Phil Rickman - Crybbe aka Curfew

Business had not been interrupted in either of the two bars at the Cock, where, through past experience, a generator was always on hand. When the lights revived, closing-time had come and gone, and so had most of the customers.

Few people in the houses around the town realized the power was back, and the wavering ambience of oil lamps, Tilley lamps and candles could be seen behind curtained windows.

One electric light blinked back on and would remain needlessly on until morning.

This was the Anglepoise lamp on Fay Morrison's editing table. She'd unplugged the tape-machine before going to bed but forgotten about the lamp. All through the night it craned its neck over her desk-diary and a spiral-bound notepad, the one which often served, unintentionally, as a personal diary, especially when she was feeling angry and hopeless.

Across the page, in deeply indented frustration, the pencil lettering said,

… we'd tear your bloody hand off…

No, no… don't hold him like that. Not so tightly. You're like a nervous kiddy riding a bike.'

'Oh, sorry. Like this?'

'Better. Don't think of him as an implement – he's an extension of your arms. Be comfortable.'

'I think I've got it. What do I do now?'

'Just walk across towards the tree – and don't be so nervous, girl.'

'Well, I've never done it before, Henry. I'm a virgin.'

She thought, shall I leave that?

Nah. Maria will only chop it. She'll think I'm trying to be clever. Too clever for Offa's Dyke Radio, God forbid.

Fay marked it up with a white Chinagraph pencil, sliced and cut just over a foot of tape with a razorblade cutter, spliced the ends, ran the tape again.

Crunch, crunch. Rustle, rustle.

'All right, now, Fay, ask yourself the question.'

'Huh? Oh, er… is… Is There Any Water Under Here? I feel a bit daft, to be honest, Henry. And there's… nothing…happening. Obviously haven't got your natural aptitude, if that's the word.'

'Course you have, girl. Anybody can do it as really wants to. It's not magic. Look, shall I help you?'

'Yes please.'

'Right, now, we'll do it again. Like this.'

'Oh, you're putting your hands…'

'Over yours, yes. Now relax, and we'll walk the same path and ask ourselves the same question.'

'OK. Here we go. Is there any…? Fucking hell, Henry!'

Laughter.

'Caught you by surprise, did it?'

'You could say that.'

Pause.

'Look, Henry, do you think we could do that bit again, so I can moderate my response?'

Fay marked the tape. Fast forwarded until she heard her say, 'OK, Take Two', made another white mark after that and picked up the razorblade.

Shame really. Never as good second time around. All the spontaneity gone. 'Whoops' had been the best she could manage the second time, when the forked hazel twig had flipped up dramatically, almost turning a somersault in her hands, near dislodging the microphone from under her arm.

'Whoops'… not good enough. She started to splice the ends of the tape together, wondering if she had time to go into a field with the Uher and do a quick, 'Gosh, wow, good heaven I never expected that,' and splice it in at the appropriate point.

The phone rang.

'Yes, what?' The damn roll of editing tape was stuck to her hands and now the receiver.

'Fay Morrison?'

'Yes, sorry, you caught me…'

'This is James Barlow in the newsroom.'

' Which newsroom?' Fay demanded, being awkward because the voice somehow reminded her of her ex-husband, who always called people by their full names.

'Offa's Dyke Radio, Fay.' No, not really like Guy. Too young. A cynical, world-weary twenty-two or thereabouts. James Barlow, she hadn't dealt with him before.

'Sorry, I was editing a piece. I've got tape stuck to my fingers.'

'Fay, Maria says she commissioned a package from you about Henry Kettle, the water-diviner chap.'

'Dowser, yes.'

'Pardon?'

'Water-diviner, James, is not an adequate term for what he does. He divines all kinds of things. Electric cables, foundations of old buildings, dead bodies…'

'Yeah, well, he obviously wasn't much good at divining stone walls. Have you done the piece?'

'That's what I'm…'

"Cause, if you could let us have it this morning…'

'It's not for News,' Fay explained. 'It's a soft piece for Maria. For Alan Thingy's show. Six and a half minutes of me learning how to dowse.' Fay ripped the tape from the receiver and threw the roll on the editing table. 'What did you mean about stone walls?'

'Tut-tut. Don't you have police contacts, down there, Fay? Henry Kettle drove into one last night. Splat.'

The room seemed to shift as if it was on trestles like the editing table. The table and the Revox suddenly looked so incongruous here – the room out of the 1960s, grey-tiled fireplace, G-plan chairs, lumpy settee with satin covers. Still Grace Legge's room, still in mourning.

'What?' Fay said.

'Must've been well pissed,' said James Barlow, with relish, 'straight across a bloody field and into this massive wall. Splat, actually they're speculating, did he have a heart attack? So we're putting together a little piece on him, and your stuff…'

'Excuse me, James, but is he…?'

'… would go quite nicely. We'll stitch it together here, but you'll still get paid, obviously. Yes, he is. Oh, yes. Very much so, I'm told. Splat, you know?'

'Yes,' Fay said numbly.

'Can you send it from the Unattended, say by eleven?'

'Yes.'

'Send the lot, we'll chop out a suitable clip. Bye now.'

Fay switched the machine back on. Now it no longer mattered, Take Two didn't sound quite so naff.

'… whoops! Gosh, Henry, that's amazing, the twig's flipped right over. If your hands hadn't been there, I'd've…'

A dead man said, 'Dropped it, I reckon. Well, there you are then, Fay, you've found your first well. Can likely make yourself a bob or two now.'

'I don't think so, somehow. Tell me, what exactly was happening there? You must have given it some thought over the years.'

'Well… it's nothing to do with the rod, for a start. It's in you, see. You're letting yourself connect with what's out there and all the things that have ever been out there. I don't know, sounds a bit cranky. You're, how can I say… you're reminding your body that it's just part of everything else that's going on, you following me? Never been very good at explaining it, I just does it… You can mess about with this, can't you, Fay, make it sound sensible? Fellow from the BBC interviewed me once. He…'

'Yes, don't worry, it'll be fine. Now, what I think you're saying is that, in this hi-tech age, man no longer feels the need to be in tune with his environment.'

'Well, aye, that's about it. Life don't depend on it any more, do he?'

'I suppose not. But look, Henry, what if…?'

She stopped the tape, cut it off after 'Life don't depend on it any more.' Why give them the lot when they'd only use four seconds?

Anyway, the next bit wasn't usable. She'd asked him about this job he was doing for Max Goff and he'd stepped smartly back, waving his arms, motioning at her to switch the tape off. Saying that it would all come out sooner or later. 'Don't press me, girl, all right?'