance. This is a Crybbe matter.

Madness. It didn't even have the logic of a street riot. And Col Croston, who'd served six terms in Belfast, was beginning to detect signs of something worryingly akin to sectarianism.

New Age versus Old Crybbe.

The Crybbe people scarcely moved. If they went to the toilets they went silently and returned to their seats. They did not converse among themselves. They seemed to know what this was about. Or, at least, they appeared satisfied that Jimmy Preece knew what it was about and there seemed to be this unspoken understanding that they should remain calm, restrain their emotions.

Bloody eerie. Just as they behaved in church. Admirable self-control or mindless apathy? Beggared belief, either way, and Col Croston knew he couldn't allow the situation to continue much longer. He was under pressure from the New Age delegates who, while in a minority of about twenty to one, were making virtually all the noise. So much for relaxation techniques and meditative calm. Struck him there was a lot they might learn from the indigenous population.

A man in a suit, one of the Epidemic lawyers, said, 'Look – let us out of here now and we'll say no more about it. But if this goes on, I'm warning you, you're all going to be in very serious trouble. Impeding the course of justice'll be the very least of it.'

'I've found,' Col told him, very clipped, 'that in a situation like this, telling people what serious trouble they're going to be in is the fastest way to inflame what could be a highly combustible situation. I estimate there are more than three hundred adults in this room and the fact that one of them happens to be dead could just turn out to be the very least of our worries. Now please sit down.'

Aware of a sudden commotion by the main doors, he yelled into the New Age quarter, 'will somebody please restrain that lady!'

The feminist astrologer was threatening to damage the genitals of one of the farmers if he didn't get out of her way. It was Catrin Jones, physically stronger than the astrologer and also a woman, who was finally able to lead her back to her seat.

'They're not real, these people.' The astrologer shook her spiky head. 'They're bloody zombies. Everything's freaky.'

The Cock being empty and Denzil looking at a bit of a loose end, Gomer Parry thought it was only reasonable to have two pints, aware this could conceivably put him over the limit. But what kind of copper stopped a digger driver trundling along a country lane at 30 m.p.h.?

It was after ten when he drove out of the square in the yellow tractor with the big shovel raised up out of the way. The roads were about as quiet as you could get.

Fact everywhere was a bit on the quiet side. This Goff was obviously a big attraction. Not a soul on the streets and with all the lights out, Crybbe looked like one of them film-sets when everybody'd gone home.

Pulling out on to the Ludlow road, something else struck Gomer: he hadn't heard the bell. They never didn't ring that bell. Used to be said that old Jimmy Preece – well, young Jimmy Preece as he'd have been then – had even rung the curfew the day he got married. A hundred bongs on his wedding night, Mrs Preece wouldn't be that lucky.

Poor old devil back on the night-shift now, then. Talk about bad luck… you wouldn't credit it. Even if Jack pulled through with both legs still attached, didn't seem likely he'd be in any state to make it up them old steps for a good long while. Have to be putting the arm on that young tearaway, Warren.

Gomer was never sorry to leave Crybbe – miserable old place: miserable buildings, miserable folk – but he was never that happy about going home neither, not since his old lady had handed in her mop and bucket. He'd work every hour of daylight to put off that terrible moment when he had to get his own keys out instead of seeing the door opening as he tramped across the yard and hearing the old kettle whistling on the Rayburn.

When midsummer was past and the working days started getting shorter, Gomer's spirits started to droop, and tonight had been a freak foretaste of autumn, black clouds crowding in for a storm that never came, and dark by nine.

Now there was mist as well. That came down bloody quick. Gomer snapped on the full beams, only to discover his left headlight bulb had gone.

Bollocks. No copper'd be able to resist pulling him in to point this out, and then he'd get a good whiff of Gomer's breath… Mind just blowing in this yere nozzle, sir… Oh, dear, afraid I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station, well, Gomer could already see the smile cracking up the fat features of that bastard Wynford Wiley, and he couldn't stick that.

What he'd have to do then was switch off the headlights and try and get through the mist on the itsy-bitsy sidelights which were bugger-all use on these roads on the best of nights.

So he flicked off the heads and slowed down to about twenty, and it was still like skin-diving in a cesspit and he had to drop down to second gear.

Bloody Crybbe.

Didn't know why he said that, you couldn't blame everything on Crybbe.

Well, you could…

Gomer hit the brakes. 'What the 'ell's that?'

Bloody hell fire, it's the old Tump. Where'd he come from?

Hang on a bit, boy, you done something a bit wrong yere. Isn't usual to see that thing straight up ahead, looming out of the mist so sudden like that, enough to scare the life out of you.

Hello… not on the road now, are we?

We surely are not!

Bloody teach you to go over the limit. Thought you could handle a couple of pints, no problem, but the thing is, you're getting older, boy, your reactions isn't what they was, see.

And now, look what you done, you gone clean off the road, over the verge and you're on the bloody common now and if you keep on like this you'll be knocking down that Goff's wall for him after all and buggering up your digger like they did the bulldozer.

Gomer was about to pull up sharp when the front end took a dip and he realized that if he didn't go with it he was likely to turn this thing over. And he thought about Jack Preece… talk about lightning striking twice. Well, he didn't like this, not one bit.

'I can't stand it!' Hilary Ivory shrieked suddenly. 'This room so black and negative. It's oppressing me, I've got to have out. And I can't stand to look at him any more!'

'Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to cover him up,' Col told her. 'Really daren't risk disturbing anything, isn't that right, Sergeant?' Wynford Wiley nodded vaguely, his cheese face sliced clean of expression; he'd given up – he should be directing this situation and look at him… jacket off, tie around his ear, glazed-eyed and sweating like a pig.